Two years ago I decided to make this travel dream come true by spending the months of February and March in Italy. Over a cold Christmas and New Years in New York I envisioned sunny days, strolling through cobblestone streets with a cone of gelato, and sipping an apertif at an outdoor cafe watching the sun set.

Cinque Terre, Liguria, Italy, by sunset.

The reality was much less romantic. After being very lucky for much of February (misty Venice was atmospheric, Cinque Terre was warm during the day with chilly evening breezes) the cold weather blues really set in.

We were spending two weeks in a mountain village just south of Salerno (with no heating) and a storm came through that lasted for 3 days and shook every windowpane in the house violently. I tried to keep the romance of ‘mountain village in Italy’ going by sipping hot cups of cappuccino and reading novel after novel while dinner simmered on the stove. But after day 3 – I broke.

I was tired of winter. I was tired of grey clouds. I was tired of being unable to feel my fingertips.

port in sorrento, march 2007

Luckily – after the storm passed, the sun shone brightly right on our mountainside balcony. We went for walks by the sea, and just basked in sunlight. The tiles of the balcony became warm from the sunshine – and I started to believe that winter might actually be coming to a close. That day, taking in the first rays of spring, we decided to head south and spend more time exploring Croatia – it had been a long winter and we were going to chase the sun.

This is how I felt again this week in Dublin. I had a bad case of the cold weather blues.

Yesterday I had just a 10-minute walk in the city and with snow blowing horizontally straight into my face and I realized winter will not go lightly this year. It will continue to taint our weekends, freeze our fingertips, and make Monday mornings just a little more miserable. When I finally got indoors – I didn’t take comfort in ANOTHER cup of tea – but in planning a springtime trip to follow the sun.

a sunny day in dubrovnik, croatia

My thoughts returned to Italy – only further south. I just finished a book on Sicily (Lampedusa’s ‘The Leopard’) and it has left me with a desire to explore this island on the fringe of Italy. I might just combine it with a trip to Malta as well. 

I might just go look up flights right now, as the rain falls drearily in the window beside me.

Where are you going for a warm weather getaway? Post below and give your fellow travelers some inspiration on where to follow the sun this spring and summer.

Most shops are closed by this time, and Italians take to the streets (dressed sharply, of course) and catch up on the day’s events with family and friends. This activity also serves as a bit of exercise to stimulate the appetite after a substantial lunch. Our second night in Venice, we slipped right in with the local tradition.

La Zucca

When I first explored Venice in 2007, a friend recommended a restaurant called La Zucca. During my first trip, I was too busy cooking with fish from the market to sit down at the restaurant, even though it seemed tempting. This time around, staying at a hotel, I had the perfect opportunity to give it a try.

After just 24 hours in the city, Venice had become familiar again. Although the walk from the hotel to the restaurant was well over 20 minutes, I knew each turn and bridge, even with the shops closed and visual hints hidden. When we arrived at the restaurant, there will tables outside along the small canal, right up to the bridge. I hadn’t remembered this detail, or perhaps hadn’t seen the restaurant at the night. It was the perfect spot to spend a few hours.

Luckily, one table outside had just been vacated and we sat down. In October in Dublin, it would be unheard of to dine al fresco. While Venice had a bit of a chill in the night air, I was more than comfortable in a coat. While we looked at the menu, the friendly waiter popped open a bottle of prosecco.

Direct entrance from the canal to La Zucca

Italians are known for taking their time over the course of a meal, and yet, looking at the menu, it was hard to imagine getting through it all. I immediately skipped over the antipasti, although tempting – I knew I wanted to save room for dessert. Primi consisted of pasta and vegetable courses (the restaurant is known for creative uses of vegetables). I chose a simple tagliatelle in a pomodoro sauce with a dollop of ricotta fresca on top.

I barely read the secondo (all in Italian, but translated when necessary by the helpful, young staff) because I was tempted by a special of Osso Buco. A carafe of red wine was reasonably priced, and would be a great pairing with the heavier portion of the meal. When the pasta arrived, it was cooked perfectly – al dente – and the steam rising from the dish had the sweet smell of roasted tomatoes.

La Zucca by night

The second course was just as impressive – a flavorful, slow-cooked option that was ideal for a chilly autumn night. Layers of spices and flavors that emerge with time were bursting from the osso buco. During the meal, the evening stroll continued with locals walking their dogs or enjoying a bit of exercise after a meal. Laughter and different languages were the perfect background noise to the evening.

When it was time for dessert, I asked for the friendly waiter’s recommendation. He pointed to a panna cotta with honey and almonds – a light but satisfying choice. Coffee and limoncello came next, the finishing touches to any Italian meal.

As one of the last tables, we sat and chatted with the staff who sat outside having a cigarette. They revealed to us the water level we had seen earlier was typical for the tides, and rainfall wasn’t a significant factor. Confessing to a constant worry about the canals, the chef told a story about flooding the previous year; how there is no way to control the water. ‘If it wants to come in, it’ll come in.’

Finishing our drinks, we got up to leave. Inside the staff was sitting down to their own evening meal; heaping plates of pasta and a few drinks to go with it. We called buona notte to our new friends, and started back towards the hotel. Approaching the Rialto bridge, the buzzing sound of nightlife could be heard.

Spritz, traditional drink of Venice

While Venice isn’t known for nightlife, it exists in pockets if you know where to look for it. Ironically, one of the spots is the square on the Grand Canal near the Rialto bridge. Here, four or five bars cater to mostly locals, serving up a tasty 3 euro spritz.

Sipping my refreshing drink, a man starting singing and playing piano in the corner. Promptly at two, the candles were blown out and we were ushered into the streets. The square would have a few hours of quiet before the morning markets brought it back to life.

The beauty of the Italian language, the slower pace of this mysterious city and sleek dressed locals all greeted me as I descended the stairs off the plane. A two hour direct flight, and my surroundings were about to make me feel as if I’d traveled back in time hundreds of years.

Boarding the Vaporetto (public water bus) for my hotel, the facades of 15th century buildings came into view. Glowing from the pink lamp shades the buildings looked more like a movie set than a modern city. It was after 9pm, and the sleepy city had settled into its nighttime routine.

After checking in to the hotel, we accepted advice from the friendly receptionist, and headed for a trattoria nearby. To our surprise, the wooden tables were still full of families and groups of young people with carafes of red wine. There was one table left in the corner, and it was ours.

I had spent the morning finishing up a few assignments, hurriedly packing, waiting for a bus that never came, and ultimately jumping in a taxi and fighting traffic to arrive at the airport on time for my late afternoon flight. And yet, that entire frantic world seemed light years away from a table in the corner.

In this casual restaurant, the waiters still wore waistcoats and ties. Our playful waiter jumped back and forth between Italian and English, providing me with just enough clues to decipher the menu and take a suggestion for wine. Like actors in a play, the waiters each executed their roles: bringing wine glasses, the pop of the cork, pouring San Pellegrino and quickly placing steaming plates of al dente pasta in front of us for appetizers.

The host stood at a nearby table; laughing and gesticulating to regular clients. In the corner by the bar, the espresso machine roared to life and someone’s meal was made complete. I was only eating my appetizer, and already couldn’t wait for the frosted glasses of limoncello that would conclude the meal.

The Rialto Fish Market

The ritual of a meal is something I learned from my family, of Italian descent. The atmosphere I was recognizing in this trattoria has spread all over the world, I’ve realized — but in Italy it is still in its purest form. 

Next came my fish course. One of the older waiters carried out my plate, an entire sole that he de-boned at the table. First off came the head, then the tail, then with carefree precision, he removed the bones leaving me with two fresh filets, a couple wedges of lemon, and some grilled vegetables. He looked down at his work and with a perfecto left me to enjoy the daily catch.

A trip to Italy can be about art, architecture, and attractions – or it can be about Italian life. Already having spent some time in Venice, I wasn’t planning on going near the Accademia Gallery, or the Peggy Guggenheim Museum (although I strongly recommend that). I wanted to take the traghetto across the grand canal for 50 cents with a gondola driver who was smoking a cigarette and sipping on a beer. I wanted to search out a gelato shop that had the best reputation in town. I wanted to dine al fresco, and find the nightlife that Venice keeps hidden away.

Traghetto Driver, Smoking while Crossing the Grand Canal

I had three more days to explore Venice – to revisit old haunts and discover new ones. As I finished my first frosty glass of sour-sweet limoncello, I was glad I had put everything else aside, and taken this long weekend to return to the romance of Italy.

Check back for more anecdotes from my recent trip to Venice over the coming weeks – expect pizza, an explanation of the daily passeggiata, what the locals are drinking other than prosecco, a trip to the church featured in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and what sites you shouldn’t miss when you find yourself in Venezia.

Putting my feet up in Florence

Just ask.

Travelers seem to have mixed feelings about asking for discounts. How does it make them look? Will it result in poor service? Will the all-powerful concierge at the other end laugh at your request?

The truth is, I’ve never regretted asking, even when I received a negative response. The best result is you have more of your hard earned money in your pocket to do with it things that you enjoy. Here are three examples of times where asking, worked.

1. Florence, Italy. February: During my Grand Tour, I took two months to travel in Italy. I wanted this portion of the trip to be slower, to have ample time to both explore the sights and linger for entire afternoons at cafes and restaurants. When it was time to head for Florence, I realized that our trip had coincided with a very slow time for tourism in Italy. I began to set my sights a little higher: on bed and breakfasts with spacious rooms and glimmering white bathrooms, in prime locations, with luxurious amenities. I also knew that my desire to stay in Florence for a week, and not just a night or two, might earn me a discount. In the end, I received a double discount, for off season and for length of stay, from a great spot in the center of town. Tourist House on Villa della Scala was comfortable, spacious, and included breakfast with each night of our stay. I began to look forward to the perfectly made morning cappuccino before I even went to bed at night.

2. Venice, Italy. Late February: After hearing about the expansive markets in Venice, I had high hopes for securing an apartment rental to live the dream of cooking up a storm in my own Italian apartment. A quick check on Craigslist and I had found the perfect apartment: a recently renovated studio with a small kitchen, dining table for two, and a soaking tub. With my initial enquiry, I let the owner know a bit about myself: an American poet, traveling for a year, serious interest in cooking. A combination of these personal details and the off season earned me a discounted rate.

Cooking with fresh pasta in Venice

3. Dubrovnik, Croatia. Late April: At this point, towards the end of the trip, I had realized that any sort of personal statement in an enquiry email couldn’t hurt. Hotel / hostel / bed and breakfast owners deal with plenty of demands from rude customers, and asking politely has earned me an unexpected upgrade on more than one occasion. When I was traveling to Croatia, I mentioned to the guesthouse owner that I’d be interested in a room with cooking facilities. He initially told me this was unavailable. Upon arrival, I had been upgraded to a room with a kitchenette, because someone else had cancelled a reservation. Just asking earned me an upgrade, and I didn’t even have to pay the difference for the 2 types of rooms.

And just for the sake of argument, one time where asking did NOT work was in Cinque Terre, Italy. I don’t think there was one hotel in Monterosso that was going to budge on their rates, even in the off season, even if they were empty. Some of the hotels seemed to look at guests as a bother, and simply wouldn’t negotiate the rate, even by as little as 10 euro a night. Perhaps it was some sort of pact between the local people, that they wouldn’t go below a certain rate. I liked this respect for each other and common decency. And I still didn’t regret asking, as it made for a hilarious afternoon, to be running around Monterosso, seeing every available accommodation, just to come up with the deal I KNEW was out there, but wasn’t.

When it comes down to it, hotels and restaurants are run by people, and these people are in the business of bringing pleasure to other people. You’ll be surprised what showing interest can earn you: from a special tasting compliments of the chef to an especially quiet, comfy room at a hotel. 

My father always told me, it doesn’t hurt to ask.