Part one: Barb conquers the espresso maker but nearly sets her cottage on fire.
So, the day before I attempted to make espresso, gave up, poured water through the grounds while the pot was incredibly hot, grounds and water sputtered up all over the place, and the espresso that resulted from this miserable failure was actually really tasty.
For my final morning in my cottage, I was determined to get it right. Assembled the maker, with the bottom chamber empty, grounds in the middle, water on top. Put on hot burner. Waited.
Waited some more. Smelled burning coffee grounds. Remembered what an awful mess was made the day before with all the sputtering-up. UP! Up, of course the water bubbles up, not down, doofus. Took apart the machine, discarded the burned grounds, reassembled with water in the bottom chamber, coffee in the middle, nothing in the top. And -- presto! -- espresso waiting to be enjoyed. Espresso maker: friend:
As I was savoring my espresso (which was good, but actually the stuff from the day before when I just poured hot water over the grounds kinda tasted better, oddly), I started to smell something like burning plastic...investigated. Discovered that somehow I had started a little fire in my (closed) garbage can with the hot espresso grounds. Wow -- of all the times I've tried to get a fire going with dry wood, newspaper, kindling, and matches, in a ventilated fireplace or campground fire pit and failed, there I was starting a fire in a garbage bag full of wet stuff like wet paper towels and melon rinds and so on, without even a good source of oxygen since the lid was on. Opened the lid of the garbage can and proceeded to smother the tiny-but-threatening conflagration. Eventually I was satisfied that the fire was out, despite lingering horrid scent of burnt plastic. As I began to pack up my stuff, I checked it umpteen more times to assure that it was no longer burning -- I could just see them calling me and saying "We hope you enjoyed your stay, but we just need to discuss one small thing with you -- the matter of your BURNING DOWN OUR CENTURIES-OLD COTTAGE." Gulp. Yes. Fire definitely out. Definitely out.
Part two: Barb drives and drives and drives and drives and drives
The drive from Florence to Villefranche would take about 5 hours without traffic. Shelley (owner of my apartment in Villefranche) figured that if I left at 10am, I would arrive around 3 or 4:00, depending on how many times I stopped. So, I left at 9am, figuring if I got there too early I would just do a little exploring. Nice plan. Unfortunately traffic was a bitch, and my drive took NINE hours. Multiple highway-comes-to-a-halt traffic jams. I learned that stop-start traffic jams are really the only reason you want to have an automatic transmission. Boy am I good at stick-shift now. Stop. Start.
Still, it was mostly a pleasant drive with lots of stunning views of both mountains and sea, but I didn't stop to get any landscape pics. I did, however, take these photos to document my drive:
first major traffic jam:
cool blocks of (presumably) marble next to the traffic jam:
lots and lots of tunnels through the mountains:
cool bridge somewhere near Genova:
tollbooth -- almost to France!
Jim had asked me to get a picture of the border crossing, and I was a little nervous about it, figuring that anyone found taking pictures at a border crossing would surely be considered a terrorist. Nonetheless I had my camera in my lap, ready to document. Then I whizzed by a sign that said "France", and I was in France. No stops. No passport check. Nada. Wow, imagine if it were that easy to go between Canada and the U.S.! I was bummed that I didn't get a picture of the sign, though. It was a good sign.
I've already mentioned the wasteland that is radio here, but I did hear a few good tunes, and even heard David Bowie's Absolute Beginners twice (this was the song Jim and I chose for our bride-n-groom first dance at our wedding, so a big favorite) -- once while just getting out of Florence, and once while just arriving in Villefranche. Pretty cool. You never know what you'll hear on the radio -- I had a good laugh when R.E.M.'s Losing My Religion was played right next to The Hustle. Nice segue! I was hoping that the minute I crossed into France, suddenly everything on the radio would switch to Stereolab, Air, Gainsbourg, Stereoscope Jerk Explosion, and Tahiti 80, but sadly it was still the same schlock.
Part three: Vive la France!
I arrived in Villefranche tired and unbelievably greasy and sweaty from my long drive on a hot day. Had to wait awhile for Shelly to meet me and let me into the apartment, as she had three or four different parties arriving that day. No worries -- I was so glad not to be driving that I didn't mind the wait. Eventually she showed up, and a friend of hers kindly carried my monstrous cello-in-flight-case up the narrow stairs to my third-floor apartment, then kindly went back down to grab my heavy suitcase up too. I was already loving it here.
Shelley showed me around the (extremely luxurious) apartment, directed me to the little grocery that would still be open and to her favorite boulangerie which would be open in the morning, then was on her way to let in another party staying on the first floor. I headed down to the little market (down the adorable pedestrian lane, to be photographed at a later date), picked up some cheese, milk, water, jam, and spent the evening just relaxing and enjoying the view.
view from my living room:
self-portrait in the window:
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