tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73381038881132725182024-03-04T21:26:29.813-07:00Uomo NuovoJoseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.comBlogger718125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-45742360192316925402019-08-26T17:53:00.000-06:002019-08-26T18:09:58.413-06:00I Want to Know What Love Is<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSeKvI2NtuAtozYY8-aI4MAh3dyTSgDagAgs1HSgS_bSt3mJ5DOGW9KEoU2Zv74ywMpqGqcUV2gap-y_SB2o4VqCNPJsrmZjWcnE5wY_5QRaN1-160I2juX8DF3b7nEuUIiqzVT-DqJNh/s1600/mebrodie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="802" data-original-width="1039" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSeKvI2NtuAtozYY8-aI4MAh3dyTSgDagAgs1HSgS_bSt3mJ5DOGW9KEoU2Zv74ywMpqGqcUV2gap-y_SB2o4VqCNPJsrmZjWcnE5wY_5QRaN1-160I2juX8DF3b7nEuUIiqzVT-DqJNh/s640/mebrodie.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I'm not sure when I first heard the song.*<br />
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It came out the year I left on my Mormon mission for France - 1984. (The lead photo was taken a few months before I left.) I was pretty sequestered in the first city I served in - Brest, at the tip of Brittany. We never listened to the radio or saw TV. Heck, we didn't even have a phone in our apartment. We trekked to the local phone booth twice a week to call our zone leaders in Nantes to assure them we were still alive and to report on our missionary work. To make a (very rare) international call or a call to the mission headquarters in Paris, we had to go to the post office.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8bk3S1h0hdt-9bTYv3pHfn6pPjb0m4FaSMzzrWWchQA-gTUh4kVpATx8M_jjefZxFuf_en77tSJryyUM2ID8NhnJW1sNkq8N-TPeO-5RLBahGVcqrycQwP4xsc3-rm4mT1XTguzLZwnqu/s1600/Brest_018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1167" data-original-width="1221" height="609" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8bk3S1h0hdt-9bTYv3pHfn6pPjb0m4FaSMzzrWWchQA-gTUh4kVpATx8M_jjefZxFuf_en77tSJryyUM2ID8NhnJW1sNkq8N-TPeO-5RLBahGVcqrycQwP4xsc3-rm4mT1XTguzLZwnqu/s640/Brest_018.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memorizing missionary lessons in Brest</td></tr>
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But after a few months, I was transferred to Paris, and media were much more readily available. Perhaps I may have heard the song playing there. Not in our apartment, of course - missionaries were not allowed to listen to the radio - but perhaps in someone's home or in a store.</div>
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Then, after I had been transferred yet again - this time to the Loire Valley city of Tours - I received an audio tape from the woman who was sort of my girlfriend, and the song was on the tape. I listened to it over and over again (which was against mission rules), haunted by the lyrics ...</div>
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<i>I want to know what love is, I want you to show me</i></div>
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<i>I want to feel what love is, I know you can show me ...</i></div>
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<i>I'm gonna take a little time, a little time to look around me</i></div>
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<i>I've got nowhere left to hide, it looks like love has finally found me</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>In my life there's been heartache and pain</i></div>
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<i>I don't know if I can face it again</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Can't stop now, I've traveled so far, to change this lonely life</i></div>
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<i>I want to know what love is, I want you to show me</i></div>
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<i>I want to feel what love is, I know you can show me ...</i></div>
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Backstory:<br />
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I was raised in a Catholic home. My mother was abusive and my father was distant and unavailable. So let's just say I didn't learn about love from them. When I was 12, they separated and then went through a bitter divorce.<br />
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<i>"There's been heartache and pain .."</i></div>
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When I was 13, I went through puberty and discovered that I was attracted to boys, not girls--a development which came as quite a shock. All through high school and into my fraternity years at university, I can count on one hand the number of dates I had that didn't involve a dance I felt obligated to go to.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIQf8bg0czXoGbA5nnczLvGRjZay-v4rIe5qsNQvwxizQRdcYn0nLiAt_sWzRUQsVg5B3iIledRvT3OuXF0T_mI1VWKPvrOg2RIOzz_PKvcN05cw7eNkJbDairvYnKgs2TrwwrkUPnZp0/s1600/034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="1545" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIQf8bg0czXoGbA5nnczLvGRjZay-v4rIe5qsNQvwxizQRdcYn0nLiAt_sWzRUQsVg5B3iIledRvT3OuXF0T_mI1VWKPvrOg2RIOzz_PKvcN05cw7eNkJbDairvYnKgs2TrwwrkUPnZp0/s640/034.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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As the years passed, I knew my attraction to men wasn't a passing fancy. Nevertheless, I assumed that, one day off in the distant unknowable future, I'd meet a girl/woman, fall in love and get married. I couldn't really visualize that future, however; I had no idea how it would happen.<br />
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<i>"I don't know if I can face it again ..."</i></div>
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But then I was introduced to the Mormon Church at a very vulnerable time in my life when I was searching for direction, and the Mormon way of life seemed to offer me hope. With its heavy emphasis on marriage, family and children, I intuited that this path could steer me toward something I wouldn't by nature choose--although I did want a family and children; it was the marriage part that I couldn't conceive happening "naturally." I would have to be "fixed up."</div>
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And so I was. I joined the Church and prepared to go on a mission. Then I met a sister missionary who, with her companion, taught my father, step-mother and sister about the Church. They all joined. It's a very long story that I'll someday write about in my memoir. but I became convinced--as did she--that this sister missionary and I were to be married. Thus, the "sort of" girlfriend I had while on my mission. (I never realized until sitting down to write this post that I never considered her my "girlfriend." The last girlfriend I had was when I was in the 6th grade, before I discovered I was gay.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFMCLF54cj2KASy61nGPGW4buLhBdtH_xr6tvKbQ4uUxzuCH_Hdb7lPGDE8U86iwSwO2lhN9DxmfgAMo3w9TwvAD6FRUyxsTT6ad6tzAfCUcZBcZRxr25BcAfDS8NIGYg2WZW5F5m9vKr/s1600/dad%2526ruthbaptism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="622" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFMCLF54cj2KASy61nGPGW4buLhBdtH_xr6tvKbQ4uUxzuCH_Hdb7lPGDE8U86iwSwO2lhN9DxmfgAMo3w9TwvAD6FRUyxsTT6ad6tzAfCUcZBcZRxr25BcAfDS8NIGYg2WZW5F5m9vKr/s640/dad%2526ruthbaptism.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I thought that God, through my relationship with this woman, would show me what love is. Looking back on it, I didn't have a clue at that point in my life what love was/is. I hadn't learned about it from my parents. I'd never been in love, though I experienced serious infatuation with a boy when I was a senior in high school, something "normal" heterosexual teenagers might call puppy love. And so I trusted that God, through marriage to this woman, would provide/show/teach me what love is, would help me to feel loved and to love--romantically as well as otherwise.</div>
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<i>"Can't stop now, I've traveled so far, to change this lonely life</i></div>
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<i>I want to know what love is, I want you to show me</i></div>
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<i>I want to feel what love is, I know you can show me ..."</i></div>
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And so I got married.</div>
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It wasn't until 25 years later, after I came out and met Mark, the man who would become my husband, that I realized what love is. Truly is. Though I had loved my ex-wife, it wasn't until I came out, met Mark and fell in love with him--and he with me--that I came to realize that I was never "in love" with her. It took meeting Mark, him showing me what love is, me loving the way I was wired to love, for me to realize what had been missing in my marriage.</div>
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<i>"I've got nowhere left to hide, </i></div>
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<i>it looks like love has finally found me ..."</i></div>
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I thought of Foreigner's song, "I Want to Know What Love Is," the other day on the sixth anniversary of Mark and I's commitment ceremony. Those who know me or who have followed this blog know that Mark passed away from prostate cancer 3-1/2 years ago. Our time together was short, but he showed me what love is, a precious gift that I will always be grateful for, as well as for the time we had together.</div>
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Later that day, as I was out on a long bike ride, thinking about what I've just been writing about, a realization came to me with stunning clarity. It was one of those realizations that, as soon as it is received, seems glaringly obvious, but which is opaque and unarticulated prior to the curtain being drawn back. </div>
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The realization: when I was young, I don't think the thought ever occurred to me, as I struggled with what to do with my feelings of attraction to men, that it would be possible to have a *romantic* relationship with another man. I saw my attraction to men as a very carnal thing involving physical attraction and sexual release; but the thought of *loving* another man? That never occurred to me as a possibility (let alone a *relationship* with another man)--as I'm sure it didn't to many gay men of my generation, because that's just the way things were. Many of us married women, even though we knew we were sexually attracted to men, because we couldn't conceive of doing anything else about that attraction but smothering it--which I thought the Mormon way of life would help me do--while at the same time being deeply ashamed of our innermost desires.</div>
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As this realization sunk in, I found myself having increased compassion for the young man I was when I made the decision to get married. I found myself being able to love myself more, to look past the layers and layers of shame that had accrued during my life, to understand and appreciate that sometimes we make decisions in life because of the way we were raised, because of societal conditions and because we simply didn't know any better at the time.</div>
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<i>" ... it looks like love has finally found me ..."</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqihyphenhyphen6_KmBsjPgbqF6EF_Ir9M1RI8q2bAZnMxoTEjDbdLhvD9bZwaViqTPOXXmW_4Tj9Y4Mg2vIJke-IKBCEHf3FcMvOKvTLWEgd6wck4TzQvwPcTcWddBJDfKWWowgTcrWnP7jlatt0C/s1600/IMG_5096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="600" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqihyphenhyphen6_KmBsjPgbqF6EF_Ir9M1RI8q2bAZnMxoTEjDbdLhvD9bZwaViqTPOXXmW_4Tj9Y4Mg2vIJke-IKBCEHf3FcMvOKvTLWEgd6wck4TzQvwPcTcWddBJDfKWWowgTcrWnP7jlatt0C/s400/IMG_5096.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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_________________<br />
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* I was recently encouraged by a friend to take up blogging again. I'll see how it goes, but for now I offer up these musings.<br />
<br />Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-47298962728590846132019-04-19T06:52:00.000-06:002019-04-19T06:52:48.976-06:00The Dream That Changed My Life … 25 Years Later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zypIBc7bOecCGJBOHh5lHpEa5pEkoiEFSuKl9B7SVpfnxNWOB1pWA8_ea0LMtGzNenWk6qUcUyS3q4hJDM_Sz7CeifrBzyDll5epcm5B2a7A1a5kygAb9g7Kq6Er7jF6vkpHP3VezxMZ/s1600/Paris_115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="873" data-original-width="1309" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zypIBc7bOecCGJBOHh5lHpEa5pEkoiEFSuKl9B7SVpfnxNWOB1pWA8_ea0LMtGzNenWk6qUcUyS3q4hJDM_Sz7CeifrBzyDll5epcm5B2a7A1a5kygAb9g7Kq6Er7jF6vkpHP3VezxMZ/s640/Paris_115.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The events of this past week in Paris brought up many memories of when I was a missionary there. They also reminded of a special anniversary. Thirty-four years ago today, I had a dream that would, 25 years later, play a key role in dramatically changing my life.<br />
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<h2>
A Mormon Missionary in Paris</h2>
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I was a Mormon missionary in Paris in the winter and spring of 1985. I had arrived in the city shortly before Christmas after spending the first four months of my mission in Brest, a town at the tip of Brittany. It was quite a culture shock going from the provinciality of that place, where there were only two of us missionaries in a small branch of the church, to a bustling city of millions where a dozen missionaries served in the two congregations of the church that existed in Paris proper – one consisting of families and older single people, the other of young single adults from the Paris area.</div>
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That winter of 1985 was one of discontent. Missionary work was hard in the best of circumstances. But I faced struggles that went beyond the emotional demands of daily trying to trying to talk to strangers about the Book of Mormon and the “restored Church of Jesus Christ” and facing the inevitable rejection, time after time, day after day, week after week. Beneath this superficial layer of emotional trauma that all missionaries faced lay a struggle, increasingly strident, that I also coped with on a daily basis: the struggle with “unwanted feelings of same-sex attraction." Like countless others who were "like me," these feelings engendered fear, self-alienation and self-hatred.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDDUIs9qvJdzf8QwBsh8D9x7t9k-Mv6O3K428m8PRZZ4La26fx7tJrYP76zmn5pXKw3YgwE9YuFZNay0R8jFJP3Ai3cidtQKqwDID4NCZrgBFh7Ncy2wXWvxa3tVk21aElX0xGKq8KzhK/s1600/Paris_047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="640" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDDUIs9qvJdzf8QwBsh8D9x7t9k-Mv6O3K428m8PRZZ4La26fx7tJrYP76zmn5pXKw3YgwE9YuFZNay0R8jFJP3Ai3cidtQKqwDID4NCZrgBFh7Ncy2wXWvxa3tVk21aElX0xGKq8KzhK/s640/Paris_047.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Louvre</td></tr>
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When I had joined the LDS Church almost two years before, I had truly believed that I could leave my same-sex attractions behind me, attractions that I had experienced, by that point, for over 12 years. One of the things that had attracted me to the Church was its teachings that someone like me could live a "normal" life, could get married to a woman and have a family. That is what I wanted. I thought I had finally found "the cure."<br />
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I had believed the Church's "line," and I had worked diligently in the ensuing two years to discipline my mind. I had prayed. I had done everything I was “supposed” to do, and more. I wanted to “change,” and I believed that I could/had.</div>
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That is why what was happening to me in Paris was so distressing.<br />
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The first four months of my mission in Brest were fine, i.e., I experienced no “temptations,” and I had little trouble controlling my thoughts. But after being transferred to Paris, temptations to "unclean thoughts" seemed to come at me from everywhere: attractive young men who attended our English classes; beautiful men on the street; scantily clad male models on billboards; works of art in the Louvre whose homoeroticism moved me; sensuality that was palpable.</div>
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Then, for the first (and only) time in my life, I was publicly propositioned by a guy – directly, unmistakably, in a store in the heart of Paris. It scared me to death.<br />
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Then there was the older male member of the Church, in a leadership position, who had befriended me. I strongly suspected he was gay, but I enjoyed the attention and--as an older missionary (I was 27, whereas most missionaries were 19 or 20)--the friendship. Another male member, also in a leadership position and also probably gay, seemed to see right through me, memorably asking of me one time, "What's behind that mask of yours, Elder?"<br />
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Again, I was scared to death. Why were these things happening to me? I felt like I had a sign hanging around my neck--apparently visible to some--that said, “I am gay, but don’t tell anyone.” It's not like I was tempted to hop into bed with a man. What was so disturbing to me was that I thought I had "overcome" this part of myself.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_qhYBw8aI9U2GCUkS-fR5qSkvQzXZax76CzuLCWHNPjFA58IOLObGaa-HRTWo-fal-vhGJHfRcxHCrd6dLljCHZlvUgHsVond84FG9lFtQG1gLAlLNQK6Jwo4XnXQ_FJZDB1KLTBM_B1/s1600/Paris_095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="694" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_qhYBw8aI9U2GCUkS-fR5qSkvQzXZax76CzuLCWHNPjFA58IOLObGaa-HRTWo-fal-vhGJHfRcxHCrd6dLljCHZlvUgHsVond84FG9lFtQG1gLAlLNQK6Jwo4XnXQ_FJZDB1KLTBM_B1/s640/Paris_095.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Missionary skit. My favorite picture from my time in Paris.</td></tr>
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But as unsettling as all of this was to me, I was at the same time feeling somewhat <i>enlivened</i>. For the first time since joining the Church, I allowed the genie of my repressed sexual orientation to waft out of the bottle of its imprisonment and allowed myself to contemplate who I really was—or might be. It was exhilarating, but it was also frightening – particularly since I was a missionary.<br />
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<h2>
The Dream</h2>
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It was after struggling with these thoughts and emotions that swirled around me during that Parisian winter and early spring of discontent that I had a dream that was unlike any that I have ever had, then or since. It was so palpable, so real, so revelatory. It was and is, without question, the most vivid dream I have ever had—then or since. Even today, 34 years later, I can remember it as if it were yesterday.</div>
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I dreamt that I entered a large room filled with people dressed in white. At the front of the room was a person whose presence seemed to tower over the others. All in the room, including myself, were drawn toward him. As I made my way to the front of the room, my eyes became locked with his and he beckoned me to come to him, to take his hand and embrace Him. I remember thinking: “He’s real! He really does have a tangible body.” </div>
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As soon as I took his hand, we were transported, just the two of us, to another place, where we sat across from each other and talked. Rather, I talked; he listened lovingly and patiently, about my fears and joys, the deepest corners of my soul … and my ultimate secret. </div>
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My gaze never left his countenance, and in his beautiful eyes, I saw love such as I had never before felt. In those eyes, I saw no judgment, no guile; only perfect, total understanding. His very countenance radiated such intense purity that I felt as if I would faint from bathing in such exquisite peace and love. In this setting, enveloped in love and light and truth, I told him of my ultimate secret, something I had never shared with anyone. I told him of my attraction to men and how I had struggled against it but how it wouldn’t let go.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikA_a1IiGPxMdHPuz6RFS1tOBPmNimsAFi8F3atymiawQ-daXHH5ILMt_GU-r-AfQIhUrxkFU4Tc0ei2IlvGqK6OZKnPbErztdrxL6o4TAvaLhxAdKGiuKoJ8FiTRdRs5tA8_x4BGkxUpF/s1600/Paris_020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="882" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikA_a1IiGPxMdHPuz6RFS1tOBPmNimsAFi8F3atymiawQ-daXHH5ILMt_GU-r-AfQIhUrxkFU4Tc0ei2IlvGqK6OZKnPbErztdrxL6o4TAvaLhxAdKGiuKoJ8FiTRdRs5tA8_x4BGkxUpF/s640/Paris_020.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I suppose that, possibly, I expected him to miraculously change me at that moment—to make me straight. Right. True. Whole. But that didn’t happen. Rather, in that atmosphere of unworldly love and transparency, he looked at me with, if possible, increased compassion with a face that had grown, if possible, even more lovingly beautiful, and uttered two words: “It’s okay.” Then, he smiled, and I was given to understand that he loved me just the way I was. Then, the dream was over. </div>
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The following morning, I woke up and wrote in my journal that “I had a very interesting dream last night.” Then I went about doing my missionary work. Ten days later, I was transferred to a new city in the Loire Valley. My life went on. The “temptations” and thoughts and anxiety subsided. Within eight months, I was home. </div>
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One might have thought that this experience of my dream would have given me permission to embrace my gay self. But the message of the dream and the message of the Mormon Church regarding homosexuality in the mid-80's were completely opposite to each other. And I wasn’t strong enough to <i>accept</i> my attractions, let alone <i>embrace</i> who I really was. Nevertheless, I hated myself a little less and accepted myself a little more following that dream. I also learned that these attractions weren’t something that could be prayed away; they could only be managed.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_Uu4WA466_Nx1YLempkkSvWDGGxAR6T24b0gEcUawA5AIxF4Tkhyphenhyphen3VKSz_sm-rorkddUTJ3C-K3FGHN2iZxJXCJkPPr7QD0IlFrLyZyzzNOAGlwvhxpisF5NN0hwpQPznUo9ahsQGaUn/s1600/Paris_117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="1043" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_Uu4WA466_Nx1YLempkkSvWDGGxAR6T24b0gEcUawA5AIxF4Tkhyphenhyphen3VKSz_sm-rorkddUTJ3C-K3FGHN2iZxJXCJkPPr7QD0IlFrLyZyzzNOAGlwvhxpisF5NN0hwpQPznUo9ahsQGaUn/s640/Paris_117.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An outing to the chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte shortly before I left Paris. The lead picture,<br />
above, was taken that same day when we came upon an abandoned house with those words painted on the wall.</td></tr>
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And that’s what I set about doing. However, even though I married a woman and vowed I would never come out and that I would make a success of my marriage, the memory of this dream and its piercing message sustained me in believing that God didn't condemn me merely for being who I was, for having the attractions that I did.<br />
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<h2>
25 Years Later</h2>
<br />
Now, fast-forward 25 years, to Sunday, October 3, 2010. That morning, I heard four sentences that wrecked my faith in Mormonism, eventually shattered what was left of my marriage (which had already been on life support for several years) and destroyed a false persona that I had carefully maintained for decades. </div>
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These words, which quickly became infamous, were uttered by the second most senior apostle of the Mormon Church in his address at the Church’s worldwide October General Conference. In the midst of a sermon about moral purity, President Boyd K. Packer read the following sentences: </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">“Some suppose that they were preset and cannot overcome what they feel are inborn tendencies toward the impure and unnatural. Not so! Why would our Heavenly Father do that to anyone? Remember, He is our Heavenly Father.” </span></i></blockquote>
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As a heavily closeted gay man, these sentences cut through my heart, as they no doubt did with countless other Mormon men and women who were privately and painfully struggling, as I was, with same-sex attraction. Packer’s words, heavily coded, were reminiscent of the period of my young adulthood when the LDS Church railed vociferously against the “abomination” of homosexuality. I felt that I was being dragged back into a very dark place of self-loathing, shame and despair.</div>
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Not only had President Packer called me, and those like me, “impure and unnatural,” he had poured salt in open wounds by saying, in so many words, that God would and could never make such a depraved person as me, nor could or would he love me for who I am. Even before God, in the tortured chambers of my innermost being, could I be my true self because my true self was not acceptable, let alone lovable. </div>
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But. </div>
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But. I knew differently. In the most sublime spiritual experience of my life, in the most vivid dream of my life 25 years earlier while a confused and disheartened missionary in Paris, I had been told that God loved me just as I was: gay.</div>
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That is why, when President Packer said those infamous words, I knew he was wrong and that he was not inspired by God--even though for the past 27 years I had regarded him as a prophet, a man who communed with God. What had been the most spiritual experience of my life that night in Paris had convinced me that God did not condemn me. </div>
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Packer’s words, as well as the vast theological and cultural dogma and mindset that lay behind these statements, caused a tectonic shift deep within me. In the moments, hours and days that followed, I realized that I was no longer willing or even able to repress who I am and that my homosexuality is a fundamental part of who I am. Furthermore, I was tired of feeling guilty and dirty about it. </div>
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Thus began my journey out of the closet, marriage and Mormonism, thanks in large part to a dream I had had 25 years earlier but which, at the time, I could not fully appreciate or understand. Even now, I don’t claim to fully understand it. But I know that it eventually helped to change my life, and that Paris would forever hold a special place in my heart because of it.<br />
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It was perhaps appropriate that the first time I saw Paris again after leaving my mission on a cold overcast day in November 1985 was on a brilliant sunny day in September 2012--in the company of the man who would become my husband. As Mark and I walked the streets of Montmartre and the Latin Quarter, rode bikes along the Seine and toured Notre Dame and the Louvre, I marveled at where life had brought me. And I thought of the dream I'd had that April night in 1985, and I was grateful.</div>
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<br />Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-66379123829346551342018-12-04T06:28:00.000-07:002018-12-04T06:28:11.791-07:00"I'm So Grateful for Marriage Equality"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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They weren't my words.</div>
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Yesterday, I went for my appointment, made over six weeks ago, at the Social Security office here in Salt Lake to claim survivor benefits as the widower of my late husband. </div>
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On the day Mark was diagnosed with inoperable, terminal prostate cancer in April 2013, I couldn't have imagined what I experienced yesterday. But then, three months after that diagnosis, the United State Supreme Court ruled that the federal Defense of Marriage Act was unconstitutional and that all benefits under federal law that accrued to heterosexual couples must also be made available to legally married same-sex couples.</div>
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But we lived in Utah, where there was no recognition of same-sex marriage. </div>
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That fall of 2013, marriage equality became the law in the state of Hawaii. The following month, a lone, very courageous, district court judge in Utah ruled that our state's constitutional amendment barring recognition of same-sex marriage was unconstitutional. The governor and our state's attorney general (who used to sit in the office next to me in my law firm in Salt Lake) appealed.</div>
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Meanwhile, on a beach in Maui on April 15, 2014, Mark and I were legally married. That fact meant that, under federal law, our marriage would be treated in the same way as a marriage between a man and a woman. </div>
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Later that year, the 10th Circuit Court of Appeal upheld the ruling of Judge Robert Shelby, and marriage equality became the law in the State of Utah. The following summer, the United States Supreme Court made marriage equality the law of the land throughout the country, based in part on that courageous, well-reasoned ruling of Judge Shelby.</div>
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I was a little apprehensive as I arrived for my appointment yesterday. I had heard horror stories of rogue Social Security staffers refusing to process applications such as mine. I wondered how I would be treated. It didn't help when I glanced at my appointment letter and saw the words "<i>Widow</i> claim" or when I glanced at the wall in the waiting area and saw staring down at me the faces of our current president and vice-president, the latter of whom, particularly, has made no secret of his animus toward gay people and the advances we have made toward full equality in this country.</div>
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Soon enough, my name was called, and I went to the designated window to complete my application. A woman on the other side of the glass pleasantly greeted me and explained that she would assist me in completing my application for survivor benefits. We started going through the formalities. She asked a litany of questions, including asking whether Mark had ever served in the armed forces. I replied that he had served in the Coast Guard in the 70's.</div>
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At some point, I'm not sure where exactly, we reached a point where the obvious had to be addressed: Mark and I were a same-sex couple. I am <i>gay.</i> He was <i>gay</i>. Perhaps it was when I presented a copy of our marriage license. That's when she said it.</div>
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"I'm so grateful for marriage equality," she said. "I remember the day it became law here in Utah. My step-daughter called me and said, 'Mom! Same-sex couples can get married in Utah!'"</div>
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I was, well, moved. </div>
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Dignity. Such a simple thing which is too often withheld. And here it was, being freely offered to me.</div>
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"Thank you," I said, my eyes meeting hers. </div>
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The clerk smiled. "Of course," she replied, before turning back to her computer screen to complete the application.</div>
Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-74360728666685601872018-11-13T12:17:00.000-07:002018-11-13T14:32:40.671-07:00"If I Can Help Save Just One Young Man ..."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwteTuJUX3wdqPeyZBgLfxoKPqurcBjXUf77qq-t-ajgKgqEUGPgmEQOp2woKG6eAatrUhV2XGuw8HBbZtRkjZdN5uyygWZKKVW8dEwoifu1wqbbfG61DUDqQxFex2Yi9UmtBZmwy3jAs3/s1600/Brest_009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="521" data-original-width="714" height="467" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwteTuJUX3wdqPeyZBgLfxoKPqurcBjXUf77qq-t-ajgKgqEUGPgmEQOp2woKG6eAatrUhV2XGuw8HBbZtRkjZdN5uyygWZKKVW8dEwoifu1wqbbfG61DUDqQxFex2Yi9UmtBZmwy3jAs3/s640/Brest_009.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>
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</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>"If I can help save just one young man from the lies of Satan, then what I have been through will be worth it."</i></blockquote>
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I wrote these words in my journal a couple of months after I joined the Mormon Church. I was 24 years old. I hadn't thought of them in a very long time, but they were brought to my mind last night as I watched an advance showing of the new movie, <i>Boy Erased,</i> which tells the true story of a young gay man who was put into a "Christian" conversion/reparative therapy program by his very religious, but misguided, parents.</div>
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When I wrote these words in the summer of 1983, I had been dealing with feelings of same sex attraction for over ten years. During those years, I had struggled to understand what I felt. Was I gay? Would these feelings go away when I "met the right girl?" Were they sinful? Was I condemned to a life as an "other?" How could I, who had always striven to excel at everything I did, accept this about myself, condemning myself to a life of seeming marginalization and debauchery?</div>
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I was confused. And I was at a particularly vulnerable point in my life when I was introduced to and joined the Mormon Church. I was seeking certainty. Direction. I wanted to have a family.</div>
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These are some of the reasons why I was prepared to accept what the Church taught me about myself and my sexuality: It was Satan who planted these thoughts of same-sex attraction in my mind. It was he who sowed confusion. I could change. I could rise above my feelings and thoughts. I could be happy married to a woman. But it would require an unbreakable and unswerving devotion to living the commandments and precepts of the Church, ironclad control over my thoughts and a rejection of everything I had previously wondered about myself.</div>
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In short, I would have to put myself through my own conversion/reparative therapy every day of my life.</div>
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At first, I thought it was going to be easy. The Lord would bless me, open the way as I remained faithful and diligent; and indeed, this seemed to be the case. I carefully guarded my thoughts as I prepared to go on a mission for the Church. Before I left, I met a young woman whom it seemed the Lord had placed in my path, a woman whom I could (and eventually did) marry and with whom I could (and eventually did) have a family.</div>
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In my zeal and naivete, I wrote the above-quoted sentence in my journal. Not only could I heal myself, I thought; I could perhaps help other young men who experienced the same struggle.</div>
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But it was on my mission in Paris and other cities in France that I realized that my feelings and thoughts would never go away. They were something I would have to live with and fight, most likely the rest of my life.</div>
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And fight I did, until eight years ago when I finally decided I couldn't and wouldn't bash my head against that cement wall any longer. I came out. It was then, paradoxically, that those words I wrote in my journal all those years ago took on a new meaning. I began to blog, first under the pseudonym of "Invictus Pilgrim," and then on this blog, and one of my primary motivations for doing so was the hope that I could possibly help just one young (or older) gay man to overcome the lies he had been taught about himself--not by Satan, but by misguided religious teachings--and to come to not only accept, but also love, himself for who he was/is.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This same motivation led to my involvement in the production of a soon-to-be-released documentary that also deals, in part, with the destructive effects of so-called "Christian" reparative/conversion therapy. <i><a href="http://www.fortheyknow.org/" target="_blank">For They Know Not What They Do</a></i>, directed by independent filmmaker <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1081568/" target="_blank">Daniel Karslake</a>, tells the story of the Robertson family, an evangelical couple who put their son in conversion therapy when he came out to them as a young teenager. The film, which has been submitted to a major film festival,** also powerfully addresses issues faced by transgender individuals and their families through the stories of two individuals, one a transgender woman and the other a transgender man, both of whom were raised in conservative Christian environments. Lastly, the film tells the story of Vico, a young Puerto Rican gay man who was first rejected, then embraced, by his devoutly Catholic family before he experienced the horrors of that terrible night at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando.</div>
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I'm glad I was reminded last night of those words I wrote all those years ago. I'm glad I was reminded of what I went through and how I felt, both before and after I joined the Mormon Church and both before and after I came out. Though I have experienced many trials and struggles in my life, I have also been richly blessed, my children and my late husband, Mark, chief among these blessings. Those words reminded me why I am here and what I can do. I hope I will always remember that.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Just one young man ..."</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
______________<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">** The production of <i>For They Know Not What They Do</i> has been entirely funded by tax-deductible donations. We are still a bit short of our financial goals, and contributions of any amount, which can be made online through the <a href="http://fortheyknow.org/" target="_blank">film's website</a>, would be welcome. Every contribution will help make a difference in the life of not just one young man or woman, but in the lives of countless individuals and families around the world who will eventually see this film.</span></div>
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<br />Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-59288172544388722022018-09-22T06:42:00.001-06:002018-09-22T08:16:40.458-06:00See You in September<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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September has always been a special month for me, partly because it is the month of my birthday, partly because it is also the month of the birthday of my oldest child, and partly because it marks what for most of my life was my favorite season.</div>
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During the past eight years, however, September has become even more special to me. I realized the other day that this will be the first one in eight years that I have mainly spent at home ... and as I reflected back on the past seven Septembers, I realized that, in addition to everything else, September has become a month of memories for me ...</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhZPuV-UfH-Pdyl7_1_GVGQyoroz391CI4_XGwBPjWUWfKLlFPoqKebKsOmqVqpApiouTEWaiXcm1NbAwa6x80ll7sjDhVzVMrYt6csl8k55RqWJbLtNtJV0WA3E26j-K90DGqvkB3rk8/s1600/DSCN0629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhZPuV-UfH-Pdyl7_1_GVGQyoroz391CI4_XGwBPjWUWfKLlFPoqKebKsOmqVqpApiouTEWaiXcm1NbAwa6x80ll7sjDhVzVMrYt6csl8k55RqWJbLtNtJV0WA3E26j-K90DGqvkB3rk8/s640/DSCN0629.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Alcatraz</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
As September 2011 dawned, I had just met Mark several weeks before. I had also been unexpectedly served with divorce papers. Mark had long planned a road trip up the northern California and Oregon coasts, and he asked me to go with him. It was a tough decision: my professional and family situations were precarious. On the other hand, I knew instinctively that this was an opportunity to follow my heart in a way that I had never done before. I chose to go, and as a result, my life was forever changed.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJT70YMcRt1Eo1zNihcn-YQ466xSeXzfFzGJpcjslOqoSc7Vlsln4fEXSPHjhHd0pBGTu1l_3i6l6SDpdsro9shboLsGqAGv4sQZ8yDv1Xlq7Z0CsYXukJc8Ujei3LmS7Eo3ROo-HOY2H/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="1294" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJT70YMcRt1Eo1zNihcn-YQ466xSeXzfFzGJpcjslOqoSc7Vlsln4fEXSPHjhHd0pBGTu1l_3i6l6SDpdsro9shboLsGqAGv4sQZ8yDv1Xlq7Z0CsYXukJc8Ujei3LmS7Eo3ROo-HOY2H/s640/photo.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wine tasting in Sonoma</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixn3IZmqq-clcmfn7MXho4pML87btdCasHb0VFoSVQ7GpTN6sD13fWfaqQFIn3kAIRcuTL4C62BqhOxjGB813FMQx1htjYwzF2yE8V9NW5XDC-pBux8vFthcPNueB2rOFN562SJcESjK_u/s1600/2011-09-14+11.18.16_8x10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="640" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixn3IZmqq-clcmfn7MXho4pML87btdCasHb0VFoSVQ7GpTN6sD13fWfaqQFIn3kAIRcuTL4C62BqhOxjGB813FMQx1htjYwzF2yE8V9NW5XDC-pBux8vFthcPNueB2rOFN562SJcESjK_u/s640/2011-09-14+11.18.16_8x10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark drawing "Mark Loves Joseph" in the sand on a California beach.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_23RBlHG_le135-h1AWyPbBtE-i46i6oWmW9JVjBc0dGvyFRsyHejQA5pbKzqAcVl8hSENBBLqr1gmYDoOlgHVrFvcW_HlE2st2kAaDlZmajFb56r9S2-bTEl7BnZti1gkRickxlcvv5/s1600/IMG_0337_4x6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_23RBlHG_le135-h1AWyPbBtE-i46i6oWmW9JVjBc0dGvyFRsyHejQA5pbKzqAcVl8hSENBBLqr1gmYDoOlgHVrFvcW_HlE2st2kAaDlZmajFb56r9S2-bTEl7BnZti1gkRickxlcvv5/s640/IMG_0337_4x6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our all-time favorite pics together, on the Oregon Coast.</td></tr>
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We hadn't been home long from this first trip together when Mark scheduled our second: a cycling trip in Europe the following September. I basically hadn't been on a bike since my mission days in the mid-80's, but never mind. Mark had confidence that I could do it, and after training hard the summer of 2012, we went.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ9E-WoybIGz9Q5QuGFHu0HtrL-xpUmSEu_YDZzNZqT9WoZXgnj2WqBBZ8R3W_VD-onxGvHO8No7bR0oP8SE6bs5hWzEC9ebqB3lbTgJw4pAJ3yboq4zQZiI4WCy6Xvp8rv-MgAVpEEjG6/s1600/DSCN0227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ9E-WoybIGz9Q5QuGFHu0HtrL-xpUmSEu_YDZzNZqT9WoZXgnj2WqBBZ8R3W_VD-onxGvHO8No7bR0oP8SE6bs5hWzEC9ebqB3lbTgJw4pAJ3yboq4zQZiI4WCy6Xvp8rv-MgAVpEEjG6/s640/DSCN0227.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the highlights of that trip was taking my partner back to where I had served as an LDS missionary 27 years before.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlF6RqFU6ZtaR0qSGjbaAr2wVz2qAN_u4iXFk31ZYoaIMOhgf3rXZYN8e12OXN88W7acprodxoGHlczVHX7a9eheRINUFroYwii6dnv10NfKJ0Q7zG1btCBrTeSzwiF6HEg3C61IeFhjd/s1600/IMG_1071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="640" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlF6RqFU6ZtaR0qSGjbaAr2wVz2qAN_u4iXFk31ZYoaIMOhgf3rXZYN8e12OXN88W7acprodxoGHlczVHX7a9eheRINUFroYwii6dnv10NfKJ0Q7zG1btCBrTeSzwiF6HEg3C61IeFhjd/s640/IMG_1071.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the interior of Corsica during our bike tour there.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kX7I-MsUfFdeXafzhAbS_GrGltZK5QSQapTNqz2SAyimK0HVZv6EcqRu9-euL4WeFMqm-o2x5GlAN9ijJbm1tH1ydDPueobcOKRRZLJdMoV7Gbu-F2WQJueQXfwCWWla0LGH9N9PhYjF/s1600/R70074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kX7I-MsUfFdeXafzhAbS_GrGltZK5QSQapTNqz2SAyimK0HVZv6EcqRu9-euL4WeFMqm-o2x5GlAN9ijJbm1tH1ydDPueobcOKRRZLJdMoV7Gbu-F2WQJueQXfwCWWla0LGH9N9PhYjF/s640/R70074.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cycling up to the Col du Galibier in the French Alps.</td></tr>
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Our world was rocked the following spring of 2013 when Mark was diagnosed with inoperable prostate cancer and he was given 3-5 years to live. As we recovered from the shock, we decided to have a commitment ceremony in late August, followed by a honeymoon to Maui and Japan in September. It would also be a homecoming for Mark, as he had spent most of the first 11 years of his life in Japan where his father was a Lutheran missionary.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeSnv5PFYjrySWzikx9FcakOj2vKeSZu_4e5xw2KOAfEdQfGaafIDcxVskB4StGBG8YdnK7bCOj64gDh4IKYOYHZl-9D9QIfHY0WIOvctBfC-sF1fynvMLjL0gHs61hcI196bIU_C_1fK/s1600/IMG_2032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="640" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeSnv5PFYjrySWzikx9FcakOj2vKeSZu_4e5xw2KOAfEdQfGaafIDcxVskB4StGBG8YdnK7bCOj64gDh4IKYOYHZl-9D9QIfHY0WIOvctBfC-sF1fynvMLjL0gHs61hcI196bIU_C_1fK/s640/IMG_2032.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Big Beach on Maui prior to traveling on to Japan.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHBu6k4htrLNMj51dNdFyMAwttSwmE9C1y2JqJcz3-fVuzNXNAtfz4l704k1Ykl20xZbH3Di3IGCaPgrt2FNtTP2tW1Qf87ejA0FGMPFq2efd3TbW1G37rPsrnNoiFZEZgHNoI-d7OU4u/s1600/DSCN0748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="640" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHBu6k4htrLNMj51dNdFyMAwttSwmE9C1y2JqJcz3-fVuzNXNAtfz4l704k1Ykl20xZbH3Di3IGCaPgrt2FNtTP2tW1Qf87ejA0FGMPFq2efd3TbW1G37rPsrnNoiFZEZgHNoI-d7OU4u/s640/DSCN0748.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYGXvUDOzEyIZnKVHNtYnCgioU0hnGPTI5thqH239rp73OdlPZBwoPvvle36Egc0W2C3ZxyF8HimYfQt6A0hkIJoXLyZ0nuEs95FNmcoVeSumMGj54eVYPqXVtuKb5G_jPAa9anG9UcNG/s1600/photo-1-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYGXvUDOzEyIZnKVHNtYnCgioU0hnGPTI5thqH239rp73OdlPZBwoPvvle36Egc0W2C3ZxyF8HimYfQt6A0hkIJoXLyZ0nuEs95FNmcoVeSumMGj54eVYPqXVtuKb5G_jPAa9anG9UcNG/s640/photo-1-2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBts6RVHu1vlA4BoEy8vpar_qu8pPumyw2g-ENqlX9ppQls4pJmRFD9Omrih-ut63rV967B834CnhT3tbfS1G3LMAnuG4ColzEJRZwwRfPEQ2q2tq6uscm41ybm2q3e2s-8UoWA48mQ1lC/s1600/IMG_5605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="640" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBts6RVHu1vlA4BoEy8vpar_qu8pPumyw2g-ENqlX9ppQls4pJmRFD9Omrih-ut63rV967B834CnhT3tbfS1G3LMAnuG4ColzEJRZwwRfPEQ2q2tq6uscm41ybm2q3e2s-8UoWA48mQ1lC/s640/IMG_5605.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my <a href="http://novus-homo.blogspot.com/2013/09/of-pumpkin-pies-birthdays-and-seasons.html" target="_blank">most memorable birthdays</a>: Mark took me to dinner at the Four Seasons on Maui and surprised me with what had become my traditional birthday treat - a piece of pumpkin pie.</td></tr>
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The following September of 2014, we went on another bike tour in Europe, from Geneva to Nice. Afterwards, we went to Rome and Athens and did a week-long cruise of the Greek islands -- something Mark had long wanted to do.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLo3a4rWiGDDiI-LfBvhj1Kk0vs__d1ExOYxdOZpLd091Gx8SdtEKD5Ja0aT8UC-GM211jNweHY3CsCDIHhqhs_knSAZvuxJEOvpRCoc9AeEjtxUuuof4WcwtUESfnA_FUeP0TmkHwYUGR/s1600/image-1+copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLo3a4rWiGDDiI-LfBvhj1Kk0vs__d1ExOYxdOZpLd091Gx8SdtEKD5Ja0aT8UC-GM211jNweHY3CsCDIHhqhs_knSAZvuxJEOvpRCoc9AeEjtxUuuof4WcwtUESfnA_FUeP0TmkHwYUGR/s640/image-1+copy.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi317vbUbNXRBvsfat0ONqJ8AeWRG1xY2UUw2P6i2pXOiayf8nKZaLzvlTuTOuz8kKoWfj2YuwqKmFUS_9_3I2PFaEt6ZQ7KAYsVMbONB0Evqyqwq_Qf2EAbfavyohLzcnnQm8GFaKPOeiv/s1600/photo-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="737" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi317vbUbNXRBvsfat0ONqJ8AeWRG1xY2UUw2P6i2pXOiayf8nKZaLzvlTuTOuz8kKoWfj2YuwqKmFUS_9_3I2PFaEt6ZQ7KAYsVMbONB0Evqyqwq_Qf2EAbfavyohLzcnnQm8GFaKPOeiv/s640/photo-2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite pictures of us, during the cycling tour in France.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLEou1D53MynfUbLa17adqnEm7LKE9tTKrIcKnHEEXJmaKyrM7FPLDhBWHTgRZUucb5cw6o8L6FAV2W0fOdcKZ9p1KiTYg4NvSir68dygMRNwTG1FHl7fmgSu43ydRbnQEOuWeT8FN1RIc/s1600/photo-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLEou1D53MynfUbLa17adqnEm7LKE9tTKrIcKnHEEXJmaKyrM7FPLDhBWHTgRZUucb5cw6o8L6FAV2W0fOdcKZ9p1KiTYg4NvSir68dygMRNwTG1FHl7fmgSu43ydRbnQEOuWeT8FN1RIc/s640/photo-1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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By the following September of 2015, Mark's health had begun to seriously decline. Nevertheless, we went on a six-week tour of Europe, visiting Venice and Rome, cruising in the Adriatic up the Croatian coast, visiting London, Amsterdam and Bavaria before concluding with a river cruise from Nuremberg to Amsterdam. It was a magical time for us.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7He_l1yK7b9_iNTOi5pq8Oe_T6xxW__c8Cb56eyhsSkv1vV5akxws1L12wVjz-ERg71_ELKdk7t1djmiF7ZJDQNj-rsoiRpw9yfiJc9BAfydfrdaFg9SLl37wvidAGsCCAxmHPj6_Qj5/s1600/IMG_2232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="640" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7He_l1yK7b9_iNTOi5pq8Oe_T6xxW__c8Cb56eyhsSkv1vV5akxws1L12wVjz-ERg71_ELKdk7t1djmiF7ZJDQNj-rsoiRpw9yfiJc9BAfydfrdaFg9SLl37wvidAGsCCAxmHPj6_Qj5/s640/IMG_2232.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Dolomite Mountains on a day trip from Venice.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA-Va9Oo4iEuzBzcR5fO5IKLKJwvqiKSY1TnozH5A62qCYIHKEAqHAew9wHGEf2GsHRRyrlEOL2Fizb4aoR6V0IzD4BypLF57lsLmWbUpBTaxTwNCbhZ_X1YeNYD6aB9A4uIdIA5jHiYi-/s1600/IMG_2535+copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="640" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA-Va9Oo4iEuzBzcR5fO5IKLKJwvqiKSY1TnozH5A62qCYIHKEAqHAew9wHGEf2GsHRRyrlEOL2Fizb4aoR6V0IzD4BypLF57lsLmWbUpBTaxTwNCbhZ_X1YeNYD6aB9A4uIdIA5jHiYi-/s640/IMG_2535+copy.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With new friends on our cruise.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7IcmXOyIxyaPeEVbANffP0j2tzGqDwlKRnhll-h5KLKhfVm8gczC7ve-DlvNQnVT0prNn5SgXgvxFTLZzopsUav5Q1Fs1-CWvvdrN90vaCAWtmoLg8q6KmvB2JDlAKZR9XN_PkqHSdbr/s1600/IMG_0045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1600" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7IcmXOyIxyaPeEVbANffP0j2tzGqDwlKRnhll-h5KLKhfVm8gczC7ve-DlvNQnVT0prNn5SgXgvxFTLZzopsUav5Q1Fs1-CWvvdrN90vaCAWtmoLg8q6KmvB2JDlAKZR9XN_PkqHSdbr/s640/IMG_0045.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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That was to be our last trip together. Mark died the following March of 2016. The cruise company that had organized the Croatian cruise was offering one in Tahiti the following September, so I went on that, partly in connection with the film I had become involved with, partly to see friends I had made the year before. It was one of my first forays into a world without Mark in it.</div>
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Upon returning home from that trip, I celebrated my birthday with eight of my ten children. It was to be one of my most special birthdays because of that.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eight children, a son-in-law and two grandchildren. A wonderful evening.</td></tr>
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Moving forward with life after Mark's death was one of the most difficult transitions I have made in my life. There was much I needed to process, much I needed to learn about myself, much I needed to ponder as I felt my way forward. I took up cycling again and went on a couple of tours during the summer of 2017. In September, I went on another gay cruise, this one from Rome to Nice. Afterwards, I ventured out on my own with several day trips from Paris, followed by a visit to Berlin where I celebrated my birthday with my friends Dan and Russ. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my friend Dan in Rome</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mont Saint-Michel in France</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Berlin on my birthday with Dan and Russ.</td></tr>
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Now, here I am in September 2018, getting ready to celebrate a landmark birthday. As I look back on these past eight years, I feel gratitude for all that I have lived, for all that I have seen and for all--most of all--that I have felt in my heart. I'm grateful for the love I shared with Mark and for all that we were privileged to see, do and feel together. </div>
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But I'm also grateful for the process I went through in the two years after he died and grateful for where I am today, ready for life's next great adventure ...</div>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-39824429854293194182018-09-07T07:12:00.000-06:002018-09-07T07:18:50.462-06:00What I Learned About Love on Santorini<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7Hb3PXqqixZkJ4uI35z2KeZ_Ri-ilqQ-jqjv3ivohNa8zA80vTXxPsyl4d-HQHUBvNz57n77BRxUvDJLXQW-awHZdZ6W2csBwcLTXWYZmlV6dy_qDB4a55hAOGUfmyVVGmWjA6V5w08r/s1600/IMG_5738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7Hb3PXqqixZkJ4uI35z2KeZ_Ri-ilqQ-jqjv3ivohNa8zA80vTXxPsyl4d-HQHUBvNz57n77BRxUvDJLXQW-awHZdZ6W2csBwcLTXWYZmlV6dy_qDB4a55hAOGUfmyVVGmWjA6V5w08r/s640/IMG_5738.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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My friend and I were sitting in an open-air restaurant with commanding views of the blue Aegean below us. Despite all the throngs of people wending their way up and down the main shopping street of Oia, a town at the northern end of the Greek island of Santorini, a sense of peace and tranquility surrounded us as we gazed at the water.</div>
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I had wanted to return to this place where, four years earlier, Mark and I had visited an art gallery and bought a beautiful reproduction of one of the frescos found at the archeological site of Akrotiri at the southern end of the island. My friend, Craig, had wanted to return to a crystal shop where he had, also four years earlier, purchased a necklace for his partner. We had therefore decided to set out together that morning from our cruise ship to visit this place that was special to both of us. I was, perhaps fittingly, unable to find the art gallery, but we did manage to find the crystal shop and had each purchased a piece of jewelry as a souvenir.</div>
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Now, we were sitting in the restaurant, enjoying a glass of wine as we awaited the arrival of my friend's partner from another part of the island. We smiled as a string of donkeys was led down a path next to the restaurant.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRELdvToijjIjB7lMLMjXxdxNLqboX3jc3EZ93ZkQZK0ySFCdGzOQjxJ8OhLbjvUzppXLBDoEQSIbSL1BatqQ6l4G-3yGzrllKbkZm6uNHN4p_exn8GqoTOKvnefcgEFE4lojsCBTKQizf/s1600/IMG_4844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="882" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRELdvToijjIjB7lMLMjXxdxNLqboX3jc3EZ93ZkQZK0ySFCdGzOQjxJ8OhLbjvUzppXLBDoEQSIbSL1BatqQ6l4G-3yGzrllKbkZm6uNHN4p_exn8GqoTOKvnefcgEFE4lojsCBTKQizf/s640/IMG_4844.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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As my friend and I talked, the subject of my recent re-entry into the world of dating came up. Craig had met Mark six months before he died, but hadn't had a chance to get to know him. "I'm sure," Craig said at one point, "that Mark told you before he died that he'd like you to be happy, to eventually find someone who you could share your life with."</div>
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I looked at Craig and smiled. "Actually," I replied, "no, he never said that. We never had that conversation." A puzzled look crossed Craig's face. I smiled. "That was one area," I continued, "where he simply couldn't go. He never said those things to me because frankly he just couldn't handle the thought of me being with someone else. It was too much for him."</div>
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This wasn't the first time someone had made the assumption Craig had made. I think it's part of the story people make up in their minds about people who have a terminal illness. I understand it.</div>
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What I didn't say to Craig is how, during the months -- and years -- after Mark died, there were times when I had mourned this inability of Mark's to let me go and wish me well, to leave his blessing upon me to eventually find happiness with someone else. I also came, only fairly recently, to realize how this had held me back from "getting back out there" because I carried feelings of guilt and not wanting to hurt Mark's feelings, even though Mark was no longer here.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oia: Homes and hotels cascading down toward the hillside.</td></tr>
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As I sat there in the moments following my response to Craig's statement, gazing off toward the Aegean, I thought about yet another realization I had come to only a week or so before I had left for Greece ... </div>
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The love that Mark and I had was profound, rich ... and rare. Many, many people expressed this to me both before and after he died. "Most people never experience what you two shared," was a not uncommon statement. What I didn't realize until 2-1/2 years after Mark's death is that those statements had contributed to a belief I carried deep within me that they were right ... and that I would never again find love, for my ability to do so had died with Mark. Furthermore, during those dark months after he died, I could only see the love that he had proffered <i>me</i>, not the ability within me to love freely and deeply, as I had done with <i>him</i>. In those lonely times, I saw not the possibility for me to attract deep love, only the absence of the love I had felt from Mark.</div>
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These realizations had only come after I had finally reached a point this past June where I decided two milestones had been reached in my personal development that told me I was ready to start dating. First, I felt I was strong enough in myself, in my sense of self following the deep enmeshment that existed between Mark and me during the three years following his diagnosis, to contemplate entering into another relationship. When Mark died, I didn't know who I was. It took a while for me to find myself. Secondly, I felt like I had grieved completely what had disappeared from my life -- Mark and my relationship with him -- in order to allow me to enter into another relationship without comparing it to what Mark and I had or to compare another man to Mark. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Rafi and Craig in Oia</td></tr>
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All of this flashed through my mind as I sat in that restaurant in Oia. And then it came: Suddenly, I felt Mark's presence in my mind, and the realization burst open there that he had continued to progress, wherever he is, and that he was now in a place where he could joyfully and lovingly wish me well in finding someone to share my life with. There was also a note of apology that he had not been able to do this while he was still here. But the love that I felt from him during that moment, the earnestness of his desire that I find happiness with someone else, more than compensated for any regret or sadness.</div>
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A huge smile on my face, I turned back to Craig and shared with him what had just happened, and later, with his partner, Rafi. My heart was singing. Perhaps I would have come to the realization I had just received somewhere else at some other time; but I couldn't help but feel that I was meant to receive it there, among friends in a place that had been special to Mark and me. I knew that this alone had made my trip to Greece worthwhile, and I returned home a changed man.</div>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-65608179114195179222018-07-09T02:06:00.000-06:002018-07-09T07:14:02.502-06:00Rest Day Reflections<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Eight days of riding. 434 miles. 44,000 vertical feet. Five more days to go. Sore legs. Sore butt. I again ask myself, "Why do I do this?" </div>
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A rest day is a good day to think about answers to that question. I've mentioned a few in social media posts this past week: being enveloped in spectacular mountain scenery that one crawls by and through, rather than whizzing by in the enclosed space of a car; feeling young at heart (if not young in body); the thrill of the descent that is immeasurably sweetened by the effort one has made to get to the top.</div>
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But there are more, and one of the main reasons is because I'm with a group of people with whom I've shared memories over the course of the past six years. A group of people who knew Mark, who shared riding experiences with me/us in Corsica and southeastern France. It's been fun to laugh and reminisce, to savor and appreciate.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjketO2rZyvPeJwsyC0OcAhM2lZ_wEuIBpgxOpIKEpzEMOrnifNGGY_ljOADbpvfoxjFjJI_rF5Gn4jlADShiwgNsHjewGZGZzsa8MDX4_JFa5dCbYhd1twJEClOSR7fim2yzgD9g4BEZ8J/s1600/264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="640" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjketO2rZyvPeJwsyC0OcAhM2lZ_wEuIBpgxOpIKEpzEMOrnifNGGY_ljOADbpvfoxjFjJI_rF5Gn4jlADShiwgNsHjewGZGZzsa8MDX4_JFa5dCbYhd1twJEClOSR7fim2yzgD9g4BEZ8J/s640/264.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and me in Corsica</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patti and Ross in France. They've been on all my Erikson tours.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU92fXQo32X_zv0p_RslyUy-CtdkKx46lcNpJBEvMQOi6ktxbE5lVdWVHQBqeNdBV9LpHp7CINa1NAsZhzWKyq60FxNzEQSEo4mqIh0zUhTGvWdH2kxh-79VrzPIpHLtx64NcCU2qmNnUF/s1600/image-1+copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU92fXQo32X_zv0p_RslyUy-CtdkKx46lcNpJBEvMQOi6ktxbE5lVdWVHQBqeNdBV9LpHp7CINa1NAsZhzWKyq60FxNzEQSEo4mqIh0zUhTGvWdH2kxh-79VrzPIpHLtx64NcCU2qmNnUF/s640/image-1+copy.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Mark outside Gourdon, France in 2014</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom and his niece, Heather, in Annecy, France in 2014. Tom's been on all my tours.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing boules in France, 2014. Mark, Tom, Michelle and Galen.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBdjc9EzgVhU9V1lXVU4XbWuGAeOzWniJD1Xn90mU6baMMEjjrHt4DhD0IQAm8rIewIQI8rqP6qC76Z1wAgDW1AOFGoSap46RhBCu4q0s7B00BZoQMFrMpFTQERBCTcLO-lAIqj5UENyE/s1600/IMG_9055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="725" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBdjc9EzgVhU9V1lXVU4XbWuGAeOzWniJD1Xn90mU6baMMEjjrHt4DhD0IQAm8rIewIQI8rqP6qC76Z1wAgDW1AOFGoSap46RhBCu4q0s7B00BZoQMFrMpFTQERBCTcLO-lAIqj5UENyE/s640/IMG_9055.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark in the Vercors, France, 2014.</td></tr>
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My last post was about looking but not finding meaning in memories embedded in places and people. In contrast to my experience in Pau, being with this group of people for the past week has gladdened my heart and I have found richness and sweetness in shared memories. I'm grateful to be here. For the beauty, yes. For the thrill of the descent, yes. For feeling young at heart, yes. But more than all of that, I'm grateful for what this group of people and I have shared together and what we continue to share.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3Asu9SB4dsI-k84_mur8itOXc2ShSAKuesxNhxJTM39XY3f2mgkjdV2DfnHB4HcDEJv1aQEhu9jC5QUJ7okYrqrBJEluWVUmE0ty7xJ3hWg2jbCkQhp0aX4KsP4FVSRM-USj_Cxdhrbj/s1600/IMG_0068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1120" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3Asu9SB4dsI-k84_mur8itOXc2ShSAKuesxNhxJTM39XY3f2mgkjdV2DfnHB4HcDEJv1aQEhu9jC5QUJ7okYrqrBJEluWVUmE0ty7xJ3hWg2jbCkQhp0aX4KsP4FVSRM-USj_Cxdhrbj/s640/IMG_0068.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom (right) and me with Jeff and Sylvia. They're from Salt Lake and were on the 2014 tour with us.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sylvia with Glenn Erickson, founder of Erickson Cycle Tours.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom and Heather.</td></tr>
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So, is it worth it? Yes. The sore legs and sore butt and sore back are all worth it. Just to be here. To experience what I'm experiencing. But. I am SO grateful for a rest day.</div>
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<br />Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-47150446615264995902018-07-01T09:16:00.001-06:002018-07-01T09:16:02.359-06:00A Walk Down I-Don't-Remember-Much Lane<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So, I'm in Pau, France, getting ready to start a bike tour tomorrow. I took advantage of jet lag to go for an early morning walk today that was intended to be a stroll down memory lane. Thirty-three years ago, I was a Mormon missionary in Pau and lived here for three months. I thought that walking the streets would bringing memories back. I have a few, but not many.</div>
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I walked by the Chateau de Pau, which I remembered taking pictures of way back when, but never visiting.</div>
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Then I walked on to Place Gramont, which I remember riding my bike through, it being only a few blocks from our apartment.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFptvo-lUIS66q5jrE5yrOx5yT7TJS3lt7cjL8xS1_3QwCPCg9AOCfak-NjdPAgv2r0rnQhPJ4Qv8GFHqhkMBqmPzQi9NGTZOhA_FPsWBeRN39uaeWTsmfnu0OR5PtMcKFeJmYrzixB8T/s1600/IMG_1538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="783" data-original-width="783" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFptvo-lUIS66q5jrE5yrOx5yT7TJS3lt7cjL8xS1_3QwCPCg9AOCfak-NjdPAgv2r0rnQhPJ4Qv8GFHqhkMBqmPzQi9NGTZOhA_FPsWBeRN39uaeWTsmfnu0OR5PtMcKFeJmYrzixB8T/s640/IMG_1538.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Place Gramont</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our apartment building</td></tr>
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I walked through Place Gramont and then down Rue d'Etigny. I tried to remember which side street it was that came down a steep hill which we'd ride down, careening around the corner, usually ignoring the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. </div>
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Thirty-three years is a long time. Still, I thought I'd remember something, feel something. But there was nothing. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8mxx7nvSaSls3EXmLZflUoRG_ROcNj8vIlco_oPBWrPFEPddWJzG31CJJPFmIDgG7e4MQ9A2c6AF5o4QZzPUJgZ6eLXDSV_WcdcqN3QBzNELc_kREpq6qBqB1BjtidxvVwUBJ2VBOUEx/s1600/IMG_0994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="867" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8mxx7nvSaSls3EXmLZflUoRG_ROcNj8vIlco_oPBWrPFEPddWJzG31CJJPFmIDgG7e4MQ9A2c6AF5o4QZzPUJgZ6eLXDSV_WcdcqN3QBzNELc_kREpq6qBqB1BjtidxvVwUBJ2VBOUEx/s640/IMG_0994.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Perhaps this is due in part to the fact that I wasn't very happy when I was in Pau, and I was doing a lot of soul searching. I did a lot of reading of literature, works of Hermann Hesse and Oscar Wilde for example. Definitely not missionary-approved reading, but it made me feel alive to read it. And I needed to feel alive. I needed to feed a part of me that was starving to death. I was struggling with a lot of things then, including whether I should come out when I returned home and leave the Mormon Church. I eventually chose, however, to stay in both the Church and the closet.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBUs_8phkvIvpbcC1DS17Z_bKj66vVdjwSl52i2yG7CvqpVG6H8ct7at9LFntb2Jc-lJguq6NwmuUaWJgxTrp83UhXuDURad-wPKZ-m7Q576lEG9lG0Wt_6AiGhDTpWFtIDJwyF8vwr7Z/s1600/Pau_046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1600" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBUs_8phkvIvpbcC1DS17Z_bKj66vVdjwSl52i2yG7CvqpVG6H8ct7at9LFntb2Jc-lJguq6NwmuUaWJgxTrp83UhXuDURad-wPKZ-m7Q576lEG9lG0Wt_6AiGhDTpWFtIDJwyF8vwr7Z/s640/Pau_046.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, in our apartment in Pau, September 1985.</td></tr>
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Now, of course, it's a different story. I'm an out and proud gay man, and it's interesting for me to come back here as such. </div>
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I thought about this as I walked back to our hotel this morning along the Boulevard des Pyrenees. I remember riding my bike along that street, which offers--on a clear day--a nice view of the mountains in the distance. I also thought, "When I was a missionary, I never explored the landscape that I saw from the Boulevard des Pyrenees." I couldn't. I didn't have a chance.</div>
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Later in the day, I went on a warm-up ride with three other people on the tour. We rode into that landscape, up and down hills, past farmland, vineyards and woods.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJG1tx4HnNx7FUl02qcsOsAHA__Jjv6U3N-VoWqCBQVGAHH9-bUZ-V7lixGN-89qLM1VvuBBCm8gHqc4P6MiyPEURO3FnYL-dea7O2HcgaTyNI_C2MlFMOGBd_RlLFTtLeZ86aZxYGoiqU/s1600/IMG_3843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="829" data-original-width="913" height="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJG1tx4HnNx7FUl02qcsOsAHA__Jjv6U3N-VoWqCBQVGAHH9-bUZ-V7lixGN-89qLM1VvuBBCm8gHqc4P6MiyPEURO3FnYL-dea7O2HcgaTyNI_C2MlFMOGBd_RlLFTtLeZ86aZxYGoiqU/s640/IMG_3843.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scene on our ride today.</td></tr>
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It was as I was riding that the thought came to me that the experience of looking out at the scenery from the Boulevard des Pyrenees was a metaphor for my life: For much of my life, I saw scenery in the landscape of life only from afar, and that landscape remained unexplored. I couldn't explore it. Until I could.</div>
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And then, finally, as I was writing this post, it occurred to me that the purpose of my visit here is not to take a stroll down memory lane, but to set off into that panoramic landscape, both the Pyrenees and its foothills as well as (huge metaphor here) the landscape of the future of my life. Of course, the Universe knew that eight months ago when I signed up for this tour; I, however, did not. Now, I do.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1kL2JQXKm-i6arNRONz_kaYcONDtdpdIM8ruhqhJjYqG6UcPQQ9FM0c5vcDI3zAtGP2r6M9IDeFiv9A0Sj8gJtgdnzpxChyrB0aTs7AOeoZ8gWhFAobaYDSIEfS0qqiZa9zqLRy7EBrl/s1600/Pau_044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="1320" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1kL2JQXKm-i6arNRONz_kaYcONDtdpdIM8ruhqhJjYqG6UcPQQ9FM0c5vcDI3zAtGP2r6M9IDeFiv9A0Sj8gJtgdnzpxChyrB0aTs7AOeoZ8gWhFAobaYDSIEfS0qqiZa9zqLRy7EBrl/s640/Pau_044.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, somewhere in the Pyrenees, October 1985. It's good to be here again.</td></tr>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-72983169851636383552018-06-17T07:49:00.000-06:002018-06-17T07:49:44.014-06:00"When I See a Broom ...": About Fathers and Integrity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc5K_9mM_NFX_5DBNLBl9PlBJvast-iaegGtZ-ZoBwZuzyCvcWGs4JdQqTEtvzBD8HoAfbuv_YWoRJB7rD61yV19zzK712KrT1kIYCAPyBCXLRIvUovaZS5V_FHmJjHr2H1LiEBr_jmvAt/s1600/218a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1171" data-original-width="1600" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc5K_9mM_NFX_5DBNLBl9PlBJvast-iaegGtZ-ZoBwZuzyCvcWGs4JdQqTEtvzBD8HoAfbuv_YWoRJB7rD61yV19zzK712KrT1kIYCAPyBCXLRIvUovaZS5V_FHmJjHr2H1LiEBr_jmvAt/s640/218a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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"When I see a Broom, I see integrity."</div>
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My father and I were in an antique store in the tiny town of Kinmundy in southern Illinois, about four or five miles north of the farm, just east of (the even tinier town of) Alma, where Dad had been born. It was the fall of 1999. I had traveled back east to visit my dad and to attend a family reunion of his six brothers and one sister.</div>
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Grandpa Broom was a fruit farmer. Word is that he had a sixth-grade education. When he became a young man, he went off to Chicago to attend telegraphy school, after which he got a job as a telegrapher for the Illinois Central Railroad. Later, he became a station agent. He met my grandmother in Kinmundy, then he took a job as station agent in Alma after they were married. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz1nHDydvlcTH4u_AwoKGvFNWKWH_7LNu0e5hO_VQCjmNZnEGzA4fiMpgR1EVHp_GOeMeJuaFS1e7jevAxMWVqf866NjXFGjsuLpRp36lPi8oV7DtUtp7RFsCPzwL6wbgmXnYXiBkz9hdU/s1600/108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="782" data-original-width="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz1nHDydvlcTH4u_AwoKGvFNWKWH_7LNu0e5hO_VQCjmNZnEGzA4fiMpgR1EVHp_GOeMeJuaFS1e7jevAxMWVqf866NjXFGjsuLpRp36lPi8oV7DtUtp7RFsCPzwL6wbgmXnYXiBkz9hdU/s1600/108.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandpa and Grandma Broom--John and Nellie--with their oldest child in 1909.</td></tr>
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Grandpa's father-in-law, A. V. Schermerhorn, had been a fruit farmer and active in the Illinois Farmers' Institute, serving as president in 1905-06. It was no doubt due to his influence that Grandpa Broom, while working for the railroad, bought his first piece of property and planted his first orchard. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNE0y_zkOvtY8W90seC0yOuVB5uCkfjl-hRcUXSSHccXUg8umEPDajceCjSfdoy7CjMewQggWLXgljP_qdl1LX_CExy1XUiQ2634a_hfZdq9giPrKm_mPE3ZALtaySrbnq4Okln5ebwxvd/s1600/49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="1040" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNE0y_zkOvtY8W90seC0yOuVB5uCkfjl-hRcUXSSHccXUg8umEPDajceCjSfdoy7CjMewQggWLXgljP_qdl1LX_CExy1XUiQ2634a_hfZdq9giPrKm_mPE3ZALtaySrbnq4Okln5ebwxvd/s640/49.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great-Grandpa and Grandma Schermerhorn at their farm east of Kinmundy, about 1893.</td></tr>
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After ten years, Grandpa and Grandma bought a farm--the "Homeplace," as it was only ever known in the family--and the family moved from town out there. The property had existing orchards: pears, peaches and apples. Grandpa quit his job with the railroad shortly before my dad was born in 1925, and for the next twenty years, he continued to acquire property in the area.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggLlT0CRLJTAITHDPznImfONzhqPE_Iv_2DMQVhI7uvi0pd5x3FmLIeyrJxBDVqkDyyycDToQ-9gvhlWA02xuh4uCgWICJCHDNEi-Res6GiygBfxw3Z-xNDc5B1OlIK-K36N8K01WK1FT/s1600/058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggLlT0CRLJTAITHDPznImfONzhqPE_Iv_2DMQVhI7uvi0pd5x3FmLIeyrJxBDVqkDyyycDToQ-9gvhlWA02xuh4uCgWICJCHDNEi-Res6GiygBfxw3Z-xNDc5B1OlIK-K36N8K01WK1FT/s640/058.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The John and Nellie Broom family, about 1937. My dad is in overalls standing in the center of the front row. </td></tr>
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Eventually, Grandpa's fruit harvest became so large that, in addition to seasonal workers who came through every year, Grandpa hired local boys and men to help bring in the peach crop. On that day in 1999 in that antique store in Kinmundy, we ran into a local man who had been one of those boys. I can't recall now how the conversation was struck up, but when the man learned who my dad was, he immediately started talking about his memories of working for Grandpa during the peach harvest. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKHBY75XkJx6fYZr1OKxLsPOtUhPRi8UrjUYxf3sLtqY6Yc15JFe2WeLXnGyR-NCGHDa2u0PtIBx5D28dhBkKSZFtZqjEtanwBzwBNRImwDaBd9bSzm-Vzi9SrpXzH5dZOydvL0CsFb0-/s1600/128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1349" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKHBY75XkJx6fYZr1OKxLsPOtUhPRi8UrjUYxf3sLtqY6Yc15JFe2WeLXnGyR-NCGHDa2u0PtIBx5D28dhBkKSZFtZqjEtanwBzwBNRImwDaBd9bSzm-Vzi9SrpXzH5dZOydvL0CsFb0-/s640/128.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorting peaches in my grandfather's packing shed during harvest.</td></tr>
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"I thought a lot of your dad," the man said to my dad. He looked away for a moment, as if in thought, then added, "Of course, I knew your brother Walt. Fine man. And your brother, Ernie, too. Also a fine man."</div>
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It was then that he added an additional thought which I will always remember. "You know ..." the man said, looking toward the street outside and down the corridors of time, "when I see a Broom, I see integrity."</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzje3xFxy2XM322ICbYp67g5IxhbFPnvyynLtoRh08M-sct-86dHqJzTUXHqoUmwgTukf2VYenrUW73Q2iuu3_KmjMxE02C6OEUM7iI39n_c4ZC3N9QTe64a90NgK26m0yUI8DWXQnYg0/s1600/Broom002a1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="683" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzje3xFxy2XM322ICbYp67g5IxhbFPnvyynLtoRh08M-sct-86dHqJzTUXHqoUmwgTukf2VYenrUW73Q2iuu3_KmjMxE02C6OEUM7iI39n_c4ZC3N9QTe64a90NgK26m0yUI8DWXQnYg0/s640/Broom002a1.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Great-Grandfather, John Millard Broom</td></tr>
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Of course, I was proud at that moment of my heritage. But, in a way, I wasn't surprised to hear this man say that. I had been raised with an ethos that I knew sprang from my grandfather, and from other fathers before him. My dad had been raised to value integrity, to be a man of his word. He had been taught by his father, among other things, that if he ever borrowed something from someone, to always return it in better condition than he had received it. To do quiet acts of kindness, never expecting recognition. That there was a right way and a wrong way to do things, and it was always worth doing things right.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEoADM1BCbRlVpaB47ASVH5wImR8gUI4zRCbpSukQeQV4p89iHzWE_qPxIazRCSUbFaYw_zqA7BTFwoTexgDpiJiisItnnMBy0UHY_8Y8XUuGNfXf-b8XUhUPT6FMIJ_Gi65E7lO4Secp/s1600/195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1143" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEoADM1BCbRlVpaB47ASVH5wImR8gUI4zRCbpSukQeQV4p89iHzWE_qPxIazRCSUbFaYw_zqA7BTFwoTexgDpiJiisItnnMBy0UHY_8Y8XUuGNfXf-b8XUhUPT6FMIJ_Gi65E7lO4Secp/s640/195.jpg" width="456" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad when he was in college at the University of Illinois.</td></tr>
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I had heard Dad say these things from my boyhood. Then I saw how my father conducted his oilfield equipment business, and I knew that he had the respect of his customers. Integrity.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMPR58P8GB3Brqrs8c7JKgn5NuB6XJaRD_vtKQDFYEri-OPxkCY6SNF2oyr6kekxti80SiXrrCeKOHJuF4pKs4AZo-FLx7bfvpu5G3ySVxdR4x4laBcdRMo_nDBHWtsk_oefuy1NtEGiP/s1600/Joseph001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1141" data-original-width="1600" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMPR58P8GB3Brqrs8c7JKgn5NuB6XJaRD_vtKQDFYEri-OPxkCY6SNF2oyr6kekxti80SiXrrCeKOHJuF4pKs4AZo-FLx7bfvpu5G3ySVxdR4x4laBcdRMo_nDBHWtsk_oefuy1NtEGiP/s640/Joseph001.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad holding me, my brothers Danny and Mike looking on.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3-cob7dGlQV7vhPb-wljphvhOuaYrKzThPy_Wpb8QmNgER0EbM580-cTrGJemV2kh571JpHXZUuAA1mo857Sar-YCvN8hmk73eh1ffQRODa8ch0RsBhPqn-NWvsRVm6VGwAeJSTP0JYR/s1600/Joseph002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="978" data-original-width="1465" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3-cob7dGlQV7vhPb-wljphvhOuaYrKzThPy_Wpb8QmNgER0EbM580-cTrGJemV2kh571JpHXZUuAA1mo857Sar-YCvN8hmk73eh1ffQRODa8ch0RsBhPqn-NWvsRVm6VGwAeJSTP0JYR/s640/Joseph002.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with Grandpa and Grandma Broom</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LlKHaNDLC7U9ggVR1QIKMxRkoXnPkY3r4sxYKjA5oyCeYWpKQ4MdcHZdcKcolIeM-mxRnsDqTnCNiwYsGn1_SiSh1us1f1ijBaMayW2k5eleS704LgFS5ld3KW9PVYdSCgN6Bxx90Au3/s1600/104b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="975" data-original-width="1359" height="459" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LlKHaNDLC7U9ggVR1QIKMxRkoXnPkY3r4sxYKjA5oyCeYWpKQ4MdcHZdcKcolIeM-mxRnsDqTnCNiwYsGn1_SiSh1us1f1ijBaMayW2k5eleS704LgFS5ld3KW9PVYdSCgN6Bxx90Au3/s640/104b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with Grandpa.</td></tr>
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Integrity.</div>
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I've thought a lot, over the last 7-1/2 years since I came out, about what that man said in that antique store in Kinmundy that day almost 20 years ago. The definition of integrity encompasses a number of qualities, but surely one of them is "being true to oneself." For most of my adult life, it can certainly be--and has been--argued, that I wasn't true to myself. That I was living a lie. That I deceived myself and those close to me. </div>
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That's one way of looking at it.<br />
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Another way of looking at it is that I was trying, desperately, to be true to what I *thought* I <i>should</i> be. I was trying to live up to, to be true to, an ideal: the Mormon ideal. I tried extremely hard to be a good Mormon, a good husband, a good father, a good provider, a good person. I was true to that ideal to the best of my ability. As for my latent, hidden homosexuality, that was unwanted--a quality that I never thought I could be, nor wanted to be, "true to."</div>
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That all changed when I, unexpectedly, came out. Since then, I have gained a whole new perspective on "integrity." Primarily, I have learned that, among its other definitions, integrity means living <i>authentically</i>. True integrity can never spring from desiring to live one's life according to someone else's definition of what that life <i>should</i> be. True integrity must radiate from within, rather than be imposed from without.</div>
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And so, on this Father's Day, I have thought about my dad, faults and all. I have thought about my grandfather, about my great-grandfathers. I know, now more than ever, that they weren't perfect men. But I am grateful, now perhaps more than ever, for their legacy, a legacy--enhanced by the events in the last ten years of my life--that I have tried to pass on to my own children.</div>
Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-76698508140683903682018-06-13T06:04:00.000-06:002018-06-13T06:58:49.625-06:00Rafting the Colorado 2.0<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGQSQXkc40hh7LL_aNUxDq0mGfwzsHN3jJb2gXS-2Fjg8jssd7pDqzEOD-aCcsFq55MnPNWKoyVxPESw1zsD1qQ70-nxeV3yQvSORqI19VkVK9LtLytW6OAuT7JDOS3N-QGYYgULPkFwW/s1600/IMG_2006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="915" data-original-width="1340" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGQSQXkc40hh7LL_aNUxDq0mGfwzsHN3jJb2gXS-2Fjg8jssd7pDqzEOD-aCcsFq55MnPNWKoyVxPESw1zsD1qQ70-nxeV3yQvSORqI19VkVK9LtLytW6OAuT7JDOS3N-QGYYgULPkFwW/s640/IMG_2006.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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This year's family vacation with my four younger kids, whom my late husband Mark dubbed "the Quads," is to Moab, Utah. We've been thinking of Mark because we came here as a family four years ago. And we rafted on the Colorado. Which is what we did yesterday. Thus the title of this post, "2.0."</div>
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The river was higher then, and the rapids were pretty intense.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIQiYPsg9iVELTXYRT1oSOiCfU2XPEPdxb_iXY9OXvnx4gqJeh4cP48ZcmbmnmWOQj1VbnAz-0ZvNfWajl_PtxOHE-_tHcjYU0Mplwz4eNgKG-6fprr81ZYTP1JKB0EiobXIJ2zEVYW09/s1600/photo_642611_20140612+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="816" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIQiYPsg9iVELTXYRT1oSOiCfU2XPEPdxb_iXY9OXvnx4gqJeh4cP48ZcmbmnmWOQj1VbnAz-0ZvNfWajl_PtxOHE-_tHcjYU0Mplwz4eNgKG-6fprr81ZYTP1JKB0EiobXIJ2zEVYW09/s640/photo_642611_20140612+copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This year, the water level was a lot lower due to dramatically lower snow melt from the Colorado Rockies. This made for a mellower trip, and the kids spent a lot more time in the river this year than they did in 2014.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2014. They've grown up during the past four years.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkXpwFhrldtEKKFAJobgLUjwMtf_eLz_V5wXn3kxpHgH8bGi3mhX6ZZrN-wGu6DrQzwQrAKDRKLqd4m2osUe8zrRtJtyUPkmYlZvshqzoojN3aVE1mR0DP7tSy7_o9VozjEcVHGOI3Ijab/s1600/IMG_1943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="1201" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkXpwFhrldtEKKFAJobgLUjwMtf_eLz_V5wXn3kxpHgH8bGi3mhX6ZZrN-wGu6DrQzwQrAKDRKLqd4m2osUe8zrRtJtyUPkmYlZvshqzoojN3aVE1mR0DP7tSy7_o9VozjEcVHGOI3Ijab/s640/IMG_1943.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The spot where we put in.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our guide, Seth</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aaron cooling off.</td></tr>
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This trip was different from the one four years ago, and that's normal. That's the way it is supposed to be. Like the waters of the Colorado River, life moves on, carrying us forward to new experiences. But we never forget where we have come from; things that we have seen, felt and experienced in the current of life; and, most of all, people whom we loved ... and who loved us.</div>
Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-64617036911586508172018-06-08T05:14:00.001-06:002018-06-08T05:18:28.226-06:00Finale: Aosta and Its Wines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This post picks up where yesterday's left off about our last day in Italy on Monday. As much as we were enjoying our time in Carema and would have liked to stay longer, we needed to move on to the rest of what we had scheduled for that day.</div>
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By the time we left the Carema cooperative's winery, the heavy rain that had occurred while we were inside had stopped, and the few sprinkles that remained dissipated as we headed on toward Aosta. On either side of us were towering peaks enshrouded in clouds that occasionally parted to give us a sense of what we might be seeing on a clear day.</div>
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As I drove, Piermaria noted some of the many castles that dot the mountainsides of the valley, and I made a mental note that, someday, I'll come back and see them. One such is the reconstructed Fort Bard, pictured below, above the Dora Baltea river. Previously referred to as Bard castle, it had been flattened by Napoleon in 1800 after 400 Piemontese soldiers had held off his army of 40,000 soldiers for two weeks, thus destroying the element of surprise of his invasion of the Po River valley.<br />
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The strategic location of the Aosta Valley was evident as long ago as Roman times, and indeed there was an important Roman settlement in the town of Aosta, and remnants of this settlement remain today--something I didn't realize prior to our visit.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 15px;">The Arch of Augustus in Aosta, built in 25 B.C.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 15px;">Ruins of a Roman theatre, also built around 25 B.C.,<br />
that could accommodate up to 4,000 people.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The romanesque bell towers of the 1000-year-old cathedral in Aosta.</td></tr>
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Our time in Aosta was limited, but Piermaria did her best to show us as much as possible, including the Church of Saint Orso/Ursus and nearby cloister which date back to the 10th century, though the church was expanded and remodeled in the 15th century (being, thus, practically new).</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 15px;">Remnants of a "Black Madonna" fresco in St. Orso's</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhecmWq4OzSBrIEMdIPXcVpve0VEWx2_gZjo2Jcfc0CxxiKEZXWcfNrqSPQY5KJrZXg-f_NLDhi1bSwWGTU51rN0NvkqFjjLqUnBwgFIC1_bof7CsLQmUWYV0ad7UcI1FjdWHvXyAvXMpx3/s1600/IMG_1809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="1140" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhecmWq4OzSBrIEMdIPXcVpve0VEWx2_gZjo2Jcfc0CxxiKEZXWcfNrqSPQY5KJrZXg-f_NLDhi1bSwWGTU51rN0NvkqFjjLqUnBwgFIC1_bof7CsLQmUWYV0ad7UcI1FjdWHvXyAvXMpx3/s640/IMG_1809.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've seen a number of depictions of Saint Sebastian, but this fresco in St. Orso's kind of stands out.</td></tr>
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My favorite part of the Saint Orso church was the Renaissance-era choir, which featured beautifully carved stalls.</div>
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We had lunch on the square in front of the cathedral. Piermaria had chosen it in part because it offered traditional Aostan fare as well as other dishes. I opted for the Tartiflette, a Savoyard dish prepared in Aostan style that features cheese, potatoes, onions and more cheese. Basically, it could have been called "Cholesterol Bowl." Yes, I ate the whole thing.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cathedral in Aosta, parts of which date back to the 11th century (the facade being less than 200 years old).</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountains above Aosta</td></tr>
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After lunch, it was time to head a few more miles up the valley to Sarre to Feudo di San Maurizio, the small winery of Michel Vallet. My introduction to Vallet's wines had begun, really, with my first class in my Northern Italian Wine course, which covered Valle d'Aosta.<br />
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Two months later, while in San Francisco, I visited <a href="https://www.enotecavinonostro.com/" target="_blank">Enoteca Vino Nostro</a> and purchased a bottle of Vallet's Mayolet--a variety basically only found in Aosta. Later, I read some articles about Feudo di San Maurizio, including <a href="http://www.winespectator.com/webfeature/show/id/51492" target="_blank">this one written by Matt Kramer for <i>Wine Spectator</i></a>, and I felt we had to go there after our Piemonte wine tour, primarily because Michel Vallet has made it his mission to preserve local varietals and produce quality wine from them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CvXcoRsZIwVDW06uKQs5E2a0RnxtKpHnKeyey-OIVrrTL7_dpdzfPiM3ux1dTPod00frbNcaG2CWWzTyxkFBv2bSby9w71dN8xSzA8hcO6VstwqDhh1_91klebiOn_Dg-frRFnID35f3/s1600/IMG_1661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="962" data-original-width="1234" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CvXcoRsZIwVDW06uKQs5E2a0RnxtKpHnKeyey-OIVrrTL7_dpdzfPiM3ux1dTPod00frbNcaG2CWWzTyxkFBv2bSby9w71dN8xSzA8hcO6VstwqDhh1_91klebiOn_Dg-frRFnID35f3/s640/IMG_1661.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michel Vallet</td></tr>
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Matt Kramer very aptly described the person we met on Monday afternoon in Michel's subterranean winery, the entrance of which looks like an underground garage. We squeezed past a parked van and stacks of folded cardboard shipping boxes to enter a room that looked like a huge party had just been held there. Chairs were scattered around a large table that was littered with empty wine glasses and a number of partially-drained wine bottles.<br />
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Michel, the winemaker, looked as though he had just come from the football pitch, dressed in gym shorts and a tightly-fitting tee shirt. Our guide and translator, Piermaria, introduced us as Michel dashed back and forth. Eventually, we learned that a group of sommeliers had just left from a tasting. Michel had forget they were coming and was working in the vineyard when they arrived. As Matt Kramer mentions in his article and as we heard directly from Michel, he really doesn't use email or for that matter, in his exact words, "anything modern."<br />
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We were shown into an adjoining room and took our seats around another large table. Michel's wife and son cleared a spot for us as they cleaned up the remains of the sommeliers' visit. Then the tasting began. As he has no doubt done dozens, if not scores, of times before, Michel told us a bit of his story. How, without any formal wine education at all, he began making wine in the late 80's from local varieties to sell in his bar. Little by little, he expanded, acquiring small plots of vineyard here and there all over the area. His energy and passion for his work would have been evident in his eyes even had he not said a word. Intense, almost frenetic, energy exuded from him.</div>
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Michel talked about low yields, about his project of planting Nebbiolo vines in a vineyard enclosed by stone walls below a local castle where his godfather had tended cows years before. He decided to seek the lease to the ground and to plant the vines because he read in an old history how members of the House of Savoy had commented that the wine produced on the castle grounds tasted like wine produced in the Langhe. He assumed from this comment that Nebbiolo must have been grown at one time there, so he decided to try it again.<br />
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The vast majority of Vallet's production is consumed locally. Only occasionally is wine shipped to the States. And we could forget about having a case shipped to us privately. Wasn't happening. Fortunately a number of his wines are available in San Francisco. One that we tasted, however, is not: his "XXII Settembre," made from Prié blanc, one of the oldest indigenous grapes of Valle d'Aosta and found almost exclusively there.<br />
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The wine is named after the feast day of San Maurizio, from whom Michel's winery takes its name. I couldn't resist bringing a bottle home with me, and I'm looking forward to drinking it on some future special occasion.<br />
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It seemed somehow appropriate that our last day in Italy ended where my Italian wine adventure had begun with that first class in my Northern Italian Wines course going on two years ago: Valle d'Aosta. Our last wine in Italy, however, was not from Aosta but rather Asti. Piermaria presented us with a bottle of Albugnano, a Nebbiolo produced near her home, as a parting gift, and we happily drank it Monday night at our hotel near Turin airport (since none of us had any room left in our luggage for one more bottle of wine).<br />
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Of course, as these things sometimes work, on the day that we left, the sun rose to reveal the Alps in all their glory after a week of rain, cloudy skies and haze. As we took off, I looked at those mountains, reflected on all that I'd experienced in the previous 10 days and thought: "I will be back, Piemonte and Valle d'Aosta. We have unfinished business. I will be back."<br />
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-32651956179776540142018-06-07T05:04:00.002-06:002018-06-10T08:13:20.996-06:00Carema: A Whole New World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hadn't expected it. It took my breath away. It was almost a spiritual experience. And I can't think of a better way we could have spent our last day in Italy.</div>
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This past Monday, we were in Carema, a small village on the border between the regions of Piemonte and Valle d'Aosta. Or, rather, we were <i>above</i> Carema, high in the terraced vineyards that have for centuries produced a lighter version of Nebbiolo that is far less well-known than those produced in southern Piemonte, especially in Barolo and Barbaresco.<br />
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Before us was the village, nestled in the valley, with the mountains that form the valley of Aosta in the distance. On the slopes above the village, like the folds of a cascading carpet of bright emerald green, were the terraced vineyards. Though the above picture is dramatic, it does not fully capture the vista that stretched out before my eyes. It does not express the sense of place I felt, the wonder, the incredulity, the deep feeling of instant connection to a place I had never seen before.</div>
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Ever since I first started seriously studying northern Italian wines, I have felt a special affinity for what I call Italy's "Alpine Wines"--those produced on the northern fringes of Piemonte, in Valle d'Aosta, and in the central mountainous regions of Trentino and Alto Adige (also known as Sud Tirol). This affinity drove my desire to use our extra day after the conclusion of our Piemonte wine tour to head north from Turin with our guide and translator, Piermaria, to explore Carema and Valle d'Aosta.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsErQIWFGw2GqBxju93r_fcW_AzcckTMKEpGCiowgbAP5PyB0G0HmzZ8SGq-sjQc3q5Huhz6qwbKvKpBga4dpJIMgc36OkzT3nr8BBvd1npsfylfR1GsM-EA1GyuGNx5UR1C_OacQkoEn/s1600/IMG_9933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="863" data-original-width="1322" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsErQIWFGw2GqBxju93r_fcW_AzcckTMKEpGCiowgbAP5PyB0G0HmzZ8SGq-sjQc3q5Huhz6qwbKvKpBga4dpJIMgc36OkzT3nr8BBvd1npsfylfR1GsM-EA1GyuGNx5UR1C_OacQkoEn/s640/IMG_9933.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The skies were threatening. We had given up hope of seeing the Alps in all their splendor, but we were still hoping that we wouldn't get rained on and would have at least some visibility of the mountains. We had three stops planned. The first was a visit to a wine co-operative in Carema. We would then go on to the town of Aosta for a bit of a tour and lunch, and we would conclude our day with a visit to Feudo di San Maurizio, a small winery in Sarre west of Aosta that specializes in production of wines from varieties primarily only grown in the region.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8jc3JfycEuxLU9XfVmBWHxxiMTcUckH8ZAdB4MvomHPy3TJ3bMlwzp7n8oHldXXE0hKG2U4uXB8hK4bXwY83iWg62DcU-GI3EHV5Y2KJIYFzufr8tJvL4aUSg5TEHCZiziKKK3uQSfKoj/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-06-06+at+10.45.11+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="524" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8jc3JfycEuxLU9XfVmBWHxxiMTcUckH8ZAdB4MvomHPy3TJ3bMlwzp7n8oHldXXE0hKG2U4uXB8hK4bXwY83iWg62DcU-GI3EHV5Y2KJIYFzufr8tJvL4aUSg5TEHCZiziKKK3uQSfKoj/s640/Screen+Shot+2018-06-06+at+10.45.11+AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Map showing the location of Carema (identified by the red pin) in connection to Turin and Aosta.</td></tr>
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I guess part of the reason I have felt affinity for mountain wines is that I love the mountains, a love that first stirred when Mark and I made our first cycling trip together in the fall of 2012 and which has grown since. This love, which I have come to more fully understand and appreciate in the last couple of years, is a large part of what fuels my desire to cycle; and I suppose it is only natural that I be drawn to wine producing areas that are defined by and enveloped in mountain majesty.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_weNdcpbXFrPIe_-TS_0gH9P8Hch9tj1mxI3ROMNqQmDVOqqG2scUOqYVhSuuuCWG4ryva3x5gANldr__cV3pUNnSMysgpkEP6M71UhLxkeRbByFIWVvsNv9VJCosCpM81fdsjRYiBS0/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="660" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_weNdcpbXFrPIe_-TS_0gH9P8Hch9tj1mxI3ROMNqQmDVOqqG2scUOqYVhSuuuCWG4ryva3x5gANldr__cV3pUNnSMysgpkEP6M71UhLxkeRbByFIWVvsNv9VJCosCpM81fdsjRYiBS0/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We grew excited as we got our first close-up views of terraced vineyards that use pergolas. This picture was taken in Settimo Vittone, south of Carema, as we were stopped on the road waiting for a semi to back into a small side road. The region uses pergolas to catch the maximum amount of sunlight and heat for the vines and to withstand the weight of winter snow. </td></tr>
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But ... I hadn't realized just what would await me in Carema, and it was only by luck--or fate--that I was able to glimpse the panoramic beauty of the village's vineyards nestled at the feet of towering mountains.</div>
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Upon our arrival at the Cantina dei Produttori Nebbiolo di Carema--the wine cooperative for the 60-some growers of Nebbiolo in the area--we were met by Gianpaolo, one of the producers, and Selena, a young woman who is one of only two people employed full-time by the cooperative. Gianpaolo asked if we'd like to go up into the vineyards prior to our tasting to a place that offered a panoramic view. That was a no-brainer. He suggested we go right away because it was threatening rain, so we got back in the car and followed him up the mountain.<br />
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"Oh. My. God!" I exclaimed as we climbed the switchbacks above the village and the views grew. "Oh. My. God!" After a few minutes, we pulled off the tiny road behind Gianpaolo's car and got out. I've seen some pretty spectacular views on my cycling trips, but what lay before me definitely rated near the top.<br />
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"This is unbelievable!" "This is amazing!" The exclamations kept coming. As I wrote above, it wasn't just the view. It was much more than that. What my eyes were seeing combined with what my heart was feeling to produce a experience that bordered on euphoria. As my friend, Mandy, who witnessed my reaction, pointed out to be later on the plane home, I was having a "Stendhal Syndrome" moment: " ... I was in a sort of ecstasy ... Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty ... I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations ... Everything spoke so vividly to my soul."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnOsV4Lrkqo-clgJarBBB-zcyc-p-0XKdOYpEALDRJJtwN4kAoiOvGhvAXdkh-j9_zH9Vpkb6sFHA7tJDn36SgMMzh_Y8g4dZtmcPFbgxkloXVd2H6UaEz7wp5fGntl5N6Vlwjy8DKZL-/s1600/IMG_1744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="718" data-original-width="1107" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnOsV4Lrkqo-clgJarBBB-zcyc-p-0XKdOYpEALDRJJtwN4kAoiOvGhvAXdkh-j9_zH9Vpkb6sFHA7tJDn36SgMMzh_Y8g4dZtmcPFbgxkloXVd2H6UaEz7wp5fGntl5N6Vlwjy8DKZL-/s640/IMG_1744.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgeQvs2CCDiv7VnKgNiefBJuE0B3aEfcNr0baE_BEkhjC4yxXMJaRDFKgNSaV1E4x3GCWCLIWjsv2Tp0_V0jWgxv32XrtmIOdYnuVpCdQbBvTEOHun346NdL9yipGQRmP8BXzoQHLJyW7V/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="714" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgeQvs2CCDiv7VnKgNiefBJuE0B3aEfcNr0baE_BEkhjC4yxXMJaRDFKgNSaV1E4x3GCWCLIWjsv2Tp0_V0jWgxv32XrtmIOdYnuVpCdQbBvTEOHun346NdL9yipGQRmP8BXzoQHLJyW7V/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_my5Rk3835xTdSYyZGIBcqtQElJFiluuCx2MZ5GhrSXXbw1coSM0L_wEvnpk5pNPvnBNNe9N4xBRxavBVhB3uTSCzsBxke0FxlZx3dqNdExSH5emX35GxeBOz7El8RbKpyQmYVI_JvmYD/s1600/IMG_4057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="670" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_my5Rk3835xTdSYyZGIBcqtQElJFiluuCx2MZ5GhrSXXbw1coSM0L_wEvnpk5pNPvnBNNe9N4xBRxavBVhB3uTSCzsBxke0FxlZx3dqNdExSH5emX35GxeBOz7El8RbKpyQmYVI_JvmYD/s640/IMG_4057.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was as if the hillsides were ablaze with green instead of red.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcl03vnxdkuBaymqki_kI9M_X7g3jdye8FPx5V9E6rA54RPrfOaPnML6Ql3MRBXibmnhagdFY93tdCwyGY3xriXDGDFd4Rp-LvaX5OEVA9FzSAZCCErufHvAf_3R_RxvY5c42GL1Z18eU/s1600/IMG_1835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="823" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcl03vnxdkuBaymqki_kI9M_X7g3jdye8FPx5V9E6rA54RPrfOaPnML6Ql3MRBXibmnhagdFY93tdCwyGY3xriXDGDFd4Rp-LvaX5OEVA9FzSAZCCErufHvAf_3R_RxvY5c42GL1Z18eU/s640/IMG_1835.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvB4qg5tbeVs3O54cQIXtEBQqq8w_vv-va-S3ptIJLPJ16gO1GKZsPNhqZn6JG30mHfHP5xlk0kcKxvv_LYiXMt76pPFenLPI204Bbw3Zp5O2rQjh3UHW_fCYAlZZNFj9z1YPuearBzX4/s1600/IMG_3794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="896" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvB4qg5tbeVs3O54cQIXtEBQqq8w_vv-va-S3ptIJLPJ16gO1GKZsPNhqZn6JG30mHfHP5xlk0kcKxvv_LYiXMt76pPFenLPI204Bbw3Zp5O2rQjh3UHW_fCYAlZZNFj9z1YPuearBzX4/s640/IMG_3794.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-VrD6tqQSduHwm5JIJ88ENHb4Xdvws8MmnwUJoRTNUeX2QuSRoUi03l_5hdTX77HRV784Qaf-4kwNkuEcVxhQrCsJdGNpm7ie_d3gmpJxluecOD1n8nYC2vplFw3wPRQ4_KOu4QPubEE/s1600/IMG_0178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="1017" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-VrD6tqQSduHwm5JIJ88ENHb4Xdvws8MmnwUJoRTNUeX2QuSRoUi03l_5hdTX77HRV784Qaf-4kwNkuEcVxhQrCsJdGNpm7ie_d3gmpJxluecOD1n8nYC2vplFw3wPRQ4_KOu4QPubEE/s640/IMG_0178.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gianpaolo with my friends, Lori and Mandy, and our translator/guide, Piermaria.</td></tr>
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It was with some degree of difficulty that I stopped taking a picture of everything in sight and tried my best to listen to what Piermaria was saying as she translated for Gianpaolo. He explained that most, if not all, of the members of the Carema cooperative each had very small plots of vines and were hobby farmers who do not produce wine for a living. Most are retired, and they do this to keep the wine tradition of their community alive. Their wine, though not remotely as well-known as that made in Nebbiolo-producing areas in southern Piemonte, is nevertheless highly regarded and seen as a good value.<br />
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From the <a href="http://caremadoc.it/homepage.php?lang=en" target="_blank">website of the cooperative</a>, one learns that:<br />
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"Vine growing in the valley of Carema is a millenary tradition and what results from hard work is a powerful Red wine which has received many acknowledgements over the centuries. The bottler of Pope Paul III born Alessandro Farnese, the author of a wine guide dated 1539, defined this wine 'an excellent drink, perfect for princes and lords.' A 16th century treaty, the “De Vinis Italiae”, made reference to Carema as a wine served at the table of Popes, of the Dukes of Savoy and served as “wine for roast meat” to the French Royals. Time has certainly not weakened the character of this wine, defined by Mario Soldati “strong and likeable as the sun and the stone”.</blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9mzU38YnB2FH1dsOl4EmkeMg9kdHML-d1m-___kROYpzMXJvVE0UgyVwB_u4BhsaE3tzY9DzksNmzT1p4N8qP_S_qzUg20aHxl6KIxadH4B2rE3zdQESrfi9Mp6bP-gqCn6t0cdncPeN/s1600/IMG_6047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="756" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9mzU38YnB2FH1dsOl4EmkeMg9kdHML-d1m-___kROYpzMXJvVE0UgyVwB_u4BhsaE3tzY9DzksNmzT1p4N8qP_S_qzUg20aHxl6KIxadH4B2rE3zdQESrfi9Mp6bP-gqCn6t0cdncPeN/s400/IMG_6047.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carema Riserva 2011</td></tr>
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At this point, I should give credit where credit is due. My friend Mandy had been on the lookout on her travels last year for this Nebbiolo, and it was her interest that resulted in me purchasing a couple of bottles of Carema Riserva when I was in San Francisco in December. We shared a bottle at Christmastime, and it was our delight with the wine that prompted our visit as part of our Piemonte trip. All we knew at that time was that we wanted to visit the winery where this wine was made; we had no idea it was produced in such a place that is almost unworldly in its beauty.<br />
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After we had been talking with Gianpaolo for awhile and taking pictures, we saw a older-model Fiat Panda wending its way down the road to where we were gathered. The car pulled over and parked, and a wizened older man with a stooped back got out and walked over to us. Gianpaolo smiled and introduced us to this man--whose name I have forgotten--as another member of the cooperative. In fact, we had been gathered amongst his vines.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3hUsjexgJWeTIVohfezXez7azj4BzuhqTnIgdwqpbqM78qSqcD-Vh1zGkBRT5efZtY7hwLGU8HrFhmgAl1ZDrkD1oI35yF1VwL8v2WxCUfBwQZWe800VxohzLJlTv5uMEuFlhWvnk99t/s1600/IMG_1443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="906" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3hUsjexgJWeTIVohfezXez7azj4BzuhqTnIgdwqpbqM78qSqcD-Vh1zGkBRT5efZtY7hwLGU8HrFhmgAl1ZDrkD1oI35yF1VwL8v2WxCUfBwQZWe800VxohzLJlTv5uMEuFlhWvnk99t/s640/IMG_1443.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From one end of Italy to the other, one of the things that is universal is talking with one's hands.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MyWRWZLoTdAA02UgwN9lAH7gtKDwSjqBlbjQ1v6ER4ebyES7RqMkatxIWGl67SsIq19XKAwKuJDOrl_XBG_C2y3YSowPnp7w6wv0HfP4AYo-uN8FrSdFCOaIEboJBW7k42E2N_uUggd_/s1600/IMG_5220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="1017" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MyWRWZLoTdAA02UgwN9lAH7gtKDwSjqBlbjQ1v6ER4ebyES7RqMkatxIWGl67SsIq19XKAwKuJDOrl_XBG_C2y3YSowPnp7w6wv0HfP4AYo-uN8FrSdFCOaIEboJBW7k42E2N_uUggd_/s640/IMG_5220.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The other gentleman invited us to go to one of his other vineyards where the older trellis supports were used, but the weather was looking increasingly threatening, and we were on a schedule, so we politely declined. As it turned out, no sooner had we returned to the winery for a tour and tasting than it began to rain heavily.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8IasIyXBlJLzXOxWUcbGzkzCxXsJJ4Itjgdw5rSF01NC4c0H46KgRiFq0mdqBs1h__Vpa5IeKHjsJP1oUwuiK-eioTwDvPtdNbzP8kIzhm4l3k0iCFL_8MzHCgWdzrpIK9fVDH6BOfBMO/s1600/IMG_2471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="672" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8IasIyXBlJLzXOxWUcbGzkzCxXsJJ4Itjgdw5rSF01NC4c0H46KgRiFq0mdqBs1h__Vpa5IeKHjsJP1oUwuiK-eioTwDvPtdNbzP8kIzhm4l3k0iCFL_8MzHCgWdzrpIK9fVDH6BOfBMO/s640/IMG_2471.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Large botti used for aging wine.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1VPWHWgZaznebjvhtr4qShuN08Jqc_eyyAhwsVtf5nwWXabbWbFLxOkKm8IXDB0jNegnILRoU_X3UYMGOs00fz6MBRf3gezZ-nQfup8Ecsw7VE49urlRw6hnu4rug-yJdNvb79oQr028W/s1600/IMG_5423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1013" data-original-width="816" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1VPWHWgZaznebjvhtr4qShuN08Jqc_eyyAhwsVtf5nwWXabbWbFLxOkKm8IXDB0jNegnILRoU_X3UYMGOs00fz6MBRf3gezZ-nQfup8Ecsw7VE49urlRw6hnu4rug-yJdNvb79oQr028W/s640/IMG_5423.JPG" width="514" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the co-op members carved this monumental plaque that hangs behind the tasting counter.</td></tr>
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We sampled several wines as part of the tasting, including their Nebbiolo Classico and Riserva as well as their "Villanova," a delicious Nebbiolo sparkling rosato made in the "classic method" (like Champagne, with in-bottle fermentation). I bought a bottle of that, determined that I was going to fit it in my already-full suitcases, come hell or high water. I did, and it made it safely home.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGpHxyRm9EQ7N1KZjfavHbs8gKbi1OCrWwPh0xalXLL3nuKmyADsUjyObsuSp37MCdhczarNJ_mnHWYhoiai3fMIB6ymRrXU8CTOfjz2eMw3TY8FL0fqda0nn4KKbjwoGoTJFCEwcFj1J/s1600/IMG_1769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGpHxyRm9EQ7N1KZjfavHbs8gKbi1OCrWwPh0xalXLL3nuKmyADsUjyObsuSp37MCdhczarNJ_mnHWYhoiai3fMIB6ymRrXU8CTOfjz2eMw3TY8FL0fqda0nn4KKbjwoGoTJFCEwcFj1J/s640/IMG_1769.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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We talked about of lot of things during the tasting. Selena and Gianpaolo said they didn't get a lot of tourists in. They told the story of how one tour guide brought a group once and was totally disappointed that the co-op winery didn't look like something in Sonoma. We also joked, only partly in jest, about volunteering to help with the harvest, in which everything is done by hand. The grapes are picked, then put in plastic boxes which are hung from the shoulders and walked up the steep terrace paths to the roads where trucks are waiting.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR6I8sbTbDk3Q6BGFr0O2opxw61gKL2FGxP6AOFjgy0GCc7CA1ASrmb7T6vQZdlQenWdNFJ8rU_XiAGohuC1M1Huw9VmLlTLONPQNCOIPlggOuzvfLIDQa7EHpQZPsaQ2rsRaKVjKh9kx7/s1600/IMG_0148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="714" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR6I8sbTbDk3Q6BGFr0O2opxw61gKL2FGxP6AOFjgy0GCc7CA1ASrmb7T6vQZdlQenWdNFJ8rU_XiAGohuC1M1Huw9VmLlTLONPQNCOIPlggOuzvfLIDQa7EHpQZPsaQ2rsRaKVjKh9kx7/s640/IMG_0148.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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As time drew nigh for us to leave and head on to Aosta, I told Piermaria that I had a totally off-the-wall question I'd like her to pose to Selena and Gianpaolo. I had seen what appeared to be a Christmas ornament/decoration hanging from an interior window frame. Since I collect Christmas tree ornaments as souvenirs of places I visit, I asked if they might perhaps have one they could sell me. At first, they seemed astonished, but as Piermaria explained why I was interested--that it would be a souvenir of my visit to Carema--smiles lit up their faces, and they said they would ask a co-worker to check upstairs to see if there might be one there.<br />
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A few minutes later, he came back with one that, like the one in the above picture, features the label from their Carema Classico. I asked how much it would be. They laughed and said, "No, no. It is a gift." It turned out that Gianpaolo's wife had made the ornaments. He laughed and said, "I'll have to tell her she should make some more this year to sell at Christmastime."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0p97tsEq-Su2yZkUzro8FGaswDYWudaoFkBuOhqhiMMlaP2nHZ3CpTlLatCjUHfKdQxn-HPjm4579WAzsE21ZhmZ8K3JHytJNSm49_W2veBiK6ubWtnym_u8PhZJxhrB_uQru0aWlyuR/s1600/IMG_2488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="739" data-original-width="1034" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0p97tsEq-Su2yZkUzro8FGaswDYWudaoFkBuOhqhiMMlaP2nHZ3CpTlLatCjUHfKdQxn-HPjm4579WAzsE21ZhmZ8K3JHytJNSm49_W2veBiK6ubWtnym_u8PhZJxhrB_uQru0aWlyuR/s640/IMG_2488.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selena, me and Gianpaolo ... and the ornament</td></tr>
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I was very touched by their gift. I think they genuinely appreciated our sincere interest in their wines and their winery. The sense of profound connection to this place that I had felt earlier as we had stood up in the vines looking out over the valley had only been strengthened as we talked and laughed with Selena and Gianpaolo and sampled their delicious wines. Earlier up in the vines, I had felt a geographical connection; now I felt connected to these people as well. I felt like I wanted to get to know them, and the place, better. Thus, the idea of helping with the harvest, though in some ways "off the wall," rooted itself in my mind. We'll see. For now, I'm just grateful for the experience.<br />
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<i>To be continued ...</i></div>
Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-18365427550787356932018-06-04T00:20:00.000-06:002018-06-06T03:21:30.835-06:00Sacra di San Michele<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiO-iQX_U1MAp_8Aw_nuT5N3EEoEz9f5lhWit7rhU7HMeU9KZrQ6eBpzmCw32no8vqOKPOeID4RWjLLljt8JKT9QVaK0GwQ334mHaAaIPh_Faop7w740bivRZQZttLtjty4PIyYY_0ZyCV/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="1138" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiO-iQX_U1MAp_8Aw_nuT5N3EEoEz9f5lhWit7rhU7HMeU9KZrQ6eBpzmCw32no8vqOKPOeID4RWjLLljt8JKT9QVaK0GwQ334mHaAaIPh_Faop7w740bivRZQZttLtjty4PIyYY_0ZyCV/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I'm not sure when I first heard or read about the Sacra di San Michele, a 1100-year-old monastery located upon the rocky top of a mountain west of Turin at the entrance of the Susa Valley. But I know I've wanted to see it for a long time, perhaps since first seeing the 1986 movie, "The Name of the Rose" with Sean Connery. Yesterday, that desire was fulfilled. </div>
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Three of us Salt Lakers from the wine tour we completed yesterday are departing early tomorrow morning for home, but before we do so, we arranged to rent a car and hire a guide to see San Michele yesterday afternoon and to head up to the Aosta Valley today. </div>
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The weather was threatening rain and thunderstorms as we headed west from Turin. On a clear day, we would have been able to see range after range of mountains. This, alas, was not to be. We were disappointed, yet hopeful that we could at least visit the monastery without being caught in a downpour and perhaps see at least some of the dramatic setting that has made the monastery famous.</div>
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We were lucky.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifywPwkHO1J-EUn22amxVZ2arQVKOuppyQ_By_Czh3VeanRfWqTHPtOAmBXK7fUyI80JQ9j_LJxo4YWfVr8TPrZHOQe_JmzrGnb5MouY0QXNK0K4GyFM54dgadJaxQsg6Rd5CelnmbcaZI/s1600/Snapseed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1120" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifywPwkHO1J-EUn22amxVZ2arQVKOuppyQ_By_Czh3VeanRfWqTHPtOAmBXK7fUyI80JQ9j_LJxo4YWfVr8TPrZHOQe_JmzrGnb5MouY0QXNK0K4GyFM54dgadJaxQsg6Rd5CelnmbcaZI/s640/Snapseed.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXPj7U1WPzky31a4fBsM3jtm477J1pZtIHyZGRk1Cr99IBcXY3RaMOZbrObyHRZbrUIa9b7XP811PP3WuuYlZF-rnBOx7RvTIzGpIWs6P6hsvHMTqM-5On1b_Y8inxJ2YYFLs2Px5DSzh6/s1600/FullSizeRender+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="1180" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXPj7U1WPzky31a4fBsM3jtm477J1pZtIHyZGRk1Cr99IBcXY3RaMOZbrObyHRZbrUIa9b7XP811PP3WuuYlZF-rnBOx7RvTIzGpIWs6P6hsvHMTqM-5On1b_Y8inxJ2YYFLs2Px5DSzh6/s640/FullSizeRender+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Like that other famous medieval monastery dedicated to the cult of Saint Michael--<a href="https://novus-homo.blogspot.com/2017/09/a-lively-lunch-in-mont-saint-michel.html" target="_blank">Mont St. Michel </a>off the coast of Normandy in France--the Sacra di San Michele is built into the rocks that formed the summit of Mount Pirchiriano. The legends surrounding the founding of the Sacra tell a story of angels carrying building materials to the summit where a hermit built the first church edifice. The rocky top itself was considered sacred, selected by God himself for construction of a site to honor his archangel, Michael.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjleti6PmkL-APpPbcpD44RFsn77ueSCTh5wVD28YMwNzMQ8T7lvkzdbHXccQQhS8eJZqnxYJ-05O8fXtsNEmWOAeMtknm9Og_THeFQcLKLoMjNzggVXhK35WqLfIYCzpxpPhUXKphRPHl-/s1600/FullSizeRender+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="630" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjleti6PmkL-APpPbcpD44RFsn77ueSCTh5wVD28YMwNzMQ8T7lvkzdbHXccQQhS8eJZqnxYJ-05O8fXtsNEmWOAeMtknm9Og_THeFQcLKLoMjNzggVXhK35WqLfIYCzpxpPhUXKphRPHl-/s640/FullSizeRender+3.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The monastery was constructed of two different kinds of stone, the colors<br />
of which are clearly visible in this photograph.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyyp_Dgac_q_Oc-MIEsLx8R1Kkfpfl-geWQaoQFeTs7LYnO6FymxKnK49m5qxeJ_3k5C1gHCEOo0Y78GyVfMcuDS-wThEPtNPWjh45fusGG2y2wcSu04A309DcARIs_wEpxBLcjbHT_ov/s1600/IMG_1653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="630" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyyp_Dgac_q_Oc-MIEsLx8R1Kkfpfl-geWQaoQFeTs7LYnO6FymxKnK49m5qxeJ_3k5C1gHCEOo0Y78GyVfMcuDS-wThEPtNPWjh45fusGG2y2wcSu04A309DcARIs_wEpxBLcjbHT_ov/s640/IMG_1653.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scalone dei Morti ("Stairway of the Dead") leading to the "Zodiac Door,"<br />
considered to be a masterwork of medieval sculpture.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtwQHUv5y6GD-QFsLM6AqWIVzHVFhmB6RwXmCkksnSlt8WCXaEv1G8p-IrR97-GVo1tzADF_xo67TNeJIZBAAasHJs71_kmMudnyNO3ctXVkC2-QRkZW8BA1OOBm07onzQO3nKEmD-2_B/s1600/IMG_1646.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="1048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtwQHUv5y6GD-QFsLM6AqWIVzHVFhmB6RwXmCkksnSlt8WCXaEv1G8p-IrR97-GVo1tzADF_xo67TNeJIZBAAasHJs71_kmMudnyNO3ctXVkC2-QRkZW8BA1OOBm07onzQO3nKEmD-2_B/s320/IMG_1646.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Capital of column forming part of the Zodiac Door,<br />
showing Cain killing Abel.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWg2Vkp-I8_ML7Pt3Azo_ls7z40UK6CiXk5d8AXmrRqD4MZg0HURT7pUFZ56Qxy7BKkTHjZoJEydz3ijKdM2FwDn_-z0U9ROKtQl42kEhPOaP2-yx5TRO0e8c7jAlehccucBfxay3aZZo/s1600/IMG_1651.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="679" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWg2Vkp-I8_ML7Pt3Azo_ls7z40UK6CiXk5d8AXmrRqD4MZg0HURT7pUFZ56Qxy7BKkTHjZoJEydz3ijKdM2FwDn_-z0U9ROKtQl42kEhPOaP2-yx5TRO0e8c7jAlehccucBfxay3aZZo/s320/IMG_1651.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8gmsyYjf8eYUu6RN0vPzwxnn36umlYC272YzTH2meLPGzNtog4n2md5FWlnXl0UmcwNnqyEMt5TbDFr5METQhtSDF4_rhKIQGR2r0AA4NZl6pL2XOirB2nyM1_1sAuZs2Q0i6pDqgbiW/s1600/IMG_8853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="630" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8gmsyYjf8eYUu6RN0vPzwxnn36umlYC272YzTH2meLPGzNtog4n2md5FWlnXl0UmcwNnqyEMt5TbDFr5METQhtSDF4_rhKIQGR2r0AA4NZl6pL2XOirB2nyM1_1sAuZs2Q0i6pDqgbiW/s640/IMG_8853.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portal to the main church, dating to the early 11th Century.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A volunteer guide came up and introduced himself to us in the sanctuary. He was very friendly,<br />
welcoming us in English. He was born in Denmark, but has lived in Italy longer than I've been alive.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi65tn9mbCjYBM1ZiOrmfHdtgedylzERuTNUVeCuvSOiAQiiBLm16KZhIJSeiqa3KTD-IbXgy2e20UHTYa2h4C9TIaoJx-ubz33vFgtNqXNPbFu9dx5YiUvSZJOORpgpzrMJydzk8vVjgha/s1600/IMG_4379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="840" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi65tn9mbCjYBM1ZiOrmfHdtgedylzERuTNUVeCuvSOiAQiiBLm16KZhIJSeiqa3KTD-IbXgy2e20UHTYa2h4C9TIaoJx-ubz33vFgtNqXNPbFu9dx5YiUvSZJOORpgpzrMJydzk8vVjgha/s640/IMG_4379.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our guide, Piermaria</td></tr>
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The inside of the church inside the monastery was decorated with a number of frescos, all dating to around 1500. The artistry was a bit crude in some cases, but they became interesting as Piermaria explained various elements of symbolism, etc.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This fresco depicted Mary "falling asleep" in death, then ascending into heaven.</td></tr>
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Seeing the inside of the church was interesting, but what was truly spectacular about the visit to the monastery was stepping outside to take in the spectacular views up and down the Susa Valley and to the mountains across the valley. Even though the skies were cloudy and the lighting was dull, it was still amazing.</div>
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As we started our drive back down the mountain, we came to a place in the road where there was a gap in the trees, revealing a dramatic view of the Sacra in its mountain setting. We were not privileged to see the full drama of that view on a crystal clear day, but what we did see was still rewarding. None of us regretted making the trip.</div>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-79433752828887913572018-06-03T00:36:00.000-06:002018-06-03T00:36:53.654-06:00Piemonte: What a Finish!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Wine afficionados like to speak about the finish of a wine. It is the taste that lingers on the palate after the wine has been swallowed (or, for those who don't "inhale," spit out). One can wax as lyrical about the finish as one can about the aromas, the tastes, the tannins of a wine.</div>
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Since I have been on a wine tour, the "finish" seemed a particularly appropriate metaphor for the last day of our stay here in southern Piemonte. I think I was not alone among our small group of tour participants in thinking, as we set out yesterday morning from San Martino Alfieri, something along these lines: "Oh, God. I don't know how many more glasses of wine I can drink, how much more food I can consume, and if I eat another grissino (bread stick), I may burst.</div>
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But.</div>
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That was before we arrived at the Marenco winery in Strevi, near Acqui Terme in the far southern reaches of Piemonte, with views of the Apennine Mountains in the distance. There, we were greeted by Andrea Costa, son of Michela Marenco Costa, who runs the family winery along with his sisters. After a short tour of the winery, where the firm's Moscato d'Asti and Brachetto d'Acqui are made along with other wines, we were taken high into the hills above Strevi to see Marenco's vineyards, some of which have been in the family for generations.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roses were traditionally planted at the end of rows of vines because<br />they tended to warn vignerons of adverse conditions in the vineyard.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm afraid I established a bit of a reputation with my iPhone camera while on this trip. And then there was the time early yesterday morning when I went up to the terrace outside the castello to get a shot of the sunrise, setting off the castle's motion detector alarms in the process ... </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There just <i>may</i> have been some posing back and forth in the vineyards going on ...</td></tr>
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None of us anticipated what awaited us after our tour of the vineyard. We walked back to our mini-bus then drove up and down and around until we arrived at the home of the Costa family on a hill in the midst of vineyards with panoramic views spread out before us. There, under the shade of trees, we found a wine tasting that one could only really dream of because I couldn't have imagined that such an idyllic spot existed. </div>
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There, we were greeted by Andrea's mother, sister, wife and other family members and treated to glasses of Moscato d'Asti and served, straight out of the wood-fired oven, the most delicious focacchia I have ever tasted. The combination of the wine, the bread, the location and the people was nothing short of heavenly. Seriously.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michela Marengo Costa bursting with enthusiasm and life.<br />What a privilege it was to meet her.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Cindy, one of my new friends from this tour.</td></tr>
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This experience on a hillside outside of Strevi was like tasting a new wine whose flavor bursts in the mouth, totally unexpected, leaving wide eyes and a smiling face. Such a choice experience, and so appropriate for our last day in Piemonte.</div>
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Thereafter followed lunch at a restaurant high atop a ridge that commanded a beautiful view of the valleys below and the mountains in the distance.</div>
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That evening, we traveled to Treiso for our farewell dinner in a beautiful restaurant with a stunner view of the Barbaresco appellation and the countryside beyond, off to the mountains in the distance. </div>
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It has been a wonderful week, but one of the choicest experiences among the many we've had in the last seven days was that gathering on a hillside at the Costa home, being with the Costa family, drinking Marenco Moscato and Brachetto and eating homemade focaccia fresh out of a brick wood-burning oven. That finish will linger long and fresh and sweet among the many memories of this amazing introduction to the wine country of Piemonte.</div>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-23340990780265306422018-06-02T01:05:00.000-06:002018-06-02T01:05:26.879-06:00Barolo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday morning, we awoke to clear blue skies after a week of dark, cloudy days with occasional bouts of sunshine. For the first time since arriving here, I saw the Alps in the distance, which drew closer as we headed to Barolo for a master class at <a href="https://www.mauromolino.com/en/" target="_blank">Mauro Molino winery</a> in La Morra.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The winery's patio area offered almost 270-degree views of the Barolo denomination.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The village of La Morra</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cedar of Lebanon that is an iconic symbol of the Barolo appellation.</td></tr>
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Our master class was presented by Matteo Molino, son of Mauro. His passion for Barolo was evident as he told us about the history of his family's vineyards and winery. It was a special treat to be able to walk down the road from their home and winery to see their Conca vineyard, then taste a series of made from grapes from this vineyard from vintages spanning almost twenty years.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matteo Molino</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in the Conca vineyard.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matteo led us through a tasting of five vintages from the same Barolo vineyard.</td></tr>
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After our tasting, we drove to the tiny village of Santa Maria La Morra, where Matteo joined us for a long lunch before we moved on to the town of Barolo for a bit of shopping and sightseeing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">French Tarte Tatin a la Piemontese. When I saw this on the menu, I had to order it.<br />
I first had Tarte Tatin when I was a Mormon missionary in Tours, France in 1985.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Barolo with the castle in the background.</td></tr>
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We are now up to around 85-90 different wines we have tasted/imbibed this week, and all of us were feeling a bit "wine-logged" (not to mention food-logged) by the end of the afternoon yesterday when we got back to our lodgings at Marchesi Alfieri. But we weren't done yet: we enjoyed a light supper on the estate last night with two more local vignerons: Daniela Rocca of <a href="http://www.albinorocca.com/en/" target="_blank">Albino Rocca</a> in Barbaresco and Alessandro Boido of <a href="http://www.cadgal.it/en/" target="_blank">Ca'D'Gal</a> in Santo Stefano Belbo in the Cuneo area.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniela Rocca</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniela, Suzanne Hoffman and Alessandro Boido</td></tr>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-75532192135931495892018-06-01T00:43:00.000-06:002018-06-01T00:54:01.941-06:00A Spectacular Day in Roero and Langhe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There are several wine-producing areas in southern Piemonte, two of the chief of which are Langhe and Roero. Lange, on the right bank of the Tanaro River, produces, among other wines, Barbaresco and Barolo. Roero is across the river. It is known for the white wine Arneis, but among other wines also produces a softer, more feminine expression of Nebbiolo. It was to Canale, in Roero, that we headed yesterday morning.</div>
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Our destination: the Deltetto Winery in Canale. Here, Tony Deltetto has been crafting still wines from Barbera, Nebbiolo and Arneis varieties for forty years as well as, for the past 18 years, sparkling wines from Pinot Nero (Noir) and Chardonnay. He has been joined by his son, Carlo.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carlo Deltetto</td></tr>
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Though Deltetto produces a wide range of wines, yesterday's visit focused on their sparkling wine production, which uses the "methodo classico" method (the same way Champagne is produced) versus the tank method (used in the production of Prosecco). The essential difference between the two is that the first entails a second fermentation and aging in individual bottles. Carlo explained all of this as he gave us a tour of their winery and cellars. This was followed by a tasting in which we tasted ten (!) different vintages of their sparkling wines made in blends of varying percentages of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay.</div>
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After the tasting was completed, Carlo and Tony joined us for lunch at Osteria dell'Enoteca in Canale where we had a fantastic lunch accompanied by a number of still wines produced by Deltetto.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suzanne Hoffman and Chef Davide Palluda</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fellow guest Talei Broom (no relation, but a great name) and me</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tony Deltetto and me</td></tr>
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Our day was capped yesterday evening with a visit to Michelin-starred restaurant Marc Lanterei Ristorante al Castello di Grinzane Cavour, located in the castle of Cavour. It was a beautiful evening, the heavy clouds that have hung over the region clearing as we made our way there.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our hosts for the evening: Chef Marc Lanteri and his wife (also a chef), American Amy Bellotti.</td></tr>
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Upon stepping out into the night air following dinner, we saw the castle bathed in light and, in the eastern sky, a spectacular full moon rising over the hills of the Langhe. It couldn't possibly have been a more picture-perfect moment.</div>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-76322880111023252072018-05-31T01:07:00.001-06:002018-05-31T01:07:12.201-06:00Of Asti, Cooking Class and ... Missing Him<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We set off for the city of Asti yesterday morning. The name should be familiar to many Americans because of the famous Asti Spumante -- a sweet, sparkling wine that is produced in the area from the Moscato grape. The spumante has a somewhat dubious reputation, but its more respectable sibling is Moscato d'Asti. But we didn't go to Asti to taste wine. We went to stroll around open-air markets and to attend a cooking class taught by Chef Enrico Trova at <a href="http://www.scuolagourmet.com/" target="_blank">La Scuola di Cucina di Asti</a>. </div>
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On the menu were, as antipasto, <i>Tortino di Verdura con Fonduta</i> (mixed vegetable flan with cheese), as primo, Gnocchi al Ragu Piemontese, and for dessert, <i>Bunet </i>(Chocolate and Almond Cookie Flan). I sat patiently as Chef Enrico went through all the steps in making the three courses while others took copious notes. I don't cook, you see, and I wasn't about to start learning with something as complicated as <i>Gnocchi Al Ragu Piemontese</i>. I was content to watch ... and eat the finished product.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLT4KrUQlzLL5QBFCraRtnMYncFj_JTLkV0eHRjA1b2JPCb8EsisCiZgRyLjtLRl0VdMEtQuxyYOsA8rDEIf5JxPRPnWxdlGhVrZvZSuBPZKB4HgHHFCIGWlhCFZb0txQaXJZpklA9ShiS/s1600/IMG_1123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="894" data-original-width="1365" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLT4KrUQlzLL5QBFCraRtnMYncFj_JTLkV0eHRjA1b2JPCb8EsisCiZgRyLjtLRl0VdMEtQuxyYOsA8rDEIf5JxPRPnWxdlGhVrZvZSuBPZKB4HgHHFCIGWlhCFZb0txQaXJZpklA9ShiS/s640/IMG_1123.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chef Enrico</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOKZhGqGcixMunthDKh0PNfE3qoQ8kW-f-n-GCDI28zzkhNnEsaZb4HZnj6fxyFZoxbuU5EEfxwvRORxGpgdeuS4vIiVQwCLhQdt54irLmdbfZSJf2pRKkzNOMaK0rSIhgW3dqXkG0ryO/s1600/IMG_1110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="840" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOKZhGqGcixMunthDKh0PNfE3qoQ8kW-f-n-GCDI28zzkhNnEsaZb4HZnj6fxyFZoxbuU5EEfxwvRORxGpgdeuS4vIiVQwCLhQdt54irLmdbfZSJf2pRKkzNOMaK0rSIhgW3dqXkG0ryO/s640/IMG_1110.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS0f3f4bQJyC4gyi6e4MwjdeMDDnYd3oq2hCX0kDdT6xzqKLMR9GF2SP9TiBV_vdQQJuEOl0xns-EGsgG60K3dvFJGOS1JJaYZRnu8s29UHVBRk56i2eSUpY6VvO9dJ1PxgslEVSDE1GoQ/s1600/IMG_1156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1050" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS0f3f4bQJyC4gyi6e4MwjdeMDDnYd3oq2hCX0kDdT6xzqKLMR9GF2SP9TiBV_vdQQJuEOl0xns-EGsgG60K3dvFJGOS1JJaYZRnu8s29UHVBRk56i2eSUpY6VvO9dJ1PxgslEVSDE1GoQ/s640/IMG_1156.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gnocchi is made, essentially, from potatoes. Here, Chef Enrico peels the skins<br />
off the potatoes that will be transformed into gnocchi.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsasdHK2omcfZtH_JfrhgQbvsqT7xK1Mh-hLzSLVPI5SZSLVKe2tWaxbY7OjaOyMnb0V8tXeqxXUtrvPYonOP1cnHa0OSbQDgU2nJp_ErFPH4fBf0NkjJqCemIbMVpX7YHGIFmBJmCmUGg/s1600/IMG_1166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="978" data-original-width="978" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsasdHK2omcfZtH_JfrhgQbvsqT7xK1Mh-hLzSLVPI5SZSLVKe2tWaxbY7OjaOyMnb0V8tXeqxXUtrvPYonOP1cnHa0OSbQDgU2nJp_ErFPH4fBf0NkjJqCemIbMVpX7YHGIFmBJmCmUGg/s640/IMG_1166.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bit of flour and an eggs are added to the cooled potatoes, which will be kneaded into the dough<br />
to make the little gnocchi dumplings.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdyhxizEvlTTfz2vNLigNx-3t__Nm6xGA_9gU76KhQy8RjmKyuPd_s5tewA_Qar8tNzA9GBemFcO0vQ3ClHjFiZfCZPLm_DLVYHNA4hjxdayaeadyFg5apj7gIBn3m7fZOKAERs-qaaQs/s1600/IMG_3607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1213" data-original-width="1213" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdyhxizEvlTTfz2vNLigNx-3t__Nm6xGA_9gU76KhQy8RjmKyuPd_s5tewA_Qar8tNzA9GBemFcO0vQ3ClHjFiZfCZPLm_DLVYHNA4hjxdayaeadyFg5apj7gIBn3m7fZOKAERs-qaaQs/s640/IMG_3607.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the transformation begins ...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Op5EDxwd5_St1uGu2wMND6qzqtYMz6af8j_G2KS02namV-rOgOWhtJXD3r2IjrjeJB6lXbj77hOccgZ5WAbYFnyPIrRIP5NUAbAZM-jMcEtmmxUdHQ_kv8tkN4CQG2uuj2Q0ZxshRAqO/s1600/IMG_1172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1120" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Op5EDxwd5_St1uGu2wMND6qzqtYMz6af8j_G2KS02namV-rOgOWhtJXD3r2IjrjeJB6lXbj77hOccgZ5WAbYFnyPIrRIP5NUAbAZM-jMcEtmmxUdHQ_kv8tkN4CQG2uuj2Q0ZxshRAqO/s640/IMG_1172.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kGAVupfYl3czBKyIctqtAowxZmY-bQwjPW8atRDbnHMen8zlrq4wC3Mw3gg0bnPI5KMdefQj82dcBthExQIjEBKJfdYYvCUWEuLZOBzhbD9xVggiTr1SDUSNgR2BEjsQ0J8QFcET1BAK/s1600/IMG_1831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1260" data-original-width="1260" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kGAVupfYl3czBKyIctqtAowxZmY-bQwjPW8atRDbnHMen8zlrq4wC3Mw3gg0bnPI5KMdefQj82dcBthExQIjEBKJfdYYvCUWEuLZOBzhbD9xVggiTr1SDUSNgR2BEjsQ0J8QFcET1BAK/s640/IMG_1831.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicnLAgBboqsFYgA6OmaxHNS4tRfzI3mc7JbUP0eR4cDXXHHQD7ctFvjNxWa8KQl4Ksiob8r54vUCGy3t0y4w8ZxUaWH7IRHKzEaYT2OsNaU5lyzCe4yXfhnjBbhXsdpyL7FlqRpxCihr5e/s1600/IMG_1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1099" data-original-width="1600" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicnLAgBboqsFYgA6OmaxHNS4tRfzI3mc7JbUP0eR4cDXXHHQD7ctFvjNxWa8KQl4Ksiob8r54vUCGy3t0y4w8ZxUaWH7IRHKzEaYT2OsNaU5lyzCe4yXfhnjBbhXsdpyL7FlqRpxCihr5e/s640/IMG_1200.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying on Chef Enrico's onion-chopping glasses.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitIvvuI0gOfCrLCVUN9EXza5m5uT2H6ERNRw0HiNmup7vWC6g1MJCG8AC-ubI4T128z5aFzjdRJYqqIdf25tI8IWEtIFsfEqFvz77n0F6J5fNMdFoP-5ngMzRefaCPc0QVE8iO2LFJZH7E/s1600/IMG_1151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1153" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitIvvuI0gOfCrLCVUN9EXza5m5uT2H6ERNRw0HiNmup7vWC6g1MJCG8AC-ubI4T128z5aFzjdRJYqqIdf25tI8IWEtIFsfEqFvz77n0F6J5fNMdFoP-5ngMzRefaCPc0QVE8iO2LFJZH7E/s640/IMG_1151.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTWapdEIE8jy05bpeBzc1aBB5-CGZ6mttLymPTQMQFGO6354B0aH51hB_o1XJ7nz5bjKREpd_9U9tCwRVsGPCf8M2nZvvOmSWvVkXZgxgcqaOQ0MKUMT_IE5XQi3cvliNzCh1KsVRJRL10/s1600/IMG_1184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1120" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTWapdEIE8jy05bpeBzc1aBB5-CGZ6mttLymPTQMQFGO6354B0aH51hB_o1XJ7nz5bjKREpd_9U9tCwRVsGPCf8M2nZvvOmSWvVkXZgxgcqaOQ0MKUMT_IE5XQi3cvliNzCh1KsVRJRL10/s640/IMG_1184.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOSQLPaDWZFPBVPbMDFjtqL1vgPzwpobXFBs-P9X3jKsTgYf-jQpw8HsJdvT_qu2ZBqWrXG3VGv8tV8bmqwwcR3KNcj9GTPwne2vy8XLfePo4cT9xX5ddV85EJ_cfcWp4Dj7Zd-Yx5Rct/s1600/IMG_9036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="1250" height="570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOSQLPaDWZFPBVPbMDFjtqL1vgPzwpobXFBs-P9X3jKsTgYf-jQpw8HsJdvT_qu2ZBqWrXG3VGv8tV8bmqwwcR3KNcj9GTPwne2vy8XLfePo4cT9xX5ddV85EJ_cfcWp4Dj7Zd-Yx5Rct/s640/IMG_9036.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The finished, oh so good, product.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1veJUhGXMOsNRjobBHlAxDf2P6Zp4At231WhqGM0xL5L8136Tz9ED667DZZJKxX4BJChGpD-mr7KmGXzb3yYY-8ijczz62o-rnI065P6mOj5Gohx-TrO7nUy0v0IpHGnDta37NiQ2GKwW/s1600/IMG_1174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1120" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1veJUhGXMOsNRjobBHlAxDf2P6Zp4At231WhqGM0xL5L8136Tz9ED667DZZJKxX4BJChGpD-mr7KmGXzb3yYY-8ijczz62o-rnI065P6mOj5Gohx-TrO7nUy0v0IpHGnDta37NiQ2GKwW/s640/IMG_1174.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meanwhile, it's time to work on the appetizer, one of the yummiest things I've ever tasted.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqfj9s3sGEs5tKg0CKTIIu7q7lFEYtehqjATQeRu_HjPSp0WjL1HFelu5VfuEUmQhACFy0Tjb9ctSWS0ASJkDFiodIhJPaA_-26p3wPOWsQQ8crYkFlRCHrCPyp__gAD3fb32TYtKvsNF/s1600/IMG_1176.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqfj9s3sGEs5tKg0CKTIIu7q7lFEYtehqjATQeRu_HjPSp0WjL1HFelu5VfuEUmQhACFy0Tjb9ctSWS0ASJkDFiodIhJPaA_-26p3wPOWsQQ8crYkFlRCHrCPyp__gAD3fb32TYtKvsNF/s640/IMG_1176.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preparing the cheese sauce</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3hOx6soon5kkN96vXw1oex1AC8JbxctTyZIhEp51zzJE3kRPaCpmaYUwDDnxdMMlr0fFCy42idaR9bZ0sQiq5dT96BKV1mJWqs14cCa_mStlK89TSMUNFXSbUmLco3lnlWnGHd0YdFsq/s1600/IMG_1180.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1260" data-original-width="1260" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3hOx6soon5kkN96vXw1oex1AC8JbxctTyZIhEp51zzJE3kRPaCpmaYUwDDnxdMMlr0fFCy42idaR9bZ0sQiq5dT96BKV1mJWqs14cCa_mStlK89TSMUNFXSbUmLco3lnlWnGHd0YdFsq/s640/IMG_1180.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNXOWpsdJciHLDwm3k_9cpREPdWDzFh-JhSrIw4N87hGys2WnzG6Wo-lbbCrkRiSKZigExLmC96RViHudGNixVhVmECOacvQefVjc7uxgWWce6QUAkGCLORZ8XqII-QyYdhgKUO5FQest5/s1600/IMG_1181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="1146" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNXOWpsdJciHLDwm3k_9cpREPdWDzFh-JhSrIw4N87hGys2WnzG6Wo-lbbCrkRiSKZigExLmC96RViHudGNixVhVmECOacvQefVjc7uxgWWce6QUAkGCLORZ8XqII-QyYdhgKUO5FQest5/s640/IMG_1181.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yum. Yum. Yum.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuoWqoQHItiazBh0K15oRexY9CxBnWrGBcy0nItY256pg4LsbeOcsW2tMHNZG5Y_vyA8ITHU49ZjQkzMqaeQGj1kvISmTisD4yoVqn1dxuodTvB1vET1E9BFiXpXm4WiIwq9rTWpX5xhgB/s1600/IMG_1187.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1018" data-original-width="1456" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuoWqoQHItiazBh0K15oRexY9CxBnWrGBcy0nItY256pg4LsbeOcsW2tMHNZG5Y_vyA8ITHU49ZjQkzMqaeQGj1kvISmTisD4yoVqn1dxuodTvB1vET1E9BFiXpXm4WiIwq9rTWpX5xhgB/s640/IMG_1187.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And then, of course, dessert.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMX5fESdJ34PjjHd7tbhMI2BznznbelWBhu9i657Hape3hj7a5GIQOJLzd4iRboktjXe5c8Ytt0to-p88OzALtHvtppidVvxmu9fdJuunwUeafPKW1qbQAhaRhipd4D17yCEoqZtaLZI26/s1600/IMG_9304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="628" data-original-width="1074" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMX5fESdJ34PjjHd7tbhMI2BznznbelWBhu9i657Hape3hj7a5GIQOJLzd4iRboktjXe5c8Ytt0to-p88OzALtHvtppidVvxmu9fdJuunwUeafPKW1qbQAhaRhipd4D17yCEoqZtaLZI26/s640/IMG_9304.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The graduating class of May 30, 2018</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
This trip has been amazing. I absolutely loved my bike tour across southern Italy, and this week in Piemonte has been fun and fascinating. It is an extension and a reflection of the life I have constructed for myself during the past two years since Mark's death. Most of the time, though I miss Mark, I am fine. But there are times when a wave of grief sweeps me off my feet and the pain of missing him flares with intensity.<br />
<br />
One of those times occurred last night during dinner. I didn't expect it, and it surprised me--as is always the case--with its intensity. I had been talking to someone about something--I can't remember now--and was scrolling through pictures on my camera. I came to several taken during our visit to southern Bavaria in the fall of 2015, and the memory of all the magical moments we shared there came cascading to the forefront of my mind. And, suddenly, though I am happy and grateful for this amazing trip and all that I have, I missed him. I always will. I lost it a bit, but friends were there to help me breathe through it. And life goes on. And I'm grateful for it.<br />
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-950596696249963412018-05-30T08:38:00.000-06:002018-06-03T11:08:35.985-06:00Alba, Al Fresco, and Alfieri<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzE33_egyesJjjvpmoO7V8gvBOwf5FMY5SA6_eIrFC2PIVtfLhqp3c21QnEK9NZuma21hsakADqSXNXCPJrrrDODiUKoibvf8mu-eVxn6QE7O9sMl34xNCHP_e-iKT4CQCRMKn6EvGwa-/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="1091" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzE33_egyesJjjvpmoO7V8gvBOwf5FMY5SA6_eIrFC2PIVtfLhqp3c21QnEK9NZuma21hsakADqSXNXCPJrrrDODiUKoibvf8mu-eVxn6QE7O9sMl34xNCHP_e-iKT4CQCRMKn6EvGwa-/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This wine trip continues to be an embarrassment of riches, so to speak. Rich experiences wrapped in gorgeous views, lovely wines and beautiful people.</div>
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Our day started out yesterday with a visit to <a href="http://www.punset.com/en/lazienda/" target="_blank">Punset Winery</a>, whose owner, <a href="http://www.punset.com/en/marina-marcarino/" target="_blank">Marina Marcarino</a>, was and is a pioneer, not only as a female producer in what used to be a man's world, but also in biodynamic vineyard management and wine production not only in the Barbaresco zone but in Piemonte and Italy as well.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0iuy8LOVf4c-vVQ2n75JmCwn87VYpxIULtUzSLKLN0195fQWXzSTCIjg2tgNFyQB5GCyc1FE3gcxnUmPpHTFxfr1KjjGQawAgoSvWIJX8wW7bMDVdqwLp0WFivtRboYdOjrcKR7jkC7A/s1600/IMG_0501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1120" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0iuy8LOVf4c-vVQ2n75JmCwn87VYpxIULtUzSLKLN0195fQWXzSTCIjg2tgNFyQB5GCyc1FE3gcxnUmPpHTFxfr1KjjGQawAgoSvWIJX8wW7bMDVdqwLp0WFivtRboYdOjrcKR7jkC7A/s640/IMG_0501.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbaresco vineyards below Sunset</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: justify;">Marina Marcarino</span></td></tr>
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Marina, who had just returned from a business trip to the United States the day before, treated us not only to a few of her wines but as well presented us with a fascinating discussion of her approach to biodynamics and the difference that approach has made to her wines.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neive, one of the three villages of the Barbaresco denomination,<br />
viewed across the valley from Punset.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sheral, Marina and Suzanne</td></tr>
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From Punset, we headed to the village of Barbaresco itself for an al fresco luncheon in the middle of town. There, we were joined by Davide Pasquero, who combines his international business background, his deep knowledge of wine and his passion for cycling in the services offered by his company, <a href="https://www.terroirselection.com/" target="_blank">Terroir Selection</a>. Obviously, Davide and I had no shortage of topics to discuss over lunch.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqUjQthcFOOvlmZ0bXj9f2LIVESsH5aRqppJna0Kh_8bBUoZ_EVV2d1DO-1IDe2R1C8fItdCJXgysK1uOoY5o6aTP3X5ORyNNflVL4yr4QafJqmYrarrALktNS99jlSovQUsmGwlNxGz5/s1600/IMG_1006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1120" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqUjQthcFOOvlmZ0bXj9f2LIVESsH5aRqppJna0Kh_8bBUoZ_EVV2d1DO-1IDe2R1C8fItdCJXgysK1uOoY5o6aTP3X5ORyNNflVL4yr4QafJqmYrarrALktNS99jlSovQUsmGwlNxGz5/s640/IMG_1006.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Davide Pasquero and me</td></tr>
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From Barbaresco, we headed to Alba, one of the largest towns in the region, for a few hours of strolling, shopping and aperitivi. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A (somewhat blurry) shot of the vineyard landscape as we headed from Barbaresco to Alba.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My new discovery: a Contrattino, Alba's answer to an Aperol Spritz.</td></tr>
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From Alba, it was back to our home base of Marchesi Alfieri. Awaiting us was an enchanting evening of simple dinner fare, wonderful wines and interaction with yet more members of Suzanne Hoffman's extended wine producer families, including Marina Marsaglia, owner of <a href="http://www.cantinamarsaglia.it/index_en.html" target="_blank">Cantina Marsaglia</a>, all in the beautiful setting of the orangerie of the Castello Alfieri.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the owners of Marchesi Alfieri, <br />
Donna Giovanna San Martino di San Germano, dropped in to say hello.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marina Marsaglia, owner of Cantina Marsaglia, who brought bottles of two of her delicious Roero Arneis.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suzanne Hoffman, Marina Marsaglia and her husband, Emilio, and Donna Giovanna.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lori, Michelle and Mandy pose with a photograph of La Tota -- both the bottle of Marches Alfieri wine that was served and a photograph of the Alfieri relative (who was a single woman) for whom the wine is named. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our group, along with Davide Pasquale, Marina Marsaglia and her husband, Emilio. <br />
What a night!</td></tr>
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<br />Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-28096339248490930402018-05-29T01:08:00.002-06:002018-05-30T00:15:03.976-06:00A Day In Barbaresco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Barbaresco. Barolo. Alba. Asti. Monferrato. Langhe. Roero.<br />
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I started learning about these names and places, along with others, almost two years ago. For those new to the world of Italian wine, this region is home to a number of iconic Italian grape varieties, chief of which is Nebbiolo, named after the fog -- nebbia -- which is common in the hills of this area in the fall. The variety is essentially grown nowhere else in the world but here, and it finds its ultimate expression in Barolo and Barbaresco, often referred to as the "king" and "queen," respectively, of Italian wine. Other well-known wines made here include Barbera and Moscato d'Asti.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Un cappuccino, always a good start to a day in Italy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast in the Marguerita guest house.</td></tr>
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Yesterday morning, we drove to the heart of the Barbaresco vineyards, then on to Ca'del Baio, a winery owned and operated by the Grasso family whose patriarch, Julio, won an Italian winemaker of the year award in 2016. We were met by Julio's oldest daughter, Paola, for an orientation of the vineyards, then she led us to the winery for a tasting and lunch.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paola Grasso with the village of Barbaresco in the background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mandy and me</td></tr>
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At Ca' Del Baio, we would be treated to an extraordinary side-by-side tasting of six vintages, spanning from 2001 to 2015, of Ca' Del Baio's Barbaresco from their Asili cru. As we did so, Paola explained the characteristics of each vintage's growing season, often including particular weather trials, be they hail, weeks without rain, weeks with rain or racing to harvest grapes before bad weather could degrade an otherwise promising crop. I had to laugh, however, when she explained that she did not engage in the "poesie" (poetry) of the sommelier and looked to us to describe the characteristics of the wine.</div>
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After the tasting, we were treated to a simple but delicious cold lunch that concluded with flan and tortes made by Paola's mother, Luciana.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hands down, best ham and cantaloupe I've ever tasted.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luciana</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luciana and Suzanne Hoffman</td></tr>
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This is a good point to explain that this tour was organized by Suzanne Hoffman, author of the book, <i>Labor of Love: Wine Family Women of Piemonte</i>. Suzanne first started coming to Piemonte when she lived and worked in Switzerland with her husband. Over the years, she started becoming acquainted with various wine families here, and she eventually decided to write a book focusing on the stories of families where women had come to play key (and nontraditional) roles in the wine industry here. </div>
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Because of Suzanne's personal relationships with a number of families, she was able to organize a tour here that offers us a window on the families and industry that most others are not afforded. Such was the case at Ca' Del Baio.<br />
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Such was also the case later in the day at Tenute Cisa Asinari Dei Marchesi Di Grésy, owned by Alberto di Grésy. There, we had an after-hours tour of the winery and tasting conducted by cellar master Jeffrey Chilcott, a native New Zealander who has been living and working in Piemonte for decades.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeffrey Chilcott leading us on a tour of the winery and cellar</td></tr>
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The tasting was an embarrassment of riches. First up, a Sauvignon Blanc, hardly a wine typically associated with Piemonte, but one which surprised and delighted many of us, myself included. That was followed by a Chardonnay before we moved into Nebiollos and Barbarescos, including some older vintages. I loved every wine and will definitely be looking for the brand back in the U.S.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Albert di Grésy dropped in unexpectedly on our tasting to say hello.</td></tr>
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After the tasting, it was off to dinner at a small, informal place in yet another village, joined by Jeffrey Chilcott as well as several people from Ca' Del Baio. It was quite the evening, featuring local dishes and, of course, lots of local wine. Another grueling day in Piemonte, packed with food, wine and lots of laughter and happy memories.</div>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-43062154082786210652018-05-28T00:59:00.000-06:002018-05-28T01:15:46.007-06:00Into Piemonte Wine Country<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Two years ago this fall, I was looking around for something to focus on, something to do after Mark's death. I had always had a mild interest in wine, so I signed up to attend a Lifelong Learning class on Italian white wines being offered through the University of Utah and taught by Salt Lake City resident and wine educator, Sheral Schowe. </div>
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While at that class, I discovered that Sheral would be starting an eight-week course offered through the international Wine Scholar Guild on Northern Italian wines. I signed up. I completed that course and eventually took the French Wine Scholar course and the course on central and southern Italian wines, but ever since that first course, I've wanted to go to Piemonte (Piedmont) -- the "Burgundy of Italy."</div>
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So, here I now am, having arrived yesterday with my group of fellow Salt Lake wine enthusiasts for a week-long stay at the Locanda Marchesi Alfieri in San Martino Alfieri, a winery, B&B and former home of the Marchese di Alfieri. Descendants of the family still live in the "manor house" during the summer but rent out rooms to wine tour groups in the surrounding out-buildings.</div>
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Upon our arrival and after a brief tour of the grounds, we plunged right into a tasting in the estate's Orangerie featuring six cheeses from around Piemonte along with various paired Alfieri wines.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doors leading into the Orangerie</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigv7B1XjOFXxCpJfEmFfScrvSPB18N3BPUa2K97-WTdMIo-MZARuODzFiTBd6JjRRxA1HiojoTgugLl9TmzD_DlbXc1wXcxhY0Gt4l6JtRoEUhfjXWQShYV2IbtU0BdtWG-SNQEkCoa7yJ/s1600/IMG_3929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1149" data-original-width="1149" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigv7B1XjOFXxCpJfEmFfScrvSPB18N3BPUa2K97-WTdMIo-MZARuODzFiTBd6JjRRxA1HiojoTgugLl9TmzD_DlbXc1wXcxhY0Gt4l6JtRoEUhfjXWQShYV2IbtU0BdtWG-SNQEkCoa7yJ/s640/IMG_3929.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mandy: Wine Wife #!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lori: Wine Wife #2</td></tr>
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Following the tasting, we were given a tour of Alfieri's cellars, then we headed off to the Barbaresco area for our first winery visit, at Cascina della Rose, founded by Giovanna Rizzolio but run today by her two sons, Riccardo and Davide Sobrino. That was a fun experience as we sampled some of their Barberas and Barbarescos.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alfieri cellars</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Davide and Riccardo Sobrino of Cascina della Rose</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of the vineyards and village of Barbaresco from Cascina della Rose.</td></tr>
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Our day concluded with a marathon meal at a restaurant in Priocca d'Alba, starting with appetizers in the restaurant's cellar. At midnight, we arrived back at the Locanda, and boy was I ready for bed. I went to sleep with the sound of hail cannons firing around the hills in advance of a threatening thunderstorm. This week may end up being more grueling than my bike tour!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Bob: This one's for you. I finally found a fava bean salad I liked.)</td></tr>
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<br />Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-45326126025718257212018-05-27T07:41:00.000-06:002018-06-07T09:48:06.043-06:00Southern Italy: Like Christmas Every Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"It was like Christmas every day."<br />
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The group of us were sitting around the dinner table on our last night of our cycling tour across southern Italy, talking about how much we had enjoyed the last 11 days. As we had climbed the last big ascent of the tour earlier that day, I had mentally reviewed how much I had enjoyed the trip and how, each day, there had been incredible vistas, memorable moments, lots of laughter, choice cultural experiences and lots and lots of excellent cycling. That's when the thought had come to me: It feels like it's been Christmas every day.</div>
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I have rarely enjoyed a trip as much as I did this one. I started out trying to blog every day, but that quickly went by the boards because of internet access issues and time constraints, so the purpose of this post is to provide a photographic overview of why the trip seemed like "Christmas every day."</div>
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In my last post, we had arrived in Matera, the site of one the longest continually inhabited towns in the world. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, Matera is unusual for the dwellings that were carved into the sides of limestone cliffs. We had a rest day there and our guides took all of us across the canyon from Matera for a hike.</div>
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We needed the rest day so that we could tackle the next day of cycling, which would see us ride 61 miles and climb 6500 feet through gorgeous scenery to the fairytale-like town of Castelmezzano nestled on the slopes of the "Little Dolomites."</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting ready to head out from Matera</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mid-morning support stop</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I loved the cloudscapes in Puglia and Basilicata</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picnic lunch spread in a small park in Grassano. Best picnic I've ever attended.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grassano</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Albano di Lucania</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Castelmezzano</td></tr>
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The next day's riding took us further into the mountains. We rode through oak and pine forests, past fields of wildflowers, hillsides drenched in Scotch broom, and vistas of valleys below. Our destination for the day: Padula, just inside Campania.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQ2a0ok_5NbsNOUqvEQgRPmb3QYl1kXGInY6kZc_Y1-NK4W5N8hCtNskbQ-WlHPMPj3VQD_EyrlvsrSyPA2Hc745sFmgYjBSvPIIqg4oCM6AXbY8KYG9ZbsCcjTfscXZCvhV4fTTe2Lxr/s1600/IMG_7941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="834" data-original-width="834" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQ2a0ok_5NbsNOUqvEQgRPmb3QYl1kXGInY6kZc_Y1-NK4W5N8hCtNskbQ-WlHPMPj3VQD_EyrlvsrSyPA2Hc745sFmgYjBSvPIIqg4oCM6AXbY8KYG9ZbsCcjTfscXZCvhV4fTTe2Lxr/s640/IMG_7941.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Padula</td></tr>
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After arriving in Padula and getting settled in our hotel and showered, my friend Bob and I found a bar for some Aperol Spritzes, then our group later headed out for an evening tour of the monastery of San Lorenzo (Certosa di Padula), the subject of a <a href="http://novus-homo.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-monastery-of-san-lorenzo.html" target="_blank">separate post</a>. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down on the Monastery of San Lorenzo as we descended into town.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking back to the hotel after Aperol Spritzes at a small bar on the town square.</td></tr>
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The next morning, we set out for the seaside town of Palinuro. One of the things we enjoyed about our daily rides were the morning and afternoon "regroups" which often involved stopping in a central piazza in a village with easy access to a coffee bar (and its bathroom). There were always groups of older men sitting and standing around at these places, and the following photograph, taken by tour-mate Kevin, so typifies scenes we saw many times.</div>
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Palinuro would provide our next rest day, and we took advantage of the opportunity to take a boat ride along the coast to look at sea caves, followed by a leisurely lunch in town.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvYclZWW5Mj63IDUT-zu0cq5AORqNGAdj0nFRzio9rGXYu_mN-4TFqwPLO1UkQSKuJ0mTcIc0l3KYm2pTR-pJNGFY7-Ght9oReeEbEEk0vzCGNlq-Xs829PVpBzssf-jbz8ioDAL4TyGXX/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="896" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvYclZWW5Mj63IDUT-zu0cq5AORqNGAdj0nFRzio9rGXYu_mN-4TFqwPLO1UkQSKuJ0mTcIc0l3KYm2pTR-pJNGFY7-Ght9oReeEbEEk0vzCGNlq-Xs829PVpBzssf-jbz8ioDAL4TyGXX/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view from our hotel</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivlE18fIKlCDsJpMDg9onAqIY9n5Z4CDkhK4p5yuhaeMVVxwHMc2aMNDkejeb6BbjFyDcIOk4z0xNeqPjTIRX97lf8R2vy9Yuf4sGi8F3BBdj7TBt9tJvqr3SzN_JAIiEMa8dmT8FDsUBe/s1600/IMG_0591.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="952" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivlE18fIKlCDsJpMDg9onAqIY9n5Z4CDkhK4p5yuhaeMVVxwHMc2aMNDkejeb6BbjFyDcIOk4z0xNeqPjTIRX97lf8R2vy9Yuf4sGi8F3BBdj7TBt9tJvqr3SzN_JAIiEMa8dmT8FDsUBe/s640/IMG_0591.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Our weather luck ran out the next day we set out for Maratea. After stopping for our mid-morning break, the rain started, and by the time we arrived at our lunch stop, we were all drenched. We were all too proud to get in the support van. Fortunately, the afternoon--though cloudy--was dry, and we had a spectacular ride along what our guides referred to as the "unpopulated" (and undiscovered) "Amalfi Coast." </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small marina across from our lunch restaurant in Sapri.</td></tr>
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Our destination that day was the mountain town of Maratea. Our hotel was a 18th-century former convent. My room featured the coolest window ever as well as a telephone straight out of "The Sound of Music."</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIt86AoiYjrTIIjqs_JTBeEko86SVRjTfcTCRwhrz4Z37yUqjeOubTYRYmSaaiHI7eHw4DYWlmWBHzozDqicFRomfXAReCAK2QJa3w8g9xTI9x5voYLyoieA2oycyzIHgGMCKOdeNTMqNn/s1600/IMG_0180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="952" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIt86AoiYjrTIIjqs_JTBeEko86SVRjTfcTCRwhrz4Z37yUqjeOubTYRYmSaaiHI7eHw4DYWlmWBHzozDqicFRomfXAReCAK2QJa3w8g9xTI9x5voYLyoieA2oycyzIHgGMCKOdeNTMqNn/s640/IMG_0180.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The late afternoon sun lit up the village through my window in this (unfiltered) photograph.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqerJ44G4YlUViXEbWcNlWQ6O75zIjHljI8_bLZL2PBxq-pU9EcX6Dg2REB12U6yDTXDOhFssIaeQ9sKX8EhGQ22VQmxPa9QwzE97vxQpKp9f1ZjZZN8Q9_w2F_AVulJJF8gkx2zTps7TC/s1600/IMG_2157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="840" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqerJ44G4YlUViXEbWcNlWQ6O75zIjHljI8_bLZL2PBxq-pU9EcX6Dg2REB12U6yDTXDOhFssIaeQ9sKX8EhGQ22VQmxPa9QwzE97vxQpKp9f1ZjZZN8Q9_w2F_AVulJJF8gkx2zTps7TC/s640/IMG_2157.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We suspect the pool was added after the nuns left. It was too cold for us to try.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiapNGnKr976JsLa6YnNQnkjZDUk6h88w-bnCjYtodw_JWbht1aUvo-DqUv8_pTAg3F_L59t_Mf_rMQkEUFduByb7EROWl5KcgzfvaWvIFaPN81oQXLeALFi8j28q1eqpmZKlwjND8cv6p/s1600/IMG_7862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="806" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiapNGnKr976JsLa6YnNQnkjZDUk6h88w-bnCjYtodw_JWbht1aUvo-DqUv8_pTAg3F_L59t_Mf_rMQkEUFduByb7EROWl5KcgzfvaWvIFaPN81oQXLeALFi8j28q1eqpmZKlwjND8cv6p/s640/IMG_7862.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading out of Maratea with our guide, Frank.</td></tr>
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That day saw us climb up out of Maratea and into the mountains of northwestern Calabria. Our destination that day was Morano Calabro, where we would stay in a family-run hotel and be treated to Calabrian folk music that evening.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpySeJwaotGvW1go8QmaFkfj7Qn9yhbCvnBVZGGtT4mg5XEHHLC-OpjX6xK2ATE9alj19YIlJd4iUSmCDRuzmvCfmJ7Kjlya4VJy_OaEP6_ua3tFt8sfEyUH0TCc_CNnqJ3qCcya2C0oO/s1600/IMG_5484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="840" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpySeJwaotGvW1go8QmaFkfj7Qn9yhbCvnBVZGGtT4mg5XEHHLC-OpjX6xK2ATE9alj19YIlJd4iUSmCDRuzmvCfmJ7Kjlya4VJy_OaEP6_ua3tFt8sfEyUH0TCc_CNnqJ3qCcya2C0oO/s640/IMG_5484.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down on Lauria, our morning break stop.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtYfbF6kn6ngPJJvLKh5kDndhyED8D2wXnc4xHvTSA5ys6UIkljbLLX_wRxSVhxyTiVdvrTtuMdmBoMWHs71txzkoEe8oLYbTPlQ-dof_gw8jZaIy0Sm2hOytJ6F7wcPKXIOMT4Uw5YOt/s1600/IMG_2491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="878" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtYfbF6kn6ngPJJvLKh5kDndhyED8D2wXnc4xHvTSA5ys6UIkljbLLX_wRxSVhxyTiVdvrTtuMdmBoMWHs71txzkoEe8oLYbTPlQ-dof_gw8jZaIy0Sm2hOytJ6F7wcPKXIOMT4Uw5YOt/s640/IMG_2491.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Above Lauria</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrquWr_SbWEYMzl0ckBndzjF5Bc21o-SVbX6oZ7Y2z4VIM-BervfP8W_HA0iv7EqyH7_VDvJgHMu8aAyHG6aofieusyrb1qAsX14vMyBpR9e4vWWBrBhFF3q6G4jir7r_2wKWxnxzSRHRk/s1600/IMG_0650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="630" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrquWr_SbWEYMzl0ckBndzjF5Bc21o-SVbX6oZ7Y2z4VIM-BervfP8W_HA0iv7EqyH7_VDvJgHMu8aAyHG6aofieusyrb1qAsX14vMyBpR9e4vWWBrBhFF3q6G4jir7r_2wKWxnxzSRHRk/s640/IMG_0650.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A church in the first Calabrian town we passed through.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg45kb_R5VC1WQcI-tblMMMe-_WPqObBB3q4l5gmdo5vJmxzaaeSJ4MSY1Abb-1O9Tmtezb5WdP6IYmvyaKi_jO87fPUREoeClL59E4LsX_GfKLjIQCCZIuM9sP1LC6j9JdYqRZXHVnCRhY/s1600/IMG_0651.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="952" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg45kb_R5VC1WQcI-tblMMMe-_WPqObBB3q4l5gmdo5vJmxzaaeSJ4MSY1Abb-1O9Tmtezb5WdP6IYmvyaKi_jO87fPUREoeClL59E4LsX_GfKLjIQCCZIuM9sP1LC6j9JdYqRZXHVnCRhY/s640/IMG_0651.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stunning views at the top of our descent into Morano Calabro. Again, the wildflowers framed and enhanced the views.</td></tr>
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An added bonus that evening was getting to meet my sister-in-law's cousin. The parents of the wife of Mark's brother Tim, Marie, were both born in the village of San Basile, which is only six kilometers from Morano Calabro. During the course of the tour, I had messaged Marie, asking her to remind me where in Calabria her parents were from. I had no idea whether we would pass anywhere near the place, and it wasn't until a day or two before we arrived in Morano that I learned from our guides how close we'd be. I let Marie know, and she got in contact with her second cousin, Marcello, and through a series of events, he ended up joining our party that night in Morano Calabro.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN5zaet7D69j53dFO8CuHZnQWlpnLpGRfucmW_zbVBIJBGZ5J4odjZM38rwYdnbHjExbcAVQiFEKL5NXmf9YPFC5pNKKu1yx2bXbR50iP8YQFKYPS9PwWXSZPfN50Hmx1xb3mjuxbW61aC/s1600/IMG_0153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="1008" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN5zaet7D69j53dFO8CuHZnQWlpnLpGRfucmW_zbVBIJBGZ5J4odjZM38rwYdnbHjExbcAVQiFEKL5NXmf9YPFC5pNKKu1yx2bXbR50iP8YQFKYPS9PwWXSZPfN50Hmx1xb3mjuxbW61aC/s640/IMG_0153.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marcello, seated, the owner of the hotel and me.</td></tr>
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Our last day of the tour would see us ride from Morano to the coast, at Cittadella del Capo. It was another beautiful day of varied scenery, capped with a spectacular sunset over the Tyrrhenian Sea that night. It was the perfect ending to a perfect tour. 455 miles, 42,000 feet and countless moments of wonder, delight and laughter. Like Christmas every day.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaving Morano Calabro.</td></tr>
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<br />Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-24778760162208129692018-05-26T22:59:00.000-06:002018-05-26T22:59:01.302-06:00From the South to the North<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday morning for me started off in Cittadella del Capo, a seaside resort town in Calabria. My cycling tour had ended the previous evening as we shared wine and laughter while watching a gorgeous sunset over the Tyrrhenian Sea.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our excellent guides, Dana and Frank</td></tr>
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The morning had dawned bright and clear, highlighting the beautiful blue of the sea. After breakfast, our little group split up, Bob and Kevin heading north to Rome and Tuscany by train, Roger and Lori heading south to the airport to begin their long journey home to Wisconsin.</div>
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I, for my part, headed for the airport later that morning, taking a flight to Rome, then a connecting flight to Turin where I would join a wine tour of Piemonte (Piedmont) with a group of people from Salt Lake, some of whom have become good friends over the course of the past two years. They had all arrived in the previous couple of days; I made a mad dash from the airport to be able to join them for dinner. It was a fun night as I was introduced to Piemontese cuisine and sampled several wines.</div>
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Our restaurant was almost directly across the street from the National Museum of Cinema (pictured below). Our group, well lubricated with wine, posed for pictures outside our restaurant (see lead photo above) with the view of the museum's unique tower above us.</div>
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I had only had time to drop off my bags in my room before going to dinner. Later, my friends showed me around the place a bit. It was apparent I wasn't in southern Italy anymore. I'm grateful to be here and to finish off my Italian adventure with a week in the Piemonte wine country.</div>
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Oh, and I also left the sunshine behind in southern Italy. It was raining when I arrived last night, and the forecast calls for rain and thunderstorms almost all of the week. Oh well, at least I won't be on my bike.</div>
Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-40542255114911522712018-05-25T07:11:00.000-06:002018-05-28T07:12:40.097-06:00The Monastery of San Lorenzo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVppuDew_GGFnPeojB4woLJ-fngN93ZP_hyphenhyphen0ZTq2QRnVg-lh3S1LRGaabAybt6fBFZBUs4sooZvT9rEoDZfNZLmO5MKixm8ak_A9fZNgls7tb7s3-K-1pvN_ch9SpK9XojhKMN29fYKsZ/s1600/IMG_1794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="1042" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVppuDew_GGFnPeojB4woLJ-fngN93ZP_hyphenhyphen0ZTq2QRnVg-lh3S1LRGaabAybt6fBFZBUs4sooZvT9rEoDZfNZLmO5MKixm8ak_A9fZNgls7tb7s3-K-1pvN_ch9SpK9XojhKMN29fYKsZ/s640/IMG_1794.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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On the day we arrived in Padula, Italy, just inside Campania from Basilicata, we had the opportunity to take an evening tour of the former monastery of San Lorenzo, a UNESCO World Heritage Site that is the largest monastery in Italy and contains the largest cloister in the world. My friend Bob and I had walked up to the town square for an Aperol Spritz beforehand, and for some reason our guide, Dana, announced before the tour that she expected us to all be on our best behavior for the guide that had been hired to show us the monastery. She said it to the group, but she was looking directly at me.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-7FMna4_eYZb5AQ4FCA3sP8iVgPuJgVu5MIwi1Ckiys7KuOb5GWOQLVqKjZxPBk8saXMuS29PpXbe4_qo8zhhpIgqsQa1GrfAuJNfM8-C0ocSz0d0fSCxs1MUohkvIA9BGEq0yZsCzKR/s1600/IMG_0421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="682" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-7FMna4_eYZb5AQ4FCA3sP8iVgPuJgVu5MIwi1Ckiys7KuOb5GWOQLVqKjZxPBk8saXMuS29PpXbe4_qo8zhhpIgqsQa1GrfAuJNfM8-C0ocSz0d0fSCxs1MUohkvIA9BGEq0yZsCzKR/s640/IMG_0421.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view of the monastery as we descended into Padula.</td></tr>
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And I was. On my best behavior, that is. I was too awed by what I saw to be anything but. As an amateur photographer, I was entranced by the arches, angles, angels and apses. (Okay, there weren't any apses, but I needed another "a" word for the alliteration to work.) What follows is my photographic essay on the Monastery di San Lorenzo (or Certosa di Padula, as it is called in Italian).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOgKyNZhIdmLQH4fJzqZ5L6jw_9Pr3M6gNq5n-AinsPW6HtFkhMLzYfMc1oHLtP7uqD7_fBbm0DuN6sf3jw5DXhLb5VuB_HpvMUPFl-f739Y9oXpL9zekCn7CpPEDsnHjpL5br_LBtb6u/s1600/IMG_6879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="840" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOgKyNZhIdmLQH4fJzqZ5L6jw_9Pr3M6gNq5n-AinsPW6HtFkhMLzYfMc1oHLtP7uqD7_fBbm0DuN6sf3jw5DXhLb5VuB_HpvMUPFl-f739Y9oXpL9zekCn7CpPEDsnHjpL5br_LBtb6u/s640/IMG_6879.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIAeOcuRIFxB2TvrfSCyIvsME_USOTLOPKpqBtoxCKeUx0lAClvaDPbCjjbjei5uxAUJHVYIEhhcAr2DIPnsXUaDEz9h0rQ_o6MBdVAuoiYtMh_ny-Khlx-z8LAk_Uv8l6g6AhnpzogNNS/s1600/IMG_7523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="840" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIAeOcuRIFxB2TvrfSCyIvsME_USOTLOPKpqBtoxCKeUx0lAClvaDPbCjjbjei5uxAUJHVYIEhhcAr2DIPnsXUaDEz9h0rQ_o6MBdVAuoiYtMh_ny-Khlx-z8LAk_Uv8l6g6AhnpzogNNS/s640/IMG_7523.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-75363761770997473302018-05-18T04:09:00.003-06:002018-05-18T05:46:55.922-06:00From Alberobello to Matera: The Adventure Continues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDv94s_2wuSigpOo6wdpygA4fAySSLLNH7n1-Cow4FszQAhJi5cQy19ZObxk8BW4YzYE-6xUF9DdqfG7CMhR8yblkd0WF5D3UFwIdYs5HTDEVvG6sDNyMQOCnyvgONhjnP6HAMKiC_sVn/s1600/IMG_5998.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="1056" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDv94s_2wuSigpOo6wdpygA4fAySSLLNH7n1-Cow4FszQAhJi5cQy19ZObxk8BW4YzYE-6xUF9DdqfG7CMhR8yblkd0WF5D3UFwIdYs5HTDEVvG6sDNyMQOCnyvgONhjnP6HAMKiC_sVn/s640/IMG_5998.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Yesterday's ride began in Alberobello, and we soon left the land of trullis--the conical-roofed traditional houses of that area of Puglia--and set off across the relatively flat area characterizing western Puglia. Along the way, I was enthralled by the vast skyscapes and the fields of green and red--green of growing grain and red of poppies.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9dkhU-YbRnaBB9YgBv_ukm0IAKCPBw2Z63Ri9C4Fll4KTPbSH3tlCzkl-NXeWn-ESdSGv3QI5x5ix_1dnQdA1vAGO8ejRCrs1fcXT5B0FHJEE0Gdw1V9JlSyskAbNk5Jt17ifC1t3aEdk/s1600/IMG_0209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="733" data-original-width="1078" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9dkhU-YbRnaBB9YgBv_ukm0IAKCPBw2Z63Ri9C4Fll4KTPbSH3tlCzkl-NXeWn-ESdSGv3QI5x5ix_1dnQdA1vAGO8ejRCrs1fcXT5B0FHJEE0Gdw1V9JlSyskAbNk5Jt17ifC1t3aEdk/s640/IMG_0209.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mottola in the distance. We stopped here for our morning coffee break.</td></tr>
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Our guides explained to us that we are extremely lucky to be able to see all the poppies because they only bloom for about a week. They also said that, in the many years that they have been guiding this particular tour, they have rarely seen it so green in the area we passed through yesterday. I feel fortunate, and it was just after we had stopped to take the above picture of the whole field of poppies that I felt a tremendous sense of happiness, doing what I was doing, being where I was with the group of people I am with. It truly is great to be here, and I'm grateful.</div>
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We stopped at an agritourismo place for lunch and had it all to ourselves. It typically isn't open during the day, only in the evenings, and the food, wine and experience were all great. All fresh ingredients. Homemade. Delicious.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The owner, Giocomina, and her helper, Luigi.</td></tr>
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After lunch, we set out again. Bob, Kevin and I opted for the extra loop that took us back up to the plateau that forms much of Puglia. On the way down, we ran into a bit of a traffic jam involving sheep. Once they passed, we found ourselves dodging sheep poop on the road for several miles.</div>
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Following the sheep incident, we had another 20K to go before reaching Matera, our destination for the day. Of course, there had to be a kilometer of 14% grade to get up to the city. Of course. But we made it, and we were rewarded with a beautiful view of the town under gorgeous blue skies, the late afternoon light illuminating the scene.</div>
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From the overlook, it was a short distance to our hotel, the rooms of which are--like many of the structures in old Matera--formed from caves. The tour company selects the hotel, and the rooms are randomly assigned, so I was blown away when I walked into my room for the next two nights. I've never stayed in such an amazing room, which came complete with a semi-private terrace and a killer view.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View up toward my terrace and room as I came home from dinner last night.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scene that greeted me as I walked out of breakfast this morning.</td></tr>
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After a break to wash out our cycling clothes, shower and relax for a bit, our group met up for aperitivi on a terrace overlooking the canyon and caves on the other side.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Aperol Spritz, local focaccia, baked olives, truffle bruschetta. Best happy hour ever.</td></tr>
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Then it was time for dinner at a restaurant that was also built into caves. I had to call it quits, however, before we got to the main course. Stuffed and tired at 10:00 p.m., I excused myself to walk back to the hotel. It had been another magical, adventurous, fun day in which I was glad to be alive.</div>
Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338103888113272518.post-45577616880738060632018-05-16T22:47:00.000-06:002018-05-16T22:47:22.568-06:00And We're Off Through Trulli Land<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Small in numbers but strong in spirit, our little group headed out Tuesday afternoon for a test spin in the Puglian countryside, making a couple of stops on the way out of Polignano. </div>
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The first was to stop and pose in front of the statue of Domenico Modugno, Polignano's most famous native son, the grandfather of Italian singers who popularized the song, "Volare."</div>
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The second was the port of San Vito, from which Bob and I had embarked on our boat tour of the caves of Poligano. Here, we took the lead photo, above. While we didn't dare walk across the beach in our cycling shoes, we nevertheless symbolically dipped our wheels in the water of the Adriatic, and we will finish our tour with another photo of us doing the same in the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea on the coast of Calabria.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipL1mX_xx1l74Mxrj08aFecXlts5hkTyLZqBlmIXwpljKPqk8MEA7PD3F1qbxW7XXCa2tcZnoQpRWylvB56Jr9sQ0n7MvKO-OfmkqcO4G7EHhYfSae4pZhbRq1WYaUqUvoK1kRXi_clfjp/s1600/FullSizeRender+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="889" data-original-width="1229" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipL1mX_xx1l74Mxrj08aFecXlts5hkTyLZqBlmIXwpljKPqk8MEA7PD3F1qbxW7XXCa2tcZnoQpRWylvB56Jr9sQ0n7MvKO-OfmkqcO4G7EHhYfSae4pZhbRq1WYaUqUvoK1kRXi_clfjp/s640/FullSizeRender+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Vito, who apparently appreciated colorful dress, much as many cyclists do.</td></tr>
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Here, too, we paused in front of a statue of Saint Vito (Vitus) to seek his blessings, protector as he is from (among other things) dog bites and bee stings--vital (no pun intended) for a cyclist setting off into the countryside. </div>
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The weather was cool and overcast Tuesday afternoon and threatened rain. In the end, however, all we got were a few sprinkles. Thank you, San Vito. Totals for that short ride were 17 miles and 1007 vertical feet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiFphBiXBe82cWPihZG0al9fFSXPm31sh-6ypQe18CweblQyuxUm79P-FS3yuTLkvO93B0QYuMZwItzc0myE0G9VtWz_lEncMYkAlrvtdw63g0GgAQdfkRZGPbp_e16iEzQXq_D0_pI8_/s1600/IMG_0139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="840" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiFphBiXBe82cWPihZG0al9fFSXPm31sh-6ypQe18CweblQyuxUm79P-FS3yuTLkvO93B0QYuMZwItzc0myE0G9VtWz_lEncMYkAlrvtdw63g0GgAQdfkRZGPbp_e16iEzQXq_D0_pI8_/s400/IMG_0139.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture was taken Tuesday evening from the terrace of our hotel.<br />
We were having a meeting to go over the entire tour, and when I<br />
looked up at one point, I saw the incredible light of the setting sun<br />
on the buildings across the cove. This is a heavily filtered photograph,<br />
but it captures the magic of that moment.</td></tr>
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On Wednesday morning, we set off on the first full day of the tour. The sky was blue and the temperature was a little on the chilly side, but very comfortable. Our day's destination, Alberobello, wasn't all that far as the crow flies from Polignano, but by the end of the day we would ride 44.5 miles and climb 3750 feet -- not that there were any big ascents, but there were lots of ups and downs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYb8Ggmpo34piw5bI6k8lFCPDYMxhxyJP2V6V8wYdQMbTkng9IbwW6aWoSBKG4pxOcDR2OCgUlpHRT9sD0t7MdlWmKt3N90HL9YDzrHAoMUOrFDqxM9Q_VTUR-5kLhWxIP3q5dYChB3-L_/s1600/IMG_4954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="824" data-original-width="824" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYb8Ggmpo34piw5bI6k8lFCPDYMxhxyJP2V6V8wYdQMbTkng9IbwW6aWoSBKG4pxOcDR2OCgUlpHRT9sD0t7MdlWmKt3N90HL9YDzrHAoMUOrFDqxM9Q_VTUR-5kLhWxIP3q5dYChB3-L_/s640/IMG_4954.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0T07jg8LirpqwgG9dVq1WdTdKSgJvU2O8Eh0mevgQi6hFbjjfj1ju2gvMrfpcQWE04aFu0AuT9I4a96-JUSELRLT5W7gM_qkaq0GQsbAXd1AQnVe-IWYcFuyte1oo0K4JLokkpkZ3vcG3/s1600/IMG_0152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="1021" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0T07jg8LirpqwgG9dVq1WdTdKSgJvU2O8Eh0mevgQi6hFbjjfj1ju2gvMrfpcQWE04aFu0AuT9I4a96-JUSELRLT5W7gM_qkaq0GQsbAXd1AQnVe-IWYcFuyte1oo0K4JLokkpkZ3vcG3/s640/IMG_0152.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pastoral scene we passed yesterday morning. Saint Vitus came through again shortly after this photo was taken as a dog came running out in hot pursuit after the couple on the tandem in front of me, oblivious to my presence just behind. We escaped unharmed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQsf4XRTPNaF2MZSJbE9b_uzNCikPrCE5GRD2Q3aXY5RKPhsprP_62MJoruSF3Ez58MIHicpSvHvvGw6RvdD-N0Sz6syH_yLn-yLmelW6e5OmZwPx8dcGrJbVDE2TElmLhw28VzJHxIzb/s1600/IMG_8910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="1105" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQsf4XRTPNaF2MZSJbE9b_uzNCikPrCE5GRD2Q3aXY5RKPhsprP_62MJoruSF3Ez58MIHicpSvHvvGw6RvdD-N0Sz6syH_yLn-yLmelW6e5OmZwPx8dcGrJbVDE2TElmLhw28VzJHxIzb/s640/IMG_8910.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view out over the coastal plains of Puglia to the Adriatic with two <i>trulli</i> in the foreground. These conical-shaped structures are found throughout this region of Puglia, and the ones in this and the following photo were some of the first we encountered.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGcWMLXWVIQZlXlJYR1tYPKSub-NFxVl2WZ8LJSx8NYSmTUAv0DhWcKGSDXqVSkCRlijhN7gFehjxHZb87W1NCfL3bndKyh-p2G4WmrPyyLj2PsQiM02-HhhVKLfmxWRSfafRdCQxYBxL/s1600/IMG_9475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="896" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGcWMLXWVIQZlXlJYR1tYPKSub-NFxVl2WZ8LJSx8NYSmTUAv0DhWcKGSDXqVSkCRlijhN7gFehjxHZb87W1NCfL3bndKyh-p2G4WmrPyyLj2PsQiM02-HhhVKLfmxWRSfafRdCQxYBxL/s640/IMG_9475.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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One of the fun things about these tours is the occasional encounter with locals. When we stopped to refill our water bottles at one point, we encountered Giovanni, pictured below, who entered into an intense, rambling discussion with Dana, one of our guides about his life as a widower, going to dances several nights a week and the trials and tribulations he experienced while trying to find a woman at this point in his life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xaE_huPPeE6fUXqZK-Fp7CArvxzqIRN8sB2lEHpwKMk3xQ7_FfkxWcR0-0DczEdodn3QXVm_4vhWcwNhzRclDjB6bv54tkV16C5apqLqRCDwJOb4djKGL1nWG02mjk3KDbI_CijVAJ90/s1600/IMG_0153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1008" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xaE_huPPeE6fUXqZK-Fp7CArvxzqIRN8sB2lEHpwKMk3xQ7_FfkxWcR0-0DczEdodn3QXVm_4vhWcwNhzRclDjB6bv54tkV16C5apqLqRCDwJOb4djKGL1nWG02mjk3KDbI_CijVAJ90/s640/IMG_0153.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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After lunch, we headed into the Itria Valley and passed some lovely vineyards and fields of poppies. Then it was on to Alberello, where we sampled yet more gelato, a guide told us the story of the trulli, and we attended a tasting of several local wines.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxYbED_GtFVOGivqqlHLTiDKLDm_wz1JW3f8iX6zBlnQWdJIFAbuajAKFYBDCPedfuewH9jPPTF5Yv2Cz-4McOyBfNK4lVb6zVJgsG0X5_BRu2T4s1czL1Qs4YdfjVTeAp1onaGtOVeX4F/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1008" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxYbED_GtFVOGivqqlHLTiDKLDm_wz1JW3f8iX6zBlnQWdJIFAbuajAKFYBDCPedfuewH9jPPTF5Yv2Cz-4McOyBfNK4lVb6zVJgsG0X5_BRu2T4s1czL1Qs4YdfjVTeAp1onaGtOVeX4F/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitrQ_ik5cFBC3-UXZVw_iL9fZypSKSMgGYTA8FZ2UAA_gAkBZAKSMCDa7pXilOo0eeaBZ19hIv6jhyphenhyphenaZ0lGsPmS-XbNWeE7Kt-qEabeGAwa9ssoRzlbAhf-g9mYVEV4gm0Ai1GneIuvJwo/s1600/IMG_0171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitrQ_ik5cFBC3-UXZVw_iL9fZypSKSMgGYTA8FZ2UAA_gAkBZAKSMCDa7pXilOo0eeaBZ19hIv6jhyphenhyphenaZ0lGsPmS-XbNWeE7Kt-qEabeGAwa9ssoRzlbAhf-g9mYVEV4gm0Ai1GneIuvJwo/s640/IMG_0171.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild poppies with the cones of three trulli peaking over the grass in the distance.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3tZRTWdvQLgSZZPJX1nkPcWB5NyR12bcR2DpD1EiW1HnyZOPK-rTid1y4958lCuyaU7qv61zmZ6mxzIrSZUoJuYZQ-FBHKThJKOFgxE-ViVAnHw3hWqMUPKEmFAId5ljkpKUBbZtREQOP/s1600/IMG_3703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="756" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3tZRTWdvQLgSZZPJX1nkPcWB5NyR12bcR2DpD1EiW1HnyZOPK-rTid1y4958lCuyaU7qv61zmZ6mxzIrSZUoJuYZQ-FBHKThJKOFgxE-ViVAnHw3hWqMUPKEmFAId5ljkpKUBbZtREQOP/s640/IMG_3703.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Listening to our guide tell us about trulli.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTZ8lPR44NVyrvhPttNuhWeHrxe86XD_el-cO0p3UChNRwdFkB87Nw5b0ADV6GwvaKGSvjOEON3WsmbD5_ZgBIdiVfFORafysPWKOEqKYMs9jWKJy1_rdmSCB4HkabRvGWqogriPdmmoF/s1600/FullSizeRender+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="943" data-original-width="943" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTZ8lPR44NVyrvhPttNuhWeHrxe86XD_el-cO0p3UChNRwdFkB87Nw5b0ADV6GwvaKGSvjOEON3WsmbD5_ZgBIdiVfFORafysPWKOEqKYMs9jWKJy1_rdmSCB4HkabRvGWqogriPdmmoF/s640/FullSizeRender+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alberello, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.</td></tr>
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Joseph Broomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10678836529467409126noreply@blogger.com0