Suzy Guese

It sounds like a dream, swim in the famed Blue Grotto on the Isle of Capri, just off the coast of southern Italy. Images of my Little Mermaid heydays at my neighborhood pool came to mind as I set out for Capri’s waters on a sweaty day in June.

The Blue Grotto bears a small opening, being only 2 meters wide and 2 meters high. You better like everyone in your boat for you will have to get cozy. All passengers, including the man row, row, rowing his boat into the cave must lie down as you head into the Blue Grotto. On days when the winds are not in the Blue Grotto’s favor, boats are not allowed to enter. Today, the winds are calm.

The Blue Grotto is in fact just that, a blue cave. It forms when the sunlight passes through an underwater cavity, absorbing all of the red light and leaving just an overwhelming and unreal sapphire blue. This blue reflection draws in tourists for a short boat ride around the cave. The Romans were known to use the Grotta Azzurra. Witches and monsters were thought to call the cave home, causing many to stay away. That is not the case today.

You share the beautiful and unbelievable stretch with boats and boats filled other tourists. It feels much more like a Disneyland ride. Boats head in one by one, floating around for a few minutes and quickly exiting shortly thereafter.

As I headed into the Blue Grotta, I knew to expect this. Swimming is generally not permitted in this blue cave. Our boat rower had other notions. Probably wanting to give three American girls the row boat ride of a lifetime, he told us we could jump in and swim around. “Just don’t get caught,” he cautioned. How do you go about not getting caught? Are their grotto polizia underwater monitoring from the comforts of submarines?

Our boat plays a game of limbo as we duck into the small opening of the Blue Grotto. We paddle around in a circle, surrounded by other tourists also in awe of just how blue the cave really is. Quickly and suddenly, our rower tells us to hop in the waters of the cave. The four of us peel off a first layer of clothing into swimsuits. Getting over the side of the boat is a challenge, but eventually I plop down into the pristine waters of the blue grotto. Our boat rowing man starts shouting that we must get back in for the blue grotto is calling other boats to enter.

If getting over the side of the boat into the water was a challenge, you can bet getting back in would be. I struggle with my nonexistent arm muscles until at last I am back in the dirty rowboat, drenched in the waters of the blue grotto.

After a swim that lasted around 90 seconds, I felt cheated. Idealized images of swimming in Italian grottos came to mind originally and quickly drowned in these waters. Destinations cannot always live up to the images we create in our minds. There has to be some disappointment in travel. Otherwise it would fail to be real. By gliding under the massive rocks of the Faraglioni and wandering the streets lined with designer shops I could never afford, the Isle of Capri still proves to me that the scenery is idealized and dramatic, not something a Disney ride could provide.

Faraglioni rocks off the Isle of Capri

It is freezing cold. No, it is colder than freezing cold. It is June in Ireland and I am dressed in my newly purchased Donegal wool sweater. To make the cold even more bone chilling, we can’t seem to get the peat fire started.

At the top of the northwest end of Ireland in Donegal County, the little village of Teelin can’t be heard. It is quiet with only a couple hundred people if that. The day my family drove into town, I think the population added on 7 for good measure.

There are many that boast Irish heritage. I am definitely one of them. Sadly, most do not still have relatives in the old country as they would say. I, however, still do. I am taking a trip back here to the young age of 14. Forgive my awkwardness and angst below.

We pull up to a cottage. This is our hotel. There is no sign to tell you it is a hotel for it isn’t. Within these walls, my grandmother’s grandmother was born. I am told there is running water and electricity. The Irish do tell a good tale.

The family in front of our Irish accommodations

We walk into this home, the distantly familial house to spend a few days becoming acquainted with those Irish ancestors. Everyone gears up for showers, expecting the worst, yet hoping for the best. The water is ice cold and so too is the weather outside. I am beginning to wonder how my relatives could live this way. How could I be related to people that can withstand the cold and deal with ice showers every morning? There may be nothing worse in my book than a cold shower on a chilly morning.

We all bite the bullet and just embrace this lifestyle, taking 30 second showers each. You can see the earth as you shower, literally. There are chucks of Teelin’s land that must find its way into the pipes somehow. The funny thing about the water in Teelin is that I am almost positive it made my hair more red.

We set out to spend the day with my mom’s third cousin Gene who lives nearby. He takes us on a walk to Slieve League. For those that are not familiar, these are the highest sea cliffs in all of Europe. They drop down 2,000 feet and are not for the faint of heart. We wander around the coastal side as he explains to us this is the playground of the fairies. “Fairies” in Ireland seem to be what many of us believe to be ghosts. I am picturing little men dressed in green suits lugging around pots of gold. Somehow I don’t think that is what the Irish picture the fairies to be.

Area Around Slieve League

Little stone settlements still cloud this playground as Gene calls it. There is not a jungle gym or swing set in sight, but the Irish don’t need those forms of entertainment, for they have the wildest of imaginations. Gene crouches down in one of these stone formations. He cautions us though to not upset or disturb the fairies for they are tricksters and will have no problem making things difficult for my family on our stay in Ireland.

Some Irish tricksters, my little brother and his distant Irish cousin

Wandering around that emerald greenery, I really do feel as though there is a presence along those cliffs of Slieve League. I picture little entities running around playing tricks. Something tells me the fairies followed us back to the cottage that night. We couldn’t figure out the hot and cold water, finally giving up and just accepting the icy wake-up call in the morning. I notice a long string hanging from the ceiling of the bathroom. I pull it. Sure enough, warm water is produced. One battle with the fairies has just been resolved. Then, the peat fire will not start on this cold night. My Dad and brother attempt several times. Finally I have a shot at it. The fire becomes a enormous flame after my magic, producing the warmth that wool sweater cannot. The fairies have nothing on this redhead.

Leaving Ireland, the man at the car rental comments to my dad, “she looks just like a little Irish Colleen doll.” I guess not only do I look Irish, but I posses the Irish spirit for wanting to outsmart the fairies.  I found my roots by way of roughing it like the ancestors with muddy water and discovering the true luck of the Irish, getting peat fires to a roaring flame.

My experiences in Taormina, Sicily have always been less than positive. The first time I went to Taormina, I was studying in Ortigia and decided to take a train up to Taormina for the day. I found the town to be touristy and overpriced. I had the worst gelato of my life that day. I never throw away gelato but this caffé tasted like banana. Some things, like bad gelato, are just inexcusable in my book.

Taormina, Sicily

The second time I visited Taormina, I decided I was going to study abroad in the town. Having a less than positive experience the first time, I was hesitant. As I entered my apartment for the first time, I walked in with the landlord as she showed me around the apartment. I asked if my only other roommate Meghan was here. She responded that I would have a total of 5 roommates, una ragazza (A girl) and ragazzi (guys). I quickly thought I misheard her and dismissed the comment. She then showed me to my room, or closet rather. All of the other rooms in this apartment where giant palaces compared to this. I think I just found my prison cell.

After meeting my roommate Meghan, I decided it was time to wash away over 24 hours spent on an airplane. I got out of the shower and started to walk down the hallway adorned with only a towel. I then bumped into my other unknown roommates, teenage Italian boys. These guys were punky, greasy, Italian teenagers. They could have been cast in a movie for all I know to play the part. They settled in with their cigarettes and Pink CD. They were not friendly by any means, never talking to us, leaving the main door wide open at midnight. After several days of negotiating with our school, they left, but Taormina could never redeem herself for me. Well, not until I had three positive experiences in the town that settled my negativity.

Not too happy about my unexpected roommates or room in Taormina

One of which came by way of a dessert bearing man. Unknowingly one rainy cold night, Meghan and I walked into BamBar. BamBar in Taormina is famous for several reasons. The main reason without question is the granita. Basically an Italian version of the slushy, BamBar claims to serve the best granita. We sat down to have a hot chocolate, not knowing granita was the specialty here. The owner took down our order and then quickly came back with a chocolate granita along with two hot chocolates. We thanked him for the free granita, and he began telling us he served the best granita in the world. He had one of those digital picture frames on the wall.. He proudly showed me all the celebrities that have sampled granita here, anyone from Michael Douglas to Antonio Banderas.

You could tell this man was so proud of what he had accomplished. The who’s who of Hollywood had passed through his doors, but it was the granita I think he was most proud of in his life. As I lapped up the last few bites of granita, I thought, in some heavenly way this man knew I had the worst dessert of my life in Taormina just one year ago. He wanted to make sure Taormina got a second try for this skeptic. I must have had that look of disappoint slapped across my face when I walked through his doors.

On one of my last few days in Taormina, , my roommate and I decided to end our experience of highs and lows with the highs and lows of Taormina. Taormina rests on a mountain, with a rocky beach below. To reach the beach, you must either hop on a cable car down or climb by foot. Isola Bella loomed in the distance as I made the hike down via countless steps. It truly was a beautiful sight, set against turquoise water, reminding me Taormina wasn’t so bad. There was this man gliding around on his grotto tour boat, enticing Meghan and I to join a tour with Rhianna’s latest hit blaring from his sound system. Instead, we decided to climb to the very top of Taormina.

Isola Bella in Taormina, Sicily

A path guides by way of switchbacks to the very top of Taormina. You can see the entire town from this vantage point including the impressive Greek-Roman Theater. As we both reached the top, a little man approached us. He couldn’t have been more than 4 feet 11 inches tall if that. He started talking to us about Taormina, gabbing in Italian through his yellow crooked teeth. Both Meghan and I began to feel somewhat uneasy. This may have been due to the fact that he got uncomfortably close to us as he was speaking. Finally I told him we must go despite him trying to get us to follow him into the nearby village of Castelmola. He insisted on giving us both that double kiss goodbye. I naturally shy away from this move, always suspect and not wanting some stranger’s face so close to mine. I got away unscathed, but Meghan did not. He planted a big wet kiss on her cheek and went on his way.

View from the top of Taormina

Meghan later went home and religiously washed her face. I couldn’t help but think that yes, Taormina redeemed herself by way of a delicious granita, the vision that is Isola Bella, and truly hitting a low point in the town at its highest vantage point with a sloppy, wet kiss.

I am standing in the Fulda Cathedral, just northeast of Frankfurt in Germany. Mass is about to begin but I have to be on my way out of town. Where I am standing, the structure I have found myself today is strangely and distantly familiar. I would not find out until I returned home that my great great grandmother or great great great grandmother was baptized in the Fulda Cathedral. Regardless, I’m sure she really was great. Now I understand why it felt familiar.

The Fulda Cathedral

Fulda is not packed with tourists. In fact, when I told people where I was going, they had no idea where the town could be. Often times these little German towns are overlooked. I guess I shouldn’t call Fulda little. It is a big town, but its old town center is surprisingly compact, filled with Italian pizza places and baroque architecture. I’m not sure why but it seems to make sense.

I drive into Fulda in search of relatives. I know I won’t find them for they have since moved on, but it is just one of the cities on my list of where my relatives used to live. I am looking for my hotel. The picture online shows a palace for the hotel’s facade. Those hotel pictures are never what they seem. I’m not sure how they can all get away with it but they do. I guess I can’t ask for my money back when I booked the place based on a picture. Turns out the picture the hotel shows as their main building is the Orangery of Fulda. What is used for social events and conferences today faces out on beautiful and orderly Palace Gardens. Not a single blade of grass seems to be out of place. The lawns are as rich in color as a putting green. Too bad I don’t know how to play golf. The one time I tried golf camp, it looked more like I was playing croquet.

Looking disappointed my hotel showed this as their buidling. The Orangery in Fulda, Germany

To the garden’s left, the City Palace rests. Originally prince abbots’ residences, visitors can peruse the structure hailing from the 1700s. My focus however is the Cathedral to the garden’s right. I am strangely drawn to it. Part of it could be due to the fact that it is massive. The other aspect maybe that it is beautiful to me, even in the cold damp German rain.

I begin to hear the bells on the Cathedral ring out, alarming the people of Fulda that Mass is about to begin. Little old ladies run towards the Cathedral, almost like they have roller-skates on or those shoes that come with wheels. They have such determination in their faces. I only have time for a peek inside this Sunday. The interior is quite simplistic. The tomb of Saint Boniface rests within the walls of this baroque church, maintaining a birth date in the 1700s.

The Fulda Cathedral

I stand in the back of the church, observing the people of Fulda as they shuffle into their benches for Mass. Without knowing my connection to the building, there is something recognizable here. Maybe all these European churches are starting to blend, but it does feel like I have been here before. However, the realization quickly squashes the dream notion. I depart through the other entrance for I don’t want those ushers holding the door I entered to see me leave so quickly. I appear to be the only heathen tourist in the town today.

As I walk away from the Fulda Cathedral, I do look back. Whoever said don’t look back, I couldn’t disagree with you more. I know I will not return to this space for awhile. I need all the time with this church I can get.

I returned home to Colorado a few weeks later, discussing my trip with my aunt. She tells me the Fulda Cathedral was where a distant grandmother of mine was baptized. Suddenly, I realize why I had to take that second look back. I was looking back, but rather with a puzzled expression. Why was I so drawn to this Cathedral? A small piece of my ancestry took the Catholic’s ultimate sacrament here. I guess in a way I received an invitation to the celebration just over 200 years later.

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A blond, brunette, and the ever-important redhead set out for the big Island of Hawaii. Bar jokes could ensue, but rather these three hair colors find something even more creative than a trite joke in the Hawaiian landscape.

That blond and that brunette are my two sisters. Yes, we have three different hair colors and yes we are all related. Just one of life’s genetic mysteries and my family happens to posses that quintessential bar joke.

One side of the big island of Hawaii is predominately covered in black lava rock. With the beating Hawaiian sun, the combination of hardened black lava and heat is not always the best for someone with red hair and skin the color of an albino raccoon. I once had a suite-mate’s mom upon meeting me first and only say, “Your are eyes huge! They are like a raccoons!” Compliment or insult, you decide. I decided insult and filed it away as being a great line to use when you first meet people. At any rate, that animal and myself apparently share these commonalities.

Before I digress too much, my sisters and I are all incredible different, right down to our appearances. Just like the differences in our personalities and our varied hair colors, so too is the island of Hawaii. Hawaii seems to be made up of two dueling sisters. As I mentioned, the eastern side of Hawaii is predominately covered in lava rock scenery. There are those green patches and sandy beaches, but for the most part, jagged black rocks cover the areas around Kona. Hawaii’s other sister, the green haired lush one, may drink too much. This side of the island around Hilo is mainly green, receiving the majority of rain on Hawaii.

We venture by way of a giant blue jeep. My pint sized blond sister is behind the wheel of this massive car, looking eager and ready to explore Hawaii’s green haired sister side. We head down a less than stable road. As we eventually meet a dead end, we do discover this stream, or river rather, running just under the road. The scenery is in fact breathtaking and maybe even flat tire worthy. I say this because as we head out on this isolated rough stretch, my sister hits a pothole, creating a boom sound and that initial panic. With four hopefully functioning tires, we continue on towards Akaka Falls.

The stream near Akaka Falls

Akaka Falls pours down into the earth some 30 minutes outside of the city of Hilo. The 442 feet dropping waterfall draws crowds from all over the world. On this visit, I hear Italian, which always causes my ears to perk. The parking lot for the falls is completely packed, allowing my sister to invent a space for we have come all this way, pothole hitting and all.

A short hike through what looks like a rain forest leads to “Keep Back” and “Danger” signs. Eventually the three of us view Akaka Falls. The water streams down into a black pool. To say that Akaka Falls is impressive would be an understatement. Before I get waterfall experts after me, we all know this is not the most beautiful or extraordinary of waterfalls, but it is serene. There is something about a narrow stream of water effortlessly hitting the ground 400 feet below that in that moment feels like the most impressive of sights.

Akaka Falls on the big island of Hawaii

I’m not sure what it is about waterfalls that draw so many tourists. For me, waterfalls seem to form at the determination of rivers and streams, wanting to step outside the lines of conformity of most of the water molecules and head somewhere else. Some fall in strange colored, uneven, and inconsistent lines. Others fall with the greatest of strengths, clean and straight. Akaka Falls is such a waterfall. I admire waterfalls for this reason. They travel despite their differences in size and power. Much like my sisters and I, we travel differently in size, strength and most importantly by the colors adorned on the tops of our heads.

People get pushy when they want to see their waterfalls. After being elbowed out of the view, I guess it is time for the three of us to take our personalities and hair colors back to Hawaii’s dark haired sister side. I’m not sure which has the most attitude, but I do know which one of my sisters does.

Nearby Kahuna Falls in the Akaka Falls State Park

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I have met my match on an island in Italy. It sounds like a dream, but my match is not. The island however is. This match that I speak of totes the same hair color as myself. He is around two feet tall, but he lives in perhaps one of the most beautiful, blooming places on earth. Today, I am wandering the islands that make up Lago Maggiore in Italy.

Tourists, for the most part, stop in Lago di Como for George Clooney and company all have mini palaces along its shores. The closest glimpse to their fabulous lives is by boat, but at a distance. However, Lago Maggiore is different. It is just as ornate, yet accessible. The celebrities and royalty that once occupied the homes on these islands open their doors and gardens to me and my new boyfriend, the strangest type of bird with red hair. I have heard the line “Redheads are freaks”. Maybe it all began with this guy.

The Red Headed Stranger on Lago Maggiore in Italy

I begin at Isola Bella, a small island in the Lakes region of Italy. Charles Dickens said this floating stretch of land was both “fantastic and peculiar”. It is certainly both. Probably the best known of the Borromeo family islands, Isola Bella was named after Carlo Borromeo’s wife Isabella. It does translate to mean “Beautiful Island”, perhaps the most literal and best suiting translation.

A giant baroque building greets my boat, a home the Borromeo family frequented. The gardens and scenery however make you forget the building. Organized in Italian fashion, bright red, pink, and orange flowers pop against the backdrop of water, mountains, and puffy clouds. What most 1st graders draw of an imagined paradise sits here in Italy. White peacocks roam with the tourists. They get to stay, but I must leave.

My next boat ride leaves me at Isola Madre, in other words, the mother island. This island is the largest of the Borromeo islands. An even larger 16th century Renaissance building opens its doors for tours. The family used this residence as their summer home. What a hard summer life, residing in a palace as crazy birds roam your gardens. Their only complaint back in the day may have been the squawking radiating from the strange beaks these birds possess. Princess Borromeo restored the building in 1978, generously opening the area up for tours. I wouldn’t want to share this with a soul, but I am grateful Princess Borromeo is not like me.

Due to the mild climate of this area, botanical gardens can truly bloom to their full potential. For some reason the gardens here are not my focus, for it is here that I find my redheaded counterpart. It looks like he has a comb-over of some sort. He could be trying to fit in, putting his best claw or foot forward, much like wearing your best tie or dress to a fancy restaurant.

I can make fun of him all I want, but he truly lives the life being that his  sole job is to wander through greenery and flowers while transfixing those eyes on the waters of Lago Maggiore and the snow topped mountains in the background. Some guys have all the luck, and my redhead freak of a bird is just that guy. I will take a note from Willie Nelson. I won’t cross him or boss him. I’ll just take his picture and be on my way.

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I am just minutes away from going medieval and I don’t even know it. Driving a Volkswagen station wagon, you wouldn’t even know it. I look more soccer mom than medieval princess.

Picking the kids up from soccer practice in Vianden, Luxembourg

I am heading to Luxembourg today, a country so small many have never heard of it. Belgium, France, and Germany almost smoother Luxembourg from showing people just how beautiful it really is. The landlocked country may be small, but its castles are huge.

As I drive just outside of Vianden, a one-way road leads me into the town, no highway or massive freeway. It is ridiculously green with just farm animals and dense forests hugging the road. Then I see the ultimate vision, a castle on a hill and nothing else. The Vianden Castle waits for me and now I must wait patiently to reach Vianden.

After getting lost in probably the world’s smallest village and eventual finding my hotel named after a ketchup family, I now become intent on reaching that castle. The man behind the hotel counter hands me a brochure on Vianden’s most popular resident. Apparently you can travel by chairlift to reach medieval glory.

I find the chairlift’s beginning. Several euros later, I am prepared for a long ride up to the castle. Two by two, people hop on the chairlift to where I think they all must be going, the castle of course. The tiny metal chairs seem borderline unsafe but who cares, well just as long as I get there alive. I guess I care.

As I glide over the people of Vianden’s backyards admiring their play sets, I begin my ascent. Higher and higher I go for just a minute until suddenly I notice the castle and my chair are at the same height. However the chairlift and I keep going. I’m passing the castle. I thought this thing would take me to the castle.

Another minute later, the chairlift drops me off above the castle. I have no idea how to reach my medieval lair now as forestry surrounds and no clear path leads to the castle. Instead this chairlift leads to a restaurant of all things. What great promotion on their part. Apparently people just take this thing for fun and maybe for the view. It is beautiful up here, but I have to reach the castle.

I decide to be daring and wander in sandals through some forestry. It looks like a path but all the jagged rock would hint otherwise. Like the light at the end of the tunnel, I see an end to my nature walk. The courtyard to the Vianden castle opens up and at last I have made it just minutes before the last entry of the day.

Built between the 11th and 14th centuries, the Vianden Castle is the gem of this town. Many know it as one of the largest and most appealing feudal residences of Romanesque and Gothic periods in Europe. Its foundations go beyond medieval. It rests on top of a Roman castellum, reminding me the Romans really went all over Europe, leaving no stone unturned, not even the small area of Luxembourg.

I wander through the rooms of the castle. Cheesy coats of armor hang in glass cases. A kitchen features hokey mannequins clad in chain mail pulling out link sausages from the fire. One room holds open air windows, a sort of corridor to the next part of the castle. This is my favorite for it looks so natural, so untouched since the middle ages, but that could not be farther from the truth.

Looking around the castle it is hard to believe someone would think selling it piece by piece would be a good idea. In 1820 under the reign of King William I of Holland, the Vianden Castle was sold piece by piece until all that remained was a pile of rubble. Way to go William. Luckily by 1977 someone had some sense to restore the castle to its former glory. The family of the Grand Duke of Luxembourg transferred the property to the state that started the restorations.

I am reminded here that beautiful aspects to history are torn down, maybe even sold piece by piece to make way for the more modern. Imagine selling your house today piece-by-piece, part-by-part. It seems ridiculous to me, but I am grateful the Vianden Castle was restored. Otherwise I would have just felt so modern, so soccer mom on my day in Vianden. Instead, I feel like I have just had a medieval vacation in the middle of the modern world.

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