Back to our regularly scheduled vacation ...
All I Want is a Room Somewhere
In planning our trip with my dad and niece I tried to keep our costs to a minimum. Given that this is high season, this presented some challenges. In Florence I booked us into a youth hostel. When we checked in Bill, the kids and I were directed to a dormitory style room with two bunk beds. The bathroom was so small that the automatic faucet went off every time I walked into the bathroom. The “shower” consisted of a shower head in the ceiling. When you turned it on, the entire bathroom -- the toilet, the sink, the entire floor -- was soaked. “It’s only two nights,” I thought to myself, “No big deal.” After a day of sightseeing I returned to the room to shower while the kids went to the room in an adjacent building where my father and niece had their room. Now I should preface this with information about Italian towels. I don’t know why but they seem to have a preference for towels with the look, feel, and absorbancy of a tablecloth. Toweling off after a shower is a wholly unsatisfying experience here. At the pool I have noticed everyone uses a terry cloth robe so I know they are aware of terry cloth, but somehow this has not resulted in widespread adoption for bathing purposes. Much to my surprise and contentment, the hostel had enormous terry cloth towels. I could have wrapped the thing around me three times easily. So I took my shower, washing Florence’s dirt from my body and soaking the entire bathroom, and happily laid on my bed in that terry cloth towel. It was delicious.
After dressing for dinner, I headed to my dad and niece’s room where I discovered that they had a TV, computer with Internet access, beautiful bathroom and, the coup d’etat, air conditioning. Given that I had made the reservations, I was feeling just a little bummed out. Bill, the kids, and I sweated our way through that first night and woke a little more grumpy than usual.
The second day we were moved to a bigger room with a bigger bath but all the other features were the same. This time we had a room overlooking the garden, which seemed like a nice touch until we discovered that “quiet hours” were not going to actually be enforced by anyone. A very loud Spanish woman was in the room next to us and most have said “Encanta” a hundred times while talking with a friend. Ninety minutes past the posted beginning of quiet hours, everyone was still partying. Bill finally went down at 12:45 to ask when quiet hours would start. “Soon,” he was told. Even my narcotics weren’t able to overcome the noise. The next morning we woke up especially grouchy. When I told my dad about the noise he replied, “I didn’t hear anything.” I wanted to clobber him.
I was really worried when we headed to Lucca where we were booked into another hostel. Fortunately Lucca doesn’t attract the partying type so it was a much quieter stay. The rooms were very nice with loft beds for the kids, a TV, and an ok breeze. We were back to tablecloths towels but generally pretty comfortable. In Orvieto we splurged on a real hotel that had air conditioning. It was glorious! I slept like the dead. And in Rome, where we stayed in a convent, we hit the motherload: A/C, a TV, real shower, and terry cloth towels all for 100 euros, a true bargain in Rome. I always gripe about A/C back in the states because it is so overdone but I actually miss it every once in a while here, especially after a long, hot day of sightseeing.
A Model of Inefficiency
At the risk of sounding negative I will make the observation that if modern day Italy is any indication of life in Ancient Rome, itìs no wonder that the Roman empire fell. I present the following examples:
The portinaio
When we first arrived at our dorm, we were greeted by an affable portinaio (doorman). Thankfully, we had two Italian women from the laboratory with us to translate because he spoke absolutely no English and I barely speak any Italian. During the tour he asked us how often we wanted the rooms cleaned. We had been told the room was 20 euros a week with cleaning so I asked if there was a difference in price depending on the frequency of cleaning. One of the young ladies translated and he shrugged dramatically and gestured with his hands. He told her no worries about the cost. So I asked to have the rooms cleaned daily. A week later we were told that the cost of the cleaning was 10 euros per day. I asked if I could have the cleaning just once a week. This was, of course, impossible. I could have cleaning every day or every 15 days. Those were my only choices. I suddenly knew how the kids feel when I make them choose between two undesireable options. Naturally, I choose the 15 days. Then a week later someone, god knows who, decided that since they had changed the price of the room on us after we arrived that we could have the room cleaned once a week. I don’t even bother to try and keep up anymore.
The portinaios are here 24 hours a day. They change about every 6 hours and some are more helpful than others. The advantage of the frequent change is that I can often get one of them to do something that another one will not. At the heart of it, I think Italians are really anarchists. They have rules, but no one seems to follow them. Or they merely invoke them when it serves their purposes. While everything is impossible, it is simultaneously possible if you ask the right person, at the right time. As one tour guide told me, “Things are forbidden, but this is Italy where things are only a little forbidden.” So, we have learned to work this to our advantage. My father and niece were unable to keep their dorm room b/c the building was full as of June 30th. So, we let them stay in the kids’ room while the kids slept on the floor in our room. We got away with this for two days. Then at 12:45 in the morning our phone rang. I could hear the portinaio tell Bill to come downstairs. “What could it be at this hour?” I wondered. Bill was gone for at least 20 minutes and I was starting to worry. Finally he returned and told me the portinaio wanted to know if my father and Alyssa were in room 6. Why this was an burning issue out of the blue at 12:45 am remains a mystery. Bill explained that they were not and that we had returned the key 10 days before. The interrogation proceeded with numerous confirmations that they were not in room 6. Finally the portinaio asked where they were and Bill confessed that they were in the kids’ room. The portinaio raised his finger to his lips and assured Bill that this would be their little secret. We had no other questions about them for the remainer of their stay despite the fact that they traipsed in and out of the portanaio’s office several times a day.
Bill’s customs ordeal
Bill came to Italy to learn a particular technique from an immunologist. He shipped the specimens that he planned to work with via FedEx before leaving the states. They arrived in Milan the following day and have been there ever since. They are stuck in customs and for two weeks there was virtually no explanation of why they were there, how long the process of clearing them would take, and when, if ever, they might arrive. Finally, Bill was told that he had to pay 134 euros to get them out of customs. There was no itemized bill, just an amount. Bill’s colleague was able to get an itemized bill but over half of the fee was vaguely attributed to “customs” while the rmaining charges were for a review of the specimens and other things. The university here requires 10 days to generate a check so they cannot pay for it and customs does not accept credit cards. So we have to have our bank in the US wire the money. Then they will release the specimens. Bill has been able to accomplish almost nothing in the laboratory since he arrived. The upside of this is that he has been able to travel with us more than we expected and can often enjoy our daily trips to the pool.
The Bus Depot
The bus terminal is a fine example of an “overstaffed” establishment. On any given day there are 3-7 employees standing in the bus terminals ticket/information area. I have never seen more than 2 people actually selling tickets at any time. One day I was there in a line about 7 people deep. One man was working while 4 others were standing around talking. An older women got out of line to ask one of the chatty fellows a question and he shooed her away and told her to get back in line. Geez, if a little nonna (grandma) can’t beat these guys into submission I won’t even try. Another day Bill was in one of two lines at the station. He assumed that someone would be returning to man the window for the other line since people were standing in it. At one point the man manning one window moved over to the other window and helped a few people there. So, essentially he just alternated windows. Seems like a single line would have made more sense.
I’ve also watched employees sit and talk on their cell phones while I’m waiting in line on numerous occasions. Fortunately I am rarely in a hurry so I can just accept this as a temporary reality, but I have learned never to assume that I can get something done quickly.
They are a curious lot, these Italians, capable of such remarkable culinary, fashion, and technological acheivements. But they do so at their own pace. It’s not worth it to get them to quicken their step: they won’t do it so I’m learning to march in time with them.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Music Mystery Solved!
Apparently I am not destined for hell ...
Our neighbor Stacey sent this email to us after reading yesterday's post:
"Regarding the music Michelle referred to in her blog: Every night this summer, Mike and I sit out on our deck, looking at the stars, having our cocktails AND listening to his extensive collection of 70's music! We often forget to turn it off after going inside. Those outdoor Bose speakers really carry, so I think Michelle might be hearing our music. In the future, we will be more careful with the volume and cutting it off at a decent hour."
I always knew I had bionic hearing to compensate for the fact that I, literally, cannot see three inches in front of my face, but I had no idea it was that good.
Our neighbor Stacey sent this email to us after reading yesterday's post:
"Regarding the music Michelle referred to in her blog: Every night this summer, Mike and I sit out on our deck, looking at the stars, having our cocktails AND listening to his extensive collection of 70's music! We often forget to turn it off after going inside. Those outdoor Bose speakers really carry, so I think Michelle might be hearing our music. In the future, we will be more careful with the volume and cutting it off at a decent hour."
I always knew I had bionic hearing to compensate for the fact that I, literally, cannot see three inches in front of my face, but I had no idea it was that good.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
A Little Night Music
Sorry to interrupt our Italy trip but I need to post this today.
For the past several months I have noticed that I can hear music at night. Once we turn off all the lights and settle in for the night I start to hear it. At one point I asked Bill if he could hear it as well, though I already knew his answer.
Last week we discovered that I cannot tolerate the higher calorie forumula of the TPN. The 1500 calorie version requires an 1100 cc infusion overnight. Just that extra 100 cc was enough to cause edema in my arms, legs, and lungs. Given this and the fact that I can eat only very small amounts, the amount of weight I can continue to gain on TPN is very limited. This was quite a setback, physically and emotionally.
I finally convinced Bill that I really wanted a hospice consult. I first told Bill in February, weeks before the feeding tube was placed, that I could feel my life drawing to a close. Of those initial feelings, it was my niece’s christening where I felt it most acutely. I have always been the family photographer, the recorder of events. It is a role I played with great relish. Nothing pleases me more than capturing a candid moment forever. But on that weekend this beloved hobby felt somewhat like a chore. The camera felt heavy in my hands, especially with the telephoto lens attached. Just that little added weight made me breathe harder. As I looked through the lens at that little baby I could feel my heart breaking; I knew in my heart that I would not live to see the sweet little girl grow up.
The hospice consult was helpful in so many ways. We learned that I did not have to give up TPN to go onto hospice given that I am unable to eat much. What a relief to know that enrolling in hospice did not require me to starve to death! Bill and I spoke at length with the nurse about the orientation of hospice. Their goal is to make the patient as comfortable as possible and provide physical and emotional supportive care to the patient and the family. The goal is not the quantity of life but the quality of the life and the death. Speaking from his experiences, the nurse assured me that hospice uses many palliative approaches and that my comfort would be paramount. For the first time in months I felt like someone looked at death the way I did: as a necessary part of life.
To say that I have been uncomfortable for the past 8 months is the understatement of my life. The physical pain and discomfort from the feeding tube, the side effects of various medications, the unrelenting cough and retching, and the increasing shortness of breath have conspired to bring me to new depths of physical misery. Compounding the physical effects, the emotional and spiritual challenges have been, at times, more than I thought I could bear. And though I have been surrounded throughout this ordeal by enormous love and support from my husband, children, family, friends, and even strangers, I have felt a loneliness that I never knew existed. Only I can make the choices before me: feeding tube or no feeding tube, TPN or no TPN, experimental drug or no experimental drug, hospice or no hospice. Thus, I have to live with the knowledge that my choice has repurcussions that will ripple beyond me to my husband, my children, my parents, my brothers, my friends. By choosing to let nature take its course and end my suffering, I sentence them to theirs. I cannot win. I cannot win.
My friend Amy told me, “If your dying and being free of your suffering means that I have to suffer a little for you, then I am happy to carry that for you because I love you too much to see you suffer anymore.” Wise and loving words these are. But I don’t know that everyone feels the same way. How do I weigh my suffering against the suffering of my children? Who will ultimately suffer more? How do I know?
Among the literature that the hospice nurse left with me was a brief pamphlet on the stages of death. In one stage the dying person is said to have “one leg in this world and one leg in the next.” “Maybe that is what the music is,” I thought. It’s the next world.
I cannot make out the music. But there is something about it that worries me: It sounds like muffled 70s disco music. I swear it sounds like Earth, Wind, and Fire and Kool and the Gang. I was pondering this today. Lately I have started to embrace the idea that our spirit lives. With Mel and Amelia running around shaking my bed, it’s getting hard to deny it. But I am having a hard time with the idea of heaven as a 70s Disco. That sounds more like hell to me. Today it occurred to me, “Perhaps I should have taken that whole premarital sex thing a little more seriously.” But then I remembered that I confessed that to a priest the first time I was in Rome (he was very unkind and told me, “There are words in English for women like you”) so technically I am off the hook for that. I did miss Mass a lot. Perhaps I better confess that soon. Maybe then the music will switch to something a little more pleasant.
For the past several months I have noticed that I can hear music at night. Once we turn off all the lights and settle in for the night I start to hear it. At one point I asked Bill if he could hear it as well, though I already knew his answer.
Last week we discovered that I cannot tolerate the higher calorie forumula of the TPN. The 1500 calorie version requires an 1100 cc infusion overnight. Just that extra 100 cc was enough to cause edema in my arms, legs, and lungs. Given this and the fact that I can eat only very small amounts, the amount of weight I can continue to gain on TPN is very limited. This was quite a setback, physically and emotionally.
I finally convinced Bill that I really wanted a hospice consult. I first told Bill in February, weeks before the feeding tube was placed, that I could feel my life drawing to a close. Of those initial feelings, it was my niece’s christening where I felt it most acutely. I have always been the family photographer, the recorder of events. It is a role I played with great relish. Nothing pleases me more than capturing a candid moment forever. But on that weekend this beloved hobby felt somewhat like a chore. The camera felt heavy in my hands, especially with the telephoto lens attached. Just that little added weight made me breathe harder. As I looked through the lens at that little baby I could feel my heart breaking; I knew in my heart that I would not live to see the sweet little girl grow up.
The hospice consult was helpful in so many ways. We learned that I did not have to give up TPN to go onto hospice given that I am unable to eat much. What a relief to know that enrolling in hospice did not require me to starve to death! Bill and I spoke at length with the nurse about the orientation of hospice. Their goal is to make the patient as comfortable as possible and provide physical and emotional supportive care to the patient and the family. The goal is not the quantity of life but the quality of the life and the death. Speaking from his experiences, the nurse assured me that hospice uses many palliative approaches and that my comfort would be paramount. For the first time in months I felt like someone looked at death the way I did: as a necessary part of life.
To say that I have been uncomfortable for the past 8 months is the understatement of my life. The physical pain and discomfort from the feeding tube, the side effects of various medications, the unrelenting cough and retching, and the increasing shortness of breath have conspired to bring me to new depths of physical misery. Compounding the physical effects, the emotional and spiritual challenges have been, at times, more than I thought I could bear. And though I have been surrounded throughout this ordeal by enormous love and support from my husband, children, family, friends, and even strangers, I have felt a loneliness that I never knew existed. Only I can make the choices before me: feeding tube or no feeding tube, TPN or no TPN, experimental drug or no experimental drug, hospice or no hospice. Thus, I have to live with the knowledge that my choice has repurcussions that will ripple beyond me to my husband, my children, my parents, my brothers, my friends. By choosing to let nature take its course and end my suffering, I sentence them to theirs. I cannot win. I cannot win.
My friend Amy told me, “If your dying and being free of your suffering means that I have to suffer a little for you, then I am happy to carry that for you because I love you too much to see you suffer anymore.” Wise and loving words these are. But I don’t know that everyone feels the same way. How do I weigh my suffering against the suffering of my children? Who will ultimately suffer more? How do I know?
Among the literature that the hospice nurse left with me was a brief pamphlet on the stages of death. In one stage the dying person is said to have “one leg in this world and one leg in the next.” “Maybe that is what the music is,” I thought. It’s the next world.
I cannot make out the music. But there is something about it that worries me: It sounds like muffled 70s disco music. I swear it sounds like Earth, Wind, and Fire and Kool and the Gang. I was pondering this today. Lately I have started to embrace the idea that our spirit lives. With Mel and Amelia running around shaking my bed, it’s getting hard to deny it. But I am having a hard time with the idea of heaven as a 70s Disco. That sounds more like hell to me. Today it occurred to me, “Perhaps I should have taken that whole premarital sex thing a little more seriously.” But then I remembered that I confessed that to a priest the first time I was in Rome (he was very unkind and told me, “There are words in English for women like you”) so technically I am off the hook for that. I did miss Mass a lot. Perhaps I better confess that soon. Maybe then the music will switch to something a little more pleasant.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Last year's Italy travelogue, day 2
I'm not sure if this will work but here is the link to the photos:
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Road to Nowhere
We live about two-thirds of the way up the large hill upon which the Centro Storico rests. In order to go anywhere, I have to climb 47 steps (yes, I counted them) to get to the scala mobile. On the first day I had to rest at the top of the stairs before I could go any further. The second day, I had to stop and rest multiple times during our walk about town and was clearly experiencing a lot of difficulty. At one point Aidan sat down next to me and started to cry, “I don’t want you to die, Mommy.” Good heavens, the kids are going to be scarred for life from this trip.
Bill’s colleagues keep telling us that everything is just a short 5 minute walk. I asked if there was a pool. “Yes, a bella piscina,” we were assured, “just 5 minutes from your place by foot.” It took Bill (with a healthy set of lungs) 20+ minutes to get there. I thought I was going to die on my first trip there. Fortunately, I have found a bus that gets me pretty close if they continue to keep the emergency door to the pool unlocked, preventing me from having to take a very roundabout way to get to the front of the building. Another morning Bill left me a note on a map that there was a big park named “Parco Percorso Verde” where his work colleagues said was right near the train station. I was dubious because there were a lot of parks in green on the map and Percorso Verde was not one of them. But I was game so I took the bus to the train station and wandered around. Which way to go? I had no idea so I picked a direction and walked. No park and it was starting to be uphill. I stopped a woman pushing a carriage and asked her where the park was. Her stunned expression was my first clue that I should have trusted my initial instincts. She explained to me in Italian that there was such a park and how to get there but did I realize it was 2 kilometers away? She told me to take a bus but didn’t know which one. So I asked a bus driver who very nicely told me which bus to take. The kids and I boarded the bus and I told the driver where I wanted to go. I was pretty sure he told me I was to get off at the stadium and then walk on foot. I have come to dread the phase “a piedi” because invariably it means I am going to be “a piedi” for a lot longer than I’d like to be. We got off at the stadium and the driver pointed me in the general direction. I was in the middle of nowhere. All I could see was a run down stadium and a camp site. But I kept walking, muttering to myself about a wild goose chase. “What’s a wild goose chase?” Amelia asked. I explained the meaning but found it very difficult to put into words.
Shortly thereafter we came upon a little bird sanctuary filled with, you guessed it, geese. I wonder how old the kids will be when they realize that the phrase “wild goose chase” is not intended to be literal. Finally, just beyond the sanctuary was a playground complete with Amelia and Aidan’s favorite climbing structure from our Paris days. I figure that total travel time including waiting for the bus was about 3 hours. The kids played for 40 minutes. When Bill arrived home and asked about their day they happily said that it was good. Thankfully they are easily satisfied.
We’ve had a few bus mishaps. The funniest was getting on the bus in the wrong direction after a grocery store trip. We ended up being on the bus for over an hour and had a scenic tour of the small towns around Perugia. The whole time I kept hearing the Talking Heads’ “Road to Nowhere” playing through my head. There was nothing else to do but sit back and enjoy the ride.
No matter how often I travel or where I go it comes down to this: roll with it. The more I try to control things or force a desired outcome, the worse things get. Best just to figure out how to make do.
Pane Envy
Traditionally, the bread in Tuscany and parts of Perugia is made without salt. I have been told that there are two reasons for this. First, when theses areas were papal states, they was a tax levied on salt that understandably reduced consumption. Second, they eat a lot of goat cheeses and salumi here, both of which are very salt. As such, salty bread is just too savory. Personally, I cannot imagine why this tradition has not been left behind. Saltless bread has a horribly flat flavor. The only way I can eat it is by dipping it in olive oil and salt. Apparently I am not alone in my distaste for saltless bread. I arrived at the panetteria yesterday late in the afternoon and discovered that they were completely sold out of all the salted varieties, yet the shelves were filled with loaves of unsalted bread. Given that it was already 4:30 I wondered if all this bread would merely be tossed away.
I grew up in a neighborhood where there were several Italian bread bakeries. The closest one, DaPalma’s, was just a sort walk from my parent’s house. Once I was old enough to cross the street, my mom would often send me to pick up her order. They used to keep this ring loaf out on the counter and it was only 35 cents. So I always had enough money left over to buy one. As I carried the bags of bread home I would munch on my ring loaf and devour it before arriving back at home. I loved that bread with it’s crispy crust and soft center. It was delicously perfect in its simple and unadorned state. I always took the availability of good bread for granted until I moved to NC. In NC it seemed that no one knew the meaning of good bread. Even the places that sell decent bread at a premium price pale in comparison to the bread bakeries of my childhood. It’s not so much the flavor that is off; it is the texture. Here in Italy I am in my glory, good bread is everywhere. This was especially the case in Rome where the bread always contains salt. At restaurants, it takes a lot of self control to limit my bread consumption once they place that basket on the table. At one restaurant I ordered minestrone. The waiter brought me a large bowl flanked my two large peices of toasted bread. They were so delicous and so reminiscient of the bread at ate as a child that I felt a little misty. I felt like I was transported back to Leon Street with my brown paper bag of fragrant warm rolls and my ring loaf in hand while I greedily munched away. That bread felt like home.
Roaming
My father and niece, Alyssa, arrived about a week after we did. They joined us in the dorm in a room with a loft and a spectacular view of the Umbian countryside, all for the bargain basement price of 20 euros a night. We spent their first few days in Perugia and Assisi before heading out for a whirlwind 7 day, 5 city tour.
Our first stop was Florence. Florence is overrun with tourists in the summer. In fact it is so overrun with tourists that we literally heard more English spoken in the streets than Italian. Bill and I visited Florence 7 years ago, but the city felt very different to me on this visit. Perhaps we were dazzled by the works of art at the Uffizi and Galleria on our last visit. But on this trip, Florence disappointed. The buildings are dirty and in desparate need of new paint. By afternoon, her streets are filled with garbage. By nightfall, she remind me of a washed-up Hollywood starlet still managing somehow to benefit from her long gone successes. Yes, the facade of the Duomo is an arresting site, but the interior of the church is nothing special. There are lovely places within the city, like the Piazza della Signoria and the Piazza della Republica, but I felt like it failed to live up to my expectations. In some ways I felt sorry for the city and its citizens. By nightfall, streets cleaners were out and about and in the morning the city was noticeably cleaner. But by afternoon on our second day, the streets were filthy again. The city is so abused by the sea of tourists that descend upon it every summer. Any effort to keep up appearances must feel like a wasted effort.
Despite our disenchantment we enjoyed our visit. We did the sightseeing highlights on our first day but omitted the museum visits because we felt the kids would not have much patience for hours of art work. On our second day, we crossed the Arno and spent part of the afternoon in Boboli Gardens, which was virtually devoid of tourists and offered a shady retreat from the intense heat. Then we went to the new Leonardo DaVinci musuem, which is geared (no pun intended) for youngsters and intended to be fully interactive. Apparently the museum creators had misjudged how well the machines would hold up to rigorous use by young children because several of the 40 machines had been changed to a non-interactive format since its recent opening. And Aidan was chided twice for his use of one of the machines even though he wasn’t being inappropriate in anyway. Nonetheless the museum was a perfect diversion for the kids after a long day of sightseeing. Aidan was particularly intrigued by the disturbing impliments of distruction that DaVinci had designed for use in battle while I found they had a way of tainting my view of the inventor.
After Florence, we set out for Pisa. I have heard some people say that Pisa is a waste of time, but I love it. The Piazza dei Miracoli is one of the most picturesque places I have very seen. The Duomo is stunning both inside and out, the baptistry is beautifully lit by the sun and has astounding acoutic qualities, and the Campo di Santo, which weathered well heavy bombing during WWII is a peaceful (and cool) respite from the crowds. The kids, of course, loved the Leaning Tower. The price to climb to the top is pretty exorbitant so I recommend climbing cheaper towers elsewhere. Aidan insisted on purchasing a cheesy replica of the square; I suppose he can put that next to his Eiffel Tower (and the Colessium that he bought in Rome). Soon he’ll have a nice collection of tchotchkes.
After a few hours in Pisa we sent off for Lucca. Lucca is northeast of Pisa and a charming place. Thanks to a largely peaceful and prosperous history, Lucca’s medieval walls remain intact. Lucca is an essential stop on any family vacation in Tuscany. While France seems to be very oriented toward the entertainment of children – there were carousels and playgrounds in most places we visited – Italy seems less so. They enjoy children but it is not clear to me how they keep them busy. Lucca was very different in this regard. The interior circumference of the city walls is a 3 km park with a path for walking or biking and several playgrounds. Bicycles are available for rent and the kids enjoyed spending the morning with the wind in their hair. Bill and I rented a tandem, which made it possible for me to go along given that Bill was doing most of the work. The city also has a carousel, the only one I have seen thus far, and a tower that offers spectacular views. It was a perfect place to enjoy a couple low key days.
After Lucca, we took off for Orvieto. By this point, we were all adept at train travel. The kids were suprisingly self sufficient with their bags and well behaved on the trains. Thank god for that portable DVD player! We disembarked in Orvieto and caught the funicular that climbs to the city center far above the train station. The kids are getting increasingly hard to impress, but this was a novel experience. Orvieto is a small but beautiful town in southern Umbria. It has a lovely cathedral. It also has the Orvieto Underground tour that takes you through the caves underneath the city where they used to raise pigeons, press and store olive oil, and store wine. The kids really enjoyed that tour. My favorite spot was the small 12th century Chiesa (church) di San Giovanni, tucked away in a corner of the city. Inside it contained many frescos from the 13th and 14th centuries.
I garnered a lot of attention in Orvieto when I had an asthma-like attack during the evening passegiata (the evening stroll that the locals take around 7ish every night). A little old lady made one of her friends vacate her spot on the bench and told me to sit there. For the next 15 minutes, while I pulled myself together, the little old ladies spoke to me in Italian either oblivious to or regardless of the fact that I could understand about 20% of what they were saying. They did decide that I had asthma/allergies and that I should go directly to the pharmacy. Even when there’s a language barrier and old Italian woman will make her advice to you clear.
Our last stop was Rome, a chaotic and overwhelming change of pace. We spent our first afternoon touring the Colessium and even succumbed to having one of those cheesy photos with a gladiator taken. We shouldn’t have built up the whole gladiator thing with the kids. Then we took a leisurely walk around the 2000 year-old ruins of the Palatino. I don’t know how many times I had to tell Aidan to stop chipping away at the mortar between the bricks in the ruins. I kept thinking to myself that the ruins had survived 2000 years but I wasn’t sure they’d make it through the afternoon. Finally someone from the staff yelled at him, which proved far more effective than my admonitions. From there we took a bus to the area around the Pantheon and Piazza Novona where we had dinner and some amazing gelatto/sortbetto. There were easily 70 flavors in the place and Aidan still ordered Fragola (strawberry). Amelia is a little more adventurous but seems to favor rasberry and banana. I’m happy as can be that I actually have a choice of sorbetto flavors, something rarely available to me in the US. And Bill, let’s just say he may be in serious need of a diet when we return.
On our second day we took one of the double decker buses around the city and the Vatican. Our last day turned out to be the Feast of Sts. Peter and Paul so virtually everything was closed. We did manage to make to make it to a bakery that carried specialties from Puglia (the heel of the boot), which is where my grandparents were born and raised. They had a dizzying array of cakes and breads and I couldn’t resist the urge to take a few photos. Thankfuly I got a few taken before I was told to put my camara away. Though I had to wonder why they cared about the photos, it’s not like I was taking photos of their family recipes. After a brief walk around the area, we headed to Rome’s Termini train station. It was much nicer than I remembered and even had an English language bookstore. Two hours later we were back in Perugia, happy to rest our heads at “home” again.
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Road to Nowhere
We live about two-thirds of the way up the large hill upon which the Centro Storico rests. In order to go anywhere, I have to climb 47 steps (yes, I counted them) to get to the scala mobile. On the first day I had to rest at the top of the stairs before I could go any further. The second day, I had to stop and rest multiple times during our walk about town and was clearly experiencing a lot of difficulty. At one point Aidan sat down next to me and started to cry, “I don’t want you to die, Mommy.” Good heavens, the kids are going to be scarred for life from this trip.
Bill’s colleagues keep telling us that everything is just a short 5 minute walk. I asked if there was a pool. “Yes, a bella piscina,” we were assured, “just 5 minutes from your place by foot.” It took Bill (with a healthy set of lungs) 20+ minutes to get there. I thought I was going to die on my first trip there. Fortunately, I have found a bus that gets me pretty close if they continue to keep the emergency door to the pool unlocked, preventing me from having to take a very roundabout way to get to the front of the building. Another morning Bill left me a note on a map that there was a big park named “Parco Percorso Verde” where his work colleagues said was right near the train station. I was dubious because there were a lot of parks in green on the map and Percorso Verde was not one of them. But I was game so I took the bus to the train station and wandered around. Which way to go? I had no idea so I picked a direction and walked. No park and it was starting to be uphill. I stopped a woman pushing a carriage and asked her where the park was. Her stunned expression was my first clue that I should have trusted my initial instincts. She explained to me in Italian that there was such a park and how to get there but did I realize it was 2 kilometers away? She told me to take a bus but didn’t know which one. So I asked a bus driver who very nicely told me which bus to take. The kids and I boarded the bus and I told the driver where I wanted to go. I was pretty sure he told me I was to get off at the stadium and then walk on foot. I have come to dread the phase “a piedi” because invariably it means I am going to be “a piedi” for a lot longer than I’d like to be. We got off at the stadium and the driver pointed me in the general direction. I was in the middle of nowhere. All I could see was a run down stadium and a camp site. But I kept walking, muttering to myself about a wild goose chase. “What’s a wild goose chase?” Amelia asked. I explained the meaning but found it very difficult to put into words.
Shortly thereafter we came upon a little bird sanctuary filled with, you guessed it, geese. I wonder how old the kids will be when they realize that the phrase “wild goose chase” is not intended to be literal. Finally, just beyond the sanctuary was a playground complete with Amelia and Aidan’s favorite climbing structure from our Paris days. I figure that total travel time including waiting for the bus was about 3 hours. The kids played for 40 minutes. When Bill arrived home and asked about their day they happily said that it was good. Thankfully they are easily satisfied.
We’ve had a few bus mishaps. The funniest was getting on the bus in the wrong direction after a grocery store trip. We ended up being on the bus for over an hour and had a scenic tour of the small towns around Perugia. The whole time I kept hearing the Talking Heads’ “Road to Nowhere” playing through my head. There was nothing else to do but sit back and enjoy the ride.
No matter how often I travel or where I go it comes down to this: roll with it. The more I try to control things or force a desired outcome, the worse things get. Best just to figure out how to make do.
Pane Envy
Traditionally, the bread in Tuscany and parts of Perugia is made without salt. I have been told that there are two reasons for this. First, when theses areas were papal states, they was a tax levied on salt that understandably reduced consumption. Second, they eat a lot of goat cheeses and salumi here, both of which are very salt. As such, salty bread is just too savory. Personally, I cannot imagine why this tradition has not been left behind. Saltless bread has a horribly flat flavor. The only way I can eat it is by dipping it in olive oil and salt. Apparently I am not alone in my distaste for saltless bread. I arrived at the panetteria yesterday late in the afternoon and discovered that they were completely sold out of all the salted varieties, yet the shelves were filled with loaves of unsalted bread. Given that it was already 4:30 I wondered if all this bread would merely be tossed away.
I grew up in a neighborhood where there were several Italian bread bakeries. The closest one, DaPalma’s, was just a sort walk from my parent’s house. Once I was old enough to cross the street, my mom would often send me to pick up her order. They used to keep this ring loaf out on the counter and it was only 35 cents. So I always had enough money left over to buy one. As I carried the bags of bread home I would munch on my ring loaf and devour it before arriving back at home. I loved that bread with it’s crispy crust and soft center. It was delicously perfect in its simple and unadorned state. I always took the availability of good bread for granted until I moved to NC. In NC it seemed that no one knew the meaning of good bread. Even the places that sell decent bread at a premium price pale in comparison to the bread bakeries of my childhood. It’s not so much the flavor that is off; it is the texture. Here in Italy I am in my glory, good bread is everywhere. This was especially the case in Rome where the bread always contains salt. At restaurants, it takes a lot of self control to limit my bread consumption once they place that basket on the table. At one restaurant I ordered minestrone. The waiter brought me a large bowl flanked my two large peices of toasted bread. They were so delicous and so reminiscient of the bread at ate as a child that I felt a little misty. I felt like I was transported back to Leon Street with my brown paper bag of fragrant warm rolls and my ring loaf in hand while I greedily munched away. That bread felt like home.
Roaming
My father and niece, Alyssa, arrived about a week after we did. They joined us in the dorm in a room with a loft and a spectacular view of the Umbian countryside, all for the bargain basement price of 20 euros a night. We spent their first few days in Perugia and Assisi before heading out for a whirlwind 7 day, 5 city tour.
Our first stop was Florence. Florence is overrun with tourists in the summer. In fact it is so overrun with tourists that we literally heard more English spoken in the streets than Italian. Bill and I visited Florence 7 years ago, but the city felt very different to me on this visit. Perhaps we were dazzled by the works of art at the Uffizi and Galleria on our last visit. But on this trip, Florence disappointed. The buildings are dirty and in desparate need of new paint. By afternoon, her streets are filled with garbage. By nightfall, she remind me of a washed-up Hollywood starlet still managing somehow to benefit from her long gone successes. Yes, the facade of the Duomo is an arresting site, but the interior of the church is nothing special. There are lovely places within the city, like the Piazza della Signoria and the Piazza della Republica, but I felt like it failed to live up to my expectations. In some ways I felt sorry for the city and its citizens. By nightfall, streets cleaners were out and about and in the morning the city was noticeably cleaner. But by afternoon on our second day, the streets were filthy again. The city is so abused by the sea of tourists that descend upon it every summer. Any effort to keep up appearances must feel like a wasted effort.
Despite our disenchantment we enjoyed our visit. We did the sightseeing highlights on our first day but omitted the museum visits because we felt the kids would not have much patience for hours of art work. On our second day, we crossed the Arno and spent part of the afternoon in Boboli Gardens, which was virtually devoid of tourists and offered a shady retreat from the intense heat. Then we went to the new Leonardo DaVinci musuem, which is geared (no pun intended) for youngsters and intended to be fully interactive. Apparently the museum creators had misjudged how well the machines would hold up to rigorous use by young children because several of the 40 machines had been changed to a non-interactive format since its recent opening. And Aidan was chided twice for his use of one of the machines even though he wasn’t being inappropriate in anyway. Nonetheless the museum was a perfect diversion for the kids after a long day of sightseeing. Aidan was particularly intrigued by the disturbing impliments of distruction that DaVinci had designed for use in battle while I found they had a way of tainting my view of the inventor.
After Florence, we set out for Pisa. I have heard some people say that Pisa is a waste of time, but I love it. The Piazza dei Miracoli is one of the most picturesque places I have very seen. The Duomo is stunning both inside and out, the baptistry is beautifully lit by the sun and has astounding acoutic qualities, and the Campo di Santo, which weathered well heavy bombing during WWII is a peaceful (and cool) respite from the crowds. The kids, of course, loved the Leaning Tower. The price to climb to the top is pretty exorbitant so I recommend climbing cheaper towers elsewhere. Aidan insisted on purchasing a cheesy replica of the square; I suppose he can put that next to his Eiffel Tower (and the Colessium that he bought in Rome). Soon he’ll have a nice collection of tchotchkes.
After a few hours in Pisa we sent off for Lucca. Lucca is northeast of Pisa and a charming place. Thanks to a largely peaceful and prosperous history, Lucca’s medieval walls remain intact. Lucca is an essential stop on any family vacation in Tuscany. While France seems to be very oriented toward the entertainment of children – there were carousels and playgrounds in most places we visited – Italy seems less so. They enjoy children but it is not clear to me how they keep them busy. Lucca was very different in this regard. The interior circumference of the city walls is a 3 km park with a path for walking or biking and several playgrounds. Bicycles are available for rent and the kids enjoyed spending the morning with the wind in their hair. Bill and I rented a tandem, which made it possible for me to go along given that Bill was doing most of the work. The city also has a carousel, the only one I have seen thus far, and a tower that offers spectacular views. It was a perfect place to enjoy a couple low key days.
After Lucca, we took off for Orvieto. By this point, we were all adept at train travel. The kids were suprisingly self sufficient with their bags and well behaved on the trains. Thank god for that portable DVD player! We disembarked in Orvieto and caught the funicular that climbs to the city center far above the train station. The kids are getting increasingly hard to impress, but this was a novel experience. Orvieto is a small but beautiful town in southern Umbria. It has a lovely cathedral. It also has the Orvieto Underground tour that takes you through the caves underneath the city where they used to raise pigeons, press and store olive oil, and store wine. The kids really enjoyed that tour. My favorite spot was the small 12th century Chiesa (church) di San Giovanni, tucked away in a corner of the city. Inside it contained many frescos from the 13th and 14th centuries.
I garnered a lot of attention in Orvieto when I had an asthma-like attack during the evening passegiata (the evening stroll that the locals take around 7ish every night). A little old lady made one of her friends vacate her spot on the bench and told me to sit there. For the next 15 minutes, while I pulled myself together, the little old ladies spoke to me in Italian either oblivious to or regardless of the fact that I could understand about 20% of what they were saying. They did decide that I had asthma/allergies and that I should go directly to the pharmacy. Even when there’s a language barrier and old Italian woman will make her advice to you clear.
Our last stop was Rome, a chaotic and overwhelming change of pace. We spent our first afternoon touring the Colessium and even succumbed to having one of those cheesy photos with a gladiator taken. We shouldn’t have built up the whole gladiator thing with the kids. Then we took a leisurely walk around the 2000 year-old ruins of the Palatino. I don’t know how many times I had to tell Aidan to stop chipping away at the mortar between the bricks in the ruins. I kept thinking to myself that the ruins had survived 2000 years but I wasn’t sure they’d make it through the afternoon. Finally someone from the staff yelled at him, which proved far more effective than my admonitions. From there we took a bus to the area around the Pantheon and Piazza Novona where we had dinner and some amazing gelatto/sortbetto. There were easily 70 flavors in the place and Aidan still ordered Fragola (strawberry). Amelia is a little more adventurous but seems to favor rasberry and banana. I’m happy as can be that I actually have a choice of sorbetto flavors, something rarely available to me in the US. And Bill, let’s just say he may be in serious need of a diet when we return.
On our second day we took one of the double decker buses around the city and the Vatican. Our last day turned out to be the Feast of Sts. Peter and Paul so virtually everything was closed. We did manage to make to make it to a bakery that carried specialties from Puglia (the heel of the boot), which is where my grandparents were born and raised. They had a dizzying array of cakes and breads and I couldn’t resist the urge to take a few photos. Thankfuly I got a few taken before I was told to put my camara away. Though I had to wonder why they cared about the photos, it’s not like I was taking photos of their family recipes. After a brief walk around the area, we headed to Rome’s Termini train station. It was much nicer than I remembered and even had an English language bookstore. Two hours later we were back in Perugia, happy to rest our heads at “home” again.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Pack Your Bags
I'm taking you to Italy. We spent last summer there and, while it was a very physically demanding trip for me, we made many wonderful memories during our time there. We also experienced a lot of hilarious adventures. I revisit the trip often in my mind to escape sadness, boredom, etc. I figure every one needs a little escape. So I will be sending pieces of the travelogues I sent out last year over the next week or so and we can all live La Dolce Vita.
The Unexpected
Our trip began with the discovery that we had exceeded the luggage maximum for two of our bags. At first we thought we merely had to pay a fee but we then discovered that we could not, in fact, put our bags on the flight. Before we erupted into panic, the clerk informed us that American Airways sold extra bags for just this reason. I raced to American Airlines to purchase a bag where, of course, I discovered that they only take cash. So, off I went to the ATM and $30 later I had another (flimsy) bag. We rearranged our baggage while I was kicking myself for deciding that two of our bags should be Amelia and Aidan’s tiny suitcases so that they could be responsible for their own bags when I traveled alone with them.
Amazingly our first flight was almost completely uneventful. The only incident was Amelia spilling water all over Aidan half-way through our first of three flights. Thankfully I had packed a change of clothes for both children so a crisis was averted. (When Aidan returned after changing and handed me only wet shorts, I asked him where his underwear was. “I didn’t have any on,” he answered. So we had to have a little chat about going commando.) We landed in Toronto and began whittling away at our 5 hour layover. I had been dreading this part of the trip more than anything. We tossed around the idea of going into the city, but decided against it. After having a mediocre lunch, the kids discovered two bronze tiger statues. Judging from the padded flooring underneath the statues, they were intended as playthings. The statues were like boxes on Christmas morning: they were little more than a spectacle to adults with our limited imaginations, but to two kids they were ripe with possibility. By the time they were through enjoying the tiger pair, we were halfway through the layover.
We made our way to the Air Canada lounge that Bill could access through his US Airways Gold Membership. Now I should preface all this by admitting that I have little sympathy for Bill’s travel-heavy schedule. The way I see it, he flies business class to some of the greatest cities on earth, stays in swanky hotels, and enjoy sumptuous meals while I’m at home feeding the kids mac-n-cheese. He should have never let me in on the lounge experience because whatever little sympathy I had for his travel weary bones evaporated immediately. What a place: free food, free booze, free magazines & newspapers, comfortable chairs. It was like being in the luxury box after spending your whole life in nosebleed seats. Well, I’m assuming that is what it is like having never actually been in a luxury box. The kids settled into a movie on their portable DVD player and Bill and I settled into our naugahyde chairs.
While we were sitting there I mentioned to Bill that my friend Julie had asked me how his recent trip to Australia was. I had to admit to her that I had no idea because Bill and I had not actually had a conversation beyond, “Do this, Do that” since he had returned the week before. We had been so busy preparing for the trip that we had not actually had a conversation in nearly three weeks. So we enjoyed two hours of catching up while we waited for our next flight.
We boarded our flight to Frankfurt and were pleased to discover that it was a brand new jet with personal entertainment centers. Other than incredibly slow cabin service (they didn’t turn out the lights until over 3 hours into the flight) and my missing dairy free meal, all went well. Aidan slept for over 4 hours, thanks to Atarax (we are not above drugging our kids so when they turn into potheads we’ll know who to blame) and Amelia watched A LOT of TV. We deplaned tired and hungry but glad that the bulk of our trip was over. After a three hour lay over in Frankfurt and a seamless flight to Florence, our 21 hours of traveling was over.
We checked into our hotel and immediately set out in search of the Duomo and gelato. I have already been to Florence and still found the sight of the Duomo overwhelming. It is such an imposing building on such a small square. In some ways it is unfortunate because it is nearly impossible to view it unobstructed. But the geometric patterns of white, green, and pink are simply stunning. Well, at least they were to me, the kids were less than impressed. Who cares about some old church, where’s the ice cream? So we followed their lead, ate some ice cream, and returned to the hotel for much needed sleep. This was an amateur travel mistake: failing to resist the need for sleep instead of immediately getting on local time. We paid for this choice later than night when Aidan was up coloring in the bathroom until the wee hours of the morning. After our nap we headed out for a terrific meal on a vine covered terrace and all was well.
The real fun started the next morning when we had to get nine bags from our hotel to the train station. We discovered upon arrival that I cannot walk and carry/drag luggage simultaneously. This did not impose a problem given that we took a taxi directly to our hotel. Our hotel was just across the street from Stazione Santa Maria Novella, but what a street. We had to cross multiple lanes of chaotic traffic. Aidan and I crossed first carrying several small bags and dragging suitcases. Bill carried the bigger bags in multiple trips while Amelia stood guard with the remaining bags. By the time we got to the top of the stairs (there are no ramps on the left side of S.M.N, plan accordingly), I was struggling to breathe and generating stares from fellow travelers. With the recent TB scare perhaps they thought I was a carrier. I have to admit that sitting on the station stairs I was feeling a little panicked. I was embarking on a 7 week journey through Italy and I couldn’t walk and drag a suitcase at the same time. “How exactly was this going to work?” I thought to myself. Not to mention the far greater realization that my lungs had clearly worsened considerably in the 16 months since we had gone to Greece.
We managed to get our many bags onto the train to Perugia. The kids settled into the nth viewing of Shrek 2 on the portable DVD and I tried to recover from the morning’s overexertion. In Perugia we were met by the secretary and graduate student of Bill’s colleague Lugina who thankfully transported us to our humble abode (more on that later). As we traveled through the town, it became painfully clear that Perugia was the hilliest place I had ever seen. It made San Francisco look like Kansas. “How am I going to manage with my shitty lungs?” I thought fearfully as I glanced out the car window. I have always loved to travel and generally crave the unexpected when I am overseas, but for the first time in my life I wished I had never left home.
Back in Time
Our housing here was arranged through the university and in typical Italian fashion we received virtually no information about the arrangements. We had been told it would cost 20 euros a week which seemed to be (and, is in fact) too good to be true. We had been told there was A/C which, it turns out, is also too good to be true. We are living in a dorm. The kids have one room and Bill and I have another. Fortunately, we are in a suite together with a small “kitchen.” Well, kitchen is a gross overstatement. There is a cooktop, 2 dorm refrigerators, and a small sink. But there is no oven, no dishes, no kitchen supplies of any kind. We purchased table setting for 6, a 2-quart saucepan, a frying pan, silverware, and the cheapest toaster oven we could find. The toaster oven gets so hot I’m afraid it will melt the plastic on top of the fridge. As you can imagine, cooking dinner nightly is a challenge but we seem to be making do. There is no key for the suite door so I have to go to sleep every night hoping the kids don’t wake up and wander about the place and, similarly, that no one else wanders into the suite. In America this would make me crazy, I figure there are fewer psychopaths here.
There’s nothing like living in a dorm to make you realize how drastically life has changed in 15+ years. Bill and I spent the first three nights sleeping separately in our twin beds. We are far too old to even think about spooning together like college kids. Eventually it dawned on us to rearrange the furniture so that we can at least sleep next to each other’s beds. Our dorm mates can be a little rowdy into the wee hours and the birds wake at 4:30 to feast on the cherries hanging off the tree outside our window (which must stay open because there is no A/C). Thanks to Robitussin with Codeine, I am sleeping anyway. Bill could sleep through the second coming of Christ so the noise is a non-issue for him. And something is biting me at night, I’m hoping it’s not fleas.
So, needless to say the first few days have been a little bumpy …
Despite the less than ideal living quarters, the dorm is centrally located near the Centro Storico and we can pop up to the city center on the scala mobile (outdoor escalators – I was not shitting you when I said it was the hilliest place that I have ever seen – thankfully there are a lot of them here) to enjoy the evening passegiata. While Perugia’s main streets are pretty desolate in the heat of the midday sun, the town comes alive in the early evening when the locals enjoy their pre-dinner stroll. There are two universities here: the University of Perugia and the University for Foreigners. Consequently, the town has a very young and international feel to it. Evening is really the time to enjoy Perugia. Given Perugia’s perch setting, the view from the city center is breathtaking.
The Unexpected
Our trip began with the discovery that we had exceeded the luggage maximum for two of our bags. At first we thought we merely had to pay a fee but we then discovered that we could not, in fact, put our bags on the flight. Before we erupted into panic, the clerk informed us that American Airways sold extra bags for just this reason. I raced to American Airlines to purchase a bag where, of course, I discovered that they only take cash. So, off I went to the ATM and $30 later I had another (flimsy) bag. We rearranged our baggage while I was kicking myself for deciding that two of our bags should be Amelia and Aidan’s tiny suitcases so that they could be responsible for their own bags when I traveled alone with them.
Amazingly our first flight was almost completely uneventful. The only incident was Amelia spilling water all over Aidan half-way through our first of three flights. Thankfully I had packed a change of clothes for both children so a crisis was averted. (When Aidan returned after changing and handed me only wet shorts, I asked him where his underwear was. “I didn’t have any on,” he answered. So we had to have a little chat about going commando.) We landed in Toronto and began whittling away at our 5 hour layover. I had been dreading this part of the trip more than anything. We tossed around the idea of going into the city, but decided against it. After having a mediocre lunch, the kids discovered two bronze tiger statues. Judging from the padded flooring underneath the statues, they were intended as playthings. The statues were like boxes on Christmas morning: they were little more than a spectacle to adults with our limited imaginations, but to two kids they were ripe with possibility. By the time they were through enjoying the tiger pair, we were halfway through the layover.
We made our way to the Air Canada lounge that Bill could access through his US Airways Gold Membership. Now I should preface all this by admitting that I have little sympathy for Bill’s travel-heavy schedule. The way I see it, he flies business class to some of the greatest cities on earth, stays in swanky hotels, and enjoy sumptuous meals while I’m at home feeding the kids mac-n-cheese. He should have never let me in on the lounge experience because whatever little sympathy I had for his travel weary bones evaporated immediately. What a place: free food, free booze, free magazines & newspapers, comfortable chairs. It was like being in the luxury box after spending your whole life in nosebleed seats. Well, I’m assuming that is what it is like having never actually been in a luxury box. The kids settled into a movie on their portable DVD player and Bill and I settled into our naugahyde chairs.
While we were sitting there I mentioned to Bill that my friend Julie had asked me how his recent trip to Australia was. I had to admit to her that I had no idea because Bill and I had not actually had a conversation beyond, “Do this, Do that” since he had returned the week before. We had been so busy preparing for the trip that we had not actually had a conversation in nearly three weeks. So we enjoyed two hours of catching up while we waited for our next flight.
We boarded our flight to Frankfurt and were pleased to discover that it was a brand new jet with personal entertainment centers. Other than incredibly slow cabin service (they didn’t turn out the lights until over 3 hours into the flight) and my missing dairy free meal, all went well. Aidan slept for over 4 hours, thanks to Atarax (we are not above drugging our kids so when they turn into potheads we’ll know who to blame) and Amelia watched A LOT of TV. We deplaned tired and hungry but glad that the bulk of our trip was over. After a three hour lay over in Frankfurt and a seamless flight to Florence, our 21 hours of traveling was over.
We checked into our hotel and immediately set out in search of the Duomo and gelato. I have already been to Florence and still found the sight of the Duomo overwhelming. It is such an imposing building on such a small square. In some ways it is unfortunate because it is nearly impossible to view it unobstructed. But the geometric patterns of white, green, and pink are simply stunning. Well, at least they were to me, the kids were less than impressed. Who cares about some old church, where’s the ice cream? So we followed their lead, ate some ice cream, and returned to the hotel for much needed sleep. This was an amateur travel mistake: failing to resist the need for sleep instead of immediately getting on local time. We paid for this choice later than night when Aidan was up coloring in the bathroom until the wee hours of the morning. After our nap we headed out for a terrific meal on a vine covered terrace and all was well.
The real fun started the next morning when we had to get nine bags from our hotel to the train station. We discovered upon arrival that I cannot walk and carry/drag luggage simultaneously. This did not impose a problem given that we took a taxi directly to our hotel. Our hotel was just across the street from Stazione Santa Maria Novella, but what a street. We had to cross multiple lanes of chaotic traffic. Aidan and I crossed first carrying several small bags and dragging suitcases. Bill carried the bigger bags in multiple trips while Amelia stood guard with the remaining bags. By the time we got to the top of the stairs (there are no ramps on the left side of S.M.N, plan accordingly), I was struggling to breathe and generating stares from fellow travelers. With the recent TB scare perhaps they thought I was a carrier. I have to admit that sitting on the station stairs I was feeling a little panicked. I was embarking on a 7 week journey through Italy and I couldn’t walk and drag a suitcase at the same time. “How exactly was this going to work?” I thought to myself. Not to mention the far greater realization that my lungs had clearly worsened considerably in the 16 months since we had gone to Greece.
We managed to get our many bags onto the train to Perugia. The kids settled into the nth viewing of Shrek 2 on the portable DVD and I tried to recover from the morning’s overexertion. In Perugia we were met by the secretary and graduate student of Bill’s colleague Lugina who thankfully transported us to our humble abode (more on that later). As we traveled through the town, it became painfully clear that Perugia was the hilliest place I had ever seen. It made San Francisco look like Kansas. “How am I going to manage with my shitty lungs?” I thought fearfully as I glanced out the car window. I have always loved to travel and generally crave the unexpected when I am overseas, but for the first time in my life I wished I had never left home.
Back in Time
Our housing here was arranged through the university and in typical Italian fashion we received virtually no information about the arrangements. We had been told it would cost 20 euros a week which seemed to be (and, is in fact) too good to be true. We had been told there was A/C which, it turns out, is also too good to be true. We are living in a dorm. The kids have one room and Bill and I have another. Fortunately, we are in a suite together with a small “kitchen.” Well, kitchen is a gross overstatement. There is a cooktop, 2 dorm refrigerators, and a small sink. But there is no oven, no dishes, no kitchen supplies of any kind. We purchased table setting for 6, a 2-quart saucepan, a frying pan, silverware, and the cheapest toaster oven we could find. The toaster oven gets so hot I’m afraid it will melt the plastic on top of the fridge. As you can imagine, cooking dinner nightly is a challenge but we seem to be making do. There is no key for the suite door so I have to go to sleep every night hoping the kids don’t wake up and wander about the place and, similarly, that no one else wanders into the suite. In America this would make me crazy, I figure there are fewer psychopaths here.
There’s nothing like living in a dorm to make you realize how drastically life has changed in 15+ years. Bill and I spent the first three nights sleeping separately in our twin beds. We are far too old to even think about spooning together like college kids. Eventually it dawned on us to rearrange the furniture so that we can at least sleep next to each other’s beds. Our dorm mates can be a little rowdy into the wee hours and the birds wake at 4:30 to feast on the cherries hanging off the tree outside our window (which must stay open because there is no A/C). Thanks to Robitussin with Codeine, I am sleeping anyway. Bill could sleep through the second coming of Christ so the noise is a non-issue for him. And something is biting me at night, I’m hoping it’s not fleas.
So, needless to say the first few days have been a little bumpy …
Despite the less than ideal living quarters, the dorm is centrally located near the Centro Storico and we can pop up to the city center on the scala mobile (outdoor escalators – I was not shitting you when I said it was the hilliest place that I have ever seen – thankfully there are a lot of them here) to enjoy the evening passegiata. While Perugia’s main streets are pretty desolate in the heat of the midday sun, the town comes alive in the early evening when the locals enjoy their pre-dinner stroll. There are two universities here: the University of Perugia and the University for Foreigners. Consequently, the town has a very young and international feel to it. Evening is really the time to enjoy Perugia. Given Perugia’s perch setting, the view from the city center is breathtaking.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Oxygen
A recently popular song captured my attention. I liked it so much that I finally caved in and learned to download music from the internet. I tend to adopt new technologies very late in the game and need a really compelling reason to plunge into mastering a new device or gadget of any kind (unless it's related to cooking, in which case I must have it immediately).
The song was "Bubbly" by Coco Caillet. I like the song because the lyrics remind me of when Bill and I were dating.
I've been awake for a while now
You've got me feelin' like a child now
'Cause every time I see your bubbly face
I get the tingles in a silly place
It starts in my toes
And I crinkle my nose
Wherever it goes I always know
That you make me smile
Please stay for a while now
Just take your time
Wherever you go
Every time I hear the song I feel transported back to our courtship and the way Bill always made me smile and laugh. He literally came into my life without bringing any angst or bad feelings at all. We were always so happy together.
Whenever the song came on the radio, Bill turned the volume up so I knew that Bill loved the song too. Wanting to get the song for Bill without having to drag myself to Barnes and Noble, I braved the iTunes store. After listening to samples of the entire album I decided to download it en totale. Then I even went a step further and burned a CD (all together now: "Ooo! Ah!").
The first track on the album is called "Oxygen." I love the song, but the lyrics make me sniffle because I want so much to make Bill this same promise but I cannot.
Oh baby if I was your lady
I would make you happy
I'm never gonna leave,
Never gonna leave
It makes me sad when I think of how far Bill and I have come and the amazing marriage we have built together. It seems so unfair that my disease will take that away from us. But, secretly, I know scleroderma really gave it to us.
Kirk Douglas published an essay in Newsweek's My Turn column this week (they never publish my essays when I send them). In it he wrote, "The greatest dividend to old age is the discovery of the true meaning of love. When I was younger, my sense of love was not very deep ... Growing older brought me closer to my wife. It was like looking at her for the first time. I got to know who she was, and she really got to know me." I used to pine for the fact that Bill and I would not grow old together. In fact, I cried about that just last Sunday with my friend, Meade, who brings me communion when I cannot make it to Mass. But after reading Douglas' essay I realize that we have grown old together. Our lives just got compressed into a smaller period of time, and we are experiencing all the benefits and wisdom of old age but doing so far ahead of schedule.
I realize now that a chronologically shorter life is not necessarily incomplete. I once heard a sermon about the difference between the Greek Kronos, which refers to chronological time and Kairos, which I have heard referred to as "God's time" or an undefined period of time in which something significant happens. The former is quantitative; the latter is qualitative. As I sit here writing this I am struck but how powerful the concept of Kairos can be. What if we switched our conception of a lifetime from something defined by a quantity of time a la Kronos to a period during which something significant happens a la Kairos. Wouldn't that change all of us dramatically? I could stop mourning the time I will "lose" and focus on the time I have had, the time I still have. That's a powerful shift.
Also on the topic of oxygen, I am now on oxygen at night and it seems to be helping me sleep a little better. It doesn't help my shortness of breath during the day, but it's nice to at least have the nights be a little better.
Friday, August 8, 2008
A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On
Those among you who don't believe in spirits may not enjoy today's post much. I've always been a skeptic, but I am no longer doubtful.
I had an appointment with my psychologist this past Tuesday and I asked Bill to go with me. Over the past several months I have noticed that my mental health plummets with every physical downturn, leaving Bill to prop me up until my body returns to some semblance of normalcy. I hoped my therapist could help Bill and me develop some coping skills to prevent the inevitable downturns in my physical health from devolving into mental tailspins.
Among the many things discussed at my appointment was the need for me to create a safe space where I feel peaceful. Fortunately we are already in the process of creating that oasis for me. Thanks to Dave and one of his friends, the room in a lovely shade of green, reminiscent of shaded stalks of bamboo. We recently received the overstuffed chair and ottoman we ordered months ago. The fabric is a rich cream with red, orange, yellow and green Oriental poppies. In this large chair I look like Lily Tomlin as Edith Ann (see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ocBO0fr1Ui4 to revisit this character). I can easily fit one of the kids into the chair with me, which makes for lovely snuggling time. We picked out cabinets and bookcases back in January, but the room preparations stalled because the money we set aside for the room went to Duke Hospital for my winter and spring adventures. I have spent money in far more enjoyable ways.
Out of the blue my mother called me last week and said, “Your Dad and I want to give you the money to finish your home office.” It is so like them to give what they have to their children rather than spend it on themselves. All our lives, they went without so that we could go to private schools and colleges. They gave us just the right amount, providing the things that were valuable without spoiling us or indulging us in every fad. This part of parenting they executed perfectly, far better than Bill and I do in our own family.
I was overcome by the gesture but quickly recovered and ordered the furniture. I started to dream of finally having my own sanctuary. I placed pictures in the frames that I bought for the room many months ago, threw away the accumulated clutter, and organized neat stacks of the items that I needed to keep.
From the garage I carried the framed quote from Dwight D. Eisenhower that used to hang in my office at work, “Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children.” Bill and I found the quote in an antique story when we were dating and it summed up our shared worldview perfectly. I always hung it in my business offices as a daily reminder of my desire to use my work to better the lives of children.
I described the room to my therapist and also mentioned that I planned to create a little altar to contain the various amulets that friends have given to me over the years and during the recent worsening of my illness. They include, among other things, my grandmother Amelia’s Italian bible and crucifix, a small framed quote painted for me by my friend Angela when my house burnt down in graduate school, a charm of the Chinese goddess of mercy from Nina, a crystal given to me by my friend Kim who had received it from her mother, an angel statue from my friend Jennifer, and many more.
“Ok, so you have a sanctuary, and you have sacred objects,” my therapist observed, “Now you need a guide.”
The appropriate guide is obvious to me: my grandmother, Amelia. While I never knew my grandmother in any real sense, I know that I carry her with me. I feel her in my ability to sew despite never having been taught as if her seamstress genes just became manifest one day. I must have also inherited her genes for candor and irreverence, her love of food, and her predilection for cursing. And, unfortunately, I also inherited the gene or cluster of genes that would ultimately sentence me to suffer from pulmonary fibrosis, the disease that took her life. Her fibrosis came by way of sarcoidosis rather than scleroderma but the result was the same nonetheless.
Sometimes I feel like I am on some a journey that parallels hers some 40 years later. My grandmother became an American citizen but she always longed for her family back in Italy. When she retired, she went to see her family a few times. On what was fated to be her last trip, she disembarked in Philadelphia where my mother greeted her, “I knew as soon as she walked of off the pier that she was sick,” my mother often told me. But I guess my grandmother withheld information or made light of it so as not to worry her pregnant daughters. I thought of my grandmother so much last summer when I was struggling in Italy; this time I would be the one coming home to America very ill.
When I was 4 years old I came down to breakfast one morning, “Mom, Grandma came to see me last night.” “Uh-huh,” my mom replied, thanking God that I started kindergarten a year early so she didn’t have to put up with my incessant chatter all day long. “She was wearing a really pretty pink dress,” I continued. My mother’s ears perked up, “Can you describe the dress?” she asked. Apparently I described the dress my grandmother was laid out it -- the lace, the buttons, the design -- down to remarkable detail. My mother was stunned because I was an infant at the time and there are no pictures of the viewing. “Did she say anything?” I told my mother that Grandma told me who she was and that she would lie down with me for a little while, “Then she got up, put on her glasses, and told me to be a good girl for Mommy."
"Then, she said that she would come back to see me someday.”
I, of course, have no recollection of this happening and spent my entire childhood petrified that Grandma was going to pop up when I least expected her.
Over the past 6 months, in my physical pain and mental despair, I would often call out to her, “Grandma, please come to me. You said you would come back.” But there was never an answer. Six weeks ago, that changed.
On the drive home from the therapist I turned to Bill, who seemed out of place in the passenger's seat.
“I told you about the shaking, right?”
“No.”
Bill does not entertain beliefs in ghosts or spirits. This past weekend we were discussing what life would be like when I am gone. I promised him that my spirit would stay with him until he fell in love again, “Then I will leave you alone, unless she is a bitch. In that case I will haunt both of you.” Bill laughed and shook his head at me. Apparently he thought the comment was made in jest.
So I told him my story, knowing full well he would think that I was nuts. One morning I overslept and Bill and the kids were gone for the day when I awoke. I felt the bed shaking. I assumed it was Watson so I called to him. But he was not in the room. “I have got to stop taking so many drugs,” I thought to myself. Then the bed shook again, hard. “Ok, that was not drug induced,” I got up and looked around the room but found nothing unusual. I lay back done again and, once again, the bed shook hard. “Grandma, is that you?” I called out and the shaking ceased.
I looked at Bill after finishing, fully expecting to find him smirking at me. Instead his face was poker straight, “When did this happen?” he asked. The first time? About 6 weeks ago. And three times since then. “It happened to me last night,” he confessed, “I looked at you and you were sound asleep and still. Then it happened again.”
We were both quiet for a few moments. There we were two scientists, both logical to a fault, facing the reality that we had both experienced the same supernatural occurrence in the same place at different times.
Then a funny thought crossed my mind. Maybe Bill’s grandfather, Mel, had met Amelia. I had this funny vision of these two little old people running around our bed like children at play, seeing who could shake harder and wanting desperately for us to know that they are here.
Yesterday morning when I awoke, someone was holding my hand. I assumed it was Bill, but when I opened my eyes I discovered that Bill was not in the room. I looked at my cupped hand: It was empty, but it felt like someone else’s hand was there. Then it happened again this morning.
Maybe I am crazy, but I don’t think so. Someone is with me, and I finally feel safe and settled.
I had an appointment with my psychologist this past Tuesday and I asked Bill to go with me. Over the past several months I have noticed that my mental health plummets with every physical downturn, leaving Bill to prop me up until my body returns to some semblance of normalcy. I hoped my therapist could help Bill and me develop some coping skills to prevent the inevitable downturns in my physical health from devolving into mental tailspins.
Among the many things discussed at my appointment was the need for me to create a safe space where I feel peaceful. Fortunately we are already in the process of creating that oasis for me. Thanks to Dave and one of his friends, the room in a lovely shade of green, reminiscent of shaded stalks of bamboo. We recently received the overstuffed chair and ottoman we ordered months ago. The fabric is a rich cream with red, orange, yellow and green Oriental poppies. In this large chair I look like Lily Tomlin as Edith Ann (see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ocBO0fr1Ui4 to revisit this character). I can easily fit one of the kids into the chair with me, which makes for lovely snuggling time. We picked out cabinets and bookcases back in January, but the room preparations stalled because the money we set aside for the room went to Duke Hospital for my winter and spring adventures. I have spent money in far more enjoyable ways.
Out of the blue my mother called me last week and said, “Your Dad and I want to give you the money to finish your home office.” It is so like them to give what they have to their children rather than spend it on themselves. All our lives, they went without so that we could go to private schools and colleges. They gave us just the right amount, providing the things that were valuable without spoiling us or indulging us in every fad. This part of parenting they executed perfectly, far better than Bill and I do in our own family.
I was overcome by the gesture but quickly recovered and ordered the furniture. I started to dream of finally having my own sanctuary. I placed pictures in the frames that I bought for the room many months ago, threw away the accumulated clutter, and organized neat stacks of the items that I needed to keep.
From the garage I carried the framed quote from Dwight D. Eisenhower that used to hang in my office at work, “Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children.” Bill and I found the quote in an antique story when we were dating and it summed up our shared worldview perfectly. I always hung it in my business offices as a daily reminder of my desire to use my work to better the lives of children.
I described the room to my therapist and also mentioned that I planned to create a little altar to contain the various amulets that friends have given to me over the years and during the recent worsening of my illness. They include, among other things, my grandmother Amelia’s Italian bible and crucifix, a small framed quote painted for me by my friend Angela when my house burnt down in graduate school, a charm of the Chinese goddess of mercy from Nina, a crystal given to me by my friend Kim who had received it from her mother, an angel statue from my friend Jennifer, and many more.
“Ok, so you have a sanctuary, and you have sacred objects,” my therapist observed, “Now you need a guide.”
The appropriate guide is obvious to me: my grandmother, Amelia. While I never knew my grandmother in any real sense, I know that I carry her with me. I feel her in my ability to sew despite never having been taught as if her seamstress genes just became manifest one day. I must have also inherited her genes for candor and irreverence, her love of food, and her predilection for cursing. And, unfortunately, I also inherited the gene or cluster of genes that would ultimately sentence me to suffer from pulmonary fibrosis, the disease that took her life. Her fibrosis came by way of sarcoidosis rather than scleroderma but the result was the same nonetheless.
Sometimes I feel like I am on some a journey that parallels hers some 40 years later. My grandmother became an American citizen but she always longed for her family back in Italy. When she retired, she went to see her family a few times. On what was fated to be her last trip, she disembarked in Philadelphia where my mother greeted her, “I knew as soon as she walked of off the pier that she was sick,” my mother often told me. But I guess my grandmother withheld information or made light of it so as not to worry her pregnant daughters. I thought of my grandmother so much last summer when I was struggling in Italy; this time I would be the one coming home to America very ill.
When I was 4 years old I came down to breakfast one morning, “Mom, Grandma came to see me last night.” “Uh-huh,” my mom replied, thanking God that I started kindergarten a year early so she didn’t have to put up with my incessant chatter all day long. “She was wearing a really pretty pink dress,” I continued. My mother’s ears perked up, “Can you describe the dress?” she asked. Apparently I described the dress my grandmother was laid out it -- the lace, the buttons, the design -- down to remarkable detail. My mother was stunned because I was an infant at the time and there are no pictures of the viewing. “Did she say anything?” I told my mother that Grandma told me who she was and that she would lie down with me for a little while, “Then she got up, put on her glasses, and told me to be a good girl for Mommy."
"Then, she said that she would come back to see me someday.”
I, of course, have no recollection of this happening and spent my entire childhood petrified that Grandma was going to pop up when I least expected her.
Over the past 6 months, in my physical pain and mental despair, I would often call out to her, “Grandma, please come to me. You said you would come back.” But there was never an answer. Six weeks ago, that changed.
On the drive home from the therapist I turned to Bill, who seemed out of place in the passenger's seat.
“I told you about the shaking, right?”
“No.”
Bill does not entertain beliefs in ghosts or spirits. This past weekend we were discussing what life would be like when I am gone. I promised him that my spirit would stay with him until he fell in love again, “Then I will leave you alone, unless she is a bitch. In that case I will haunt both of you.” Bill laughed and shook his head at me. Apparently he thought the comment was made in jest.
So I told him my story, knowing full well he would think that I was nuts. One morning I overslept and Bill and the kids were gone for the day when I awoke. I felt the bed shaking. I assumed it was Watson so I called to him. But he was not in the room. “I have got to stop taking so many drugs,” I thought to myself. Then the bed shook again, hard. “Ok, that was not drug induced,” I got up and looked around the room but found nothing unusual. I lay back done again and, once again, the bed shook hard. “Grandma, is that you?” I called out and the shaking ceased.
I looked at Bill after finishing, fully expecting to find him smirking at me. Instead his face was poker straight, “When did this happen?” he asked. The first time? About 6 weeks ago. And three times since then. “It happened to me last night,” he confessed, “I looked at you and you were sound asleep and still. Then it happened again.”
We were both quiet for a few moments. There we were two scientists, both logical to a fault, facing the reality that we had both experienced the same supernatural occurrence in the same place at different times.
Then a funny thought crossed my mind. Maybe Bill’s grandfather, Mel, had met Amelia. I had this funny vision of these two little old people running around our bed like children at play, seeing who could shake harder and wanting desperately for us to know that they are here.
Yesterday morning when I awoke, someone was holding my hand. I assumed it was Bill, but when I opened my eyes I discovered that Bill was not in the room. I looked at my cupped hand: It was empty, but it felt like someone else’s hand was there. Then it happened again this morning.
Maybe I am crazy, but I don’t think so. Someone is with me, and I finally feel safe and settled.
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