Why Don't They Have This in America?

In Switzerland, instead of parking meters that necessitate shoving your hand down car seat cushions or begging a local convenient store worker for change of a twenty in nickels, they use these. You simply turn the wheel at the top to signal your arrival time and observe whatever maximum time limit is allowed for your parking space.
Police officers are consistently prowling the streets, checking on times. So, there's definitely no way you can get away with setting your clock ahead or not returning before your time limit is up. It's brilliant, really. Parking is free if you follow the posted rules and you get a big fat ticket if you don't. Sounds pretty logical to me.
Since locals have a version of the clock that sticks to their windshield, these dashboard ones come with some helpful traffic tips for visitors. Ours includes a moving model which shows that you should use your blinker when exiting a roundabout. It was purchased at a chewing gum and lotto shop for 1 swiss franc.

A Very Red Museum

To be fair, not all of the cars at the Ferrari museum in Faetano, San Marino, are red. But the emphasis is on "rossa" cars. Most of these rare specimens were driven in actual races, some are still raced today, nearly all are covered with decals and competition numbers. This is a peculiar place that is probably (but not definitely) worth an hour or so of your time. It is officially known as "Maranello Rosso Ferrari Museum," and also houses a Fiat Abarth exhibition, that we didn't see.
The museum is located right on the border with Italy in the town of Faetano, which doesn't seem to have much else to offer. Across the international boundary - which I say in jest; there isn't even a sign - is the airplane museum that we inadvertently visited a while ago. That first trip to this corner of San Marino was actually made to visit the Ferrari Museum, but there was a note on the door that said they were closed because of "extraordinary repairs," or something like that. When we came back, we were let in by a woman who seemed a little inconvenienced by our presence. She sold us tickets (12 euros each, which is outrageous) and turned on the lights for us. Nobody else came in while we were there.
The space itself is tight and strangely lit, with chandeliers and streetlight-styled fixtures casting difficult glimmers onto the mirrored walls. There are some carved doors and oversized urns that - I think - are supposed to evoke a swanky salon where someone has decided to park their collection of exotic cars. Each of the models is hemmed in by a guardrail thing, which makes them impossible to photograph whole and are also tripping hazards.
A good deal of the museum's literature and information is devoted to Enzo Ferrari, the racing champion and founder of the company, who apparently spent a lot of his life in San Marino. Wall plaques and photographs showed the man next to a wide selection of his quotes. Unfortunately, the museum also featured a large number of stills and "behind the scenes" photos of "Ferrari," a movie written about Ferrari by his son and featuring many of the cars in the Maranello Rosso collection.
This is a factory frame, used to form and fit pieces of sheet metal to the shape of the finished car.
In the museum's defense, the close quarters, gauche decor and questionable information displays couldn't cover up how beautiful the cars were. Rebecca, who has always said that Ferraris are ugly, admitted that she was struck by the looks of these models. They are all low slung, with curves and details that are more striking in person than in any picture.
The majority of them date from the late fifties to early seventies, with a few more recent outliers. This particular car was owned by Marylyn Monroe, and was the only white vehicle in the place.
In the end, it's mesmerizing to be there. There are twenty-five cars, many of them easily recognizable. It's a bizarre, mirrored, cramped museum that is probably worth the twelve euro admission price if you are really into cars or Ferraris. If you aren't, it will seem too expensive but may still charm you.

Watch Your Head

On our drive back to Trani from Castel del Monte, we spotted a stone archway in a field and pulled over to take a look. As we were getting back in the car, we noticed that on the other side of the same road was a group of these cone shaped stone structures.
The tiny dwellings, taller than me but shorter than Merlin, were in excellent condition and - unlike the archway we first discovered - were free from litter accumulation.
Inside was cool and moist feeling and the stonework was simply amazing.
Light came through the top, the point of the cone, and illuminated just how precisely and skillfully the thin smooth stones had been piled up. After a quick google of "cone shaped stone dwellings near Castel del Monte," I found out that the structures were trulli (conical stone dwellings specifically found in the Puglia region of Italy). Communities built them without any mortar or cement so that they could be dismantled if a taxation inspector was coming to their village. It was their way of dodging any fees for owning property.
I also found out that the specific field of them we'd stumbled upon is for sale. Apparently, buying trulli real estate is a new craze amongst English and German tourists. At least according to Wikipedia and Lonely Planet.

Trulli usually date back to around the 15th century, something that initially disappointed us. Due especially to their diminutive size, we assumed they were more ancient. It's amazing how much Italy will spoil you on something actually seeming old.

Dramma Naturale

After the week of movie-still scenery, magazine photo meals and paperback interaction with locals while my mother was here visiting, we decided to drive ourselves outside of the Italian tourist comfort zone. As soon as we made that decision, heading over toward the regions of Abruzzo, Molise and Puglia, Mother Nature - and Italia itself - decided to kick things up a notch.
In Vasto, we took a walk down to get our first views of the Adriatic Sea, passing this ridiculously tall grass the entire way. It added to the eeriness created by the fact that the town was almost completely shuttered up. Our lunch was a bizarre four hour affair at a mostly empty restaurant. It was one of the best meals we've had on the entire trip, cooked by an Australian-born Italian man named Michael who schmoozed as much as he cooked, and we could do nothing but laugh when our sixth or seventh little course came and there was no end in sight. We were joined by a table of four construction workers who sipped sparkling rose as they gnawed on slabs of beef and a couple who fought and made up and fought and made up for around three of the four hours. Mamma Natura isn't the only dramatic Italian.
As we reached the Promontorio del Gargano - the little bump above Italy's heel on a map or, as we lovingly call it, the callus- a storm began to blow in. Perched up in the hilltop town of Vieste, it was particularly dramatic. The cobblestones became slick and the already bundled up residents, pulled their coats in tighter.
The waves could be heard crashing all around us, literally, and the cobalt blue sky was crisscrossed by slivers of blue clouds. Vieste was fairly empty, in its typical seaside off-season slumber, so there wasn't much din or tires on cobblestones to content with the natural soundtrack. It's quite a way down to the water, but it sounded much much closer.
We scaled the steep steps, which our elderly B&B hostess had done earlier in the day with astonishing ease, to get a view from the roof. The inn used to be a convent and standing up there, looking both up and down, it was easy to see why they chose the location. If you're going to give your worldly pleasures up to a 'higher power,' you might as well get a front row seat to some otherworldly views.
The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving our car covered in a salty film. We drove her down into the Foresta Umbra and then out and up onto one of the steepest, windiest, craziest roads either of us have ever experienced. It was hard to tell exactly where it was leading us, as every thirty feet or so there would be a complete switchback. The sights out, or more accurately down, were mind-boggling. At the very top, about 2500 feet above sea level, we drove through the town of Monte Sant'Angelo, which is apparently one of Europe's most important pilgrimage sites. This view is far from the most dramatic, but pulling off the road wasn't really an option.

Moldova to Italy Road Trip: Day 1

A lot of our Day 1 driving time was taken up by a border crossing (Moldova/Romania - mostly the Romanian side) and getting semi-lost while driving through a bigger city here and there. But when we were on the open road, it was beautiful.
The roads in Romania are amazingly well paved. Our car isn't making weird squeaking noises anymore and we don't need to swerve at the last minute to avoid potholes. The one strange thing is that they don't seem to have any shoulders, making it a little hard to stop when nature calls.
We drove through the plains early in the day and spent our entire afternoon up in the mountains of Transylvania.
Just as there aren't shoulders on the highway, there aren't really sidewalks in town. As night approached, the roads seemed to get curvier and our fear of hitting a pedestrian increased. So, we pulled over for dinner and a night's stay.

Cave Driving

A few days ago, we drove through the largest wine caves in the world - the passages that they occupy travel some two hundred kilometers underground. What's more, the vineyard has the largest collection of wine in Europe, at over two million bottles. The name of this place is Milestii-Mici, and it was perhaps more amusing than it was impressive.
Before we went underground, we wandered around the vines themselves. They are supported by wires strung between concrete poles, which is common practice here. It isn't so much pretty as somewhat mesmerizing - the lines of poles arrange and rearrange themselves into grey patterns as you pass by. We were alone, killing time before our tour began, enjoying the stillness of the air and relatively mild temperature. As you can see, it was another cloudy day, which is perfect for taking pictures below ground.
Our tour guide, Lilly, got into our car and gave us directions through the passageways. Another group of four people followed in a separate car. The cellars began life as a limestone mine, and the vineyard only uses a small percentage of them - even two million bottles isn't enough to fill two hundred kilometers. We drove past huge metal and wood barrels first, where the wine is aged before bottling, then parked and walked through the deeper, bottle-aging section. The "streets" are convoluted and are named for different grapes and wines. Lilly would tell us to "turn left on Sauvignon Blanc," or "continue on Pinot." It's really kind of tacky - the vineyard website actually refers to the caves as "the biggest underground wine town."
As we drove, our headlights occasionally swept across shadowy figures in the tunnels - mostly older women with headscarves and blue aprons. Hundreds of people work in these caves, mostly people from the nearby town. One wonders if they have exceptional night vision. We could hear them clinking bottles against one another as we walked, too, and sometimes caught sight of somebody down a side passage.
The tasting was accompanied by a fiddler and accordionist - but not by any commentary on the wines. In fact, we were given no more information than "red, white, dessert." The white wasn't very good, the red was palatable and the dessert was fine. Quality isn't really the goal at Milestii-Mici. Actually, the goal - according to the tour guide and the president of Moldova - is to sell "one bottle for every Chineses [sic]".
There are two reasons why Milestii-Mici has so many bottles. The first: it is really a wine collective, with only some of the bottles stored there produced in the town's vineyards. The rest come from other producers in Moldova who can't or don't want to maintain their own caves. The second reason: there is currently a Russian embargo on Moldovan wine, and Russia used to account for nearly all of their alcohol sales. Many of the bottle in the caves are there because nobody wants to buy them.
Partly because of this - and partly because many things are very cheap in Moldova - the wine is very cheap. Especially in the vineyard store, where bottles such as this one - a 1986 Traminer in their "collector" series - sell for 98 lei. That's about $8.25. We bought two very good bottles of sparkling wine for $5. That's $2.50 each.

On the Moldovan Road

We've spent more time on the road in Moldova than we planned or we'd like. We've been here for seven days and a full one of them has been spent driving. Twenty-four hours is a modest estimate, really, and it was completed in a four day period. The reason we've driven so much, is that there is no tourist infrastructure outside of the capital. We have encountered four places to sleep in all, two of which were directly across from each other on the highway, three in which we slept. Fortunately, Moldovan countryside isn't flat or boring. There are rolling hills and vineyards constantly on each side of the car - just no inns.
The weather has digressed since Ukraine and the new-fallen snow has made things interesting. With a lack of plowing, drivers rely on the treads made by cars past before them. Even on a two-way road around the bend of a high cliff like this, cars from each direction move along the brown tire tracks, dodging each other at the very last minute.
Luckily, there really aren't many cars on the road at all. Outside close proximity of Chisenau, automobiles are few and far between. Mostly, it's just us, people walking to bus stops, van taxis and horse drawn carts. Mostly, the horses pull loads of lumber or hay, but sometimes they have more precious cargo. This is the first time we've seen pigs (that aren't on a plate) in a very long time.
Now and then a lawnmower will pass by on the highway or a motorbike with a sidecar. Since Ukraine, we've seen more single person motored vehicles than we ever knew existed and no two have been exactly alike. It's amazing to see them put-put by slower than the horse pulling the guy pulling a dozen tree trunks. Slower, even, than the old woman with a cane pulling her wagon-load of apples.On the Moldovan road, this is our snack. A piece of cake and an ultra sweet instant coffee is pretty delicious in a what-the-hell-am-i-putting-in-my-body sort of way. This is just from an 'alimentara' (grocery) and cost a buck altogether. The combo is served on very pretty china in actual 'cafeneas,' which adds an extra comforting touch. At more popular joints, you'll find couples of twenty-somethings flirting or small groups of teenagers gabbing over their cake slices and hot beverages. Sure, you can buy your own instant coffee packets at the market or pastry at the bakery, but it's nice to have a reason to go out and sit somewhere that isn't your kitchen or your room or your car.
Driving to Soroca, we noticed this wall of graffiti. We hadn't seen anything like it in the country and with the virtual white-out of a sky, it was particularly striking. Consulting our roadmap, we realized that just beyond the mural, over the Dnistru River was Ukraine. We waved hello to our last home and continued on our way.
Driving around in Moldova, we noticed that Saturday must be laundry day. All of a sudden, there were lines filled with clothes in front of every house. When you're driving aimlessly, looking for accommodations on Moldovan Laundry Day, all you want is to feel at home somewhere you can do the two loads of laundry that are festering in a canvas bag at the back of your car.
After three days of driving, this is the fur coat our car got. It added to our laundry quite a bit, as it's next to impossible to get in or out without brushing our legs against the mud-ice shield. I'm not sure you can tell from the picture, but it's really pretty impressive. Inches thick. Somehow, no other car looks as dirty. We just like to think they're less adventurous.
We got to feel good about being incognito for a while, until one person after another told us that cops stop cars for having illegible plates. So, we dutifully and regretfully cleaned off our informative rectangles, making their glaring New Yorkness more obvious than ever. Then, got back on the road.

The Fence Post

Belarus may still call their police the KGB and have a state run economy. Its presidential "elections" are questionable and our passport numbers were recorded and linked to every internet card we purchased. But, something that struck me as decidedly un-Soviet was Belarus' desire to make things pretty: like their fences.
It wasn't uncommon to see multiple fence patterns, conjoined around one piece of property. Some had geometric shapes other were striped or polka dotted. Many outhouses got their very own fence with a different pattern and color. Especially against the blank canvas of snow, it was pure eye candy.
We saw yellow, blue and green painted houses all through the Baltic, but nowhere have we seen the colors extend to fences and gates.
Each town seemed to have a color scheme, as if at some point, a truck came through with cans of paint and told everyone to get outside and be creative. I actually wouldn't be at all surprised if that's exactly what happened.
People really looked like they had fun with it. When we left Belarus and entered Poland, I told Merlin that it seemed to get so much poorer all of a sudden. His response was something along the lines of: "Nothing's painted purple."
It really is amazing how much a coat of fresh paint can do.

Drive-By Art

Usually, the more we drive, the less pictures get taken. One of us is too busy driving and the other one of us has been lulled to sleep by the heated passenger seat and the light bouncing off of snow. Stopping abruptly to take a picture also happens to be a terrible idea on a highway. In Belarus, though, things have been different. Since our GPS doesn't work here, I'm kept awake by the task of navigating and there are barely any cars on the highways. Taking pictures of bus stop after bus stop was only the beginning.

This road stop/inn provided us with two warm bowls of soup and an outdoor gallery of kitsch. The lawn was absolutely filled with wood carvings and statues. Castles, Goldilocks and the three bears, a moose. It felt like a miniature golf course, covered in snow.
I just love how a place like this, that obviously caters to a trucker crowd, still has such a cutesy, kitschy demeanor. Though, every truck we've passed on the road has had a line of stuffed animals on their dashboard or a row of tiny flags or fabric flowers hanging across the top of their front window. So, I'm sure they appreciate it.

This is another tavern, next to a gas station. So much care seems to be taken to make things looks cheerful. No matter how many places like this we pass, they still strike me as surprising, heartwarming and sort of funny every time.

Every so often, we've passed a mushroom. It looks exactly the same every time and soon, we realized that they would pop up about the same time as a sign for a WC. Merlin correctly surmised that the mushrooms were the WCs.

As you may expect, they were far less adorable from the other side.

Then, there are the times when you're making a u-turn on the highway and get a glimpse of a church that looks like this. Painted and carved wood at its most beautiful. These are the moments when you feel lucky enough to be able to stop, roll down the window, point, aim and click without a car honking or rear-ending you. These are the moments that we go, "Wow. We're in Belarus."