Heart Of The American Dream

We were somewhere around the Roseburg when the thick smoke began to take hold. Forest fires burned everywhere and the caliginous haze enveloped the horizon in every direction, from Sutherlin, Oregon all the way to Blythe, California in the Colorado Desert along the parched Arizona-California border.

To complicate the situation, we were driving the Great Yellow Beast, a fully packed, 26-foot long rental truck with questionable credentials: manual windows, flickering engine light and temperature gauge, intermittent stereo, broken headlight and faulty air conditioning, especially annoying in the 100-plus degree heat.

My sister, functioning as co-pilot, navigator and communications officer, appeared dubious. I figured the heavy smoke was bad enough; no point in mentioning the bats. She would see them soon enough. The mission? Move parental units from Oregon to the heart of the American dream in a gated community in Arizona.

This particular odyssey would literally entail driving a large lemon (an International Harvester, no less) about 1,400 miles along smoke-infested highways in unfriendly terrain with no air conditioning while dodging 18-wheelers and motorhomes. The possibility of physical and mental collapse had now become very real.

But no sympathy for the devil on this cruel cavalcade: keep that in mind. You buy the ticket and you take the ride, and if it gets too heavy for you, chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion. The good news: we arrived safely if not soundly at our desert destination, considerably worse for wear.

Take it from me, there’s nothing like a job well done, except for the quiet, enveloping darkness at the bottom of a bottle of brandy after a job done any way at all. Besides, we would have been fools not to ride this strange yellow torpedo all the way to the end. There would be no reasonable way to stop. We were in bat country.

Questo E Quello (This 'N' That)

Travel writers list many reasons for visiting Italy; virtually all of them are good. But for me, three really stand out: the food, the people, and arts and culture. A fourth is the diversity of terrain, from nearly 5,000 miles of beautiful beaches to painted villages hugging craggy cliffs, from eye-popping mountains to forested lakes.

Let’s start with scenery. I now believe my grandparents chose to stay in Oregon because of the state’s diverse landscape, which despite the cooler climate, mimicked the terrain in Piedmont and Liguria where they were born and raised -- from glacial giants of the Italian Alps to the seductive seashores of the Italian Riviera.

Having now sampled the food in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, France, Spain and Italy, I can confirm which one has the best culinary offerings. I know, should be a no-brainer. Shouldn’t need to travel to Europe to learn that Italian food is best. But for the sake of scientific method, the exercise confirmed what I already knew inherently.

We sampled as many ristorantes as possible. All were fantastic, though one stood out: La Pietra. Most dinner spots don’t open until 8 p.m., much too late for these two Americans. La Pietra opened earlier at 7:30 p.m., and the faire was delectable.

Because of Genoa's substantial fishing fleet, we subsisted on "pesci" (fish), the order of the day at every eatery, and streets were packed with seafood vendors hawking fish of all shapes, sizes and varieties. At the end of the day, vendors deliver what’s left to ristorantes.

The museums, churches, art stores and libraries were ready at hand, within blocks of the Hotel Columbo.

One shop known simply as “Art and More” near our hotel featured unique drawings of fairy tale characters (right), available for only a limited time by the artist.

Gina had purchased a couple on a previous trip, so she had us pick up a few more.

The people were all welcoming: our cousins, the Sanguinetis, our cab driver/interpreter extraordinaire Andrea Giovanelli, our hosts at the Hotel Colombo, Libero, Patrizia, Jacapo and Carlotta Sterlocchi. Even Nico (below), our “antipatico” server at the Café Barbarossa, who took about five trips to thaw, finally warmed up.