Lucca, Italy. May, 1988

I had not seen my friend Antonio in almost 25 years. We met for the first time in 1984 when I was touring Italy solo, taking trains all over the place, from Venice to Palermo. When I got off the train in Lucca, Antonio was there waiting for me. We’d never met before, but we’d corresponded frequently (in the days before email) and exchanged artworks through a network of mail artist connections. I remember staying at his parents’ house, touring the city, visiting him in his graphic design studio, meeting his girlfriend Roberta (in orange, above). I have not seen him since visiting Lucca in 1988 (Antonio is holding a wineglass in the photo) with Nick and Miriam. Fortunately, Antonio came to meet us in Portovenere when our boat docked there in 2012. It was as if no time at all had passed.

Noto, Sicily. May, 1988

Sicily is such a wonderful study in contrasts. The life-loving music and food that enhance day-to-day life. The solemn widows who wear black for the rest of their lives. I remember the trip that Nick and I took to Noto, southwest of Siracusa. Monumental buildings made of local golden stone, richly filagreed ironwork everywhere you looked. Jay and I were in Sicily for a day a few years ago when our boat stopped in Messina, then on past the still active volcanic island of Stromboli that we saw erupting in flames in the dark night as we sailed by.

Off Civitavecchia, Italy. October, 2011

Today: the town that has been the port of Rome for centuries, Civitavecchia. In 2011, when we arrived here, we headed subito to the train station and sped into Rome proper. The following year, we managed to spend some time in this busy port town itself. There’s a market (of course) and also a local flea market to be explored. And we were hoping that we’d be close enough to Rome that the lunch menu at some little trattoria might feature the Roman specialties we fell in love with on past trips: spaghetti cacio e pepe and carciofi alla giudea. Fortunately I not only know how to order both in Italian, but can easily ask for lo stesso ancora. The same again.

Capri, Italy. October, 1984

When I first arrived on the storied Isle of Capri. I headed up, up, up via funicular to the top of the mountainous island. It’s way up top where you’ll find the jet set who turned Capri into a millionaires’ paradise many decades ago. I suspect the real jet set has long abandoned the place to the hordes of tourists that descend upon it daily. When I was there some 34 years ago, I remember walking back paths through groves of lemon trees to the palace of Emperor Tiberius, staring at the cliff from which he threw his enemies to the coastal rocks below. Also, more gently, the kind boatman (a shoulder shrug, a nice tip) who took me into the Blue Grotto after the last official boat had left, affording me a quiet and private view of this natural wonder. I suspect now, more than three decades later, such privileges may no longer still be so easily available.

Messina, Sicily. October, 2011

Ah, the golden fried pleasures of arancine. Rice balls that contain, in the classic preparation, meat and tomato sauce, lovely melted cheese, peas. We’d first enjoyed these treats at Galleria Umberto, the Sicilian American pizzeria and tavola calda in Boston’s North End. Because it was a popular item that sold out quickly, the counter man would regularly call back to the kitchen, “Sam! More arancin’!” (And how many times did we have a piece of pizza or two waiting for Sam to deliver?) Here in Sicily, we made a beeline to a busy downtown snack bar filled with university students on lunch break. No Sam, but plenty of arancin’.

Sea of Marmara, Turkey. October, 2011

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Istanbul. October, 2011

Six years ago, we sailed into the fjord-like port of Kotor in Montenegro. (I do like saying Montenegro.) I knew little about it beyond the fact that it has been at times ruled by Venetians, Ottomans and a few others. (Sounds good to me.) And that because of its embattled past, the city is surrounded by fortified walls. Also that it has no national currency but uses the euro as its money even though Montenegro is not part of the European Union. And I was delighted to see that we would be arriving on a market day. It seems that every new place I go, I love to head to the market. I see real people (vs. tourists) there, hear the language, watch the interactions. Here’s a small fruit and vegetable market (one of many such) that we visited in Istanbul years ago at this harvest time of year.