Costada di Cavallo …

(this one is a little long and was written over several days. Walt, you can get Jim or Gonzo to help you with the big words.)

It is 0330 Friday morning (that’s 3:30 AM – with a capital A). I am awake at this ungodly hour because the USA switches to daylight savings time earlier than Europe does.

What?

Let me see if I can explain this a little better…

Since the USA turns their clocks ahead one hour four weeks before Europe does (well they did this year anyway), that makes Eastern Standard Time only five hours earlier than it is here. Saturday night when we switch here, we will once again be six hours ahead. As things are, I was awake at 3 AM (instead of the slightly less obscene hour of 4 AM) and making coffee before settling in to write this. Oh yeah, I also need to be awake to watch the Louisville Cardinals vs. Tennessee basketball game.

The last month has been pretty crazy here (and there) for me. A couple of us spent a week down in the Kaiserslautern area for a planning meeting returning to Wiesbaden Friday afternoon. Early Saturday morning I was in a taxi heading for the Frankfurt airport. Approximately 20 hours later I arrived at the hotel in Destin, Florida.

The hotel in Destin was at the Sandestin Beach and Golf resort. The entire place was about 2400 acres, with four golf courses. I didn’t take my clubs, but I’m pretty sure that the greens fees were out of my range anyway. And after all I was there for training. The hotel was right on the beach though…



… and my room overlooked the pool area …

... which is nice ...



I think I’ll kind of like this class.

Florida was fun, but everything was pretty expensive and touristy. I had a couple of good meals, and a couple of disappointing ones. I met the youngest person to ever go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Surprisingly, he was working at a bar. I guess the fact that he went over another time didn’t flesh out his resume quite the way he had expected it to.

A couple of us went to some barbeque joint for lunch one day. I saw some good reviews of it on the internet, but they were wrong. The place was seedy enough for a good barbeque joint, but the meat was very wet and there was no smoke flavor at all. A couple of nights later another guy and I went to a barbeque place inside of the resort, and I was surprised at how good it was. Although the sauce was somewhat sweet, the meat was very smoky. It was so smoky that I almost set off the smoke detector in the hotel bathroom the next day (which reminds me of a story involving my younger sister and a pizza that I’ll have to tell you sometime).

I stopped at a Krystal hamburger joint on my way out of town Friday. Had heard of them but never tasted their burgers. They are similar to the mighty White Castles. Apparently each brand has their fans, and I’ve seen several websites praising one while trashing the other. Well, I had a couple of the pepper-jack burgers and I can tell you right now, they don’t hold a candle to White Castle’s jalapeno cheeseburgers. But hey, I’m just one man talking…

The flights back Germany on Friday only took about 19 hours (including layovers, &c), and I arrived at my apartment around noon Saturday. I was a little jet-lagged, but mostly tired. I was prevented from sleeping by the need to do three loads of laundry before morning. Let me tell you, these German washing machines and dryers (especially the dryers) are very slow. And when the only thing between you and a comfy bed is the damned laundry, it seems to take forever. Trust me; cussing at the machine does not make it go any faster. I tried every cuss word that I knew, and I’m pretty sure that I made up a few new ones during the third dry cycle.

I needed to finish my laundry Saturday night because three of us were starting our 8 hour drive to Vicenza, Italy at 0800 Sunday. And after a decent night’s sleep I felt surprisingly good for the drive. We drove through Switzerland, and stopped in Luzerne for lunch. It’s a pretty town. After lunch we walked around by the river and took some pictures…

After walking around for about an hour we headed south again through the Alps. They are incredible. Before you drive into Switzerland you have to a tax for the rights to drive in the country. They give you a sticker to put in your windshield. As you are driving through the Alps, you begin to see why the extra tax money is needed. There are tunnels everywhere. One of them is over 16 kilometers (~10 miles) long. I believe that the sticker costs 35 Euros (~$55) and is good for a year (so I’m not going to whine about it – especially because work paid for it). I took some pictures from the car while driving through the Alps…

I was the last one to take a shift driving and was at the wheel when we arrived in Vicenza. I was following the directions of Eric’s GPS system, and it was telling me to go down this one road. At the entry to the road there was a sign that appeared to say that the area was off limits to vehicles (at this time). I didn’t see any police around, so I turned down said road which leads us into the center of town. I always figure that it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, and decide to play the part of a dumb American if stopped (and yes, I realize that this part would not be much of a stretch for me).

So here I am, driving through these incredibly narrow cobble stone roads on what seems to be Take-the-Entire-City-Out-for-a-Walk-Downtown Day. This, of course, would explain the off limits sign. So we are driving painfully slowly through this mass of people. I’m trying not to hit any baby carriages or old women, all the while striving to refrain from making eye contact with the scowling citizenry. The GPS is sending us down these alleys, telling us to go the wrong way on a one way street, and generally making me crazy. Eric is looking at a map, and he’s directing me to go different ways, and I am beginning to recognize people because we’ve just passed them for the third time (and the looks of disdain only get worse with repeated viewings).

Finally we stop, and Eric walks up the road two blocks and finds the place. It turns out that there is only one way to get to there, and we entered the whole mess from the wrong side. We could not get there from where we were. Eric takes the wheel and we have to leave the area, cross the river twice (maybe three times), and circle the city and enter on the other side. After a couple of sharp and inconceivably narrow turns, we are at the hotel.

The Albergo Due Mori.

The hotel is a nice little place, although the narrow streets really seem to pump up the volume from what little street traffic there is. You can hear the sound of women’s shoes on the cobble stones for a city block in either direction.

The Vicenza area is mostly known for Asiago cheese, sopressa, and the architect Palladio and many of his building still exist. We saw a couple of them in the downtown area while walking around; however, since this was a working trip we always seemed to get back around dusk. Thus there was never enough light to take photos.

On our way to work the second day, I noticed the words “macelleria, bovina, and equina” in a store window. After asking around the office about it a bit, the girl at the front gave us directions to a place she knew of. As it turns out, we didn’t even need the directions, because the place was right next to our hotel (and Eric was getting good at traversing these little streets). That night I dined on “Costada di Cavallo”, or Horse Steak. The others in the group, had Colt Steaks, but I went for the old grey mare (oh she ain’t what she used to be). The steak had a nice flavor, but was a very tough cut of meat. It was supposed to be a T-bone, but the Italians must make there T’s differently than we do. While there was a bone, it was definitely not crossed. It was really more of an I-bone, but that just doesn’t sound as good.

The girl at the front desk became our source, or “pusher”. I asked her about obtaining some SOPRESSA, and she knew someone who made it. She would be out in the area that evening. If I wanted some, she would call ahead so they could bring it up from the curing cellar.

I said, “definitely … please do … I’ll take 2 kilos … and thank you”.

Then she told us of another place, down the road from the sopressa guy that makes and sells Asiago cheese. If we wanted some of that she could pick it up on the same trip.

I said, “definitely … please do … I’ll take a kilo … and thank you ... and are you married?” and then sadly, “… he’s a very lucky man”.

The next day, she brought us “the goods” and explained to us that the sopressa is not ready yet, and we would need to hang it in a cool, humid place. “Like Germany?” was my reply. “Yes, that would do just fine. Give it about two months”.

Here is a photo of the sopressas hanging in my dining room …



I will move them to the cellar sometime soon.

They look a tad strange, and smell a bit funky, but ... they are strangely alluring. I’d have to compare the smell to the stink from the feet of a really pretty girl. The feet would have to be pretty as well, not like Jennifer’s big old ugly and smelly hammertoes. The Asiago came in vecchio (aged - like me) and stravecchio (extra-aged – like my sister) and I got a half kilo of each. The cheeses are fantastic, especially the stravecchio which is a little sharp.

I didn’t have a bad meal in Italy, unless you count lunch in the chow hall (and I choose not to count it). The hotel breakfast of … well … bread got a little old though. The wine was good, and the people were very nice - when they were out of their cars.

The Italian drivers remind me of Raul Julia in the movie “The Gumball Rally”…

“And now my friend, the first-a rule of Italian driving…” He reaches up, rips off the rear-view mirror and tosses it out of the car. “…What’s-a behind me is of no importance. ”

Thursday we finished up, out-briefed, and headed for Venice. We walked around for a couple hours, saw some stuff, took some pictures, had a nice dinner and drove back to the hotel in Vicenza.

Friday we headed toward home and drove through Austria on the way back. I just saw Innsbruck from the car, but what I did see was beautiful. I was driving so I didn’t get any pictures. We had a late lunch in Munich at the Weisses Brauhaus. It is owned by the Schneider Brewery, which is quickly becoming one of my favorites. They have a section of the menu for Bavarian specialties, which apparently translates as offal dishes. I chickened out on the “soured” lungs and the “soured” kidneys, and stuck with the safe fried calf’s tongue. It was good, but afterwards I was really wishing that I had the kidneys. Next time I go there (perhaps during the Oktoberfest trip) I will get the kidneys.

They also had an item on the menu called Milzwurst, which was translated as a “calf’s milt sausage”. I had heard of milt before, but did not know where it was, and I was not sure that it was even a body part. I asked the waitress what milt was, or what part of the animal it came from, but she was trying to steer me over to the schnitzel side of the menu. She didn’t know the English word for it. She kept telling me that it was a Bavarian specialty, and that I should stay on the other side of the menu. She even made sure that I understood what tongue was before she would order it for me..

After lunch we walked around a bit and stopped in at the Hofbrauhaus, where apparently it is Oktoberfest everyday. They brought us our Bier in one-liter mugs, and all the waitresses were in traditional Bavarian dresses. They have a big outdoor Bier Garten, and I’m sure the place really gets rocking in the summertime. But today was rainy, and most of the people there on Friday afternoon (Good Friday – and yes, I know I’m going to hell for eating calf’s tongue on Good Friday) were tourists. We left Munich and headed back toward Wiesbaden. I finally got home around 10 PM.

On Saturday, I typed “milt” into Google, and learned that it is fish semen. No wonder I couldn’t place it. I typed “Milzwurst” and discovered that it is a spleen sausage. So I could also understand why the waitress couldn’t translate it. How many languages do you know how to say “spleen” in? Hell, I’m not even sure what a spleen does or where it is, but I know that I don’t use it in conversation a whole lot.

It is Sunday morning as I type this now. Louisville beat Tennessee, but lost to North Carolina last night. It was a good run for the Cards, but UNC was just too much for them last night.

I’m flying out early tomorrow morning for a trip to Armenia. We will be flying through Turkey, into Georgia, and then traveling by car to Armenia. Should be fun. Last night a friend told me, somewhat nonchalantly, to make sure that I take a couple of small things – in case I need to bribe someone.

“What kind of small things? Am I going to try to woo the natives with shiny objects?”

“Just take a couple packs of cigarettes. Marlboro is always good. And carry some small bills, and don’t keep all your money in the same place, and ….”

My life was flashing before my eyes. What the hell did I get myself into?

But then after a little while, I realized that it was really no different than preparing to go into the infield at the Kentucky Derby. And I’ve been to 15 of those.

A soothing calm came over me. I was no longer worried. After all I would be with people who have been there before. They knew their way around the place. Everything would be OK. I actually felt warm in the glow of my newfound tranquility …

Or maybe it was just the Bourbon.