Yesterday afternoon we drove down to Miami International Airport to meet the eldest son of the Alsatian family whose farm I worked on in the summer of 1976. A doctor, Théo had already left the farm by then, leaving behind his brother Dany, but he stopped by for special occasions.
I drove him and his Finnish partner Marja down Calle Ocho, through Brickell, and then to Coral Way – that stunning, non-Alsatian lineup of banyans – and into Coral Gables. We took a walk through the Biltmore, had hot chocolate at Books & Books, and then looked for a restaurant for dinner. The first two – a new Peruvian place and a Middle Eastern restaurant – were too loud, so we ended up at Graziano’s, where no music played. After 47 years, we needed a place that was conducive to conversation.
The chill this morning doesn’t faze me, since Philadelphia last week was in the 30s and 40s. I had to buy a new coat, as I hadn’t been expecting such cold in November. It made walking unpleasant, at least when the wind picked up, but cafes cozy and warm. Sitting at a counter at Reading Terminal Market last Thursday, I was served a steaming chicken pot pie by a young Mennonite woman.
At our first lunch in Italy – in a Milan restaurant called Stendhal – our waiter brought a basket of bread and breadsticks for me and a separate basket of gluten-free bread and crackers for Hania – bread being such a mainstay that even celiacs should not be denied it.
I'm off to Poland tomorrow - and then to Italy - coming back here on Sept. 17 (barring any hurricanes).
A friend and former travel editor posted on Facebook her annoyance, on watching reports about the fires on Maui, at descriptions of Lahaina as a “tourist destination.” It is, she writes, “a 200-year-old historic whaling town.”