From the Tip Of the Boot Dispatch

The ferry carrying us and our car arrived in Villa San Giovanni from Sicily at 8:30 pm. We plugged a Tropea address, a coastal town to the north, into the GPS and we followed Martha’s confident instructions…away from the sea. Besides the sinking feeling that we were, once again, heading higher and higher into interior dark mountains, we had no map of the mainland – a map of Sicily only having come with the rental car. We did not plan ahead with a mainland map to “confirm” the GPS instructions. There were two highway exits Martha seemed to like that seemed promising for heading to the shore in the vicinity of Tropea, though Martha just insisted that we make U-turns each time we exited (four times in all at the two exits), and the roads seemed to lead nowhere. Dark altitude surrounded us and the time kept getting later with each revisited exit. We finally decided that the next big town along the highway, Cosenza, would be a better place to spend the night at this point. After an excellent highway rest stop dinner (only in Italy – sautéed asparagus, spinach, and exotic mushrooms!), we arrived in Cosenza just at midnight and drove around following signs for hotels, praying that someone would still be at the front desks. The first one we tried was way too expensive, the second one affordable…and for good reason. In Italy for the Gourmet Traveler Fred Plotkin describes Cosenza as a town that was frozen in time: the old center has the same look as 1914 -1940; the newer city still looks like early ‘60’s. Our hotel room definitely looked like early ‘60’s, so I rather enjoyed this fact while Newton, unamused, fell out immediately from exhaustion. The perfect ending to this leg of the trip occurred the next morning at 7:30 when the early sounds of construction were, in this case, sounds of destruction – alarmingly near. Once we got up and opened the curtains during a lull in the pounding and shaking, sure enough – there was scaffolding outside our third floor window and the men soon returned to continue hammering away at our wall. The hotel breakfast was bad, but we followed Fred’s recommendation in the old center to a 200-year-old café for a charming and delicious breakfast from 1940.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lunch was deliciousness in Salerno, with quite a crazy waiter who served extra dishes to people and made up his own prices afterwards. We’re accustomed to the non-linear in Brazil, but it was funny to see the reaction of an innocent American couple when their bill was almost double what they expected! Fred had already described the sleepiness of Calabria and the craziness of Campania, so we were ready. Our destination was the Amalfi Coast, to the west. Let the beauty begin! It is possible to forgive the tourist flavor, once again, when one is driving in such a thrilling setting: the Mediterranean glistening below, the road winding above along the cliffs, the green hills and towns rising up. It is an exaggeration of Cinque Terre to the north; bigger, higher, more chic, more dramatic. These photos do it little justice, especially being hazy…better to go there!

 

 

 

Newton was expert at driving on the curves, unfazed by oncoming tourist busses because Brazilians, like Italians, see “plenty of room” where this American does not!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is a terraced vineyard along the Coast:

We had great luck finding a hotel in Amalfi on the i-phone – our favorite hotel of all. Fred’s dinner recommendation led us along the labyrinthine enclosed ‘streets’ above the town’s main street. Alas, his recommended restaurant had a new name and few diners, so we opted for a crowded trattoria where I actually had my favorite meal of the trip: mozzarella baked in fresh lemon leaves and sautéed endive, accompanied by Fred’s favorite white wine of the region, Fiano di Avellino. This was followed by limoncello liqueur at a bar, since flavorful Amalfi lemons from the rich volcanic soil are the official source for Italy’s limoncello.

 

 

 

Morning in Amalfi

We decided to stay in Amalfi two nights and commute to Pompeii.

Pompeii is an amazing excavation because it is an entire city that was well-preserved under the ash and rock of Mount Vesuvius’ 79 A.D. eruption. Only two-thirds of the city has been unearthed. We decided on a guided tour in English (heavily-accented English) and appreciated hearing the details of this amazing record of Roman life. An earthquake had occurred there seventeen years prior to the volcano’s eruption, so some structures were still in mid-repair when buried. I visited Pompeii when I was 17, but did not remember much beyond driving up to the volcano, the well-preserved frescoes in a house, and the men being led to view pornographic paintings which were off-limits to us delicate females.  This time the guide reliably pointed out the bas relief penises pointing the way to the brothel district, then led all of us through a brothel with its stone beds and descriptive frescoes which enabled men arriving from all over the Mediterranean to simply point to their preferences. Part of the excavation work at the site has involved pouring liquid plaster into the pumice soil and rock and later removing the hardened shapes left behind in vacuums of disintegrated utensils, urns, and human or animal remains:

 

         There are lead pipes along the streets for running water to the public drinking fountains and baths:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are stepping stones for crossing the streets:

There are many shops, like this ‘fast food’ shop:

                                      There are small homes and elegant mansions, such as this one:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Also, temples and government buildings:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frescoes are especially well-preserved because of the method of painting on still-wet plaster. These are inside a home:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vesuvius looms compellingly in the background.

Extend the sloping lines upward on the two sides to imagine how it looked in 79 A.D.:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

When we returned to Amalfi for the evening, we were too tired to drive one town over to Ravello to have dinner at Fred’s favorite place in the region. Our rather touristy dinner in Amalfi was nevertheless good, and conversation with an interesting couple from Toronto – he, a film producer and she, a newspaper editor – added a welcome dimension. My ears still get prickly when I hear American (or Canadian) accents, having run into so few Americans in Natal. Americans were pretty scarce in Sicily, as well, so my antenna was way up to overhear them in this region.

The route over the mountains was by choice the next morning on our way to Naples, the birthplace of pizza, for a pizza lunch. We found Fred’s recommended fresh mozzarella, basil, and fresh tomato sauce pizza after an hour of Martha’s unsuccessful maneuvering among non-traffic streets, one-way streets and dead-end streets. Luckily, a helpful woman noticed we were stuck in a place with no escape and instructed us to enter a “do not enter” street and make our way to parking possibilities. Newton could always understand everyone’s Italian! Fred describes Napoli as a place of excitement and perpetual motion. He says that – as the Romans are sensual – the Neapolitans are excited, living under the threat of hovering Vesuvius. We walked the busy streets of the center and confirmed the blur of motion, the animated citizens touching each other, arguing over the best fresh lemonade, playing great street jazz, hurrying. Here is the beautiful galleria:

 

It was now time for poor preparations to catch up with us again. We had meant to reserve a hotel in Rome for the last night, but had never done it. We sat in our parked car in Naples checking for internet hotel listings on the laptop…until the battery ran out. While this left the hotel question unsolved, it made the rental car return schedule in Rome very tight. Martha headed us to Rome and to the agency address. We called to check about closing time once we were in Rome and had just about the right amount of leeway when we miss-counted the exits in a crowded roundabout. Martha likes to just say “Enter the roundabout and take the third exit,” for example. In this case, she said the fourth but we took the third. By the time Martha corrected this mistake in traffico Romano, the rental agency was no longer answering the phone. We pulled over and started looking for hotel possibilities on the extremely slow i-phone. While we deliberated choosing a hotel near the airport, a parked car pulled out of a free parking spot right beside us. We pulled in and decided to roam the area for a hotel. Newton held his i-phone and we walked to various hotel addresses listed there. The first one sold out one minute before we walked in; the others were non-existent (?). We knew there was a reasonably-priced hotel out near the airport and that we could return the rental car there; it was just tricky now to get an online reservation since the i-phone connection was so slow and the hotel was not answering the phone. While we walked back to a trendy, lively restaurant that had caught our eye, Newton secured our reservation for the night. Our last dinner in Italy was amidst a local crowd in a restaurant with a film theme. There were many photos of the late Massimo Triosi and his actual bicycle from “Il Postino.” It was fun, but Fred would never recommend the food. Once again around midnight, Martha led us to our country hotel in Ostia – an archeological site from the ancient port of Rome. When we awoke the next morning, we were surprised to find a castle fortress right out our window!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We passed the ancient ruins en route to the airport. Clearing out the glove compartment before turning in the car, we happened upon a…map of the mainland! Oh well.

“Arrivederci, Italia,” we said as we caught our flight to Athens and our trip metamorphosed into Newton’s business trip.

Love,

Sandy

Sicily Dispatch

The theme of our Sicilian vacation is “Fred and Martha.” Fred is Fred Plotkin, the author of The Gourmet Traveler’s Guide to Italy. Some friends gave us his book for our 5-week stay in northern Italy in 2004. We just could not face Sicily or the road to Rome from the tip of the boot without Fred’s passion, palette, intimate portraits of each region of Italy and its populace, his descriptions of dishes and agriculture and wines, not to mention his recommendations in each city. There was a 2010 edition from UK Amazon awaiting us at our Palermo hotel. Also awaiting us there was Martha. This is the name we affectionately (at first) attached to the American woman’s voice on our new GPS. They were both our constant companions.

We can fly directly from Natal to Lisbon, so a trip to Europe is a simple thing compared to travel to the US. The incredible food started right away in the Lisbon and Milan airports! I sat people-watching in awe…Europeans seem handsome, healthy, fit and chic. We had a nice room in Palermo with ceilings so high that we could see an entire dome out the tall balcony door. The cappuccino at breakfast came in a cup the size of a soup bowl. Yea. The only problem was the alarming amount of noise in the morning: garbage being dumped – all breaking glass, seemingly amplified voices arguing, a dog chasing a motor cycle; after we laughed about a car alarm being the last missing sound, they began drilling into metal at a nearby construction site! Oddly, these morning car alarms and construction noises persisted in other cities.

Sicily has been invaded and occupied by so many cultures, it is possible to find endless varieties of architecture. Here, the Palermo cathedral combines Arabic, Greek, Romanesque, gothic, and Renaissance influences:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The former nobles of Sicily had so much money that this chapel with priceless Byzantine mosaics (these are not paintings) is part of a family’s palace-fortress:

Besides its beautiful buildings, Palermo still has remains of bombed out properties from World War II:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s Newton-as-beast-of-burden:

We picked up our rental car, a Lancia, with stop/start technology that kicks in at every full stop to save gas and reduce pollution. Ah, Europe. Martha led us with her soothing-yet-confident voice to a gorgeous beach just outside Palermo on a lazy October weekday. The temperature was near 80°F:

My favorite ruin of the whole trip: a well-preserved Doric Greek temple of sandstone, surrounded by green hills in Segesta. As occurs in the Parthenon, these columns and horizontals incorporate a slight curve to fool the eye that they are straight, while managing, unlike mechanically straight construction, to float and express a grace that, when beheld, nearly lifts me off my feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Trapani, gargoyle masks on a church and a leather goods store :

I am always grateful in foreign lands to have Newton at the wheel, despite my aversion to speed and sudden maneuvers. After learning to drive in Brazil, there is not much that can flummox him. Did I mention that I call him Walter Mitty sometimes when his persona slips into a Formula One driver? The funny thing about driving in Sicily is that the cities forgo traffic signals and stop signs and just use the “nose into oncoming traffic” system. Honking ensues immediately for those who hesitate! The old streets in the city centers can be so narrow that pedestrians must step into doorways to allow room for the cars to pass. Newton was intrepid at one point and, clapping in both rearview mirrors, started through…well, the eye of a needle. Alas, this was too narrow for any skill level and we had to figure out another way.  Martha became a little vague around traffic circles, as we were not absolutely sure how to count the exits; she was fond of recalculating directions in the GPS tradition when instructions and diagrams failed us and demanding U-turns of us, ever more virulently.

Here’s Newton watching the road AND the purple line on the GPS screen map:

We happened upon an inviting wine bar in Marsala one evening, beckoned by some intriguing recorded music. Forswearing the sweet dessert wine for which the town is famous, we sampled a sparkling rosé brut and a good red while enjoying the rousing debate over whether Roman men or Sicilian men are more virile. The free hors d’oeuvres, which melted in our mouths, forced us to buy a jar of pistachio pesto spread to bring home. Never have I tasted pistachio all the way up my cheeks! We didn’t realize what early dinner hours they observed around there and arrived at one of “Fred’s destinations” as the kitchen closed. The non-pizza dinner we had at a mobbed night spot was the only bad meal we had in Sicily.

Baroque architecture in Marsala:

As Fred says, the Sicilian mafia presence is not particularly felt along the coastal areas as it might be further inland, if at all. My first reaction was at a lovely restaurant in Palermo where a small boy, as part of a large family dinner, was running around with a black toy pistol in his hand. My second reaction was later in Siracusa at a nice jazz club when a hulking guy was talking in a Don Corleone voice. It turns out that he was a tourist from Venezuela speaking Spanish; he was drunk and trying to interrupt conversation among Newton, an American young man and me. He then started to insult us. We left quickly as the young man went to inform the manager. A few streets over by foot, we suddenly realized that a car that had to do a turnabout in the tight street was being driven by him. We ducked into a doorway and luckily remained undetected by the drunken goon. That meant that the only mafia connection we encountered was the Palermo Opera House where Sophia Coppola as Michael Corleone’s daughter dies on the steps in “The Godfather III:”

                                                              

Fred explains that Sicily’s cuisine is famous for its flavorful fresh produce (resulting from rich volcanic soil) and fresh sea food, mixed with the spices of North Africa. One of my early favorites was pepper muscles. We loved the arancini – rice balls with meat or cheese; sarde a Beccafico – sardines stuffed with cheese, herbs and raisins; involtini – roll-ups of chicken, veal, etc. with cheese and spices; cuscus; piacentino (sheep’s milk cheese) and majorchino (pecorino cheese) with black peppercorns; calamari, shrimps, octopus, fish, clams, grilled zucchini and eggplant, and the wonderful greens. There used to be a tradition of French chefs and bakers in the households of the nobles, which led to a tradition of nuns leaving the convents and learning how to make French pastries and exquisite sweets. Some convents today thrive by supplying the best marzipan (pictured here) and pastries in Sicily. The breakfasts included in most hotels sometimes consisted of vouchers for a bar in the nearby piazza for cappuccino and croissant or brioche - as delicate and flakey as any French counterpart. Also famous in Sicily is the citrus produce, including madarino tangerines, along with several tangerine varieties that come out month-by-month. I tasted both a fresh tangerine and a mandarincino liqueur after dinner... yes, both, all the way up my cheeks! Fred was clear that he had no interest in the tradition of French cuisine in Sicily, apart from the pastries. He loves the fresh bounty from the local small farms, the fresh seafood from the fishermen, and the vino locale from the wineries that have always made up the fare of the traditionally poor populace. Eating in restaurants is a relatively new and casual phenomenon among the people. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We peered through the gate of this building in a small coastal town and a lovely older man approached, opened the gate for us and explained in perfect English that this was his weekend refuge from Rome. Sweet:

We always like to joke with our kids about which funny little car is our actual rental:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Agrigento there is an entire park of Greek/Roman ruins with the sea in the background. I felt like I was in the middle of an old French painting when I looked at this:

This was the last standing column of the temple of Zeus (later Jove), which tumbled in 1914:

These human figure columns also supported the weight of the temple:

 

 

 

Like many ruins around the Mediterranean, these temples were frequently appropriated by succeeding conquerors – after the Greeks and Romans, the Byzantines, Arabs, Christians…so many have been damaged, adapted, re-adapted, and restored.

Fred is particularly enthusiastic about a man (deceased since publication of the 2010 edition) who made gelato and sorbet in the purest, most traditional way in the city of Noto. He eliminated any gums or fillers and concentrated on egg whites and natural flavors. The establishment, Corrudo Costanzo (#7 Via Salvia Spaventa), named after him and continuing his strict standards by way of his family, still makes the original Arabic sorbets of rose and jasmine, as well as what Fred considers the best taste experience of his career: sorbetto di mandarino. We were on a pilgrimage to taste these and the mulberry, lemon, pistachio, hazelnut and almond gelatos that Fred favored there. As we headed out from Agrigento, having duly entered Constanzo’s address into the GPS, Martha led us on a wild goose chase up and up and up into the mountains above beautiful farm fields separated by low stone walls. It seemed strange, as Noto was near the coast, but we put our madcap faith in the sometime trickster and headed to an autostrata on the other side of these mountains. The scenery was so lovely that I had mixed emotions about the beauty, the receding shore, the blind hairpin curves on a road too narrow for two cars, and the sinking gas gauge. The autostrata did eventually lead us to Noto, and we eventually walked our way to Costanzo’s only to find it closed for renovation. I had hoped to follow my Mother’s annual summer tradition of a meal of all the ice cream we could eat!

Siracusa is a wonderful city. It was a center of great learning in ancient times and produced Archemedes, among other notables. We loved the hipness of the city center – an island called Ortigia - combined with the traditional varieties of architecture, great stores, and another spectacular park of Greek/Roman ruins. Interestingly enough, not only the ruins, but the entire city of Siracusa is on the UNESCO World heritage list!

Here are the Roman theater and a video of the Greek amphitheater, interesting to compare (the rectangular indentation in the center here was for stagecraft):

 

While Newton walked around the amphitheater with his camera, I sat on a rock and  contemplated the concentric circles of pain emanating from the two outside toes on each foot. I know, I’m wearing sandals, but they are not my usual flip-flops, so I had blisters on all four toes. Just the beginning, as I would be forced into closed shoes later up north.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is a video of the “Ear of Dionysus,” who it is said could eavesdrop on prisoners held captive in this cave by way of its extraordinary acoustics:

We found a laundry service in Siracusa and washed our clothes. It is run by a friendly American woman who has the most handsome bachelor clients. Decent occupation. We followed Fred’s recommendation for food shopping and found great salami, cheeses, olives, bread, and wine all in one store for our post-ruins picnic. And speaking of tasting flavors entirely up the cheeks, we had unforgettable mojitos with giant fresh mint leaves lining the glass at a cool little music club. Maybe I should tell Fred? It seems odd that Syracuse was not on my radar before. Just a fantastic place.

There are no billboards in the countryside or the old city centers…imagine! The beauty is everywhere, unobstructed. We stopped in Taormina, built on cliffs that rise high above the sea. As Fred confirms, the many tourists do not spoil the gorgeous setting or diminish the charm of this city, even on an overcast day:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Martha had quite a bit of trouble getting us to the ferry in Messina that carries cars over to the tip of the mainland’s boot. She kept insisting that we had arrived, but there was no indication of a ferry there. We finally figured something out, though we were entering the port at the exit and had to be directed by helpful personnel to the waiting area. The ferry wasn’t till 8:00 pm, so the darkness continued through our arrival on the mainland a half-hour later. Martha knows when it’s dark and had her tricks ready for us.

Love,

Sandy

Brazil Dispatch 30

So I did end up checking out a Canadian-model bilingual pre-school in Natal at which to volunteer. The place is sparkling new and looks very Scandinavian with its white tiles and colorful furnishings. I attended several sessions of the three-year-olds. I was interested to see what they were like, having been familiar with four and five-year-olds at Blue Rock School. I found several things problematic, yet interesting: the Brazilian teacher, whose English is excellent, never asked me to sing songs or tell nursery rhymes to the children, as I offered; the children seemed much more adverse to having a stranger there than my experience with their American counterparts, though I could see that they were not amused to have yet another person speaking English to them. They could understand some of the English, but never spoke it. They told me I should speak Portuguese because it’s easier, and worried if I had someone at home who could speak it! Then when I did mix some Portuguese in, they thought I talked ‘like a baby’ with my funny accent and incorrect genders. Another contrast with their American counterparts: they are more dexterous with small motor skills - one boy was about to tie his shoes! The girls went off to ballet class, all changing into tights, tutus and ballet slippers (labor intensive) while the boys went off to judo. The teacher has two great assistants for the twelve children and they all play independently so very well – something I try not to interrupt – that I simply wasn’t needed there. I basically was driving all the way from Cotovelo Beach to laboriously pick up plastic blocks in the heat, so I decided to suspend my volunteering for now, having added my wonderfully fun Portuguese for Foreigners class to my “schedule.”

My Portuguese professor, Marcelo, lived in Chapel Hill, NC for six years getting his Ph.D. in linguistics. His English, with a mix of the British accent he studied and the North Carolina accent he picked up, is hilarious. He was the perfect addition to a party Newton and I threw for our international friends. Marcelo told the class that American drivers are so careful that in NC he used to step to the edge of the curb as if about to cross the street just to watch the drivers stop! My friend Maria Candida had observed the same thing in Florida, except there the drivers already stopped a block away! (In Brazil, drivers all have the right of way, so one can see old ladies running for their lives to avoid turning cars at every intersection – it’s pathetic, especially since I’m one of them.) We Portuguese students never tire of hearing the names of each other’s uncles and grandmothers as we go through a grammar drill: Satish, Andreas, Shio, Ivan, Yenny, Malmoud…or about our daily schedules, the foods we like, or the fact that Brazilians often marry their first cousins, etc. The casualness with which Marcelo brings the lesson and lets it unfurl spontaneously in the group is just perfect. He adds in plenty of slang and vernacular, with gems such as “burracracia” - combining the word for donkey, which is also the word for stupid, with the usual ending for bureaucracy! This is a Brazilian university in the northeast, so the casualness is ingrained. Two times in a row we were locked out of the classroom, with Marcelo and all of us waiting for the person with the key to arrive; finally, the guy and his maintenance entourage came lumbering down the hallway at an inhumanly slow pace!

I had quite a harrowing day last week, beginning at lunch on our front porch. I got ‘burned’ by a gigantic poisonous caterpillar. He started at my left heel, but by the time I had dashed some unknown, slightly stinging thing away, the side of my right foot and my right ring finger were also beginning to swell and turn purple. As you can see in the photo, we had quite a jolt when we saw what it was. The branch-like tentacles are like tiny medieval weapons. The caterpillar is about 3-1/2” long and about 1” wide.Newton picked him up on a stick and threw him away down the road. The caretaker was away, which explains why this monster from the neighbor’s cashew tree had not been spotted and swept away already. As the pain and swelling increased, Newton decided to go check about this “taturana” on the internet, and found out there were 6 fatal cases on record. We decided to go for an antidote, but while Newton was getting info and directions to the specific hospital for this, I went out to the carport for more air. Then I got faint and sat down. When Newton came out, I had fainted and fallen over on the stone ground, resulting in a huge purple goose-egg on my forehead. He panicked, thinking I keeled over from the venom! I managed to avoid another fainting spell en route to the hospital by rocking back and forth like a crazy person, saying “OK…OK…OK.” We had to stop for gas quickly and the attendant just said to pay on the way back after seeing me rocking in the car with the big forehead! I continued this anti-fainting strategy while in the waiting room at the hospital. Newton left to park the car and some folks in front of me turned to ask what had happened (to make a person act so strangely?). Getting mixed-up, I said a “tartaruga” instead of “taturana” had gotten me in three places. This means turtle and they are not poisonous, so weirdness reigned! Their puzzlement led them to ask Newton upon his return, and he set them straight. The hospital had no antidote, though this caterpillar in the northeast is not as lethal as its cousin in the south of Brazil. They gave me an I.V. for the pain. The I.V. was out of place and my arm was swelling up with the solution, which made me faint again – apparently after a mighty convulsion that scared Newton all over again. The wailing fisherman who had been bitten by a fish didn’t help my concentration! Finally, after they lifted my dead weight to lie down on a gurney and gave me oxygen, I began to feel better. Ten days later, now the swelling has gone down significantly except in my finger, which is still rather numb but beginning to itch, which is a good sign; the purple burn dots are turning into little raised blisters. As the hospital said, time is the only solution.

In the meantime, we have been living in our paradise, continuing to be interrupted by passing cement mixers and bull dozers as the construction proceeds across the street. Even though many coconut trees have been knocked over and a gigantic pile of this debris piled up across the road - prominently featured during our meals on the front porch - a tree strategically hides this pile when I walk out on the balcony of a morning and greet the surviving beauty there.

I have the loveliest, most fun female dentist here. I told her I like the fact that I actually kiss my dentist! She was surprised to learn that people don’t kiss each other on each cheek in the US. I said we shake hands with our dentists. She prefers the kissing!

Newton ran a 5-kilometer race on a Saturday morning in Natal. Even though they gave him an electronic chip to tie to his shoe, his stats were never offered on the website set up for the event; he is not sure what his time was, especially relative to the winner. But he enjoyed training a bit beforehand and participating. There were many people running also a 10K and a 25K race.

A very odd item appeared in the local news: a woman dropped her boyfriend off at work early one morning in the city and two robbers - one with a gun – came to rob her in the car. Natal is still one of the safest cities in Brazil, so this is not a common event. After taking her purse, the robber with the gun rode off on a bike. The woman hit the accelerator and ran him down, killing him. All the mixed responses to the story ran through my mind, until I learned that the age of the robber was just 15. Disturbing.

We will bid this wondrous, crazy place farewell for three weeks when we take off soon for Sicily by rental car, then Athens for business, then Newton to Poland for business and me to Herford, Germany to visit Anke, my family’s year-long exchange student in Tulsa in 1964! Newton will join us in Herford for the weekend before we fly back home. I’m airing out the fall clothes and checking for mold, faded lines, bug holes and the odd larvae nest. The hard part: I’m going to have to give up flip-flops and stuff my feet into those closed shoes again…NO!!!!!!!!

Love,

Sandy