Confessions of a Bad Blogger in Rome

The title of this post makes it sound like it's going to be more juicy than it actually is. I'm sorry to disappoint, but my confession is a little more modest than what others might confess to in Rome; the guilt that is following me around these ancient streets relates to being a complacent blogger of late. I'm pleading lack of public wifi as my official reason: thanks to an antiterror law that was past in Italy last year, it's virtually impossible to find public wifi spots here. If I wanted to open an internet cafe in Rome, I would need to shell out for a public communications business license, purchase some rather expensive tracking software, and photocopy the passports of my clientele as they arrive at the door. And I thought the Swiss were paranoid.

But I do have internet access in my hotel, so I can't plead 'no public wifi' as my only excuse. Truth be told, I'm much more interested in being out and about in Rome than sitting in my hotel room, writing about it. I feel like a bad vegan blogger. To alleviate my guilt, here's a check-in on my average daily protein consumption.

Yesterday's major protein sources:

20 hazelnuts (from a market stall) - 4g protein
1 cup chickpeas (in a dip) - 11g protein
1 cup baba ganoush (with the chickpea dip) - 10g protein
30 pumpkin seeds (on a salad) - 8g protein
1 bowl seven bean soup (self explanatory, really) - 12g protein

I'd call this borderline low. Fortunately, I have some travel pouches of Vega with me for such low-protein emergencies. I'll have one tonight before bed; right after my fourth glass of vino rosso. At least my training in Rome is fairing better than both my blogging and protein consumption (providing we don't talk about swimming and biking, that is). I'm pleased to say that running is featuring daily, and continues to feel really good. Running around the Colosseum, running along the Tiber, running past the Trevi fountain, up to the Vatican, down the Spanish steps...

Why am I sitting in my hotel, writing about this, again?

In Good Company in Rome

I didn't run the Spanish Steps this morning, but I did run around the walls of the Vatican thinking that I could mark off one of the seven hills as 'done', only to later find out that it is the eighth hill.

I have recruited company for the remainder of my stay in the eternal city: my mother has flown down from a frosty Scotland to explore the markets and make faces at restaurant menus with me. As a long time dairy and gluten allergy sufferer, we make an interesting dining-out team. And as a self professed fan of my blog (having embraced the world of blogging with a remarkable insouciance), she has been extremely eager to make her cameo appearance here; persistently inquiring after when she will be 'blogged about' and giving helpful input, all day long, as to what should be included in the day's account.

So the following has nothing to do with either Ironman training or plant-based diets, but has everything to do with what happens when a dietaryily-handicapped mother-daughter pair set loose on Rome. Mum, please do let me know if there are any errors or omissions.

In advance of my company's arrival, I relocated from my hotel near Porta Pia to a self-catering apartment on a quiet street just outside the Vatican walls. The idea was that, if necessary, we could retreat to cook our own meals (I had visions of sitting down in a pizzeria and ordering like this: "Hi. I'll have the four seasons with no cheese and no meat, please, and my mother here will have the ham and pineapple with no crust"). It has actually worked out that, with the exception of breakfast (we start our day with a slice of gluten-free bread spread with fig jam from a local market and black tea which we make in a billy-can, for want of a kettle), there has been no need to rough it with our own food prep facilities. When not eating our way around markets (I focus on the nut stalls for protein, Mum focuses on anything that has polenta as an alternative to flour, and we both focus on the olives) we have been dining in the buffet-style eateries that can be found in just about any neighbourhood. These are the places where the working Romans go for lunch everyday, and so would I if I lived here: the food is homemade, inexpensive, and there are no surprises. It's like picture-menu food: there's no need to use your imagination when ordering. There are also staff on hand to pepper with questions about any dishes that are ambiguous in appearance ('but what are the tomatoes stuffed with?', 'but what is the artichoke battered in?').

Yesterday's lunchtime find was a particular gem. In a lane somewhere north of the Spanish steps, we walked past an art gallery-cum-restaurant. I didn't even stop to look at the menu, sure that it was not going to be in our loosely-defined budget range. But my less-presumptive mother did, proving that it doesn't pay to make assumptions. The restaurant, which was 'proudly vegetarian since 1979', had an entire menu section entitled Vegano. Let me repeat: a vegetarian art gallery restaurant, in Rome, with a section of the menu devoted to vegan food. When we pushed the heavy door open, I was expecting to enter an establishment where the 'alternative' lifestyle Romans (who I have yet to spot) were dining, but instead we found a crowd of well-heeled twenty-somethings, middle-aged well-to-doers and business luncheons in full force. Much more Gucci than tie-die. While the art wasn't quite to our liking (and you can view it on their website), the food was unbelievably good, and the total cost of our meal for two was less than a gallery visit.

Besides eating, shopping but not buying, talking over coffees in various piazzas when the sun is out and, ducking into churches when the heavens have opened, we've done our share of walking. By the end of yesterday, it appeared that I had pushed the limits of the generational gap on this front. Mum's legs were done, and the first signs of blisters were threatening to bring an abrupt end to all bipedal mobility. Since we're the same shoe size, we came up with the solution of fitting her in my running shoes (for those who care about these things, I wear the Mizuno Wave Creation). Having not been in a pair of runners since the early 80's, and then they were strictly gardening footwear, her first few steps on the ultra-responsive midsole were a little unsteady. She looked like she might tip forward which each springy step. But her stride quickly adjusted, and we headed up to the Vatican with at least a 20% increase in our ambling speed. She positively sprung around the marble basilica floor of St Peter's, exclaiming 'zoom zoom!' whenever moving from standing to a walking motion.

There are some things for which genetics offers no explanation.

My Unexpected Vegan Roots

While I don't plan to turn this blog into another food-and-travel blog, dinner last night simply has to be scribed.

Having eaten enough pizza to feed a small Roman legion over the last two days, I decided to switch it up and hunt down a pasta place. I was wandering, maplessly, somewhere near Piazza Navona, looking for the trattoria with the least signage and fanfare outside, and no menus with English translation posted by the door (general clues of authenticity in a moderately touristy area). I found a place in a side lane, which I will probably never be able to find again, somewhere in the web of streets east of the square. Hidden behind some potted shrubbery and underneath some overzealous vines that had succeeded in swallowing the facade, I found a narrow doorway that opened into a single-roomed restaurant that bordered on being dimly lit. I later find out that the restaurant is called Osteria della Luppa. Seated at a blue and white checkered table laid with heavy glassware and cutlery, I proceeded to study the menu.

First stroke of luck: although no English menu translations were posted outside, the menu handed to me did offer some (very rough) English descriptions of the dishes.

Second stroke of luck: there are so many meat and cheese-free options, I actually develop a mild anxiety over what to choose.

The third stroke of luck is a little more esoteric: I notice that the inside cover of the menu has a small paragraph on the history of the restaurant. In very bad English, the translation claims (with references) that the contentious painter Caravaggio used to lunch in the very room I am sitting. The significance of this little piece of trivia lies in the book I'm reading. When possible, I like to read a book that is set in the place I am visiting. As a moody teenager, I read Hemingway by flashlight after lights-out in youth hostels across Spain, Gerald Durrell during a rainy week in the South of England, and have read and re-read Douglas Coupland at different times over the last eight years of life in Vancouver. My current read, The Other Side of You, by Sally Vickars (while I do not plan to turn this into a book blog either, I do highly recommend reading Sally Vickars) is partially set in Rome and (if you've stuck with me, here's the significant part) it contains a major Caravaggio theme. The book has left me so intrigued by his work, I have added "see every Caravaggio in Rome" to an already impossible to-do list. Needless to say, I was positively hopping in my restaurant chair at this point.

Over the course of the next two hours, I consumed a mixed vegetable antipasto platter, a plate of porcini mushroom fettuccine in a tomato sauce, a basket of ciabatta bread, a fruit platter, half a liter of wine, and three chapters of my book. The only fly in the ointment was a light dusting of Parmesan on my fettuccine when it arrived at the table (despite my repetition of senza fromaggio). Not wanting to disturb a meal that was unfolding with an otherwise dream-like quality, I opted for a little damage-control: I scraped off the offending sprinkles, strand by fettuccine strand. If the server noticed the results of my nimble work at the edge of the plate when she cleared it, she didn't let on.

It was getting dark when I made my way back out through the overgrown entrance, and I took a route that led past the Pantheon where, as if my day could not get any more choreographed, I looked up to see ominous clouds rolling in above the grave-looking dome. It felt like Zeus was getting angry. I ducked into a handy winebar as large drops began to fall, where I progressed through two more chapters of The Other Side of You, as well as two glasses of port, and scribbled the notes that would later form this passage before the details of dinner became dim in the imminent fog. As the rain came down outside, I got to thinking about my family's own secret pasta sauce recipe (which will absolutely not be reprinted here).

What I know of our family's secret recipe is this: it was born somewhere in the hills outside Naples, was made for my father by his grandmother in a third-floor apartment in the Bronx, was later taught to him by his favourite aunt, and has since been taught to both my brother and myself in a series of transatlantic emails to our respective temporary homes in Atlanta, Georgia, and Vancouver, Canada. (After reading what I just wrote, is it any wonder that I have an irrepressible desire to move around?) As I reflected on my latest meal in Rome, it suddenly occurred to me that the pasta sauce which has been handed from generation to generation down my paternal lineage is, in fact, vegan. Only, I'd never thought of it that way before.

If this is how my ancestors ate, I could seriously get used to it. I think I'm going to have to run some more intervals on the Spanish Steps tomorrow, or I'm going to unceremoniously sink in the Tuscan sea come September's swim start.

Staring at Things in Rome

It could be that it's off season, or it could be that people the world over are feeling mindful of their pocketbooks, but it appears that I've picked the best possible time to come to Rome. I've just wrapped up a day of walking (covering at least marathon distance), and I haven't seen one flag-bearing group tour guide, nor caught sight of a single garish tour bus. There was hardly a lineup at the Colosseum, and I stood on the floor of the pantheon, squinting up at the oculus, without being jostled once.

I started my day with a 10K run (best estimate) through the Villa Borghese, a public park filled with geometric shapes, cyprus and pine-lined boulevards, groves of olive and lemon and statues of men with their noses - and sometime heads - missing. At the far end of the park I cut down to the Spanish Steps, which I discovered are the perfect camber and length for running stair intervals. Roman architecture is truly genius.

Having showered and breakfasted on fruit and coffee (after the amount of pizza I ate yesterday - yes, I went back for seconds - this seemed like the most prudent choice), I headed out the door of the hotel with no particular idea of where I was going. I had made the decision to employ a particular tourism strategy that I have used on other first-time city visits. It involves not studying a map at all prior to arrival, asking for no advice or tips whatsoever from the hotel concierge, and then wandering out the front door to see what there is to see.

When used well, this technique results in the happy experience of discovering one's own version of the city in question, however I should note that it has produced varying results. When applied in French towns, for example, (with the exception of Paris and Toulouse) my mapless wanderings have invariably sent me hightailing it back in the direction I came from to seek the counsel of hotel staff and to get my hands on whatever printed paraphernalia they could offer. But Rome is different. It's difficult to find a street in Rome where there is not something to stop and stare at. You feel like you are getting lucky with every corner you turn, but then you realize: no, this is just Rome.

In between my walking, stopping and staring, I've been eating. A lot. Besides the ubiquitous vegan pizza, I've found an abundance of vegan-friendly antipasto platters (available to go!) and markets with a better selection of fresh fruit and vegetables at one stall than in all of Switzerland. I've also come to the realisation that any vegetable can be stuffed (all my life, I've been restricting my efforts to peppers): stuffed tomatoes, stuffed eggplants, stuffed zucchini and stuffed onions. And olives. Giant olives are everywhere; stuffed and unstuffed. Concerned about my protein intake, I've been snacking on roasted hazelnuts and roasted chestnuts, cooked on open hot coals at the road side by dark-skinned men who call me bella in non-Italian accents. Did I mention gelato? I stopped to (again) stare at the unbelievable selection of whipped extravaganzas in the display fridge of a back-alley gelateria, when I spotted two flavours marked soya. Whether or not I'd just been eating fig biscotti, this stuff simply had to be tried. So I ordered a singe scoop of the hazelnut variety and then ate it while wandering through the Campo dei Fiori, dying and going to heaven with every slow step. Tomorrow, I'm going back to try the chocolate.

Tonight, I am taking myself out for dinner and drinks in Piazza Navona. I think I'm going to leave Rome a fat vegan, but then I like to think that by being here, I'm doing my part to prop up a struggling tourism industry.

When in Rome

I just can't get enough of Italy, so this weekend I find myself in the eternal city of Rome. I've only been here a few hours, and already I'm in love. Besides the beautiful people, beautiful buildings and beautiful language, within an hour of arriving I fortuitously stumbled upon a by-the-slice pizza joint with no less than three vegan pizza options. Three. I had to pinch myself as I stared at the blatantly meat and cheese-free deep pan specimens, sitting there in broad daylight in the window of an otherwise unremarkable hole-in-wall pizza place. Three, out of a total of eight pizza choices. Then it dawned on me that it is really only the American version of pizza that has a mandatory layer of cheese. I suddenly felt very yankified in my assumptions; and felt even more so when I went inside and asked the well-set woman with a beautiful smile behind the counter to confirm that the crust did not contain any butter . She tisked at me before rejoining 'no no, signora, we only use olive oil!' (I almost leant across the counter to kiss her - must be the effect of being in Rome).

I ordered a slice, paid 1 euro (I almost kissed her again) and said grazie at least thirty times before leaving. I stood outside and ate it straight from the paper it was served on. A thousand Fiat Puntos and mopeds whizzed by, every second one exercising the Italian driving motto 'have horn, and am not afraid to use it'. But I was in another world; no knife, no fork, no cheese, no meat, and no special orders required. The option I selected had a basic tomato sauce topped with an assortment of vegetables and herbs, but most distinctly, it had whole cherry tomatoes baked into the crust. They were baked right in there! And they were like tiny explosions of sunshine in every bite. The base had that familiar pizza greasiness to it, but it was olive oil greasy, not cheese greasy. A much more sophisticated pizza experience; especially when I did the unthinkable and licked every one of my fingers to wrap it up.

Besides feeling a touch of shame for not being better acquainted with real Italian sustenance (this is, after all, half my pedigree, and besides, I recently read that the Italians have the lowest per capita meat consumption in Europe - and one of the longest life expectancies, in spite of their insistence on smoking and teetering around on suicidal stilettos), my first food experience in Rome has left me flushed with excitement at the dining possibilities this city could hold for me. I just might be able to exercise an Italian motto of my own over the next few days:

When in Rome...

Swiss Secrets

Switzerland is a country of many secrets. It's a good country to take up residence in if you wish to live somewhere where people mind their own business. It's a good country to come to if you wish to mind your own. This is part of the reason, I imagine, that Phil Collins, Shania Twain, Ingvar Kamprad and Michael Schuhmacher are our quasi-neighbours. If I were a celebrity or a high net worth individual, this is where I would choose to set up house in the twilight of my spotlight years, too. It's also not a bad place to come if you have a few billion dollars to bank, or if you have, say, $648 million in pillaged gold that you would like to stash somewhere, no questions asked.

It's a country of many secrets.

I just returned from a long ride with my friend and new riding buddy, Amy. The sun was out, sort of, and the temperatures were hovering just above freezing. Amy's an American, brought here by a husband's Nestle job. She also happens to be an x-semi-professional cross-country rider, so while I just about manage to keep up to her on the flats, she leaves me in the dust on the hills. We rode through the farmlands today, looking for trails that lead into the patches of forest that punctuate the fields and that might bring relief from trying to keep traction on soft-packed snow cover. No matter how many times I ride through these fields and forests, there always seems to be new passages to explore; secret trails that are not marked on maps and, most uncharacteristically, are without signage. Sometimes they lead nowhere in particular, and today we found ourselves dismounting more than once to push our bikes as the undergrowth thickened and the trail disappeared without warning.

On the flats, we kvetched about the mysterious and varying opening hours of Swiss shops and businesses (one of my favorite topics), how to decipher what documentation is required when renewing one's residence permit (it's simple: you just keep going back and each time they will tell you that you are missing something, until one day you will arrive with everything required), and the inexplicably exorbitant price of a jar of organic almond butter. Sometimes, it's good to have company in these things; it makes me feel like I'm not the only one who feels left out of a few secrets.

As per my newly employed Ironman schedule, I arrived home after 2.5 hours in the saddle and exchanged my shammy for running shoes. I was just about to leave for my run when something new and interesting happened: a rather bone-chilling and not-so-distant siren came piercing through the air. Unable to identify the source of this impolite interruption, I went to the patio doors, with a curious what-are-the-Swiss-up-to-now frame of mind, and opened them. It was then that I appreciated our highly efficient double glazing, and took several involuntary steps backward as the mega-decibel sound boomed into the living room. I quickly closed the doors and did what I always do when I don't know what's happening in Switzerland; I sent an email to Michael at work, asking him to ask Francois.

Francois has brought us into the confidence of many Swiss secrets. My favourite came last August when things had suddenly became eerily silent in our little village. The shops and restaurants were closed, and the streets deserted. The outdoor pool was open, but I was the only one swimming in it, stopping after every few lengths to look around me with an increasingly uneasy feeling. After about a week of wondering, I finally asked Francois, 'Francois, where did all the people go?'

Francois, cheerfully: 'Into the mountains, of course!"

He went on to explain that everybody, and I mean everybody, in Switzerland heads into the mountains in the month of August. Why one would want to escape to the mountains when everyone else is there is beyond me, but in any event, I persisted with my line of questioning:

'When will they come back?'

Francois, again cheerfully: 'Next month!'

I wished somebody had told me; I might have stocked up on some groceries had I known I was going to be left behind in an evacuation.

Unfortunately, Francois was not available for my questions today. Thank goodness Google was; and I managed to find an explanation as the third deafening round of wailing bellowed out from the heavens, reverberated across the lake and echoed back from the mountains. My online sources informed me that on the first Wednesday of February every year, Switzerland tests it's civil defense sirens. That makes good sense, for a country that has not been in an official foreign war since 1515 (if the country was at war, and if I were granted citizenship - two equally improbable events - I would be relieved from military duty on account of my diet. Yes, Switzerland has a law against vegans serving in the military).

The knowledge that nothing was seriously amiss brought some relief, but still made me feel a little on edge as I headed out the door, determined to get my run in no matter what day in February it was. I turned my MP3 player up in an attempt to mask the shrill sounds that accented my run, but combined with John Mayer's somber voice, this only made for a somewhat bizarre and distorted doomsday soundtrack as my route wound through the vineyards, the backdrop of which reminded me of another Swiss secret.

In the 1960's, Switzerland passed a law requiring space in a nuclear shelter for every single resident. By 1991, the project was complete, meaning that there are now bunkers under virtually every hill and free-standing building across this quiet little nation. I suppose it's comforting to know that I am never more than a few minutes from a fallout shelter with an air filter, should it be determined that a ballistic missile is headed in this general direction. Our friends who own homes have shown us their bunkers in the basement; obscure concrete-reinforced rooms with stacks of bottled water and blankets in a corner. Our own picturesque village of Chexbres, nestled amongst the terraced vineyards, has bunkers built into the rock beneath it. I have yet to find the doorways (and I've looked), but I've heard that the illegal migrant workers who are brought in to harvest the grapes in September are housed in them.

These are the things that are only whispered about in Switzerland.

The Road to Aosta

I'm on a bus to Italy; a day trip to the medieval mountain town of Aosta. I'm with a group of ex-pat companions. The town of Aosta is nestled in a valley of the same name, between the slopes of Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa and the Matterhorn, and is home to the Fiera di Sant'Orso: a two-day annual festival displaying the local craftsmanship that this valley is known for: objects carved in wood.

Our diesel bus climbs, switchback after endless switchback. The flatroofed houses of the Rhone valley floor give way to clusters of dark timber chalets, every room with a view. We pass tiny churches inexplicably built in isolation at the roadside, their roofs holding up impossible stacks of snow while icicles that are taller then me hang from their eaves. Houses of worship, literally frozen in time.

In the summer months, the road from Switzerland to Aosta leads over the great St. Bernard pass, the most ancient Alpine pass and the route used by Napoleon and his army of 40,000 to advance into Italy in 1800. Between September and June, when snows block the pass, the route diverts through a 5.6 kilometer ear-popping tunnel below it; a thoroughfare through the heart of the mountain that spits vehicles out into Italy on the other side. The need for the tunnel decreases with every passing year: snow depth in the Alps is expected to decrease by 20-30% by 2020. Climate specialists at nearby University of Fribourg estimate that the Alps have lost half their glacier ice in the past century. Glaciers in Switzerland have lost a fifth of their surface area in the past 15 years. When my children drive this route on an overcast Sunday in February, they might turn to their children in the back seat and tell them how, not so long ago, snow covered these mountains, making passage on the high road impossible in the winter months. The children will try to imagine.

We emerge on the other side of the tunnel, and are suddenly and unmistakably in Italy. The neat rows of Swiss chalets are replaced by clutches of disorderly houses, seemingly built without plan into the mountainside, their stone walls and shingled roofs sitting at angles that have surely shifted over time. The road feels a little bumpier and the faces of the people seem a little more expressive from the bus window. They use their hands more when they talk. They smile more, I think, as we sit in a minor traffic jam that we have created by trying to squeeze our fat bus through a village's narrow streets.

Today is a day off from training for me, but not a day off from being vegan. I'm armed with sandwiches: one roasted vegetable with pesto spread, the other my faithful standby of peanut butter with apple slices. I'm thinking about something I fretted over for months when I began to realize that I wanted to stop eating animal products. My concern was this: that if I denied myself the opportunity to eat bree in Lyon and salami in Milan, I would be missing out; missing out on that complete, all-senses-engaged submersion into the rich tapestry of cultures and cuisines that patterns continental Europe. One voice argued that the upcoming year was not the right time to do this, and the other argued that for some decisions in life, there is never a right time.

I'm staring out the bus window, wondering if I am going to miss out on fully experiencing Aosta today.

When we arrive in the town, it's clear that we are not the only ones who decided to come. The narrow streets act as funnels for thousands of people - mostly Italians - who are here to shop and talk loudly to one another. I don't know how the town is coping; it's in an otherwise sparsely populated area of the Alps; the weather here is too severe and the mountain slopes too steep for ski resorts. The streets are so packed that we are all shoulder-to-shoulder, but still everybody is using their hands. The whole town is a marketplace; there are literally thousands of wood carvings on display, stall after stall of the Virgin Mary standing next to mountain gnomes or pepper grinders. The men and women who carved them stand next to their work, their own faces etched with the deep lines of time and mountain air. Everybody has eyes that are dark and bright at the same time.

We find somewhere to have lunch, and it turns out that I didn't need my sandwiches. I have a hearty salad with tomatoes, zucchini, olives and polenta. We drink a bottle of local red between three, and finish with black coffee. Everybody is drinking black coffee; and I realize that I acquired the taste when I wasn't looking.

Other than a sunflower-yellow jug that made me smile when I saw it in a window, I somehow manage to buy nothing but food items. I'm bringing back a large pouch of dried mushrooms that I'm not sure how to cook and strips of pasta that are all the colours of the rainbow (the red comes from wine pigment, the green from asparagus, the yellow from saffron, and the blue has no simple English translation, the girl tells me). I buy my first bottle of unfiltered olive oil: the top is a clear and brilliant green, like stained glass, the bottom is so cloudy it looks like a clotted cream suspension. On the way back to the bus, I make one last stop at an artisan chocolatier. I find a medley of different dark chocolates to choose from, and the woman who serves me confirms there is no milk in it. She should know, she made it.

It's twilight when the diesel bus heads out of town, and I feel a touch of nausea as we begin to climb back up the switchbacks. I either ate too much chocolate or sampled too much grappa. Either way, I feel like I missed out on nothing today.