On The Road, Again

3 08 2009

Alas, we quit the palace yesterday.  La Reserve disappeared from sight through the rear window of the Big Black Car, my angst at leaving born out as drool down the fine leather back seat.

We drove the windy coast road above Monaco, across the border into Italy.

Adieu, Francia.  A bientot.

I believed all was lost when we passed through Milano.  Busy streets; commercial sections; no beaches in sight.

Then, a hint of greenery from the open car window as we sped out of the city.  A nose out the forward section to decipher the air: water.

Fresh water.  Sweet, salt-free, non-irritating, hypo-allergenic H2O.  No more itchy after effects of retrieving floating sea-born objects.

Lake Como spread before us like a giant azur-blue carpet, sparkling with silver thread in the sunlight.  The car rolled down a narrow road beside the water for what seemed like miles, then pulled up to il grande palazzo del lago: Il Serbelloni in Bellagio.

A sturdy gentleman in a tan uniform heaved our bags from the car onto a trolley (my bag, with a small sheepskin rug, a green, water-proof ball and a genuine mink cat-like facsimile, came first).  The scent of grilled lake-fish dressed in garlic and parsley wafted through the entry doors.

The porter pulled a bone-shaped treat from his coat pocket and slipped it into my grateful mouth.

Traveling is hell, no?

Chow.





La Reserv—ation

20 07 2009

Boat travel in any breeze greater that 5 knots should be prohibited—worldwide.  If the vessel lists, I insist: NO PASSAGE.

While I enjoy licking up most things that end up on the floor, keeping time with seasick people is not a highlight.  At least not after the first two or three victims.

It took me a full day to get my sea-legs, and that was AFTER I left the ship. Remember, I have four of them.  You know how one year to a human is like seven years to a dog? Well, one day of motion sickness to a dog is like seven days to a human.

“Feel” that.

The only upside to the trip was the ending: A private car to La Reserve, jewel on the Cote D’Azur.

A warm, salt-water pool, long lunches on the palatial veranda, speed boats (too fast to sway) along the Mediterranean shore.

Doggy spa treatments at La Petite Chien: sugar scrub on the belly, acu-pressure to points north of the tail, ear massage.AHHHHH.  The buffing of toe nails; the fluffing of chin hairs.  Pellegrino or Evian?  I ask you.

The ferry floor is but a dim memory.  On to the beach a la Francaise.

Chow.








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