“My travels will likely take me no farther than an hour or two from home. And really, because we live here, along the stunning Central Coast, there is no better place to go.” (Patrice Vecchione — Herald Correspondent)
The best meal I ever had out was in Ronda, Spain, at a restaurant long since gone called Tragabuches. My husband and I traveled there on our honeymoon. I was searching for duende — the mysterious side of the soul often given form through poetry — and for my beloved poet Federico García Lorca who “Green, I want you, green,” and so much more. In 2001, even if they knew, few in Spain would utter the location where Lorca had been murdered by Franco’s henchmen, for no other reason than because he was gay. Now, however, to mention Viznar no longer puts the speaker at risk.
That night in Ronda, knowing Spaniards tend to eat dinner late, we waited till later to walk from our quaint hotel in the historic district to Tragabuches, looked in at the empty tables, figured 8 p.m. was still too early. So we walked around the old city, came back, over and over, until, finally, we opened the door to find that, indeed — and it was quite late then and I was quite hungry — they were serving, but in the back room, not the front! After being seated, our meal began with a shot glass of a hot and savory drink which was followed by lamb, an enormous salad, a fair amount of Rioja, and it concluded with chocolates from around the world. Over 20 years later, I can still taste every sip and bite. Michael and I were rather recently in love, so each moment was memorable.
A few years later, in Vernazza, along the Cinque Terre, in Italy, I again swooned over a meal. This time, it was Italian tomatoes, as recalled a few days later in a poem I wrote on the train:
Tomatoes
“Look away,” I implore, turning
my back to my husband, bending my head
to the tomatoes. “Never,” he replies, leaning closer.
No knife, no oil, no bowl. You know those Italians—
make a whole meal out of hunger. Into the tomato
I sink my teeth. Juice runs into my husband’s cupped palms.
Fingers tear basil, break fresh mozzarella, sprinkle salt.
Add the harbor view, boats in their finery, sun-lush days.
Say it slow, know the meaning of luck. Vernazza. Summer.
We pinch each other for truth: a hard bed,
a tiny shower, no knife.
A recently published book of essays that I highly recommend made its way to me: “Globetrotting: Writers Walk the World,” edited by Duncan Minshull. The stories take us from Japan to Rio, from Port Elizabeth to Mauritius. It opens with these wise words, “Sit as little as possible,” by Friedrich Nietszche and, according to Jack Kerouac, “There was nowhere to go but everywhere.” Sitting is my least favorite position. Like Nietszche, I too, almost always want to be in motion. And there is no better time to go from here to there than summer. But this year, my travels will likely take me no farther than an hour or two from home. And really, because we live here, along the stunning Central Coast, there is no better place to go.
If you too are sticking close to home, remember not only can you travel your previous distances in memory but to go far doesn’t require long car or plane rides. And the planet will thank you for sticking nearby. There’s a delight in looking closely. I’ve found there’s more to see that way, even if I don’t go past my garden.
One Small Thing: Red Clover
If nothing else, I’ve done one small thing.
In the soil beside the broken-down chair,
my hands dug, settling roots deep,
and I gave the seedlings a hose-gush of cool water.
Later, to the first summer blossoms,
the Rufous hummingbird came, held steady in flight,
drank, sipping long at the red flowers.
His breast pinkly iridescent, feathers sparkling green.
With blurred wings he ticked my arm.
Closer still the bird came, fluttering good fortune,
with his beak he whispered to my ear.
August’s Full Moon
Having slipped into summer,
this haphazard, tiddly-winked
fragment of time, mostly
what I do is love you.
In the garden, my hands
pulling at the stubborn weeds,
love you. While taking care
of business, long distance,
over the telephone,
I am doing it there.
At the corner market
where the bins are burdened by
corn and strawberries and the basil
we turn into suppertime,
there too.
That afternoon together
at Pomponio Beach
I loved you, but said only
the word summer. Then said it
over again, so you would know
the heat that I was singing about.