Catherine Astolfo's Blog, page 16
October 27, 2012
Yummy Words
On a gorgeous October evening, right in the middle of a warm spell, I am riding in the back of a comfy van, gazing at city lights, swirling leaves, snaky roads and piercing headlights. There are five of us: women who span the ages from teen to senior.
Yet all of these women have something in common. Words. The compulsion to hear them, read them, and write them. An obsession that forces us to work without wages more often than not. Sometimes, once we push our creations into the world, they even get ridiculed. But those times when someone reads the words we’ve written and loves them – well, that’s what keeps us addicted.
We’re on our way to hear the Governor General Literary Award finalists. I’m a bit nervous, since it’s my idea, and sometimes I have to admit: the GG and Giller novels are a little…different. Often, great writers are not great speakers. However, we’re together, and I enjoy the company of these females immensely.
Not only are they very accomplished and smart, but they are also kind, witty and gracious. Their energy makes conversation interesting and challenging. We nudge each other along the continuum of the creative process with encouragement, suggestions and constructive criticism. I am their coach, but I am also their student.
The Governor General Literary Awards reading is a step on that continuum. We like to immerse ourselves in literature of all kinds. We are writers, but we are readers, too, which I believe is a huge requirement for success.
The evening is orchestrated by Shelagh Rogers, the hostess of The Next Chapter on CBC (a show that I can only dream of being invited to). This is an auspicious beginning.
The first reader is Phil Hall, a poet who won the GG for poetry last year. I am thrilled that he mentions the Great Canadian Poetry Weekends in Collingwood. My friend Merci and I still have vivid, pleasant memories of those years.
Tamas Dobozy wrote Seige 13 “because of the silence”. The victims are reluctant to speak of demeaning events, naturally. Dobozy says he is interested in the “inexplicability of real life”. How this resonates with me! I have used the genre of mystery to explore the nature of evil, injustice, the “inexplicability of real life”. I love this.
Robert Hough, author of Dr. Brinkley’s Tower, is hilarious. He’s thrilled to be on stage, he says, because he suffers from the usual writer angst: “If so-and-so doesn’t like me, no one likes me”. How true – when I see those one star, mean-worded reviews, I can’t help but feel that very way. His story is about a real person who invented a one-million watt radio tower that he placed in Mexico, inadvertently turning every home within miles into conduits for constant noise. He describes life in Mexico as a “luscious torment” and “sad and miraculous”. How perfect a description of our beloved Mexico.
Vincent Lam reads from his second book, The Headmaster’s Wager. It’s set in Vietnam and China. His soft-spoken, poetic delivery is mesmerizing.
Carrie Snyder is young and vivacious. She reads from The Juliet Stories, agonizing tales about war from a child’s point of view. “Decrepit and magnificent” she intones: what a lovely phrase on the dichotomy of life.
Linda Spalding is the only one whose outfit I notice (since I’m quite unobservant of fashion). But she’s striking in her scalloped skirt and black boots. Her book, The Purchase, tells the story of Quakers in the US in 1798, exploring slave ownership. Again, I am thrilled: my fifth book explores the same topic, also from the POV of people who ostensibly abhor ill treatment of others.
Oh, what words we devour! The writers are all great speakers and readers, too, which only enhances the meal. We are nourished by the phrasing, the idea, the intelligence that radiates from the stage.
On the way home, we’re quiet, digesting the experience. We all agree that the readings make us want to rush back to our respective writing nooks and pick up a pen (figuratively, since we all use laptops).
Inspiration is the end result of an evening chomping on yummy words. I highly recommend this eatery, whether you are consumer, producer, or both. My Books
October 16, 2012
A Mysterious Night in Cleveland
There were so many reasons to go to Cleveland for Bouchercon. First of all, it’s the biggest mystery conference in North America, and I am a mystery author. Author Page Secondly, my aunt and my cousins live there and I haven’t seen them for a long time.(OK, maybe not as long as the pic to the left might suggest.)On Saturday, Vince and I take off from the conference and drive to my cousin Kathleen’s lovely home in a beautiful neighbourhood just outside the city. I am a little dazed as I walk in the front door. I know I’m often blond headed, but tonight I have a couple of really good excuses.
I mean, I have spent two and a half days in the presence of best selling mystery authors. Some of whom I have worshipped for many years. I have listened to panels on justice: the roles that wealth, race and influence play on verdicts in the courts; comparisons and contrasts among justice systems throughout the world. How a writer can realistically portray the opposite gender in his/her novels. Sitting beside Elizabeth George’s husband. How authors can make a morally challenged character likeable. Meet the Canucks. Creating suspense, giving out clues without tipping your hand. A chain of reveals about the character and the plot while heading for the crescendo. The thought that ordinary people can be evil. How can the villain be the hero of a novel? Listening to Sara Paretsky, Mary Higgins Clark, Rhys Bowen, Robin Cook, Charlaine Harris, Derrick Haas… and trying to behave like a moderately known or at least well dressed and polite Canadian author. O Canada, Anthony Bidulka, Linwood Barclay, Howard Shrier, Vicki Delany, Mary Jane Maffini – I can’t list them all so go to www.crimewriterscanada.comwhen we’re done here: must we really set our books in the US to obtain an audience (our American friends in the audience say NO). Our own Lou Allin getting a ride to the liquor store in a Cleveland police officer’s patrol car. Talking on a panel of my own and forgetting what I was saying in the middle of my convoluted statement (at least they laughed). Sitting beside Elizabeth George’s husband.
Linda as Bud and Kathleen as Otto.If that’s not reason enough to be dazed, when I walk into Kathleen’s front door, her sister Linda greets me in a rather odd outfit (see picture). At first I don’t recognize her, and when I do, I figure she’s either come out of the closet or has gone a little dotty. Either way, I don’t think I should mention it until she does.
Sean is dressed rather jauntily, but he often is, so I think nothing of that. Suddenly, our hostess comes downstairs in lieder hosen and a mustache. Now I’m pretty sure something is up.
The mystery is explained once I get my costume and my script. My amazing family is putting on a murder mystery dinner for me and Vince! Can you imagine having such creative, thoughtful, brilliant people as cousins? Am I not a lucky lucky bastard (said in a British, Monty Python accent)?
John and Bonnie LassieWe get into our roles pretty easily (scarily so, really). I am Hedy Shablee. I perfect my accent of British-Irish-Canadian mash so well it almost gets stuck.
Tiny Bubbles and her mom ( I mean Bud Wiser) Carolyn is a Bonnie Lassie in her kilt and John is her lines coach (he doesn’t do a great job which leads to more frivolity); Rachel is a smartly-dressed Tiny Bubbles and Sean is Ralph Rottingrape. Aunty Betty is the dead body, just so she doesn’t have many lines. She acts it out very nicely. And finally Linda’s outfit is explained; she’s the detective, Bud Wiser. If you are doing some detecting of your own and notice a theme of alcohol in this mystery play, heavy on the wine, you would be correct. Which tells you once again how well my cousins know me!
Kathleen must have rehearsed that German accent for Herr Otto: it’s pitch perfect.
Tracy, in a slinky red dress that highlights her gorgeous blond hair and figure, is, of course, Marilyn Merlot.
Vince is a natural for Papa Vito, with his Guido Sarducci accent.He looks pretty naughty, don't you think?
We have a ball. I don’t guess the correct murderer – it’s Papa Vito, not Herr Otto – but I blame that on Vince. After all, who would guess their own husband? (See, I can rationalize anything.)
I write down two phrases from our fun: “the familiar-looking dwarf” and the “opera-singing Nazi Vampire”. Those are two lines that must end up in one of my stories somewhere.
I am tired (I’m old, which explains the brain fart in the middle of my panel) as we drive home Sunday, but I am pumped too.
The conference was a source of nourishment, but the evening with my cousins was phenomenal. I love those amazing, smart, loving, creative, inspired people. They were my childhood best friends. They are a part of who I am. Lucky lucky bastard me.
October 11, 2012
Freeby Versus Freebee
My ebook, The Bridgeman, is free for the next three days. The jargon is “freeby” or “freebee”. I’ve been mulling over which one to use.
At first glance, freeby would seem to entice a little better. The “by” at the end might make the potential reader think of “buy”. Quickly followed by the realization that they can buy this one for FREE. (Buy can mean purchase for money but can also mean acquire a stake in or believe in wholeheartedly. I really like that last one.) Will potential fans think: hey, I can buy into that freeby?However, could the word “by” make the readers think of “bye” instead? Could they think: hey, you get what you pay for, which means something that costs nothing can’t be good? (Missing the point about getting readers hooked on my series?) Maybe I should use freebee instead.
Perhaps this spelling would put readers in a really good mood. It could make them think of the birds and the bees. Of soft beds or pastoral scenes or verdant hillsides. They might like the idea of having a freebee.
However, could the word remind them of little buzzing insects that sting? I have to admit, The Bridgeman does sting a little: it’s a controversial topic that hits the reader between the eyes with its ferocity. But it’s such a great mystery and ends with hope, so I’m very proud of it.
The other question I am mulling is: where on earth did freeby or freebee come from? Are they akin to newby, wannabe, passersby, hushaby, hereby, thereby, whereby, bribee, frizbee?
I am so confused. But then, there’s always freebie: “An article or service given free.”
Like THE BRIDGEMAN! BUT, I continue to mull over: shouldn’t freebie actually be the plural of freeby, as in freebies? And where did the word mulling come from, anyway? Mulling wine perhaps? Oh well, as I often say, “Belly up to the book bar. The first round’s on me.”
October 8, 2012
Thankful doesn't begin...
...to describe how I feel about my life. It certainly hasn't been perfect; there were plenty of low times, tragic times, periods when I felt as though I couldn't even go on. But I am, at 62, a most fortunate person. How could I not be grateful?
I have a loving, supportive husband who is my partner, my best friend, my lover. He's handsome, witty, smart, and kind. And wonder of wonders, he adores me just as I adore him.
My daughter is an incredible person: she's smart, generous, loving, dedicated and beautiful. She's a far better mother than I ever was, nurturing and wise beyond her years. I absolutely worship her. She's an accomplished film producer and casting director, who is able to open doors that no one else can even imagine. Her time is coming and it will be filled with everything she's ever desired. Already she has the admiration of a great many people in her field, and it is well deserved. She has brought three children into my life whom I adore, who fill my life with a love that's so often astonishing and overwhelming. I have such affection for her partner, who loves her enough to struggle through all the problems and reattach a fractured little family.
My son is handsome, loving, kind, ambitious and brilliant. He's creatively gifted. I adore him. He's written several intelligent, exciting scripts, directed two films, and acquired a myriad of other skills in his chosen industry. It's such a competitive field, but he will prevail. He will succeed. His wife is my daughter too; a person whose love, intelligence, charm, talent and beauty are both on the outside and thoroughly part of who she is. She's an amazing woman whose career has only just begun. I love her with all my heart.
My mother, though lost in dementia, still has her core: a wicked sense of humour, a loving spirit, a kind-hearted soul, and a sixth sense of insight that's rather spooky. When she says, I love you too, honey, I feel a rush of warmth and joy that's unmatched.
My sisters are the kind of women who light up a room when they walk into it. They are as lovely on the outside as they are inside. They are my best female friends, my confidantes, loving, fun, and infinitely interesting. There's nothing like loving a sibling and having that returned. Their partners, and now their grown-up children, add so much to my life that I can't think of them without a mix of tears of joy, laughter, a swelling in my heart, as I picture every single one of their beautiful faces.
My step-sons and their wives and children are such a gift to me. I am grateful every day that they are a part of my life. They're funny, smart, sweet, generous, accomplished, and gorgeous. Again, that astonishing love for grandchildren that overwhelms every grandparent washes over me daily.
My extended family, my cousins, aunts, uncles, have always been a huge influence on me, and in some lucky circumstances, continue to be. I love them, cherish their friendship, and am happy when I'm in their sphere, whether in person or, if I can't be there, electronically. Thanks, Facebook, for that gift!
On top of this amazing family, I have my friends. Some of whom are "like sisters" and bring all the qualities of my natural sisters into my heart.
I am absolutely the luckiest person alive when it comes to friends, both male and female. Sometimes I turn around and wonder what I did in another life to deserve so many fascinating, loyal, supportive, loving people in this life.
I have some younger friends, too, who are like my kids, whom I have watched grow into citizens of the world, of whom I am always so very proud.
To add to my fortune in people, I have a second career that is satisfying, fun, absorbing, and challenging. A career I've always dreamed of having. I look into the future with hope and goosebumps of excitement.
So how can I not be awash in gratitude this Thanksgiving Day?
I have a loving, supportive husband who is my partner, my best friend, my lover. He's handsome, witty, smart, and kind. And wonder of wonders, he adores me just as I adore him.
My daughter is an incredible person: she's smart, generous, loving, dedicated and beautiful. She's a far better mother than I ever was, nurturing and wise beyond her years. I absolutely worship her. She's an accomplished film producer and casting director, who is able to open doors that no one else can even imagine. Her time is coming and it will be filled with everything she's ever desired. Already she has the admiration of a great many people in her field, and it is well deserved. She has brought three children into my life whom I adore, who fill my life with a love that's so often astonishing and overwhelming. I have such affection for her partner, who loves her enough to struggle through all the problems and reattach a fractured little family.
My son is handsome, loving, kind, ambitious and brilliant. He's creatively gifted. I adore him. He's written several intelligent, exciting scripts, directed two films, and acquired a myriad of other skills in his chosen industry. It's such a competitive field, but he will prevail. He will succeed. His wife is my daughter too; a person whose love, intelligence, charm, talent and beauty are both on the outside and thoroughly part of who she is. She's an amazing woman whose career has only just begun. I love her with all my heart.
My mother, though lost in dementia, still has her core: a wicked sense of humour, a loving spirit, a kind-hearted soul, and a sixth sense of insight that's rather spooky. When she says, I love you too, honey, I feel a rush of warmth and joy that's unmatched.
My sisters are the kind of women who light up a room when they walk into it. They are as lovely on the outside as they are inside. They are my best female friends, my confidantes, loving, fun, and infinitely interesting. There's nothing like loving a sibling and having that returned. Their partners, and now their grown-up children, add so much to my life that I can't think of them without a mix of tears of joy, laughter, a swelling in my heart, as I picture every single one of their beautiful faces.
My step-sons and their wives and children are such a gift to me. I am grateful every day that they are a part of my life. They're funny, smart, sweet, generous, accomplished, and gorgeous. Again, that astonishing love for grandchildren that overwhelms every grandparent washes over me daily.
My extended family, my cousins, aunts, uncles, have always been a huge influence on me, and in some lucky circumstances, continue to be. I love them, cherish their friendship, and am happy when I'm in their sphere, whether in person or, if I can't be there, electronically. Thanks, Facebook, for that gift!
On top of this amazing family, I have my friends. Some of whom are "like sisters" and bring all the qualities of my natural sisters into my heart.
I am absolutely the luckiest person alive when it comes to friends, both male and female. Sometimes I turn around and wonder what I did in another life to deserve so many fascinating, loyal, supportive, loving people in this life.
I have some younger friends, too, who are like my kids, whom I have watched grow into citizens of the world, of whom I am always so very proud.
To add to my fortune in people, I have a second career that is satisfying, fun, absorbing, and challenging. A career I've always dreamed of having. I look into the future with hope and goosebumps of excitement.
So how can I not be awash in gratitude this Thanksgiving Day?
October 6, 2012
I Don't Wanna Grow Up
<!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Se</style>When I was 12, my bedroom walls were covered in magazine pictures and posters of Marlon Brando and Mickey Rooney. (Yes, really, Mickey Rooney.) I used to spend hours imagining that I was a reporter. I was eventually invited over to M & M's houses for dinner. I became their friend, their confidante, and I was the one who got the big stories.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was 17, I tried to leave high school at Grade 12 and go to Ryerson College to study journalism. Marlon and Mickey were no longer on my bedroom wall, but they were still waiting for me to come and interview them. That idea got shot down by my parents based on advice from my school counselor. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As a result, Marlon and Mickey never met me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">These days, I have different idols. They are writers. Mainly female, because I not only love their novels, I love their personalities. They are feisty, attractive, thin, well spoken, smart, and confident. Their books are instant best sellers. They write mystery, the genre I love, the genre I write. I adore their characters. They take their plots into very dark territory sometimes – another technique I admire (and write).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So attending a conference like Bouchercon transports me back to the days of posters all over my walls. Back to a time when I believed I would become friends with my heroes (in this case, heroines; goddesses of creativity). As a writer, with a panel listing of my own, I must, however, remain dignified. I must remember that half a century has gone by since I was twelve.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DgzOM03uGTU..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DgzOM03uGTU..." /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I arrive early at the panel for Elizabeth George and sit not too close, but not too far away. Very quickly, the room fills up. A woman sits to my right, but suddenly gets a text from her sister, and has to leave. By then most of the seats are taken, so a fit, good-looking gentleman in glasses asks if he can take her place. Of course I nod and smile.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He has an uncapped coffee cup in his hand and says, “I hope I don’t spill this on you. I almost spilled it on Elizabeth George and she got really mad at me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh my god,” I respond with a laugh, thinking, but you were that close to her, you lucky...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“But it’s okay,” he continues, “I’m her husband.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I try not to throw myself at him, but I do gush, and we end up having a fabulous conversation about the creative process. He’s not a writer, but he watches carefully as his wife goes through book after book. He’s friendly, has a great sense of humour, and is obviously an admirer of both his wife and writers in general. He takes one of my bookmarks. I think I love him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t wanna grow up. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/author/catherin... Author's Page</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com...' alt='' /></div>
October 5, 2012
Cleveland ROCKS!
We have a wonderful drive to Cleveland, very little traffic, construction that really didn’t slow us down, sentinels of trees in full uniform: hues of reds, greens, yellows. We both have naps (when we’re not driving).When we arrive, we’re starving, so we order a late lunch – a linner I guess – up to our lovely room. At least in the tourist industry – I won’t make a blanket statement – the Americans are so hospitable. From the valet to the person who served our lunch, they can’t be more helpful. The waiter’s wife is a huge book fan, so I give him a copy of my novel.
He’s right to be excited. Many of the top bestselling mystery and crime writers are in this building! Creativity permeates the air. My muse sits up and pays attention, something like Dexter’s dark passenger, alert to others like me. People obsessed with putting ideas onto paper. People who love the genre of mystery for all its permutations: thriller, amateur sleuth, detective, police procedural, classic whodunit. I could go on and on. Not to mention the myriad of themes and issues that can be woven through them. Romance, social justice, comedy, domestic matters, young adult and children’s interests…again, I could go on.
I’ve told you before why I love the genre. The bad guys always get their comeuppance. Unlike real life, there is a satisfying punishment.
We have a great time at the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame with Carolyn and John. We wander absolutely everywhere in the time we have. What an incredible collection! Talk about atmosphere – you feel and hear the music, including the writing of that music, those lyrics, all through you.
I wake up this morning absolutely primed for panels, schmoozing, talking about the writing process, talking about books. Seeing my Crime Writers of Canada friends. Meeting new ones. I'll let you know how it goes.
October 3, 2012
Cleveland ROCKS
Bouchercon is a huge mystery conference held every year in North America. This year it happens to be located in Cleveland: the home of some of my American Family. So I am doubly excited.I have a funny way of packing. (Just like Burl Ives had a funny way of laughing. I have that, too.) I make lists.
Huge lists. Something like this:
- the black skirt makes me look fat, so don't forget the lyrcra body wrap thing
- this t-shirt doesn't really fit any more, so don't forget the vest
- if I meet Sara and Elizabeth, I will need a tissue, so I won't make a complete fool of myself, so pack something with pockets for this day
- make sure the camera is charged just in case I stalk Sara and Elizabeth long enough to get my picture taken with them (even if I'm seated in the audience, and they're at the panel table)
- this outfit makes me look sophisticated. I do not resemble the 62-year-old teenager inside, the one who will cry with joy upon meeting certain authors. I will wear this to my own panel.
- am I allowed to tape everything? Better pack the recorder in case.- am I allowed to give gifts to people like - well, Sara and Elizabeth? or would that be unseemly?
- should I really wear that feather boa or were my fellow Canucks just kidding?
- I do have that Canadian cape. SuperCanuck. For sure, that's going in the suitcase.
- should I die my hair red and white?
- how many books should I bring to give away? Will there be line-ups or will I be alone like...never mind. I'll use up those tissues before the car starts.
I'm famous in Brampton, my hometown. Seriously. Not so much in Cleveland. But that's OK. I have cousins and an aunty there. I will be famous with them. They will probably stalk me. Or at least hug me. Is that allowed with you-know-who too, or would that also be unseemly? Amazon Author page
September 19, 2012
Cruise Blog 7: Split
Today we have to be tendered to shore in our ship's life boats, which is an adventure in itself. Although Mary Jo Fitz is supposed to be tour guide, it's MJWD who scouts out the tender tickets. MJF, however, does a great job once we are ashore.
On the Riva promenade, we are faced with a wide avenue dotted with cafes, palms, grassy knolls and flowers along the water's edge. Split perches on the flat lands by the sea, while in the distance, bare white and black rocks soar toward the clouds.
It's a bit humid and cloudy, but the temperature is in the low 70's, so for the most part it's comfortable.
We enter the walled part of the city through an ancient archway and find ourselves in the ruins of the Diocletian Palace. Original ceilings arch overhead, stained, old, small and large blocks of blackened stone. The enclave is jammed with souvenir stalls, reminding us of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. The walls, archways, pillars, cathedrals and bell towers provide a beauitful setting for this town. I fall in love with its Venetian style, red brick rooftops, statues, gargoles, and shells carved everywhere. The four gates into the walled city are named silver, gold, iron and bronze, though there is little sign of those metals now. We wander the narrow streets, coming upon squares with fountains, trees, pigeons amassing. If you look up as you traverse the avenues, you might see old wooden shutters gracing the ancient walls, or a painted balcony strewn with flowers, or something called inchy rooms. We find the statue of St. Dominus and rub his bronze toe for good luck. From one side, he looks as though he is a scholar reading a book; from the other, he is a wizard casting a spell.
There is music all over. A quartet sings and plays just inside a gate. We trod along original stone, smoothed by many feet.
We pass an open market, with the pungent smell of fresh fish in the air
We sit in a beautiful rectangular courtyard under white umbrellas for lunch. We toast, "Jivyalay" (not spelled right of course) in Croatian.
It's a wonderful day and, as we sail back in our tenders, I look back on the lovely town and wonder if I will be back here some time. Probably not, but the sight of its sprawling beauty on the seashore will stay with me forever.
Tomorrow, gorgeous Venice.
On the Riva promenade, we are faced with a wide avenue dotted with cafes, palms, grassy knolls and flowers along the water's edge. Split perches on the flat lands by the sea, while in the distance, bare white and black rocks soar toward the clouds.
It's a bit humid and cloudy, but the temperature is in the low 70's, so for the most part it's comfortable.
We enter the walled part of the city through an ancient archway and find ourselves in the ruins of the Diocletian Palace. Original ceilings arch overhead, stained, old, small and large blocks of blackened stone. The enclave is jammed with souvenir stalls, reminding us of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. The walls, archways, pillars, cathedrals and bell towers provide a beauitful setting for this town. I fall in love with its Venetian style, red brick rooftops, statues, gargoles, and shells carved everywhere. The four gates into the walled city are named silver, gold, iron and bronze, though there is little sign of those metals now. We wander the narrow streets, coming upon squares with fountains, trees, pigeons amassing. If you look up as you traverse the avenues, you might see old wooden shutters gracing the ancient walls, or a painted balcony strewn with flowers, or something called inchy rooms. We find the statue of St. Dominus and rub his bronze toe for good luck. From one side, he looks as though he is a scholar reading a book; from the other, he is a wizard casting a spell.
There is music all over. A quartet sings and plays just inside a gate. We trod along original stone, smoothed by many feet.
We pass an open market, with the pungent smell of fresh fish in the air
We sit in a beautiful rectangular courtyard under white umbrellas for lunch. We toast, "Jivyalay" (not spelled right of course) in Croatian.
It's a wonderful day and, as we sail back in our tenders, I look back on the lovely town and wonder if I will be back here some time. Probably not, but the sight of its sprawling beauty on the seashore will stay with me forever.
Tomorrow, gorgeous Venice.
September 18, 2012
Cruise blog 6
Sept. 17
We're feeling the need for a ship day, but we meet John and Maire at breakfast and we all change our minds. After strolling into the lovely town, we're happy we did.
It's got a nice little beach, cobblestone streets, waterside cafés and lots of shops. It's more lush than the other Greek Islands, with its tall evergreens and palms. Most people seem to have gone off to Olympia, the site of the first games, so we have leisurely strolls.
We shop, talk, sit in the breeze of a cafe. We have a fascinating visit to the Museum of Ancient Greek technology. The. Curator demonstrates inventions such as the pump (he squirts water all over the floor), a fountain, hydrolics. There are music all instruments, toys, and clocks. The puppet shows and theater exhibits are fascinating.
We have another great dinner and laughs in the Adalgio afterward.
Sept. 18
At Corfu we have our ship day. We find a cozy corner in the shade. The view of the island's hills and sales is spectacular from the 16th floor. We read, write, talk, swim and watch the clouds circle a royal blue sky. Most people have gone ashore so we enjoy a quiet, contemplative day.
As we sail from the harbor, sailboats - red, white, large, small - drift past the white and green mountains of Corfu. Speculator in the afternoon sun. After dinner we watch the sun set over the horizon in blazing orange. A silver half moon takes its place.
We're on our way through the Aegean Sea, Italy on one side and Albania on the other. Off to Croatia!
We're feeling the need for a ship day, but we meet John and Maire at breakfast and we all change our minds. After strolling into the lovely town, we're happy we did.
It's got a nice little beach, cobblestone streets, waterside cafés and lots of shops. It's more lush than the other Greek Islands, with its tall evergreens and palms. Most people seem to have gone off to Olympia, the site of the first games, so we have leisurely strolls.
We shop, talk, sit in the breeze of a cafe. We have a fascinating visit to the Museum of Ancient Greek technology. The. Curator demonstrates inventions such as the pump (he squirts water all over the floor), a fountain, hydrolics. There are music all instruments, toys, and clocks. The puppet shows and theater exhibits are fascinating.
We have another great dinner and laughs in the Adalgio afterward.
Sept. 18
At Corfu we have our ship day. We find a cozy corner in the shade. The view of the island's hills and sales is spectacular from the 16th floor. We read, write, talk, swim and watch the clouds circle a royal blue sky. Most people have gone ashore so we enjoy a quiet, contemplative day.
As we sail from the harbor, sailboats - red, white, large, small - drift past the white and green mountains of Corfu. Speculator in the afternoon sun. After dinner we watch the sun set over the horizon in blazing orange. A silver half moon takes its place.
We're on our way through the Aegean Sea, Italy on one side and Albania on the other. Off to Croatia!
Sept 12 continued
Vince says Capri is dramatic and he is right. Limestone walls, the sides scared away by time. Tall colorful houses hug the hills, flowers are flashy bits of red and pink. Rafael does not do a count, but he is enthusiastic, informative and it's marvelous hearing his lilting accent through the earphones. We take a bus up the winding road to the main square of Capri. Sometimes the vehicles are centimeters away from one another. I look out my window at the next door neighbor's bus and see the scratches glinting in the sun.
We find a bar overlooking the sea and the exquisite cliffs. We enjoy cold beer, delicious bruschetta and people watching while Rafael takes a group to the gardens.
When it's time to go back down, we take the funicula. We're at the front and it's a glorious ride. The ferry takes us off to Shore once again. Out on the ocean I watch an old man plow through the waves in a huge wooden boat. The old man in the sea!
The approach to Sorrento is breathtaking! The town is built on the edge of the crater, a huge volcano that once upon a time blew this world apart. Rafael takes us on a short walking tour, then we have a fabulous lunch in a quaint garden restaurant. We wander through the winding cobblestone streets, drinking in the atmosphere, the lovely ocean air, the incredible sights of the water far below.
Lemon trees dust the air with a citrus scent. There are grape vines everywhere, acting as shade as well as promising, lots to drink in the future. Flowers, bushes, ivy, olive trees, quaint buildings such as the clock tower: the combination is exotic, peaceful and addictive. We would rent a house here in a minute if it were not so far from our beloved.
We walk back to thus bus along little streets with the soaring limestone hills in the background. We travel between the mountains, Salerno on one side and Naples on the other, a sea of red domed rooftops.
Soon we are in Pompeii! Visiting this Site has been on my bucket list for years and it does not disappoint. In 79 AD Mount Vesuvius showered 27' of volcanic matter on this town and collapsed most of the buildings. Those who tried to run met suffocation by volcanic gas. We witness their bodies curled up in agony, frozen for all time. Rafael is a superb guide as we make our way through the warren of reconstructed streets, buildings, bathhouses, and a brothel. The street sign for directions to the latter is hilarious: a stone carved penis still very clear. The large piazza, our last stop, is striking. We can imagine the people gathered here for fairs, markets, making their way to the Amphitheater, to the stores along the main street, talking, visiting. I tuck away a couple of story ideas.
Our drive back to the ship brings us past a shanty town in Naples and a twinge of guilt squeezes my heart. Another story idea floats past.
