Sophie’s World

Back from Kuwait, Bahrain felt a bit like coming home. I had an early morning flight, so I checked into the Mövenpick Bahrain on Muharraq Island. The Mövenpick is beautiful; very rare for an airport hotel.

On the down side, everything cost extra, incl. use of wifi. Even breakfast is extra. A hefty 7 BD. Hadn’t my flight been so early, I would have sprung for that, though - to get my last fill of haloumi, yogurt, mint tea, hummus, Arabic bread, lebneh… yum!

On Muharraq Island, my trusty guide book told me, I had to see the traditional houses, reminding me I was in the Middle East, and not in some futuristic version of London or New York. I asked the concierge how long a walk it was. “Half an hour, at least,” he said. “And it’s much too hot. I will get you a taxi.” He proceeded to call over a driver, eagerly waiting nearby. To his disappointment, I insisted on walking; for me an essential part of travelling.

Setting off for the houses, I found them 10 minutes later (so much for ‘at least half an hour’…) It was a nice, toasty 40 degrees C and after ambling around for an hour, I longed for shade and a place to sit. Finally finding a ledge, I dug out a tattered blue notebook and a bottle of tepid water while I considered the old Noel Coward song. It should probably be amended: “Mad dogs, Englishmen and Vikings go out in the noonday sun.”

No one was in sight, except for a haughty Bahraini cat, whose ledge I must have pinched judging by the look she gave me. I began jotting down notes, random thoughts. (In my note book, I had actually stopped mid-sentence, mid-word, even. I have written “for me an essen…”.)

You see, as I was sitting there writing, two young men from a large house across the street approached. “My name is Yousef,” said the tallest. “I would like to invite you to my home. This is Hassan, my cousin. We are having a family gathering. Please come in and join us.”

I hesitated. A single woman, going inside a house with two complete strangers? Hm… Handsome strangers, it must be said, but still…

What the hell. Curiosity got the better of me. I got up from the ledge (Haughty promptly reclaimed it) and went with them. Inside the house, I was welcomed by the entire family - about 20 of them, mostly women.

They had just finished lunch. Had I already had lunch or should they set a small table for me? I said no, afraid of imposing (silly me for turning down a no doubt fabulous meal). Instead, I joined them for coffee.

Every Friday, the extended family meets for a long lunch, I was told. Everyone brings dishes. They insisted I try everything: pancakes, bakhlava, creme caramel, sweets, fruits, nuts. Along with delicious Arabic coffee.

I jotted down the recipe, spilling a bit as I went. Another stain. I can be very clumsy. On the other hand, it nicely matches the squashed bug blood on the opposite page.

After having made sure I wrote it down properly, one of the women went into the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with a jar containing some coffee and a bag of accompanying spices: cloves, cardamom and saffron. “Take this home with you,” she said. “Of course, with Arabic coffee you must have this,” she continued - and produced a large bag of ripe dates.

After a while, afraid to outstay my welcome, I got up to leave. But by then it was time for tea. I stayed for nearly two hours, made new friends, learned heaps and had a great afternoon. (Probably gained a few kilos as well - but worth it.)

Arab hospitality is legendary. I don’t know where else people would ask a total stranger into their home like that. Certainly not in my part of the world. Sadly, Scandinavians, like many other Westerners, are much too sceptical of strangers.

Oh, and the dates? Didn’t take them home. Ate them all. Instead of dinner. Ambrosial.

is featuring Anne-Sophie’s Oslo. Yey!

(Wish I could take cred for the super cool photo of the Opera House)

In enchanting Hay-on-Wye, opposite the town clock, the Seven Stars offers something quite unusual for a British B&B: a heated swimming pool and a sauna. My daughters enjoyed it so much, they refused to get out of the pool in the morning and I had to have breakfast by myself. Their loss. Russell Sime, owner and award-winning chef, serves up a delicious Full Welsh breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, smoked haddock, tea, toast, fruit compote, the lot.

The Seven Stars

Just a few hours’ drive from London, Hay-on-Wye makes a great weekend destination. Skirting the border between England and Wales, this little town is perhaps best known for being the world’s first book town and member of the International Book Towns Movement. Quirky book shops and shelves abound and books are often sold on a trust system. Along the walls of 12th century Hay Castle, brightly coloured books enliven the mysterious Norman citadel. Every year in May - June, the town hosts the Hay Festival of Literature & Arts.

The Seven Stars B&B is in the centre of town, well-placed for the Castle, the book shops, tea rooms and pubs. We liked The Granary Cafe, right across the street, with its cheerful staff and comprehensive menu (including creative vegetarian fare). Next door to the B&B is a large old-fashioned toy shop, where my 7-year-old spent most of her holiday money.

We stayed in a huge bright airy suite: a sitting room and two bedrooms, with brick walls, oak beams and creaky floors. It’s as if history is alive in the walls of the 16th century house. This B&B has a soul.

Prices from GBP 39.95 per person double occupancy or GBP 94 for the suite, including breakfast and free use of the pool.

The Seven Stars
11 Broad Street
Hay-on-Wye
Herefordshire
HR3 5DB
Tel + 44 1497 820886
e-mail: bookings@theseven-stars.co.uk

Photo credits: Anne-Sophie Redisch

Casolare di Remignoli

Located in the hills about 5 kilometres from San Gimignano, Casolare Remignoli is an ideal base for exploring Tuscany. Florence, Siena, Vinci, Monteriggioni and Volterra are all less than ½ hour away.

Italian country roads, especially the small, unpaved ones, aren’t always clearly marked. As a result, I got lost a few times and had some difficulty finding it in the dark. But even though we arrived after midnight (much later than planned), we were greeted warmly. My two daughters and I enjoyed every moment of our 5-day-stay.

A large renovated ancient farmhouse, its rooms are spacious with beautiful terracotta floors, wooden ceiling beams and wrought iron beds. Outside, surrounded by olive trees and grapevines, is a nice swimming pool overlooking Chianti and the towers of San Gimignano. It’s the perfect place to watch the sun set after a busy day of sightseeing. Especially with a glass of the local white wine, Vernaccia di San Gimignano. My girls (a seven-year-old and a teen) were perfectly happy to play with the cat, in the pool or at the ping-pong table. Casolare di Remignoli had all we needed.

View towards San Gimignano

With prices from EUR 80 for a double room (we paid nothing for the extra bed), the Casolare di Remignoli is affordable and family-friendly. In summer, continental breakfast is served outside on a pretty covered patio: cappuccino and delicious Tuscan bread with a fabulous view.

Here, as in most of Tuscany, you’ll need a bicycle or a car to make the most of your stay. The B&B has free parking (often next to a Lamborghini tractor).

Address:
Casolare di Remignoli
Remignoli 26
53037 San Gimignano
Siena (SI) Toscana
Tel. + 39 348 6615984
Fax + 39 057 7094618
info@remignoli.com

photo credit: Anne-Sophie Redisch

After dropping me off at the Kuwait House of National Memorial Museum, Assis, my taxi driver for the day, makes sure I see the Iraqi tank displayed outside.

Entering, I pay 1 KD and get a personal guide, Sakina. She starts by reeling off names of former sheikhs; the earliest ones are names on plaques, the later ones have their paintings displayed. Then follows a section devoted to the discovery of oil and the early days of prosperity.

While I wait for Sakina to get the new, modern, bi-lingual audio-system ready, I stroll through to the front yard; drawn by a model of a house being torpedoed. The name Saddam is painted on the torpedo. Flags of the nations that helped Kuwait in its hour of need, surround the monument.

The rest of the museum is about the Gulf War and its consequences. Which is what I came here to see.

The horrors of the war are told while I walk through a dark corridor. Models of houses, people, war planes, tanks are illuminated and timed with smoke and sound effects. Planes wiz by, bombs are dropped, houses set on fire, machine guns rattle, people shout. It all seems very realistic - and tells the story through Kuwaiti eyes.

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I was going to cover my visit to Kuwait in one post, but too many things just leaped out and demanded their own space. So first out: Kuwait Towers.

30-year-old Kuwait Towers is probably the best known landmark on the Arabian Penisula. Outside Dubai, that is. Designed by Scandinavians, and comprising two large spheres and a spike, the towers are surely Kuwait’s top attraction.

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Oslo may be the world’s most expensive city, but it is possible to enjoy this beautiful Scandinavian capital on a budget - even free. Have a look at NileGuide’s Family-friendly Oslo - on a budget.

Oslo Opera House

It’s 18:30 and I’m in Moda Mall, Bahrain World Trade Centre, wondering where all the people are.

Moda is a huge shopping centre with high-end boutiques. Just from where I now sit, I see Louis Vuitton, Dior, Emporio Armani, Versace and Fendi. And where I sit is in a purple velvet chair; one of many comfortable, yet elegant chairs and sofas in a large hall. From the high ceiling posters encourage me to “shop to win weekly vouchers up to BD 45,000″. In the middle of the hall are displayed two smart Boxster sports cars, one blue and one white, all tied up in red ribbons.

Occasionally, a group of two or three veiled black-clad women walk by. Bahraini women can be very striking. Slender, with high heels and hair piled high under their head gear, they look mysterious and beautiful, gliding across the shining marble floors.

Shopkeepers hang about in their doorways, happy to see me. They invite me in, smiling hopefully but not being pushy. How do they survive in these large, dazzling, empty halls? Earlier today, I was in Harbour Mall for a while to get out of the heat. Free wifi and being waited on hand and foot was nice - but it was a bit boring being the only one about. Too early, I was told. Everyone goes to the malls at six. Well, it’s past six now. I ask a guard - the one who just told me I couldn’t take pictures inside the mall - if Tuesday perhaps is a slow day.

“No,” he replies. “It’s always like this. Not many people.” And yet Cartier is just about to open a shop here. As is South African diamond giant De Beers. They must see potential that I don’t.

Another group walks by, comprising a well-fed man in white garb and Yassir Arafat head gear - and four women. Well inside, one of the women rips off her head scarf, revealing a face that is 12 at most. They all enter Versace.

Next to my plush velvet chairs is a red and black bedouin tent, with a Persian carpet, pretty lanterns, large cushions and sofas. A man dressed in a white dishdasha has taken off his shoes and is having a lie-down on one of the sofas. For a few minutes, he and I are the only ones in sight. He snores lightly, disturbing the melancholic French song playing on the surround system.

I’m eager to snap some pix of the snoring man in the tent, but the guard must have read my mind. He keeps looking at me, smiling knowingly. Not that there is much else for him to look at. Nothing that breathes anyway.

Another family walks by. A man, four women in black with faces uncovered and two young children. They look like brothers and sisters, all chatting and laughing. The women look pretty and gay, but in this group, the man is the striking one: tall, slim, with a strong nose, a beard, warm brown eyes and extraordinarily beautiful features. Shamelessly, I try to sneak a photo, but who looks around the corner just then but the omnipresent guard, tut-tutting and shaking his head. I consider following them into Burberry instead, then stop myself before I become a stalker.

Les feuilles mortes is now playing. The large empty hall creates a slightly surreal echoing effect. It’s a haunting, beautiful song: my father’s favourite, I’ve been told - last popular in the 60s, right before he died. Left. For a long time, I’m lost in thought; in another world.

A woman in black comes up to my neighbour in the tent, his wife presumably, and shakes him gently. He wakes, stretches and farts, bringing me back to earth.

Time to go out into the hot Bahraini night.

Corsicans aren’t very friendly, I’d been warned. Not very welcoming. I ask Marco about this. «They say people don’t smile as much in Corsica,» he replies. «I don’t know. Some people smile. Some do not. Like everywhere else.» Then he continues, mischievously: «Of course, in Sardinia, people smile all the time. Even while robbing you. There you are, talking with smiling people and all of a sudden you’re wondering: Where’s my purse?» Seems Sardinians have a bit of self-irony. An admirable quality.

33 mill. years ago, Sardinia and Corsica got unstuck. Sardinia is now approaching Italy. Meanwhile, the two islands still have common features. The dialect spoken in Sardinia’s northern region Gallura, is similar to the one in southern Corsica. Bonifacio is now the only Italian town left in Corsica. Approaching the town from the sea is great:

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To get to Corsica, we take a bus to Santa Teresa di Gallura, then a ferry to Bonifacio in southern Corsica. We have with us an inimitable guide, Marco.

Leaving town at 6 am to catch the 10 o’clock ferry, we drive through flooded streets. I was awoken in the middle of the night by lightning and heavy rain crashing down on the ceiling window right above my face. Bit exciting, that. Nothing like a good thunder storm.

It was to be expected, Marco tells us. The previous week, temperatures had reached 40 degrees – late May is much too early in the year for that kind of heat. So a thunder storm was needed to clear the air.

Marco is full of all kinds of useful and quirky information. Did you know that Sardinia used to have malaria-mosquitoes until Mussolini got rid of them? And sure enough, the International Journal of Anthropology has an article about this. Only, the article credits the Rockefeller Foundation - rather than Mussolini - for its eradication. Both, perhaps?

Along the road, loads of people are about, carrying buckets. They’re collecting snails after the night’s heavy rains. The snails are fed on bread crumbs for three days, then cooked. Damned good, we’re told.

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