Tag: romance

Saint Faustino’s Day: Celebrating Singledom the Italian Way

After spending most of the last five years of my life in Bologna, Italy, the day after Valentine’s Day will never be the same.  With the same pioneering, rule-breaking spirit that the Italians have brought to art, fashion, engineering, architecture, and crime, they’ve also brought to Valentine’s Day by creating their own holiday celebrating singles everywhere (everywhere meaning: the more the merrier) called Saint Faustino’s Day.  Happening annually on February 15th, the holiday would more appropriately be described as “clandestine lovers day.”  Since today is Saint Faustino’s Day, and you might not find yourself anywhere near Italy, here’s a little story to get you inspired for next year’s party planning.

It was a quiet afternoon in January and my tranquil afternoon was rudely interrupted by my telephone.

“Riiiiiiing!”

“Hello?” I answered from my apartment in Bologna, Italy.

“Yo Peg!  What’s up?  Can I use your place the day after Valentine’s Day?” comes the voice of my high school friend, also an American living in Bologna, and herein referred to as GF to protect his identity.

“What?! Why?”

“Why do you think? I want to meet girls!”

Sigh.  Of course.

“I don’t understand how your constant interest in the opposite sex has anything to do with my place or the day after Valentine’s Day,” I responded with the typical bit of annoyance creeping into my voice, a common occurrence in conversations with GF.

“Peg, what’s your problem?  Everyone knows the day after Valentine’s Day is singles day in Italy. I can’t have a party at my place!  I’d have to do the cleaning up!”

Obviously my friend GF has a lot of redeeming qualities that outweigh – or at least balance – the less than ideal ones.  And, as usual, I fell prey to his obscure charm and agreed to host a February 15th singles party at my apartment, much to the chagrin of my three roommates. I mean, hey, I was single.  Why not get into the spirit, right?  No sense in languishing in feelings of inadequacy on Valentine’s Day when I can be busy party planning for Saint Faustino’s Day.

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Party planning in Bologna.

Party-planning immediately got underway, meaning I created what turned out to be a fairly robust Facebook invite.  GF constantly monitored it to check out how attractive the girls were that had RSVPed “yes.”

But as the big day approached, I got sick.  Strep throat.  It wasn’t pretty. And I had no insurance to get antibiotics, as my “permission to stay” application had not been finalized yet by the Italian authorities, which meant that I was living in a crack within Italian bureaucracy and had no legitimate access to healthcare (although, to their credit, I could always go to the hospital and would be well taken care of).  On February 12th I found myself sitting and crying on the couch in our dining room because my fever was so high. I didn’t know what to do, and things really weren’t looking good for Saint Faustino. My Turkish roommate Zey, who is possibly the nicest person on earth, walked by on the way to the kitchen.  She assessed the situation (me) and quickly produced the travel antibiotic she always gets before leaving Istanbul and returning to Bologna.

I started taking them right away.  I stayed in bed constantly, abstaining from all social invites and even cancelling teaching English lessons.  I was determined: I had to get well for the Saint Faustino party.

Valentine’s Day came and went quickly.  Forgettable.  And I quickly found myself waking up on Saint Faustino’s Day.  I was still really sick.  So what did I do?  I got out of bed, took a shower, and put on my best pink cocktail dress and a whole lotta makeup.  I figured if I wasn’t going to heal the old-fashioned way, I may as well just give it the good old college try.

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We decorated our dining-room-with-a-couch with a random assortment of accessories from the 99 cent store (actually, multiple 99 cent stores, since they are practically on every corner in Bologna).  Friends started arriving, mostly from my graduate program at the University of Bologna and our extended circle.  GF arrived fashionably late with his sidekick and enough liquor for an army.  He immediately started complaining about my playlist and anxiously awaiting enough guests to make the party not embarrassingly empty.

And came they did.  Very fashionably late. But what would a party be in Italy if the guests arrived before 11pm?  Boring, that’s what! 😉  Friends came in groups and trickles of singles that we knew from all over town.  People tossed their coats in my room.
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Was everyone single?  Not even close.  But we all had at least one thing in common – we were all indisputably fun-loving.  Somebody brought a guitar.  Others starting noting my Valentine’s accessories and playing games.  People paired up and then mingled again. A couple found my room suitable for making out, which didn’t stop people from grabbing their coats and enjoying the entertainment.
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I noticed my project partner in my statistics class was spending a long time in my kitchen talking with the roommate of one of our classmates, a beautiful Italian woman.  GF noticed too and wasted no time in swooping in as soon as my statistics partner left early.  Hallelujah!  The party was officially a success.  GF met a beautiful woman that he wouldn’t have met otherwise.

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I don’t remember when GF and his Saint Faustino’s Day interest left.  But I remember quite distinctly that my last party guests didn’t leave till 4am.  And they insisted I join them wherever they were going next.  I declined, out of character for me.

I didn’t want to push my luck.  It was 4am, I was feeling better than I had in over a week, GF was happy, and I had just thrown a memorably enjoyable party.  Life was good.

So I went to bed, and woke up feeling awesome.  GF called.  No fireworks with his Saint Faustino’s Day catch, but he was happy nonetheless.  My statistics partner messaged me.  He wanted me to help him get to know this girl better.  The same girl.

Never a dull moment.

And now, they are married.  My statistics partner and the beautiful Italian girl that made such a splash at my first Saint Faustino’s Day party.  I can barely wait to tell their kids the story of how their parents met in my kitchen.  And it is all thanks to GF, and the fierce spirit of the Italians in their quest for love.  There is no occasion not worthy of pursuing potentially life-changing love, especially the day after Valentine’s Day.  Here’s to making the most of every day, especially today.  Happy Saint Faustino’s Day!!!

A Night in Venice

Since I started this blog I’ve known that the missing ingredient was a dash of charm and a whole lotta honesty.   It isn’t easy being totally honest with a bunch of strangers (no offense) and not-so-strangers.  So finally, here is a true story – a huge steaming plate of reality from my life as a traveler – and a stellar example of why I am in love with traveling.  I hope you enjoy.

Even rain is charming in Venice.
Even rain is charming in Venice.

A few weeks ago I was on a commuter train headed to Venice on a cold, quiet Saturday evening in Italy.  Despite the rain and my exhaustion from a long week of teaching English and a late night the night before in Bologna, I decided to follow through with my plan to catch the last day of the Venice Biennale exhibition that weekend.
My English student appeared on the train from out of nowhere, jumping on seconds before the departure.  He’s a captain with the Italian military police and was on his way home from work to his hometown of Ferrara, a short train ride from Bologna.


He sat down next to me.  “Teacher! Where are you going?”


Caught in the middle of a daydream, I had to think a moment about my answer.  “To Venice!”


He gives me a knowing look.  “Alone?  And looking so tired?”


These were legitimate questions.  But I had a good answer.  “I love to travel alone.  I always make new friends.”


He thought a moment about my answer.  “It could be.”


“But,” I continued, “tonight is going to be a quiet night at my hotel.  I am exhausted.”

Famous. Last. Words.


I was finally in my room two and a half hours later, after a long and beautiful – albeit wet – stroll to Venice’s Dorsoduro district to my hotel near the Peggy Guggenheim museum.  Too tired to put effort into my outfit, I stuck with my jeans (normally an absolute no-no for me on a Saturday night), grabbed my iPad, and set out immediately to begin the daunting task of finding a not-too-touristy restaurant for dinner.

The Peggy Guggenheim, one of my favorite museums on earth.
The Peggy Guggenheim, one of my favorite museums on earth.

Long ago a student friend of mine took me to a piazza in the Accademia area of Venice that was full of bars and restaurants.  Pretty far from Piazza San Marco, I thought this was a good bet for finding a less touristy restaurant.  Problem was, I had no idea how to get there.  And direction is not so easy in Venice.  Details!  No biggie.  I burst out of my hotel and walked in the general direction of the Accademia area.


After some helpful signs and some strategic following of the crowds around Venice’s infamous small and windy streets, I found the piazza.  Campo Santa Margherita it was called.  I was proud of myself for getting myself there.  It was buzzing with people having drinks and aperitivo and preparing for the Saturday night festivities.  Perfect.  I had an excellent 4 euro glass of wine and examined the Google map of the area on my iPad.  This is my shortcut for finding a decent restaurant on-the-go: I check out the restaurants that are actually on the Google map because they are usually good.


Google showed me three options around the Campo Santa Margherita area.  En route to the first Google option, a restaurant called Osteria alla Bifora caught my eye.  The windows were steamy, and it was packed.  The atmosphere was great…not too elegant, not too straightforward.  The menu was short and specialized.  Good.  But, no vegetarian option.  I sighed and kept walking to the Google recommendation around the corner.  A no-go: boring menu.  The next restaurant was also a no-go: bad ambiance.  I found myself walking in circles…what should I do?  I was tired, and it was getting late.


I decided to trust my gut.  I went back to the steamy restaurant with no vegetarian options.  But as soon as I walked in, my heart sank.  The seating was communal.  There was no place for a single traveler.


But, I was hungry.  I flagged down the hostess and explained my predicament in Italian. “I have two issues:  I’m a vegetarian.  And I’m alone.”  She responded, “We’ll make a vegetarian plate for you.  And…wait here.”  She approached a full table near the door and said something to a man at the table, and then returned to me. “You can sit with them.”  She pointed to the table she had just visited.  I was mortified. “No, no, that’s ok.  I just was hoping to take a chair at a table, I don’t need to join anyone.”  Her expression didn’t change.  “You can sit with them,” she repeated.  Like a deer caught in the headlights, I looked back at the table.  They were all looking at me.  The guy she had spoken to stood up and offered me his chair.  My feet carried me to the table but in my mind I was running away.
I paused for a moment at the head of the table.  I was trying to understand the situation.  Four guys and two girls.  Their girlfriends perhaps?  Are these girls going to hate me for butting in on their date night?  No time for thinking, they were waiting for me to sit down.  So I sat down.  I don’t even remember the introductions, except that they loved my name and started calling me Peggy Guggenheim.  It was all a blur.


The women were on my left.  They were Germans and also in town for the Biennale.  They didn’t know the guys either, and they didn’t speak Italian.


The guy across from me asks in Italian, “Do you like white or red?”


“Oh, whatever you are having is fine with me.”


“White?”


“Sure.  I’ll pay you back after.”


He gave me a little wave of disagreement and shouted to the waitress, “A bottle of prosecco!”


And that is when my vision of a quiet night officially came to a screeching halt.


The guys were very Northern Italian looking.  Their light complexions and elegant dress were a welcome change from Bologna, a university town full of casually dressed students from across Italy.   They told me they were from Venice.  Wow.  Awesome.


And what commenced can only be described as a feast.  We enjoyed a cross-continental multi-lingual dinner over platters of one of everything on the menu and never-ending prosecco.  And no one would touch my veggie plate, so I had it all to myself.

A platter at Osteria alla Bifora
A platter at Osteria alla Bifora.

“You’re fun!” says the German girl next to me.  “Come with us to the Biennale tomorrow!”
“But tonight, you guys are going dancing with us!” said the guy across from me.
“It depends where,” I responded.  Venice is not known for its night life.
The guy at the end of the table who had given me his chair chimed in. “It is a beautiful place.  You will love it.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Then came the after dinner drinks.  We played a bit of musical chairs, put the new Daft Punk album on my iPad, and the party was on.  Even the restaurant owner’s dog came over to join us.  The hostess was watching me from across the room.  She seemed surprised things had worked out so well.  Somehow, I wasn’t.  My gut had known it.

After dinner drinks come with a cookie.
After dinner drinks come with a cookie.

Finally, the moment arrived.  To dance, or not to dance.  Did I really have a choice?


I left this restaurant that I had entered alone just hours earlier, now accompanied by six new friends.  We walked back across the piazza, through the windy Venetian streets, across the Grand Canal, and then I lost track.  At the end of a small, dark street, a handsomely dressed man beckoned us into a beautiful, unmarked building.  I found myself in a sea of wealthy Venetians in a gorgeous room I can only liken to a lounge at the Four Seasons Hotel.  And there I was, just a normal girl from El Centro, California.  In my jeans.


But I only worried about my state of being under dressed for a few seconds before other priorities took over: having fun.  Music, dancing, new friends, mingling.  But eventually the reality of life began to dawn on me and I realized my carriage was about to turn into a pumpkin.  Problem was, my carriage didn’t know how to get home.  Details.  Again.
I remembered hearing that the guy that had given me his seat at the restaurant, Adrian, lived near my hotel.  And, as my luck that night would have it, he was incredibly crushable.  Well, let’s just be honest.  I already had a crush on him.


And then, as if he had read my mind, Adrian appeared out of nowhere.  “Peggy!!”


“You’re walking me home, right?” I responded.


“Of course!”


My new friends and I left the club together, and then as quickly as they had come into my life, they disappeared.  It was just Adrian and I crossing back over the Grand Canal.  And I can now say, with certainty, that the romance of Venice is not just a myth.  Whatever it is, whatever it was, we took the long way home.


And then, the knocking and shouting of the hotel maid asking if I needed a clean towel. The sun was up, everything was as I had left it.  No sign at all of of my beautiful night in Venice.


I got up.  I went to the Biennale.  It was amazing.  And as I was walking back to my hotel, I got a text.  It was Adrian.
So I guess it wasn’t a dream.  But I haven’t seen any of my new friends again.  I’ve had nights like these before…Dublin, Brooklyn, Denver, Rimini, Paris, Stockholm…but somehow Venice has been the most unforgettable.

The next day, a quiet Sunday in Venice.
The next day, a quiet Sunday in Venice.

The hardest thing about these incredible experiences and finding these wonderful people in their own environments is accepting that these experiences are unique, like a gift from the heavens.  And trying to recreate them is like playing with fate.


But that doesn’t mean a girl can’t have a little hope.


I think the next one will be sooner than later.  And if so, you’ll be the first to know…

Lake Como: Good enough for George Clooney, good enough for me.


When deciding from long lists of potential vacation destinations seems to have less reason than throwing a dart at a dart board, a good potential mantra could be, “If it is good enough for George Clooney, it is good enough for me.”
Such is the case with famed celebrity destination, Lake Como (Lago di Como), which is in Lombardy, Italy, near the Swiss border.  While George Clooney was forced into selling his villa here several years ago due to ongoing paparazzi onslaughts, this area has long been a destination for real and quasi royalty, with a guest list boasting the likes of Pliny the YoungerJohn F. Kennedy, Mark Twain, and Tom Cruise.

Even the sidewalks are beautiful in the Lake Como region, here at Bellagio, Italy
Even the sidewalks are beautiful in the Lake Como region, here at Bellagio.


So what is so great about Lake Como?  Who knows.  But there is something undeniably charming about a grand, lazy lake, winding around rolling green hills dotted with tiny villages painted in pastel, with the occasional eloquent villa tucked around the bend.  And to make matters better, after a day on the lake, a relaxing dinner of homemade pasta with black truffles and Tuscan wine awaits.

It was a rainy day at Lake Como, Italy, but still beautiful.
It was a rainy day at Lake Como, but still beautiful.


Bellagio is one of the famed villages in the community, accessible by a dependable network of boats serving most of the villages in the area, and boasting a namesake casino in Las Vegas that is nearly the same size as this tiny little town.


Oh, and George Lucas also filmed part of Star Wars here.  Check out these articles with more info to tickle your fancy…

Why Not Verona for Valentine’s Day?

A sunset this heavenly seems fit only for a date of equally epic proportions – Romeo, perhaps? Well, this is Verona, Italy, seen vividly in my sunset shot from my trip last weekend. And I guarantee you, Verona’s capacity for romance doesn’t disappoint. If you buy your plane tickets now, you might just be able to claim Romeo as your valentine. And if you are good at keeping secrets, his address is via Arche Scaligeri 2. Shhhhhhh!
Don’t worry, I’ll keep Juliet occupied. 😉 She’s pretty much just a bronze statue these days anyway, so I think we’ve got it in the bag.

Happy valentine hunting!

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Best of Verona, a set on Flickr.