Colossal Waste: EuroTour 2010, Day 8, St. Tropez to Portofino Coast

Not long after waking up this morning, we had our bags packed and sitting in the hotel lobby. But there was am intricate plan. Visit the Citadel, then the bakery, and then toss the bags into the car and head to Italy. Just your average Wednesday.

Our hotel is nearly at the top of the hill, so that the Citadel is just around the corner... and up a whole lot of steps. Sweaty, hot, humid steps. My biggest, and really only, packing mistake is that I did not bring the sleeveless "clima-cool" shirts that I normally work out in. I expected these places to be warm, even hot. But I did not expect significantly hotter and more humid than last summer in practically the same places.

Barbie and Lon entering the outer walls of the Citadel. A citadel is not just a fort, it is the strongest part of a fort, normally within some outer walls and such.

When we paid to enter the Saint Tropez Citadel, they gave us a little pamphlet about the site. It is clearly an internet translation, and is hilarious. A highlight, "During the following centuries the fortress was purpose of various works aiming at either maintaining the existing site or improving the system of defence." For the record, the Citadel was built in 1602 and remained in use until 1837, when, "Its ramparts had not been sufficient any longer since the shell, which had been invented a few decades sooner, replaced the cannonball."

Now that my friends is a Citadel.

Barbie presents the latest in 17th century defense technology.

During the age of the cannonball, the Citadel kept the peninsula and bay safe. I often wonder how inaccurate these cannons were.

Do you see her waving? Thank goodness she is waving and not aiming a musket.

Self Portrait @ The Citadel Of Saint Tropez.

Time to walk to the bakery. We have a four hour drive ahead of us, and food in the car will be key.

This area was home to yesterday's flea market. Okay, I am confused. The streets and stores bordering this plaza area all refer to, "Lices." Heck, the gallerie with the Brigitte Bardot exposition is, "Espace Rendez-vous des Lices." Yet the translator I just used said that "lices" means, um, "bitches." If only I knew this earlier. It would have been the most fun fact ever.

The Exposition flyer. Note the male hand pulling back the brown paper bag surrounding Brigitte. You might also note my toe.

The road back to the hotel. We literally drove up that rode on our way to the hotel. In a car. Can you imagine a car on that road? Also, please note the woman's conical hat. Bold.

We loaded up the car and started on our way out of town. Along the narrow streets, we often had to wait for people to step out of the way. In one instance, a little boy was, there is no dancing around this, p--ing on a wall. His mother saw our car coming, grabbed his arm, and pulled him out of our way as he p-ssed, and then placed him in front of another wall to finish p--ing.

And the American took his picture. I fear this boy will have personal issues arise in twenty to thirty years and have no idea that they relate to this moment his mother stood over him and made him p-- in public.

(July 2011 Edit: I have added dashes to these words because sick people in this world google for pictures of this activity and probably expect a different kind of picture. This is sick and I do not want that kind of internet traffic.)

We made it to the highway. Le phew.

The first of around five toll booths. We perfected a dance where I would spot the aisle that would take change, and as Barbie pulled into it I would start gathering the coins needed. Our navigator/driver relationship is well established.

This is the official, "See, Europe and North America are interchangeable," shot. When I hear Americans who have not been to Europe speak ill of it, I doubt they realize that they could be knocked unconscious, put on a plane, and then woken up in Europe and not know the difference until they hear the accents.

The highway we are taking goes through many, many tunnels. Some are rather long tunnels. When you cannot see light at the end of the tunnel, you have what engineers call a long-ass tunnel.

Tragedy! Pain! Suffering! I was preparing to get a shot of the Italian border, and then we crossed it and I saw no evidence or signage. Then, as I relaxed, Barbie shouted, "There it is!" I raised my hands and tapped... and MISSED. But there you see the final "A" of ITALIA, surrounded by the EU stars. Sigh.

This is Italy now. And I cannot help but wonder why we call it Italy when they call it Italia. Could the British not pronounce, "Italia," a few hundreds years ago? It seems a simple enough word to say. Why drop that last vowel sound?

Lon & Sean in the back seat, courtesy of that forward-facing camera you keep hearing about. I apologize for the nerd gushing, but Apple adding that second camera to the iPhone is pretty much the greatest thing ever. And I have not even had the chance to video chat since getting here.

After more than four hours of driving, we arrive in Rapallo. Rapallo is in the province of Genova, along the Portofino Coast. You might get stuck hearing me wax on about Genovese history, as Genova is rather historically significant.

Our bags. That is all she wrote for four adults. Not bad-a. (We are in Italia, where that extra vowel gets added to almost everythinga.)

And our hotel is posh. Barbie and I are home again, back to five stars. It is sick, really, but when the hotel is less than five stars we feel it like a rock in the shoe.

Our bed and balcony. Mediterranean facing balcony, I should say.

Barbie presents the Eastern view from our balcony.

Barbie presents the Western view from our balcony.

Sean & Lon on their balcony. Their corner room has a fantastic view of the town.

Said view of the town, from Sean & Lon's room. When you spend many hours cramped into a car, and then get out of that car and move your body into a five star hotel with a view like this, it is like shedding a restrictive skin and being free again.

We are hungry for dinner. And we are in Italia. And I have said it before; the food in Italia is better than the food in France. We walked down the street and stopped at Bella Napoli.

Proscuitto e melone. This is pretty much our favorite dish in Italia. In fact, we order it in the USA whenever an Italian restaurant is authentic enough to offer it.

My Penne with zucchini and shrimp. I am in heaven.

Barbie's seafood risotto.

We shared some chocolate gelato, and I have no idea why I skipped taking its picture.

Time to stroll into town.

Cristoforo Columbo, as it says on the stone beneath him. I suppose he must have spent some time in Rapallo, as he was born in nearby Genova. I was about to do my usual thing about the same name in different languages, and then Wikipedia taught me this; his original name in 15th century Genoese language was Christoffa Corombo. Everyone, even the Italians, are saying a name that sounds like this man's name, yet is not the name he used in life. I suppose this is a dead language issue. Names in dead languages get re-interpreted into living languages.

Interestingly, the original Christoffa sounds closer to the English Christopher than the Italian Cristophoro, no?

Barbie and Lon on the bridge into town. If you are wondering why there are many Barbie and Lon pictures, it is because Sean is a fast walker who tends to forge ahead, while I trail taking picture after picture, with Barbie and Lon basically halfway between. And now you know how we roll.

The Rapallesi coastline. Rapallo has been the site of many treaty signings. I will assume that it is the tranquility of this village's coastline that makes it the ideal place for wars to be settled by pen.