LLWorldTour

The streets and crumbling sidewalks are strewn with litter. The unimaginative concrete buildings are coated with blackish stains from years of pollution. The air is thick with dust and car exhaust fumes. The sounds of horns and bus engines fill the air. I walked alone down the cracked and potholed sidewalks of downtown Cairo forcing myself to go against my natural instinct to make eye contact with people nearly taking all of my energy to intentionally look through the crowds passing me instead of at them. Being a blue-eyed, blond-haired (at the moment) woman walking solo, unintentionally I attracted a multitude of stares, hisses, and comments. I passed dozens of shops selling cheap-looking, yet trendy clothes and boots. Couples walked together. Colorfully head-scarved women walked arm in arm. Men walked together. It was the rare sight to see a woman alone. Some looked quite western and wore no scarf at all while a very, very few passed me wearing the full chador – the complete black gown mysteriously and exotically covering all but the eyes.

When I arrived at Cairo International airport on my midnight flight from Milan, it was four o’clock in the morning. For the first time since I can remember on my trip, I arranged a pick-up transfer (taxi ride) from the airport. In most cities around the world from Asia to Europe, I’ve been able to hop on some kind of public transport – metro or bus to downtown. But here, I had decided to give myself a break knowing I’d be tired and not wanting be deal with aggressive salesmen (cab drivers). But when I walked through the crowd of drivers holding up their placards, clipboards, and makeshift paper signs with passengers’ names…none said “Lisa Lubin.” Great. I decided to just hang around a bit before I went through immigration. Perhaps my guy was just late. I waited a half an hour. A few other drivers even tried to help me, but they just said to wait. I was tired and not in the mood to be ripped off nor was I in the mood to haggle – hence my foresight to pre-book a taxi…which, to my dismay was no where to be found. In the meantime, I bought my Tourist Visa from a man at a window who did not even want to see my passport, just my $15. I withdrew hundreds of Egyptian Pounds from an ATM and finally made my way through immigration. Soon after, my trusty bag came around on the baggage carousel and I decided to wait just a bit more before starting the dreaded haggling process with a cabbie who would no doubt make some extra cash off this weary American traveler.

I stared down every guy walking around holding a placard. One man was talking on his cell phone and slowly approaching me. We continued to make eye contact and I knew…this was my man. He was 40 minutes late and did not acknowledge this fact at all, but I was just thankful that he was there. He traded me off to another man, the actual driver, a thin Egyptian man with a tired leathery face who spoke with a very raspy smoker’s voice and appeared to be much older than he probably was. During our white-knuckle drive downtown, he told me he had eight children and one wife, but a second wife ‘from Chicago’, he joked, was not out of the question. He sped me to my hotel, most of the way swerving and straddling two lanes on the road.

At 7am, I was able to check into my room, inspected the threadbare sheets (where’s the plush Egyptian cotton?) in which I unhappily discovered more hairs than I was comfortable with (I am usually comfortable with zero hairs of a stranger in my bed), but in my exhaustion, just pulled out my sleep sack and dozed off only to call reception several hours later to actually get them to change the sheets and towels from my room which was obviously not cleaned since the last guest left – different country, different standards. But I am pleased with my new found flexibility for not-so-clean conditions and took it all in exhausted stride. I remember as a kid barely wanting to sit on the edge of a hotel bed in fear of getting the ‘cooties.’ And now here I was snuggling into someone else’s bed of dark curly body hair. Mmmm. I know you just cringed…okay, me too…I’m still no Irish Jesus Backpacker…but I’m working on it.

I have now been to Italy four times and have been lucky to see so much. I’ve covered all the tourist stops and then some: Rome (three times), Florence (twice), Venice, Naples, Pompeii, Sorrento and Positano on the Amalfi Coast, Cinque Terre, Bolazno (near the Austrian Border), Turin, Lake Como, Verona, Parma, Bologna, Siena, Perugia, Assisi, and Spello. But never once had I ever stayed in Milano. I’d always seen it as just a junction to get through to get to the heart of Italy. I’d landed there and changed trains there, but never slept there, until now. And guess what? Milan is great. It was my last stop in Italy and it totally revived me after starting to feel a bit of travel burnout. It’s fast-paced, it’s progressive, it’s historical, it’s clean, it’s metro, tram, and buses zip around town getting your from piazza to piazza. And this time of year, the whole town was lit up like one big Christmas tree.

Every country I visit has its share of amazing local food; fantastic fromage and charcuterie in France, fresh vegetables and layered spices in Vietnam, super fresh, still nearly breathing sushi in Tokyo, overflowing plates of tasty mezze in Greece and Turkey. And then there’s the comforting food of Italy. Perhaps it’s because, as Americans, it is one of the foreign foods that we barely consider foreign. Who didn’t grow up in the United States eating pizza, lasagna, baked ziti, spaghetti Bolognese (pasta with meat sauce) or veal parmigiana?  It seems no matter what your background was, mom always made some kind of Italian meal at least once a week. And if you grew up in or near New York like me, local, first and second generation Italian pizzerias and pasta joints were more common than McDonald’s.  My spot of choice was Frank’s Pizza just a few doors down from my high school job at the local, family-owned (and second generation Italian) video rental store, Image Photo & Video. I could always pop in for lunch for a slice of yummy mushroom or prosciutto pizza. Or maybe some Eggplant parmigiana?

So, as I journeyed my way down the bountiful boot of Italy, I devoured the foods I’ve always eaten, but here with a bit more robust flavors, often times fresher ingredients, and of course, the backdrop of a centuries old piazzas (squares) all adding to the experience.

Torino (Turin)
Italy’s fourth largest city had a major facelift recently thanks to the Winter Olympic Games that were hosted here in 2006.  This capital of the Piedmont Region has had many food innovations, not to mention it’s the home of the ‘little Italian car that could’ – the Fiat (lovingly said to stand for “Fix it Again, Tony”).
Turin is the home of Lavazza Coffee and one of my favorite things on the planet – Nutella. This jar of chocolaty goodness is available at just about every supermarket around the world – and why wouldn’t it be? Who can deny the rich flavors of chocolate and hazelnuts spread on a slice of bread, cracker, or just simply licked off a finger. If you haven’t ever tried it yet then run, don’t walk, to your nearest grocer and buy several jars, because I promise, one won’t be enough.

Turin is also the home of a big culinary movement that is growing fast – Slow Food. In the US, for decades we have wanted nearly everything done fast – our commutes, our meetings, and our meals. Often times, we scarf down some kind of mystery meat on a bun at our desk at lunch…all the while keeping our eyes on the computer screen and one hand placed upon on not so hygienic mouse. Gradually, it seems we are more enjoying the art of dining out with friends and making it last. When was the last time you savored a meal – slowly masticating each tender morsel and taking the time to enjoy the flavors and think about what you are eating? Maybe that’s part of our problem we don’t even think what we shove down our gullets and five minutes later the meal is over and we go about our business.

In 1987, McDonalds began its inevitable expansion into Italy. A few Italian foodies got together to make sure this was not the end as they knew it to the fabulous Italian sit down meal. Carlo Petrinim and some of his foodie friends (neoforchettoni or ‘big forks’) wrote a manifesto which was published in the Italian foodie Culinary Magazine, Gambero Rosso.  LINK They declared that a meal should not be measured by its speed, but by its pure pleasure. From this they founded the soon-to-be world famous Slow Food organization.  Its mission was to reconnect artisanal producers with interested and consumers. And it’s working. Slow food has grown fast. Their membership is close to 100,000 in 50 countries worldwide. And their message of biodiversity, sustainability, and shared food resources is traveling around the world at lightening speed.  Just as they had hoped, the Slow Food movement is growing faster than McDonald’s expansion – at least in the Piedmont Region. There are now about 30 of Ronald’s burger joints, but at least twice as many acclaimed Slow Food restaurants plus the fabulously chic and well-stocked new slow food superstore, Eately. Catchy name, eh? I visited this Whole Foods crossed with an Italian food-lover’s paradise and drooled over the enormous selection of cheeses, meats, breads, pastas, fish, chocolate, and olive oils. Stark white shelves heave with perfectly aligned jars of oily, salty anchovies, a plethora of pestos, tasty tapenades, freshly made pastas, and so much more. But luckily there are cafes sprinkled throughout the store where you can sit down and chow on some of the delights right before your eyes.  And for dessert, of course, there is a gelato stand where part of the proceeds goes to charity.

Parma
This lovely provincial town may be one of the most expensive and richest in all of Italy. Why? Two words: prosciutto and parmigiano. High in the hills of Parma in the Emilia-Romagna Province of Italy amidst the evergreens and snowy mountaintops, live a few hundred producers of what is possibly the world’s most famous ham: prosciutto di Parma. I got a ‘behind the scenes’ tour of one of the local producers, San Nicola, one of the first in Parma to go from a small artisanal family practice to a more industrialized shop trotting out 100,000 legs of prosciutto each year. But don’t let the word “industrialized” fool you, San Nicola is still a family-owned operation employing just 13 folks.   It is among all the other hundreds of shops in the area who together ultimately produce 10 million legs of prosciutto each year – 450,000 of which are exported to the USA.  That’s a lot of ham.

What is prosciutto exactly? Isn’t it simply some cured ham? Well kind of yes…and kind of no. If you ask Luca Baratta, the Manager of Production at San Nicola, he will tell you it is much, much more than that. It is a centuries old tradition that is now regulated by the government in which nearly every aspect of this ham production is regulated and approved.  His factory for the most part feels like a library…a library of meat. Rows and rows of metal shelves with quiet hanging pink legs just waiting, relaxing, and aging in peace. It is super clean and quiet with a handful of workers only seen at the beginning of the assembly line where the fresh legs come in from the local pig farmer. Here they are checked for quality, sorted and stamped with metal seals of approval. From here they are salted, then rinsed and eventually hung to age for anywhere from 16 to 30 months.

For ham to actually be given the regal moniker of Prosciotto di parma it must follow strict guidelines established by the government in 1970 under what is called the D.O.P. – the Denominazione di Origine Protetta (or Parma Ham Consortium). In a country that takes its food very seriously, this is kind of like the food police and you don’t want to mess with them.  The guidelines pertain to many criteria including where the pig came from, how they are raised, what they eat, how they are slaughtered, and of course the actual salting and curing processes.  Every step of the way is checked, monitored, and given a stamp of approval. In fact, in today’s over-marketed world where nearly everything is “new and improved,” “genuine,” and “premium” it is nice to know that the prosciutto governing body forbids these qualifications and others like it. The only words allowed to be used are “boneless” and “sliced,” if that is in fact the case.

Some of the not-so-secret secrets of good prosciutto are the length of time it’s aged and having a thicker layer of fat encasing the meat. Some may seem this as unhealthy, but in the aging process it’s this fat that locks in the moisture and flavor making ham magic happen and ultimately creating some of the best prosciutto I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasking – tender, melt in your mouth deliciousness. Luca says through the process, this food product is actually better and healthier than when it first started.  Perhaps he’s right because it tastes like heaven.

Bologna
No my friends this is not the home of that odd and bland American invention, Baloney. Nor is it home to the U.S. version of spaghetti bolognese. But it is the home of 

alla bolognese …the real deal meat-based sauce with actually very little tomato and never served over spaghetti (a Naples invention), but with the local egg pastas tagliatelle or lasagne. The recipe, issued in 1982 by the Bolognese delegation of Accademia Italiana della Cucina, confines the ingredients to beef, pancetta, onions, carrots, celery, tomato paste, broth, red wine, and (optionally) milk or cream.
Perugia
The original chocolate kiss, the Baci is from here. These hazelnut, chocolate morsels are made by internationally imported chocolatier – Perugina, one of the most successful confectioners in Italy. The company was introduced to the U.S.A at the 1939 World’s Fair in New York, and have since become known for fine chocolate around the world.  And, of course, in this time of mergers and big business, Perugina is now a division of the Swiss Nestlé corporation.

I could go on and on about the specialties from each region: the rich more robust sauces of Calabria and Sicily, the Napolitano Pizza, the secretly sniffed-out truffles of Umbria and so on. But perhaps like me, you are now hungry…so get down to your local farmer’s market for some fresh produce, hit your local Italian market for some fresh pasta (or better yet, learn to make your own), grab some extra virgin olive oil and mangia!

Buon Natale from Italia!!

Whatever you call it: café, coffee, espresso, café latte, or just a ‘cup of joe,’ coffee has been drunk for centuries and varies depending on the species of coffee plant the bean comes from – a misnomer for seed (arabica, robusta, etc.) – and the type of roast (Italian, French, American, etc.). It was discovered originally in Ethiopia, spread through Arabia into Turkey and eventually to the thriving trade port in Venice. Today coffee drinks are big business and, for better or worse, a cup of coffee has become part of the uniform of the American worker (and an eco-disaster). Noted as one of the world’s largest, most valuable, legally traded commodities after oil, coffee has become a vital cash crop for many Third World countries. Brazil is the world leader in production of green coffee, followed by Vietnam and Colombia. Of course with all this demand comes big ecological impacts as well. A major issue concerning coffee is its use of water. According to New Scientist, it takes about 140 liters of water to grow the coffee beans needed to produce one cup of coffee and coffee is often grown in countries where there is a water shortage.

The concept of fair trade labeling, which guarantees coffee growers a negotiated pre-harvest price, began in Europe in the ’60s.  Fairtrade is about better prices, decent working conditions, local sustainability, and fair terms of trade for farmers and workers in the developing world. By requiring companies to pay sustainable prices (which must never fall below the market price), Fairtrade addresses the injustices of conventional trade, which traditionally discriminates against the poorest, weakest producers. It enables them to improve their position and have more control over their lives.

The production and consumption of “Fair Trade Coffee” has grown in recent years as some local and national coffee chains have started to offer fair trade alternatives. Starbucks, one of the largest buyers of Fair Trade Certified coffee, will double its purchases to 40 million pounds in 2009, making the company the largest purchaser of Fair Trade Certified coffee in the world.   A number of studies have shown that fair trade coffee has a positive impact on the communities that grow it by strengthening producer organizations, improving returns to small producers, and positively affecting their quality of life. The families of fair trade producers were also more stable than those who were not involved in fair trade, and their children had better access to education.

I used to never drink the stuff; all through high school, university, and through my twenties – not a drop. After the Starbucks craze (and, in case you don’t live in the US, there are also many independent cafes and coffee bars in the US) I was sucked in just a little and would maybe treat myself to a few coffees each month. And since I wasn’t a true coffee drinker, these were, of course, the frou frou coffee ‘concoctions’ of Starbucks – like a mocha (espresso with a shot of chocolate syrup…for me minus the whipped cream). Now as I’ve traveled around the world and through Europe, my coffee and thus caffeine intake has dramatically increased – for a few reasons. First, when you are walking around towns and cities for months…you simply need something to do when you ‘take a break.’ And, of course, there are all these inviting cafes lining the streets beckoning you in with happy patrons laughing while they sip a cappuccino. So it was nice for me to join in. Plus if I sat down and ate something every time I wanted to take a break, I’d be as big as a house. Next, I did actually start to appreciate the taste and differences of coffees around the world. From the surprising, yet good, café culture in Melbourne, Australia (where I worked as a barista) and the chains of Asia to the less-than-stellar instant coffee commonly served up in Eastern Europe and the pleasing café au lait of France and rich espressos in Italy. In fact, the more coffee I drink, the less milk I add. I’ve gone from a crazy Starbucks caramel macchiato (not the real macchiato—an espresso ‘stained’ with a drop of milk) to a simple, yet robust, real Italian espresso (in 3 sips you’re done). I used to never order an espresso thinking it was too strong and dark for me, but I have to tell you, these are delicious.

The one coffee I just could not force myself to like is Turkish. For me, it’s just too strong. The grounds are left in the cup which makes for a bit of a sludgy beverage. But the after show is nice…having someone read your fortune in the bottom of your cup. Maybe mine would say, ‘you are drinking too much coffee.’ Well, probably not since the fortuneteller probably gets kick backs from the establishment.

When traveling for any length of time, you hear this word a lot: Backpacker. Who exactly are they? And where do they come from? More importantly, do they ever shower?

If you’re traveling for an extended time and therefore on a budget like me, you’ll probably go the cheap “backpacker” route, by couchsurfing, staying in hostels, small independent hotels, and only using public transport or just simply walking.  Now, I wouldn’t turn down a night at a Four Seasons or Ritz-Carlton, but overall I would choose ‘low-to-the-ground’ cheap travel any day of the week.  Traveling ‘on the cheap’ doesn’t vary all that much from the former, except you are less insulated from the place you are visiting. Plus I’ve stayed in some pretty nice places like the Beehive Hostel in Rome or Sleep Inn in Berlin that were chic and modern, friendly and cheap.  And isn’t that the point of traveling? Taking public transport and staying in smaller, often friendlier, places forces you meet so many more people than if you were holed up on the 15^th floor of a posh international chain hotel-where you actually get less for paying more. During my travels over the years, I’ve stayed in $15/night hostels and $350/night fancy hotels and am usually disappointed by the unfriendly, impersonal service at a big hotel, plus anything you want is an additional cost. Instead, I prefer to stay at a cute small hostel or family-owned hotel, (like this one owned by someone I love) where you know the owner by name, the room is just as clean (and sometimes cleaner-they have more pride in their own business than the underpaid chamber maids at Holiday Inn), and so many extras are free and part of your stay: free tours, free breakfast, free coffee, book exchanges, movie nights, use of a washer & dryer, instant friends, and free and real advice (no concierge-just real locals with real opinions).

By today’s ever-changing vocabulary, I’m more of what’s called a “flashpacker“-a backpacker who travels with some geeky gadgets (ala my laptop, camera, and all their accoutrement) and spends a little more cash for comfort and privacy on occasion. I wear this name badge with pride. About once a month after couchsurfing and hostelling I sometimes splurge for a few nights in my own room. What a luxury! While my bag technically is a backpack, it also has convenient wheels and I almost always pull it rather than hoist it. I carry about 20 kilos (40 pounds) with me for months and months and wear the same 3 pairs of pants over and over again, but I am certainly not roughing it – and always stay somewhere clean and shower on a daily basis.

If you are going on the cheap, keep in mind that you are out in the world to experience something else (I should hope you are), and that the backpacker clique that goes from Irish pub to Irish pub, or hangs out in the hostel’s bar drinking every night for weeks at a time, isn’t exactly the way to experience other cultures-unless your aim is to learn different ways to say ‘cheers’ in other languages.

Flash packing. It’s the new backpacking. From the 60s through the 90s – they were called backpackers – those intrepid travelers hefting a heavy, unwieldy lumpy backpack on their backs as they discovered how to live on less and see more each day. Sometimes showering, sometimes not. But don’t fret, this hardcore, gnarly backpacker is still out there – I have met a few of them.

Sometimes they can be a bit ‘holier than thou’ as far as travelers go – comparing who has traveled the longest, the farthest, who’s been robbed more, or been in strange foreign jail cells the most, whose toenails have grown the longest, who has the busiest (nastiest) beard and rattiest jeans. You know ‘em as the scruffy, odiferous, unshaven, dred-locked, organic, crunchy, granola-type characters who pride themselves on being out ‘there’ and ‘off the grid’ the longest.

A prime example is this guy I met in Istanbul – I like to call him “Irish Jesus.” Well, first obviously because he was from Ireland. And I know from the name, you can already picture him: long, dark, stringy hair with one odd braid coming out from the back with what looked like some old rags twirled through it (perhaps some old underwear that had disintegrated down to a ribbon-sized swatch), a very un-sexy pubic hair-resembling long scruffy beard with bits of odd goo and crumbs in it, a loose-fitting v-neck bohemian style shirt and loose draw-string pants, most likely made from hemp, brown tobacco-stained teeth and, of course, no shoes. As he sucked flavored tobacco out of a Turkish nargileh (hookah) pipe and swigged cheap beer, we realized we actually had a bit in common. We were both traveling around the world. He stayed in Spain a bit, something, at the time, I was really hoping to do as well. He lived in the south in a town called Granada. ADD LINK But, ah yes, that’s where the similarities ended. I asked him where he lived, hoping to get some insight maybe on a cheap apartment.

He nonchalantly replied, “A cave.”

As if it was the most normal thing to do. I was not about to accept this as common and proceeded to pepper him with twenty question about his stalactite-filled dwelling. According to IJ, he built some kind of makeshift ‘casa’ literally in a rocky cave in the hills above the town.  He had candles and blankets, and…oh, who cares? I stopped listening at some point because it was just a bit out of my realm of reality.

Of course, I bet at home in Ireland, he grew up in a mansion and drives a Mercedes, but now he’s rebelling against those evil material possessions and the superficial demise of mankind. Blah. Blah. Blah. I doubt he walked to Turkey from Ireland-probably had to ride in one of those huge metal, carbon-gas emitting jets like the rest of us flashpackers paying for their carbon offsets.