Triple Archeological Invasion by the Bacchic Bambini

Each day on our Italian sojourn, we enjoyed (or endured, depending on the mood of the little Bacchae) an archeological adventure. Our neighborhood site was Paestum; our agritourism rooms looked out over the plains upon which Paestum (one of the great cities of Magna Graecia) was founded. The massive temples were especially stunning set against the gunmetal skies of early spring, with an icy wind blowing hard from every direction at once, it seemed. Nevertheless, the old stones were surrounded by profusions of green--and the kids frolicked among the first flowers of the year and rolled around in the grass when they were not tight-roping along the marble refuse. Luckily, there was a great little "enoteca" across the street from the archeological site, where we could retreat to reheat ourselves after our ramble. On Easter Sunday, we roamed the ruins of Velia, a smaller Greek (then Roman, then etc.) site in a specatcular setting, with its series of Medieval towers and walls propped high up on a breezy acropolis overlooking the Greek and Roman layers beneath. The site was very beautifully labelled, with nice bridges yawning across mosaic floors and lots of spots for thrilling toddler gymnastics. Monday we stopped in at Pompeii for a look around. Obviously, there's not a single day of the year when the place isn't crawling with tourists, but the place is so massive that it hardly matters. Alas, it had just hailed and then rained, so the kids (very, very cranky after several days of travel) were as interested as jumping into every pool of muddy water between the Roman cobblestones as they were gazing upon what is in essence a beautifully intact Roman city. About a half an hour and several tantrums into our visit, the kids' Chuck Taylors entirely saturated in Pompeiian mud (don't people pay for such treatment at spas across New England?), we'd all had enough, so we beat a quick retreat into Naples in search of pizza. Photographic evidence of our little pagan bambini above... Ciao, Christopher

The Bakkens Jet to Italia for the Easter weekend

The Bakkens Jet to Italia for the Easter weekend

We just like to say that. Weekend in Italy? Fly to Rome from Bucharest for cheap and in an hour and a half? Okay. So we had to fly on an airline called WizzAir and had to fly on a pink and purple airplane (though Sophia declared it the best possible colors in the world for our skyway adventures), and that we had to leave at 4 am and ply the kids, who stayed away from 4am on, with M & M’s, we actually did land at Ciampino Airport at 7:30am and were out on the Autostrada headed South towards Naples by 8:45.

Let me say that we did not know that we had chosen a region of Italy famous for its Mozzarella di Bufala and at every turn of the road there would be someone grilling baby artichokes stuffed with parsely and green onions and bathed in olive oil. We only intended to eat ourselves silly on genuine Neopolitan pizza and dive into the Amalfi coast for Spaghetti a la Frutti di Mare. So the fact that all these storefronts were devoted to fresh buffalo mozzarella was sublime. We ate the mozzarella every which way: a whole round ball drizzled in olive oil and set atop grilled bread with sweet cherry tomatoes; generously sliced on top of our many varieties of pizzas; straight from our own little plastic baggie picnic-style on the table in our room at our farmhouse in Paestum.

One of the funnier food “mistakes” of our trip: at a lovely Ristorante built into the ancient Greco-Roman walls of Paestum, we ordered what we thought were small meatballs (polpettini) in sauce for Alexander and Sophia. What we got? Baby octopus in a tomato-bean ragu. Alexander devoured them—tentacles and all—nonstop. And at our seafood Ristorante outside of the coastal town of Positano, the kids both CHOWED a cross between baby cockles and sea snails. They scientifically jabbed their toothpicks into the shells, tugged out the nubbin of meat, then popped it into their mouths. Afterwards, they spent the better part of an hour playing with “Monster Fish” with emptied out mussel, clam, and shrimp shells while our charming waiter told us stories of Sophia Loren (who used to live in the "neighborhood," just down the cliff from the restaurant) and plied us with contorni.

In four days, we put approximately 500 miles on our little rental Peugeot. On the first day we wound our way along the coast down to the Greek site of Paestum. Unfortunately, while there were some pretty Mediterranean stretches, it seemed like most of the road took us through the Italian version of past-its-prime beachside condo hell. Lots of boarded up bars (advertised as “American style bar!) and discos and shady looking espresso stands. Of course, it was Italian style so this meant there were also panini stands. We stopped off at one grocery stand advertising Mozzarella di Bufala intending to buy just some to sample. When Christopher returned to the car (after abour half an hour...since he'd made friends with the cheese-making owners and was threatening to just stay there for the entire weekend) he came carrying a plate of bread drizzled with olive oil, some varieties of Gaeta olives (Gaeta being a town we would soon pass), and a hunk of what we took for a regional ricotta salata. His bag was full with a spray of ripe cherry tomatoes, a litre of homemade wine, two balls of Mozzarella di Bufala, two logs of the spicy ricotta salata, aged pecorino, and two bags of olives. Snacks a la Campania.

Our Agritourismo Casale Giancesare was located up a hill overlooking the sea outside of the ancient city of Paestum. We were greeted with espressos and cappuccinos and a glistening Irish Setter called Milli who was happy to scamper around the lawn with Sophia and Alexander. Milli even tried to scarf down Sophia’s Hoppy bunny at one point, and a mouthful of Littlest Pet Shops toys. Our kids were in need of serious doggy-time though—they’ve been missing our dog, Daphne, so this was an excellent diversion for them and they, in return for chase-the-dog-who-stole-the-toys, they received, in return, slobbery licks.

We have realized, in our jam-packed four days, that there is a limit to S & A’s tourism. Generally in Greece, the weather is warm so they too can scamper about outside. Since this was March, our wanderings around the ancient temples and ruins at Paestum, Velia, and Pompeii consisted of me, Mamma, headscarved and looking like some babushka from the Eastern bloc, and the kids alternately invigorated by the windy-wind and throwing tantrums and complaining about “having to walk.” Papa Christopher dutifully carried both Sophia and Alexander, despite having to content with the deadly affliction of “crunched back” thanks to soccer Romania-style, the squirming weight of our kiddies’ bodies, and poundages of luggage, and a lumpy bed in our Bucharest pad.

Of course, all of this tourism was buoyed by really marvelous food. Our main aim for Easter Sunday was to find some sort of Agritourismo that served a fixed menu. Oh boy did we ever! Outside of the town of Velia—a small sign off the road, down a dirt road, to Agritourismo Azienda La Fattoria. For 30 Euros a person (the kids counted only as one person) we basically were fed like royalty. First: every other table was long, filled with Italian families passing around these enormous chocolate eggs (basketball-sized, nut encrusted). Then we were told that it would be better not to have bread because we had a long, long meal ahead of us. What did this consist of?

Round One: Bruschetta di Pomodoro and a fried bread fritter covered in pomodorino sauce and crumbled local Campania cheese.

Round Two: An antipasti platter. Thinly sliced pancetta. The house's Cappicola. Two different kinds of salami. Baby bell-shaped Riccotini. Pecorino. Lard-heavy pancetta. Artichokes and olives.

Round Three: Fresh Cannelloni Lasagna and "Napkin" Pasta with Asparagus Sauce.

Round Four:
The meats? Slices of Pork, Slice of Beef, and Chicken a la Forno.
La Verdure? Baby Five Beans, Chicory/Spinach/Broccoli Robe in Garlic, Roasted Potatoes with Rosemary, Eggplant Stacks a la Forno, roasted peppers, stuffed baby Artichokes, pickled zucchini Ribbons, and I’m missing something else.

Round Five: Dolci (Ricotta-Lemon-Raisin Torta), Grappa, Ferne Branca, Espresso and Cappuccino.

Round Six: A lovely Easter phone call from Christopher’s brother in California. “Where are you?” he asked. “Ahh, we’re somewhere in the South of Italy with our bellies full and our kids finally asleep in the car,” Christopher answered.

Round Seven: Later, much much much later, two beautiful pizzas for a late dinner. Two kids who thankfully and finally both simultaneously slept through a late dinner.

We all ate and praised the God and gods that be for our four days away from the less-Mediterranean inspired Romanian fare. (Why is it that even industrial poverty and concrete apartment blocks looks better on Italian hillsides than they do in the mountains of Eastern Europe?)

Kerry

From Puferleţi to Poop

Today Alexander came back from the playground with his Romanian babysitter clutching in one hand two small azalea flowers, and in the other hand an enormous bag of Puferleţi Super Prix! At first, I thought he was munching on some Romanian version of Cheetos minus the orange powder. No evidence of the orange stain around the mouth, so I thought: Ah! These Romanians are wiser than us. No more orange shirt collars and fingers.

His babysitter, Andrea, explained that Alexander had made some friends at the playground—shared sand toys and Puferleţi. So on the walk back, he insisted he have his own bag—he, too, wanted to be just like the rest of Romanian toddlers. So Andrea bought him, for all of 2 Lei (approximately 75 cents), an enormous bag of his own puffed, processed nuggets.

To Alexander’s selfish cries of “No, mama,” I swiped one from him. Absolutely tasteless. No, not true. More like some sort of air-puffed wood glue with the merest whisper of sugar. None of the illicit pleasure I associate with eating the junk food of childhood—none of the manufactured salt or onion or cheese flavors. Not even MSG.

Andrea said, “These are the snacks of Communist childhood. Empty of taste and desire. Bland. Filler that is not even filler.”

So Alexander has now taken up Communist nostalgia. Ahh. Puferleţi.

And Sophia, upon seeing the bag, remarked, “Hey, can I have some of those…we get those at school. C’mon, I’m hungry for them.” So she too has been filling her Eastern European kindergarten emptiness with the fullness of popped vegetable product!

But, we have more interesting ways to fill such voids. Lately, my afternoon ends with a stop at our new favorite pastry stand. This one cooks the pastries al forno in the shop. So we bought two "Strudel con Mare"—apple strudels. One for the walk back, one for dessert tonight. The phyllo strudel dough was crispy, the edges slightly charred. The filling was identical to the stuff in good, fresh American apple pie. We ate one—hot and dripping apple goodness—within two minutes, all while navigating a sleeping Alexander through busy traffic in his stroller. Then decided, with one shared look of strudel desire, to eat the second one immediately as well.

Some of the apple filling oozed, then splattered on the sidewalk—which made me wonder if indeed all those splats of dog poop dotting the Bucharest sidewalks aren’t dog poop at all but errant spatters of Strudel con Mare. Which makes me think that rather than take the odd and hazardous detours around such piles and spatters I should just step into them, thereby embracing Bucharest’s sidewalk Strudel con Mare con Jackson Pollock. But no. Sadly, all of Bucharest’s strays and well-tended canines seem to prefer the sidewalk to the curb; and the occasional owner seems disdainful of any sort of poop-scooping. Alas, not spatters of apple ooze but dog poop pure and simple.

That said, the kids devoured what we got them at that same strudel stand: their own freshly baked wood-oven pretzels dipped in poppy seeds and salt. I think, fingers crossed, Alexander has forgotten the Puferleţi for the moment...

Wish you were here in Strudel Land,

Kerry

Blessing of the Icons

This Sunday, people traveled from all over Bucharest to have their household and sanctuary icons blessed at the aptly named Parcul Icoanei ("Icons Park"). After waiting in long lines, they and their icons were showered with holy water and blessings. These photos give you some sense of their reactions to that encounter with the sacred.

Trios, Couples and Singles at Chismigiu

Some photos of trios and couples (and sad singles) as they appeared on a Wednesday afternoon in March at Chismigiu Park...which is nick-named "Lovers' Park."

Spring in Bucharest

Spring in Bucharest? How lovely to know that we have sunny days in the 60’s and back home in Meadville it is still snowing, snowing, snowing. The forsythia is already blooming here as is an errant magnolia tree. On Tuesday night, thanks to Christopher’s museum recording career, we received free tickets to see Romania’s best violinist play a Stradivarius at the museum. We sat in the second row and swooned over the Bartok and Rachmaninov.

Afterwards we headed to a fancy dinner at an Italian restaurant about twenty steps from our front door, where, to Christopher’s great delight, they had a wood burning pizza oven. As we are finding, however, fancy doesn’t necessarily imply attentive service. Our waiters were alternately neglectful and stubborn—refusing, for instance, to leave our many bottles of wine on the table so we could all help ourselves. We had to wait and wait and wait for the bevy of waiters to notice that our glasses were empty and forlorn. And as this is a restaurant frequented by the newly rich and ostentatious, we had to sit beside this mobster type who smoked his cigar and made a big show of the champagne he’d ordered for his much younger girlfriend.

Thankfully, the foccacia made up for these minor irritations...as did the two wineglasses Christopher and I swiped—we have been drinking our market wine-$5 for two liters-poured from a cask directly into a recycled Orange bottle from teeny tiny glasses that make us feel like we are drinking $1 liters of wine. I can now report that we happily drank the swill from our new Bordeaux glasses and it now drinks like it's actually $10 liter (though this may also have something to do with our bootlegged copy of Lars and the Real Girl actually working! Romanians are adept at illegal downloads of movies so we’ve been watching all the current releases on our enclosed balcony at night. Though for some reason, 10,000 BC isn’t as compelling on the small screen as it might be on the big screen with popcorn and mammoth KitKats).

What else do we do here in the Spring? Go to cafes and drink a variety of coffees. Walk and walk and walk and buy Alexander giant soft pretzels from the pretzel shops (these are baked in wood ovens and sell for about 50 cents each). We’ve also been going to Chismigiu Park where Sophia delights in the trampoline and we delight in the beer gardens. People have started picnicking and we’ve been noting some very odd arrangements: a man skinning what looked like leeks, chopping them into small pieces, and then dumping them into jumbo Water bottles filled with water. Leek Tea? Another couple was happily dining on cheese, rolls, salami and an appalling bag filled with what looked like an assortment of innards. And then on the way out of the park, we encountered a man meticulously sponge bathing in a fountain.

We are also happy to report that Sophia is her usual self at school. She had to sit, for a few minutes, in the “naughty chair” for talking too much. She was then tickled by her teachers. Her teacher told us that they are all thoroughly enjoying having Sophia in class—and that they have never encountered a child who talks as much as she does. She has also mastered a few ballet moves and is diligently practicing her Romanian language lessons.

Kerry

Hoppy Levitates

No doubt elevated in soul and spirit by the colorful, Vampiric sights of Sighisoara, Hoppy the Bunny levitates while a gleeful (but responsibly concerned) Sophia looks on with amazement.