And they lived happily ever after

Well, here we go...

The big day that is simultaneously a beginning, middle and end.

The last couple of years have unfolded like a fairy tale which - I'm not gonna lie - has been nothing short of awesome. But the thing with fairy tales is, in an effort to leave us on a high note, they never actually get to the end.

Little girls around the world are systematically programmed to aspire to the implied promises of "happily ever after" even though we have no bloody idea what that actually looks like. After the book is closed or the credits roll, we are left to imagine that it's whatever we want it to be...

But no one ever tells us that we are responsible for making it so.

There is good news and bad news in that.
You can decide for yourself which is which.

There is no question that I got my Hollywood ending. I married the dashing Italian in a beautiful vineyard and we have ridden off into our share of dramatic sunsets.

So...what happens next?
Your guess is as good as mine.
Wish me luck...

Home is where the heart is

We're cleaning house today.
Literally.

A bit challenging considering that The Fort is a veritable homage to minimalism and now we have to find space for me, my stuff, and my shoes...

this should be interesting.

Lately we've both become raging eBayers trying to make space here and lighten the load coming from there. So if you've ever coveted anything in my closet, feel free to check out my eBay store to see the latest stuff on the block.

Spatial issues notwithstanding, I'm having quite a lot of fun settling in.

For a former storage unit, this house gets an incredible amount of natural light from the full-frontal window on the ground floor, a single window on the second floor, and strategically placed skylights on the third floor.

The most beautiful feature is the two-story common wall that is shared with the adjacent house. The plaster was removed to expose the original brick, originally laid in 1890, making the outside of our neighbor's house the inside of ours.

The haphazard, almost chaotic character of the century-old masonry is a whimsical and welcome relief from the orderly, even-handed symmetry of the heterogeneous brick facades that line our quiet street.

I really love this wall.

The light is spectacular, opening the kitchen up into something of an atrium. Together with the exposed wall of our neighbors house, it creates a wonderful sense of being outdoors.

The wood blocks that make up the stairs and the lofted second floor were all cut from a single French Oak. It has such a lovely organic quality that breathes life into every part of the house.

I find an inexplicable comfort in being completely surrounded by this tree, feeling both supported and protected by its sheer enormity.

It has become something of a friend to me. And I often wonder about its stories. Where it has been, what it has seen, and who else might have enjoyed its company before it came to rest here with us.

The buddhas offer a calming sense of peace as well.

I feel safe here.

Andrea's mom once said she felt sorry for me having to live in this space. I don't recall when exactly, but I think it might have been shortly after seeing a picture of me entangled in extension cords, trying to dry my hair while precariously balancing a step-stool between the floorboards outside of the bathroom.

Why should this be necessary?

Because the mirrors are affixed at such a height that the average Dutch person can see their head from outside the bathroom. And I am nowhere near the height of the average Dutch person.

There are also no outlets in the bathroom because it's basically a giant rain shower with a massive jacuzzi encased in zinc...

...that open into the living room for a clear view of the fireplace and TV.

Although it appears to favor form over function, The Fort is truly an architectural masterpiece that strikes a brilliant balance in both.

Upstairs, the entire bedroom wall also opens up - or more accurately, opens in - providing access to the 3rd floor terrace, the site of many aperitivi.

And home to our groovy little bamboo Buddha garden.

For any architecture/design buffs who are interested, here's a link to the architect's website that features The Fort as a "Laboratory of Living" along with some of this other work. Really amazing stuff. He's a cool guy and a friend of ours now. The new place he built for himself is incredible.

On a more social note, I'm already a regular at YogaMoves, where they thankfully teach in English, as well as Natuur Winkel, the organic market where I'm still learning how to pronounce everything.

And I can often be spotted cruising around on the super-cool-new-bike-that-my-baby-got-for-me.

All in all, it's been quite a seamless transition and I'm sad to announce that we'll be saying farewell to the Chicago loft shortly after the wedding party there.

The cars are going too - yes, all 3 of them - so if you know anyone who's in the market for a Lotus or a Porsche, please let us know. But the Moto Guzzi is definitely coming with us to Italy - sorry guys!

It may not look like it, but there's plenty of room for guests (at least by European standards) so please, please feel free to come visit anytime. Seriously.

I love the new place and am thrilled about our new life, but I still miss you guys every day. Every day.

I'm afraid I have no recipe for you today.
We're ordering pizza.

Oops...we did it again

Wow. I've got to hand it to my brilliant fiance: after months of planning two weddings and one unforgettable proposal already on the books, he managed to surprise me...AGAIN.

I knew he had planned a special dinner for my birthday. For the past three months he had been conspiring with our good friend Edi, our local go-to guy who is loved by everyone in Hvar and can make pretty much anything happen. "Anything you need, my friends, you just tell me. I take care of you. No problem. " Man, I wish I was that confident (and connected) at seventeen! But for all their hard work, I think even these two were surprised at what they managed to pull off...

When the first boat guy told us at the last minute that "due to the treacherous conditions of the sea," he now required 100 euro rather than the couple of beers he originally agreed to, I promptly piped up that if the sea was so treacherous that it would cost 100 euro to get through 2 kilometers of angry sea, it might be in everyone's best interests to take a taxi.

Edi started making calls immediately. I told him that a taxi was fine, but he wouldn't have it.

"No, no, no," he insisted, "Andrea asked me for a boat and that is what he will have. No problem."

Within 5 minutes, we had a new boat.

Nice job, buddy. You're going to run this island someday.

They picked us up just before sunset and brought us to a private bay that is home to Robinson's restaurant. It is also home to Domi, the restaurant's owner and chef, and his family. I'm told they have a lovely house on the mainland, complete with modern plumbing, but they prefer to live here.

In a tent.

Yes, it's that beautiful.

Their small restaurant consists of a few tables sitting atop a tree-covered hill overlooking the bay and a private beach where they serve a handful of beach-goers seeking respite from the crowds.

But tonight, they hauled a single picnic table down the hill so we could have the restaurant, the beach, and all of this crazy gorgeousness to ourselves.

Pleased with my obvious shock and awe, Edi bid us good evening and sailed off into the sunset, leaving us to bask in the pink and purple afterglow with faint traces of lavender and pine lingering softly in the salty summer air.

We drank in the sheer deliciousness of the moment...

and immortalized it with one of our famous self-portraits.

After about an hour of chasing every conceivable permutation of color and light, we finally retreated to our table beneath the century-old olive tree where we devoured a bowl of fresh figs with a couple glasses of Pelinkovac - a Croatian herbal liqueur that I'm pretty sure it is made of distilled rocket fuel.

Tonight's soundtrack was graciously provided by the tide, the crickets, and the crisp sea breeze dancing in the trees. Corny and cliche, perhaps...but fabulously romantic nonetheless.

The dinner menu was to be a surprise because Edi was insistent that "everything must be fresh. Absolutely fresh. Only what is from the boat today." Naturally, this was no problem.

As the evening shadows slowly encroached, we realized that we were getting hungry.

And a little drunk.

Cue the waiter, who suddenly appeared inside our candlelit cocoon bearing a huge cast iron pot that contained the first course:

A wickedly decadent scampi alla buzzara.

Next, a simple garden salad followed by the main course: a magnificent skarpina (scorpion fish) flanked by char-grilled vegetables and roasted potatoes.

The skarpina was a truly majestic creature with a meaty, lobster-like consistency that was grilled to perfection. We enjoyed making his acquaintance with the utmost appreciation and respect.

There's something divinely visceral about eating an entire meal with your hands.

Especially when they are dripping with garlic butter and oil.

The tactile experience of flavors, scents and textures virtually osmosing into your cells is a wanton pleasure that we so rarely have occasion to indulge in at trendy urban restaurants.

Why should that be?

As we pondered this highly rhetorical question, we toasted our good fortune over and over, laughing at idea that this was actually the WRONG restaurant.

Classic.

Apparently the original plan was to go to another restaurant that is known for its single table on a cliff overlooking the bay, but Andrea couldn't remember the name of it. He scoured every restaurant review on the internet and when he called Robinson's to ask if they had a single table on a cliff overlooking a bay, Domi simply said, "Well no. But we can put one there. No problem."

Close enough.

So he and Edi set everything in motion. The night before, Joki (Edi's mom) invited us for their family dinner and told us she also thought the cliffhanger place would be ideal for the surprise. She had even sent her brother across the island weeks ago to take photos for Edi to send to Andrea, but he never did. "Andrea is a man who knows what he wants and Andrea said Robinson's so that is what he shall have!"

I think Andrea was initially a little bummed out when he realized that Robinson's wasn't the place he was looking for. But it turned out to be yet another classic example of the Universe conspiring to bring us something even better than we hoped for.

No problem.

So as we sat there under a million stars, he did it again...and in between the crashing waves, sans the hysterical bouts of laughter this time, I smiled through my tears and quietly answered, "Yes."

It was like a dream...only better.
Because every time I wake up, it's all still as beautiful and real as ever.

Grazie Amore Mio.
You too, Edi.


Scampi alla Buzzara

Since scorpion fish are indigenous to neither Lake Michigan nor the Dutch canals, I tried to get Domi to at least cough up the scampi recipe. But alas, as with most great chefs, his dishes come together through an imprecise application of experience and divinity.

For those of us who are less adventurous with expensive shellfish, here's a little more specific direction, garnered from various reliable sources:

10-12 large scampi (crawfish), washed with shells in tact
1/2 cup of olive oil
a handful of fresh breadcrumbs
1 large clove garlic, minced
1 small onion, chopped
1 tablespoon each of finely chopped marjoram and thyme
1/4 cup parsley, finely chopped
3 small tomatoes, peeled and chopped (or one 14-15oz can)
1 cup white wine
salt and pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a large skillet and fry the breadcrumbs until they just start to toast. Add the garlic, onion, herbs and tomatoes. Simmer for about 10 minutes.

Add the wine, salt and pepper and bring to a boil. Add the scampi, lower the heat, cover and cook 15 to 20 minutes.

Serve with plenty of crusty bread to mop up the juiciness and eat with your hands.

Sans napkins.

Lost in translation

I know many of you get a kick out of our impromptu and impulsive meanderings, but sadly, our government agencies do not embrace the concept of spontaneity quite as fervently. In fact, the only person who has cracked a smile throughout this bureaucratic quagmire was a crazy lady at the Italian Consulate in Amsterdam who couldn't stop laughing throughout our entire meeting. Hmmm...

Anyway, should you someday elect to be married in Italy, check your official government websites for relevant legal requirements. And when attempting to confirm information, pay absolutely NO attention to anyone who starts a sentence with, "I think..."

Nota bene, even if someone assures you that they know exactly what they're doing, get a second (and possibly third) opinion.

Case in point: for several weeks, Crazy Italian Consulate Lady in Amsterdam insisted that there was no need for consulates in the US or Italy to be involved because "everything can be done here in Holland." This made no sense to me. At one point she got rather pissy because she's done this "at least a hundred times before." Yeah, right.

There's no way has she processed an-Italian national-inscribed-in-Holland-who-wants-to-be-married-in-Brescia-to-an-American-citizen-living-in-Chicago anywhere near 100 times. In fact, I double-dog-dared her to come up with just ONE such instance.

"Oh...er...ah...why don't you send me all your paperwork again and let me review it. [Insert uncomfortable silence here.] Ah yes, if this is the case, she will need to deal with this in the US...and also in Milan." Duh.

And if we couldn't get to Milan in the next 72 hours? We wouldn't have the affidavit we needed to bring to the Prefettura in Brescia on Friday, which means we wouldn't have the final piece of paperwork we needed to bring to the Italian Consulate in Amsterdam the following Thursday, which had to be done before we left for Croatia the following Saturday so they could post a notice of our intent to be married to make sure no one who happened to be in the Consulate over the course of the next 16 days wanted to object.

Outstanding.

With the full force of my American arrogance raging, I attempted to talk my way into an exception. However, after pleading with several people both in Italian and in English, I was finally told in no uncertain terms (both in Italian and in English) that they were neither interested in nor responsible for my plight.

Me: So you mean to tell me that if I cannot get to my consulate in Milan on a Tuesday or a Thursday morning between 9 and 11:45am, I cannot be married in your country?

Mean Italian Consulate Guy: Si, Signorina. Arrivederci.

[Momentary pause as I struggle to recall exactly why I think I'd want to live here...]

So I left the next day and had dinner with an old friend at a little restaurant in Bellagio with a fantastic view of Lake Como.

Ah yes, it's starting to come back now...

The meal wasn't particularly memorable (almost unheard of in Italy) but don't despair. If you make it through this entire post, you will be rewarded with a recipe. Promise.

Another highlight was Vietnamonamour.

The uber-private B&B is set in an Indochinese house with a lovely private garden. With only four rooms, this is one of those hidden gems that's almost impossible to stumble across without the help of a local.

Built in 1903 in one of the historic areas of Milan, it's a quiet oasis in the city center. So even though it's only a few blocks from the Red and Green Metro lines, you really get the sense of being tucked away somewhere magical.

It doesn't look like much from the outside...but step inside and you'll swear you fell down a rabbit hole.

Each of their four vividly-colored rooms is done in a different theme with beautiful Vietnamese artisan furniture. The natural wood, bamboo parquets and pure silk bedding made it one of the all-time best rooms I've found for less than 100 euro a night.

The bed was so comfortable I slept through breakfast. And that never happens...

It's definitely on the list to come back for a romantic getaway.

The next morning I took the train in to Milan where my sole purpose at the American Consulate was to personally deliver an Atto Notorio - the document sworn by me and two witnesses before an Italian consular officer in Chicago that I was indeed single, never before married, and legally able to be married in the United States. I also had to swear to the same things again, this time before an American consular officer in Milan. The entire process that cost us three airline tickets, one hotel room, two train tickets and a boatload of aggravation took 15 whole minutes.

And since Andrea's flight was canceled because "the crew didn't come to work today" (thus necessitating the 3rd airline ticket) I had a lot of time to kill, so I jumped on the Metro and went to the city center where I immediately forgave all aforementioned transgressions and fell in love with Milan all over again.

Castello Sforzesco

The Duomo

The Galleria

The next day the affidavit had to be legalized at the Prefettura in Brescia and eventually forwarded with the other paperwork to the Comune in Molinetto where we needed the seal of approval from the Mayor.

But first, we needed to bring all our documents back to the Italian consulate in Amsterdam to officially declare and publicly post our intent to marry.

As part of the declaration, we were required to read the Italian civil code on marriage that states (among other stipulations) that:

1) we are not already married, brother and sister or first cousins;

2) we were not adopted by the same parents;

3) we would not be allowed to marry if one of us had been convicted of killing the other's former spouse;

BUT...

4) if one of us was merely accused of said homicide, the validity of our marriage would be suspended pending a full acquittal.

Ummm...ok. Good to know.

So with all the right documents turned in to all the right people in all the right countries, no traceable common bloodlines, and neither of us being convicted (or alleged) murderers, I believe we are finally ready to be married...that is, as soon as I renew my passport which expires right before the wedding.

Although apparently it is possible that a new passport number will invalidate all the aforementioned documents since I may no longer be recognized by the Italian government as the same person who swore to all of the above.

Mamma mia.

Desperately in need of something soothing and sensible, I made some Italian Wedding Soup to mark the occasion. At least now we have ONE fond memory of this ludicrous exercise in foreign diplomacy...

Evivva!

Italian Wedding Soup
(Giada's recipe courtesy of FoodNetwork.com)

Meatballs:
1 small onion, grated
1/3 cup chopped fresh Italian parsley
1 large egg
1 teaspoon minced garlic
1 teaspoon salt
1 slice fresh white bread, crust trimmed, bread torn into small pieces
1/2 cup grated Parmesan
8 ounces ground beef
8 ounces ground pork
Freshly ground black pepper

Soup:
12 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 pound curly endive, coarsely chopped (1 pound of escarole would be a good substitution)
2 large eggs
2 tablespoon freshly grated Parmesan, plus extra for garnish
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Make the meatballs: Stir the first 6 ingredients in a large bowl to blend. Stir in the cheese, beef and pork. Using 1 1/2 teaspoons for each, shape the meat mixture into 1-inch-diameter meatballs.

Make the soup: Bring the broth to a boil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add the meatballs and curly endive and simmer until the meatballs are cooked through and the curly endive is tender, about 8 minutes.

Whisk the eggs and cheese in a medium bowl to blend. Stir the soup in a circular motion. Gradually drizzle the egg mixture into the moving broth, stirring gently with a fork to form thin stands of egg, about 1 minute. Salt and pepper to taste.

Garnish individual servings with freshly grated parmesan cheese.

And be thankful that something Italian works the way it's supposed to.

An imperfect proposal

24 hours after the crazy Queensday celebration, we woke up to a rainy gray Saturday.

Andrea was super bummed because he had planned to drive us out to his favorite spot in the woods to show me all the baby animals that were born this Spring. "A celebration of new life," he said.

Awww.

I, on the other hand, was perfectly content staying hungover at home. I kept telling him that we could just go some other time, but he was quite determined that it HAD to be today...

At one point there was a break in the rain and we decided to make a run for it. With no time for lunch (or even a shower!) lest we lose this tiny window of dryness, we just grabbed whatever was in the fridge and the bottle of champagne on the counter, stopped to buy a couple of picnic chairs (and an emergency hair dryer so I could be presentable for dinner with the FranKats later that night) and off we went...

There we sat, enjoying the pastoral Dutch countryside and a beautiful blue sky that came out of nowhere, laughing at our good fortune (the Universe was CLEARLY conspiring with us) as several cows, a few sheep, and many passersby on the road, bore witness to our impromptu pot-luck picnic atop my emergency hair-dryer box.

So random.

It is worth noting that we had actually been planning the wedding together for the past month and even started designing our rings. And although my spider-sense is usually pretty perceptive, nothing about this particular day or series of events struck me as all that unusual. In fact, we were musing at the fact that this seemed like a perfectly normal thing for us to do on a random Saturday. So even when he broke out the lovely bottle of Veuve dressed in a cute little orange scuba suit, the fact that we would normally have grabbed a 5 euro bottle of prosecco still didn't phase me...nor did I flinch when he whipped out a long letter that he had written me which he wanted to read "so he wouldn't forget anything."

Ummm...Hello, I'm Clueless. Nice to meet you.

In fact, I was so clueless that I kept interrupting him with random fits of laughter and smart-ass commentary - all of which are now immortalized on the iPhone recording he made of the whole thing. And even after hearing the most beautiful words, thoughts, and sentiments, again, nothing about this scenario struck me as unusual.

I do realize that I am the luckiest woman in the world because of this.

Eventually, as he neared the end of his letter, with both of us crying and laughing and looking generally ridiculous to everyone driving past us (including the guy with the giant teddy bear in the passenger seat of an Airel Atom), despite the fact that this was probably one of the most obvious proposal set-ups in the history of man, I could not have been more surprised when his last words were...

"Will you marry me?"

I'm not sure a burst of hysterical laughter was exactly the response he was expecting, but at some point in between breaths I said YES!!!!

As if on cue, some bikers and cars came by, honking and cheering - I swear I think it was more obvious to the people on the road than to me what was transpiring here - and we toasted to the pure simplicity and spontaneity of the moment...

Apparently the original plan was to do this in some magical Tuscan sunflower field during the Mille Miglia the next week. But alas, that would have been far too predictable. No, it had to be done here, at this time and in this place: under a gorgeous blue sky (sadly, a rarity in Holland) surrounded by green spring grass and fields of nondescript yellow flowers, on the side of a dirt road with a makeshift picnic in the trunk of the car, in front of random bikers and a herd of cows (come on, COWS???), with me unshowered, un-madeup and definitively unglamorous wearing cargo pants, a plastic hair clip and gym shoes.

Said fashion abomination notwithstanding,

it couldn't have been more perfect.

I mean really, what other circumstances could have made it more special for us? A weekend trip to Paris? Did that in November. Fireside in a cozy Alpine mountain chalet? Already there twice this year. The Piazza Navona in Rome next to the Fountain of the Four Rivers? Been there, done that. Channeling Yuri Orlov and commandeering a private beach? Hmmm...

No, like many of my other ex-pat friends, I am slowly coming to realize that such things are just part of a "normal" life here in Europe...but as amazing as they are, in the end, it is always the simple, boring, everyday things that bring us the most joy.

Like singing Ligabue songs (really, REALLY badly) at the top of our lungs in the car and laughing all the way home...

All you really need for a great picnic is some food (whatever is in your fridge will surely do) and a little spontaneity. It also helps to have a sense of humor and to fondly embrace imperfection.

And if you can time it with the completely random and inexplicable launching of a hot-air balloon branded with the initial of your finance, well...

all the better.

This is what we grabbed that morning:
1 bottle of Veuve Clicquot (though a 5 euro bottle of Prosecco works fine too)
A day-old baguette
Near-empty bag of crostini
Olive Tapenade (recipe below)
A block of cheese
Half a salame
2 glasses*
A knife*
Napkins/paper plates*
Wine Key* (obviously didn't need it for the champagne, but force of habit)
Picnic chairs* (with beach towels and a blanket as back-up)
Hair-dryer box, optional but surprisingly handy

*These 5 things now permanently reside in the boot of our car

Olive Tapenade

3/4 pound pitted black and green olives
3 to 4 ounces capers, rinsed
2 anchovy fillets, rinsed and patted dry
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 bay leaf, finely chopped
5 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves finely chopped
3 tablespoons chopped parsley
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper
1/2 lemon, juiced
1 teaspoon red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon cognac or brandy
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Combine all ingredients in a food processor. Pulse to combine well, then process until coarsely pureed. Serve with crusty bread or crackers. Hand-feed to someone you love.

Viva la regina

The beginning of my "Dutchification" started today.

I arrived on an overnight flight to Belgium at 8am with zero hours of sleep logged over the past three days and about 150 pounds of baggage in tow. As a highly-efficient and professional road warrior I can survive for weeks out of a single carry-on bag, so this was really quite an embarrassment.

This trip, however, was different as I was slowly, secretly staging an international relocation. One might think that would warrant a slightly larger welcome wagon. Or at least one with a backseat. Though after seeing the thousands of bikes parked at the airport, I suppose I should consider myself lucky that it had four wheels.

As we made our way back to Utrecht, the rest of Holland was heading out for Queensday, an annual celebration of the Queen's birthday marked by the entire country dressing up in orange and drinking heavily in the streets throughout the day.

Although this is not an especially unusual occurrence here, this particular day is marked by what appears to be free license to host a garage sale anywhere one can find open street space.

You can buy pretty much anything on the streets today - and indeed I do mean anything:

furniture, glassware, random household items (some of which actually work), bicycles (perhaps even the one you "lost" last week), shoes (mostly worn), underwear (also, I believe, mostly worn), and a host of other contraband that bears a strong resemblance to the random trash left in the streets on any given Saturday night...

Our crew was gathered in "the usual spot" in front of Mick O'Connell's pub where everyone was singing along with local musician Michael Robinson.

The Girls

The Boys

The Future Fidanzato

There are few things more entertaining than listening to thousands of drunken Dutch folk belting out random American classics from Bruce Springsteen and Johnny Cash. Sometimes even with the correct lyrics.

My personal favorite was the crowd's resounding rendition of Hey Jude. Oy.

A good time was had by all...and I got to be Miss Holland for a day!

More importantly, it was a hall pass for an all-day pub crawl, during which I became obsessed with Bitterballen: crispy balls of savory gooeyness that explode in your mouth like mini flavor bombs.

Definitely not high-brow foodie food, I'd say they are akin to what one might imagine the love-child of a savory truffle and a hush-puppy to be.

That is, if one were the type to hypothesize about such things.

I am now on a rabid search for a recipe so I can make these tasty little suckers myself...

11/08/10 Update: Got it! Prepare for a mouthful of awesome.