With the first week of school under our belt, life should settle into a comfortable, but relentless pace.  Sounds dramatic, even if it isn’t wholly accurate.  Suffice it to say it should be relentless for the RTR and I, who are most comfortable in our house potato state.

We prefer to characterize ourselves as easily entertained.  Simply entertained?  Okay, how about low maintenance in the entertainment department.

The junior year in high school blew in for my youngest this past week, and with it the expectations of a cool 150 pages of U.S. History and exam each week, and a studio art class that will, by the end of the year, allow him to produce a portfolio that is quite the humdinger.  There’s a project due every Friday and with the supplies and studio fee, the MoH’s plastic is about $375 heavier.  Unbelievable.

The decision to take Statistics instead of Calculus seems to be working — sure there’s homework every night, too, but it’s the “easy” class and he gets that done first.  Physics fits in here somewhere, but I haven’t figured that out yet.  The English teacher seems to be nowhere in sight.  AGAIN.  I know that this recurring theme is some perverse punishment meant solely for me — dedicated English teacher and passionate writing teacher that I once was.

The English teacher is the only one of his teachers that didn’t send home a syllabus.  I’ve never figured out how that’s even ethical…  Okay, so, here’s my kid for a year.  Teach him, but I don’t need to know anything about any of your plans because I’m just supposed to trust that you’re a professional, because you know, all teachers are professionals and have the exact same practices, right?  And that when my kid begins to show signs of faltering, and he will, trust me, that we will have absolutely nothing to go on to pitch in and support him like we know you expect us to, or we’ll be forever known as slacker parents, which wouldn’t be true, but you’d think it anyways.

You can tell I’m pretty much over school right?

Between my own education, my career, my boys education…I dunno.  I think I gave at the office.  But I think I’m going to enjoy my job as Chief Buttress in the History and Art departments this year.

Ah, yep.

Today is my birthday.  And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.

I’m 52 years old.  Not 52 years young, or 52 years better.  It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.

Fifty-two.

The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.

I beg to differ.

Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television.  Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”

Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.

I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over.  Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity. Um, no thanks.

I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:

1. Be an optimist.  It’s more efficient.  But Murphy does exist, so if you acknowledge that and prepare yourself, things actually work out.
2. Really bad things can happen to you and you will get over them, but may always struggle to find even a thread of patience with those who insist upon wallowing in self pity.  Try anyway.
3. You can find beauty in just about anything with little or no effort.  People who can’t see it aren’t looking close enough.



4. Be generous with yourself.  It makes no sense to wait around for someone else to do it.
5. Absolutely nothing horrible happens when you leave dishes in the sink at night, or your bed unmade in the morning.
6. Acknowledge and work on your own shortcomings and you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to criticize others for theirs.
7. It is more than possible to enjoy your own kids as teenagers.  I’ve done it three times, and wouldn’t trade those years for toddlerhood if you paid me.
8. Life is too short to eat packaged food made with highly processed ingredients.  Learn how to cook with fresh ingredients.  Yes, you have time.  You’re welcome.



9. The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly.  A bottle of wine can help.
10. Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
11. It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
12. It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world.  It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
13. Good friends are priceless.
14. Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise.  Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
15. It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth.  Well, mine is.

So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me!  Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better.  It’s all about attitude.

And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.

Once in a while, if I’m waiting in the line at the grocery store long enough, like others, I scan the covers of magazines.  I glance past Gourmet, Bon Appetit, and Food & Wine, because I have those and others at home in some state of being dissected, stickered and splattered with my latest gastronomical creation.  Instead, Style, Town & Country, or Vogue coerces me to lift it from the rack after a silent argument with myself about not needing another magazine in the house, a five-dollar magazine, a magazine that has absolutely nothing to do with me.

But right before the clerk grabs the last item on the conveyor belt, I throw the glossy — and not quite as thick as the September issue will be — August issue of Vogue toward her, and avert my gaze from her glance as she correctly sizes me up as the poser I am.

I have succumbed to “The AGE(LESS) ISSUE,” it seems which is “Vogue’s Guide to Looking Amazing at Every Decade, On any budget, Through Every Season.”

And then there is always that piece on “Beauty Fixes for Your Knees & Arms.”

Knees, maybe, since I’ve always thought I had knees that resembled a cow’s.  But I’m sort of speechless over the whole idea of someone being insecure about a flap of skin on her upper arm.  Not the one in the back, or the one that sort of waggles when your arm isn’t flexed.  The one on the front.

Come on.  Go to a mirror right now and look.  Look at that place right where your chest meets your arm.  You know — in front of your armpit.  Yes, there.  Poke it.

You have a fold of skin, right?  Sure, yours may be larger or smaller than mine, but it’s there most likely.  Or, maybe not.  It seems it has little to do with weight considering the venerable Vera Wang believes that, “The armpit is nasty, nasty.  Even young girls can have this problem.”  How sad considering young girls already have so many far more important problems with measuring up to others’ standards.  But evidently, this armpit debacle is extremely disturbing to some women — or the men who live with them and who tell them halter tops shouldn’t be worn.

The MoH is far too intelligent a human to even consider suggesting that I should or shouldn’t wear a particular item, not only because he knows I’ve already scrutinized myself a thousand times over, but that my heat-seeking missles would in an instant vaporize his tongue before his brain could transmit the thought.

The article, which to be fair, is written with some self-deprecating humor (the author tells of being obsessed about one part of her body or another — her fat thighs, nasolabial folds, elbows, but just wasn’t ready for the armpit), but I don’t think it’s all that funny.  I’m stuck on the concept of the armpit flap and how women can’t see what is lovely about their bodies, and unique.  Individual.

I try to understand that as much as I search for the perfect light cast on an artistically mussed salad or perfectly shaped peach,  some women obsess about armpit folds.  They do exercises for their armpit folds, and search for designers whose style works to hide that apparently unsightly flap of skin.  They wonder whether there is a procedure or treatment to rid themselves of its offensive presence.

Who.  Knew?

I’m still looking at my arm pits and wondering — not about my armpits, but about women who routinely have something nipped and waxed, sanded and plucked, injected or tucked — and pay handsomely for it.

Supposedly, it’s all the rage to make small adjustments along the way so no one notices.

Somehow, I can’t take any of it seriously.  Another article illustrates how women should dress in each decade of their lives is unrealistic, that is unless I want to spend a fortune to look great on my leg of carpool duty, or when I pop the garage door open to roll in the trash cans.  Surely my neighbors would talk if I appeared to be too fashionable on these quotidian occasions.

Or would they simply not notice, distracted by my armpit flap and wanting desperately to recommend me to their plastic surgeon?

The Resident Teen Rocker turned 16 while we were in Italy last month. Other than giving him a card that had our family’s required elements of butts, farting, or both, and singing Happy Birthday as horribly as we pridefully aim to, he didn’t have a candle to blow out. Now that I think of it, that’s kind of rude, but I’ll make it up before school begins.

Speaking of school and rudeness, the enormous registration packet came in the mail yesterday, and since he’s the one who retrieves the mail from our box each day, the look on his face told all. You’d have thought he had a bite of a bad frozen burrito. I mentioned that I wasn’t looking forward to him going back to school, either, and pondered the possibilities of running away from home with him to avoid the inevitable. Instead, I told him to get his calendar marked up so he could enjoy what was left of his summer, and start hitting the sack sometime before dawn, or at least make a half-assed attempt.  I still can’t figure out how in hell I raised a kid who dislikes school as intensely as he does.  Not that there isn’t much to dislike, mind you.

Every other summer of his life, the RTR has had an agenda. It hasn’t kept him hopping as much as the MoH would have liked, but that’s because it was organized primarily to keep him occupied while we were at work.  A variety of YMCA Camps, San Diego Zoo Camp, Balboa Park, ID Tech Camp at UCSD, Camp Gramma, you name it, he’s been there.

But not last year. Summer school was supposed to happen but mysteriously never did, so I gave the RTR some projects I thought he might enjoy, and learn from. I know. Deadly. Ironically, he was assigned a project in his art class last semester that required a bit of research and wonder of all wonders!  He remembered the summer work he’d done and was able to make use of it for his presentation. Amazingly resourceful when he wants to be.

Like this past weekend. We finally made it to Ikea to purchase the finishing touches for his bedroom. Not too long ago, we painted his room with colors he chose, the MoH changed all the dull switch plates, and  I put up some new shades. (Of course, the shade pulls are already hanging in shreds leaving one shade unworkable, but it was swell while it lasted.)

After cruising through the showroom maze at Ikea, the RTR chose a double bed, a larger work table, and a chair that looks way too comfortable for the homework that he will definitely have with the schedule he chose (Statistics, Physics, AP American History, AP Studio Art, American Lit, and Woodshop. Yes, that’s right. Woodshop.) He is soooooooo having homework. I’m wincing just thinking about it.

So yes, after the three of us removed the boxes we’d wedged into my mother’s borrowed Escape, we schlepped them into the livingroom to sit. I told the RT it was his job and that if he needed help, he knew where his dad was. I, on the other hand, went to the grocery store.

Bear in mind that for the RT to approach any aspect of this gargantuan task, he had to clean his room. Pigs would fly first. But he’s very creative and found a way to move things around so he could work. You know, have a bit of elbow room and squeeze space allowance for toilet use?

When I returned from the store, he’d made quite a bit of progress and was just beginning to take the big red bunk bed he’s had since his fifth birthday apart. I could get all misty-eyed right now, but won’t.

I heard him call from upstairs, “Mom. There’s a funny looking flat screw thing that has a hole in it with edges…”

Now, I knew this would get his attention, and called up to him about whether he knew where the allen wrenches were tucked in his dad’s trusty tool box. No he couldn’t find them, and yes, I walked up the stairs to show him where they were. I also stayed long enough to gently ask him whether starting with a screw at the bottom of the bed was a good idea, and whether there might be some unexpected happenings as a result of that decision.

“Oh. Heh,” he smiled and chose a top corner screw instead.

The only time he asked for help was when he noticed a screw was stripped. A whack of the hammer from the MoH fixed it, and that cute bed that has so many memories attached to it is now in parts leaning against a wall in the garage waiting for a “Free to the first Caller” Craigslist ad.

Monday morning, the RT and I moved his tiny desk down the stairs — or tried. It fell apart from the stress on an edge while we were resting, and unfortunately, my ankles we on the receiving end of the boards that fell. Hurt doesn’t quite cover it, but we did get the desk to a resting spot.

He put his new desk together, and the chair.

I figure if he wants me to put up the very cool tiny work light with the jointed neck, and the shelves for his army of thousands, he’s going to have to clean up the mess.

But I’ve been reorganizing the cupboards in the kitchen, so between the two of us, it’s anyone’s guess whether we’ll ever see the floor or counters in our house again.

Bets?

Nike was smart when they launched their campaign admonishing those of us who sit far too long on our ever-expanding rear ends to “Just do It.”  But when you’re someone who is more inclined to first think, then talk about what you are thinking about — like writing — then think about writing before you actually write anything,  clearly those words have no effect.  None.

I haven’t “Done It” yet.  In other words, I’m still getting warmed up to the idea of possibly thinking about wanting to write something.  Not just anything, but the piece I am supposed to write.

The problem is twofold.  On second thought, it’s got quite a few more folds than two. Tenfold might be more accurate.  I have no excuse for this.  It’s pathetic.

And so when I find myself in this particular situation, I review what I know.  I mull over every detail and experience much like one might sort through an old recipe box, thinking about what is on each card instead of pulling one out, and actually cooking and serving it for dinner.

I could go back through the books I’ve used in the past whose authors have helped me sort out my thoughts.  People like Zinsser and Lamott, or Goldberg or E.B. White, because they force me to think about what I’m not doing. But I’d have to have something, anything, to work with before I’m compelled to pick up one of those books again.  Otherwise, it’s no different than reading travelogues and never traveling, or buying yet another cookbook when never intending to cook.

Somehow in my wandering today, I came across Vonnegut and his take on style.  I’d not seen it before, and I read it through several times acknowledging his advice, but thinking more about his writing.  I read parts of it aloud, as I often do when something is written just right, needing to hear the cadence of words as each works with another.  Then I considered the advice.

One thing was missing.

Find a place to begin.  And therein lies the rub.

Since it’s not a dark and stormy night, I’m taking myself out into the sun that has finally decided to grace us with its presence to sit and read something well-written, take a few notes, and find a place to begin while I’m distracted by green bugs in the vicinity.

The train ride to Florence was easy.  There were no delays, the air conditioning was refreshing, and it actually seemed as if we were really skimming along at 300 km/hr, leaving cars on the autostrade in the dust, which is saying quite a bit.  We were able to look out the windows the entire time, unlike our first trip, when a man sitting across from the boys yanked the shade down without the slightest acknowledgment that three others were sitting at the same table. Okay.

Small towns appeared along the way, their terra cotta roofs clustered on hill tops in the distance.  Fields of sunflowers stretched away from us one after the other, but their heads pointed down and away, revealing only a yellow fringe in the midday sun.  I wondered if I’d have the chance to drive through that countryside some day to explore those towns.

From the moment we arrived at Stazione Santa Maria Novella, it was different.  The area inside the walls of Florence is traffic controlled, allowing only those with a special permit the opportunity to enter.  Yes, there was traffic, but far less.  And absolutely, we had to be wary crossing streets, but not as if we were taking our lives in our hands each time we did.  The streets seemed more organized, neater.  Less frenetic.  And… not quite as intriguing as Rome, nor as quaint as Sorrento.

From the train station, we located the bus that would take us outside the city walls to Galluzzo, a small town 15 minutes away.  At the end of the route, we found the gate to Fattoria Settemerli, the old farmhouse where we’d spend the last days of our vacation.  A locked gate loomed ahead of us, but the quick press of a button on the intercom gave us the cheerful voice of a staff member who explained that we should go through the gates and bear to the right.

Do you remember that the MoH had a flat wheel on his suitcase?  Um, yes.

The road yawned ahead, covered in a powdery white combination of gravel and sand.  The sun reflected from its surface enough to advertise the fact that we were definitely on yet another leg of our adventure.  The wheels of my luggage weren’t quite handling the gravel, and dragging it over the tufts of grass and wildflowers on the edge of the road wasn’t much better.  But I was in good spirits until I led the pack down the first right turn and made the mistake of thinking the villa ahead of us was the farmhouse we were looking for.

At least we were in the shade of old trees that lined this particular part of the road.  After deciding that we’d made a wrong turn, and wondering whether we should go back or move along, and questioning the intelligence of going farther when we weren’t sure where we were, an Audi appeared in the distance.  Dust from the road plumed out behind it, and it slowed as it approached us, its two occupants responding to our smiles and waves. The MoH asked the driver if the house ahead was Fattoria Settemerli and was told that, yes, we were on the right path.  Spirits marginally elevated, we trudged toward a cluster of tall trees that are so often seen in depictions of Tuscany.  We hoped there was truly a house nestled there, and that maybe, it was our destination.  That if we didn’t show up soon, the staff member who answered our call at the gate would send a search party out for us.

And then the Audi backed up.  A tall man emerged and insisted pleasantly in heavily German accented English that we put our dusty luggage into his very clean trunk, and motioned for the MoH and I to get into his back seat.  That he’d take us to the farm house and the boys could follow on foot.  I was mortified, but relieved, and the gesture was humbling.

I recognized the courtyard of Fattoria Settemerli the minute we pulled up, and after thanking the German couple for their kindness saying we’d see them later in the day, watched them head back down the road.  Constance, the daughter of the owner, checked us into our rooms; one for the boys in a separate building, and one for the MoH and I up high in the farm house.  We received information about everything we might want to know about the farmhouse, breakfast each morning, the small town of Galluzzo, and areas of interest in Florence.  We were asked many times if we had requests.

We’re not used to making requests, so we weren’t exactly sure what those might be.  Perhaps a massage for our weary bones?  A foot bath and rub.  Some serious attention for my hair that hadn’t seen a flat iron, or my usual products in over a week?  Sure.  Sign me up.  No, we didn’t have a request.

We chose instead to catch our breaths, the boys settling into the room that could easily have been for honeymooners, and the MoH and I taking a rest after washing off the dust that seemed to be everywhere.  The AC for 5 Euros a day was heavenly, and since I can rarely nap, I took the time to enjoy the quaint old furniture, and the end of my first book.  We weren’t sure what we’d do when we were done relaxing that evening, but I’m sure it would involved walking back down that road to catch a bus.

We did this many, many times.

With reservations to see the Uffizi, and The Accademia where Michelangelo’s David is, we knew we’d need to get up pretty early the next two days, but beyond that, we had no particular plans.  Bear in mind this wasn’t because we’d suddenly adopted a new attitude of being free spirits.  It was more because beyond the two museums I’ve mentioned, there wasn’t much on our list to see and do in Florence.  We honestly thought we’d just wait and see what would happen, and use our 3-day bus pass to its fullest.

We ate in Galluzzo that night at a local pizza and pasta place right on the main square where all the buses stop.  As usual, we were early, and were quickly led to the open patio shaded from the evening sun by huge umbrellas.  By the time we were done with our salad of rocket, parmesan and artichokes, and three delicious pizzas, the entire place was packed full of beer-drinking locals who only occasionally glanced in our direction, and seemed to be dug in for the evening.  We loved it and it was a perfect way to end our first day in Tuscany — after a walk back to the farmhouse.

We walked a lot.

The bus to Florence was packed the next morning.  Think sardines.  We aren’t exactly used to this, so it was entertaining — especially with everyone freshly washed for their day of work and smelling of soap and lavendar.  I wondered what the afternoon bus experience would smell like.

High Points of our time in Florence:

1. The first night we came back late to the farmhouse. We had to enter through a door in the courtyard, and it was so dark we could barely see. As we approached what we thought might be the door we were instructed to use, we noticed a pair of tiny lights bouncing along the cobblestones.  We thought it was one of the farm cats until the lights separated and moved higher than a cat could, eerily working their way toward us.  By the time I was close to deciding whether I should scream or run, the MoH whispered, “Fireflies…” and we stood there in the dark, in that very old place, smiling and watching their incandescent glow come and go until they disappeared in the night.  Although the younger menfolk ventured out the next night to see them, they never appeared.  *sigh*  No, I’ve never seen fire flies before.

Night Sky near Fattoria Settemerli
2. Not having to wait in line for the museums. Remember the middle of the night phone calls I made and the wrong phone number in the Rick Steves book I tried about a million times?  That was for these tickets.  We were able to walk past lines that were unbelievably long to get our tickets, then enter the museums.  Totally worth it considering it takes a few hours to see the art.  Who wants to add a line wait to that time?  Sometimes, it pays to be someone who plans.
3. The buses. They make getting around so easy, and if you pick up a bus route map at the Tourist Info booth outside the train station, then buy a 3-day pass, you can go anywhere with little or no thought. Even shoving your tons of luggage on board is a snap.  Ahem.  Most buses run very late into the night, and that makes a late dinner in Florence easy even though you’ve still got a dirt road to walk down in the dark.  Make that a white gravel dirt road with the full moon reflecting off the gravel.  Yes, there were lights here and there, but…it…was…dark.  So yes, the buses.
4. The lunch we enjoyed the second day there at Cantinetta dei Verrazzano on Via dei Tavolini. It was packed, but we got a table right away, and a boisterous waiter who described himself as being half American and half Italian (did I detect a Brooklyn accent?) not only chose the magnificent plate of assorted foccacias and the following spread of meats, cheeses, and fruit, but our wine as well.  He was beyond entertaining, clearly knowledgeable, and an avid sports fan as well, so the MoH and he were able to take a few good-natured jabs at each other over home team preferences.  Absolutely fabulous.  He warned the boys that they better not consider even mentioning that they might order Coke because they’d been making wine for centuries and therefore, Coke wasn’t on the menu.  At least one of them was mortified over this.  I said the guy was loud?  Loud.  But hilarious.

Cafes in Florence
5. Fattoria Settemerli. It was beautiful, and the hosts so wanting to be helpful by driving us more than once to the bus stop.  No, we never asked, nor would we.  But they couldn’t stand our walking.  It was great to hear the plans they had for the farm, which breeds horses and is a certified organic olive press.  I love it when people have plans.  I used to have plans to own a place like that — once upon a time.  And when I mentioned it to Constance, she told me it was a lot of work.  Yes, I do know that, but I also know that when you truly enjoy something, it doesn’t feel like work.  We’ve stayed in Bed & Breakfasts before, and although this isn’t what Fattoria Settemerli technically was, I did recall our previous experiences having breakfast with people we didn’t know, and striking up casual conversation.  We learned that the German couple with the Audi lived in East Berlin for nearly 20 years under the communist government and wasn’t that a story in and of itself.  And there was another couple — young women who were from Hungary.  Psychologists, I think.  They were staying for two weeks, and were also without a car.  One asked if we were familiar with an organization based in our city — one she worked for in Hungary, and that I recognized.  It’s not the first time we’ve met people so far from home that we have a connection with.  Travel is funny like that.

Fattoria Settemerli Courtyard
6. And the statue of David, of course. No, I don’t have photos.  And no, I didn’t hide myself behind that column to snap one without being seen, but that’s okay, because I’ll always remember how I felt when I saw the sculpture.  The perfection of it, the size, the idea that someone so young could create something so magnificent out of stone…I was moved to tears.  Unbelievable.  Every last detail was breathtakingly beautiful, and so it was perfect that this would be the last art we’d see in Italy.
7. The RTR saying with the utmost sarcasm upon entering the first room in the Uffizi (which we visited the previous day), “Oh look.  Jesus.  And baby Jesus…Yay,” as he motioned to the walls covered with paintings.  Evidently, he was over the religious art.  Way over.  I guess you had to be there.

And the low point?

Mosquito bites. Scores of them on our legs, our feet, our arms…you name it, it was bitten.  Somehow, mine didn’t show up as quickly as the menfolk, so I bragged about having garlic coursing through my veins.  Mine emerged a day later, making me look like I was the vicitm of measles or small pox or something.  The boys did not appreciate being asked if the make-up I patted onto my bites made them look better or worse.  I STILL have a few marks left on my legs.

Yes, I traveled in Tuscany with bad hair and diseased looking legs.

But I didn’t purchase anything FAKE from the vendors.  We did, however, spend quite a bit of money on this trip, and the last time I checked, money is money.  But who’s complaining, right?  I’m sure the Italian government doesn’t mind who’s spending as long as they rake in the dough.

Don’t you think that instead of making purchasing FAKE goods illegal, they’d make selling FAKE goods illegal.  Just a thought.

On Sunday, the fifth day of our vacation to Italy, we were ready to leave Rome.  Not so much because we were tired of being there; we’d only put a small dent in what there is to see and do.  It was more because knowing the reservations at two more places had been made, and it was inevitable that we go.  Besides, after reading so much about Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast, I know I was looking forward to being near the ocean.  I’m glad I had the short time to do a post while we were there because as much as I can say I’m able to hang on to memories, being able to savor the better moments after it’s all over can get lost in the shuffle.

When we travel, my volatile personality battles with itself.  I’m an odd combination of someone who loves beautiful hotels with soft towels and scented soap, and one who also enjoys being very casual, and comfortable.  Going unnoticed.  Because I’d approached my planning for our trip from the latter perspective, I quickly decided that we’d not be staying in Positano, a picturebook perfect place that I would have loved to stay — but not with two of my sons in tow.  So Sorrento seemed to be a better choice.  If we decided to take a bus to Positano, or a boat to Capri, then I’d be satisfied with that, hoping to return someday just with the MoH.

Some would call me a dreamer, or not very practical.  I’d prefer to say that I look for the silver lining of most aspects of life.  I’m a highly observant person with a near lethal critical eye, so I enjoy looking for the softer more beautiful characteristics in as much as I can find.  It works, because although I am incapable of not noticing the underbelly of just about everything, I prefer to wallow in everything else.  Yes, this is about Italy…

Because we spent so much time on line before we left trying to book train fare and failing (that’s a whole post in itself…) we took time to go to Stazione Termini the day before leaving Rome to use the self-serve ticket machines.  All went perfectly, so on Sunday, after allowing one of the swarms of men who offer to “help” put luggage on the train and then actually haggle with you about what the service they forced on you is worth, we were off to Naples.  I knew there would be a bit of confusion once we arrived there, because never having been there, we couldn’t quite figure out how we’d get from the train station to the docks to catch a boat to Sorrento.

Bear in mind that I’m a planner by profession, so if I say something is not quite clear after I’ve spent time thinking about it and searching for options, then that means I’ve decided that we’ll just figure it out.  Besides, the MoH kept telling me we would be on a bit of an adventure, so I allowed myself some moments of letting go of my worries.

And then we arrived in Naples.  Yes, I’d read about Naples, which was why I never considered staying there for even a second.  To be fair, we’d just stayed in a huge city, so even if I’d planned for us to venture into Naples to see the spectacular Museo Archilogico Nazionale, we’d do so from a smaller town.  Any possibility of doing that evaporated when we stepped off the train.  The “loves the finer things in life” side of me kicked in when the four of us had to traipse across the station four or five times just looking for information about where to catch the “tram” I’d read about.  Yes, I understand that Italy works differently than other places, and that it’s best to relax and “go with the flow.”  I.  Get.  It.  Okay?  But then we decided to venture outside the station to figure it out ourselves.  Surely there would be obvious signs to follow.  When one can read Spanish, Italian isn’t that different, thankfully.

But there were no signs, and the station was in some kind of transition with construction going on that looked as if it was stalled and hadn’t been touched in quite some time.  Walkways were blocked, and as we ventured out toward the large square in front of the station where buses were lined up, we were more than cautious about traffic.  For as much as vehicles didn’t honk their horns in Rome, it seemed every one of them used their horns to warn anyone in their path — red light, stop sign or not.  Trash was everywhere, accumulated against buildings, wafting across streets as traffic passed, and worse, wedging in the wheels of our luggage as we searched for the yet unseen “tram” mentioned in one of our travel books.  (Erm, thanks, Rick Steves.  You might want to edit that book.  And don’t forget to change the phone number for museum reservations in Florence while you’re at it.)

We walked back and forth.  We asked people for direction, and then finally we found the city buses and began to look at their numbers hoping to see the “1” we needed.  A tram looks different than a bus, doesn’t it?  Or so we thought.  Right as we’d decided to go for it and walk the distance to the port, we located a bus — full sized — with a “1” emblazoned across its front.  Perhaps that was our tram.  But by the time we’d figured it out, it left and we stood on the curb waiting, trying to decide if we should wait for the next, walk, or catch a cab.  After eyeballing the cabs streaming by in the frantic traffic, we knew there was no possibility of the four of us and luggage fitting into one tiny vehicle.  One cab driver actually stopped in the middle of a huge intersection, motioning at us out his window, wondering if we needed his cab, and we had to wave him on.

So we set off in the general direction of the port.  It was beyond hot, and the area we walked through looked as if it might be a business district.  All was closed since it was Sunday and the traffic immediately became sporadic.  Light posts were missing from their bases, wires exposed in a tangled mess.  Phones had been vandlized, receivers hanging from their sturdy cords, missing covers for the ear and mouth device.  At one point, a young man with a beautiful girl on the back of his motorcycle drove up onto the sidewalk in front of us pulling his bike alongside the store windows and cruised in the opposite direction, slowly, as if allowing the girl to window shop.

We began to look into the shadowed alleys to find one that looked safe.  Yes, I was not feeling very safe, and that’s a rare thing.  But we found one and just being able to walk in the shade calmed my nerves long enough to notice the high rise buildings from which laundry slowly flapped in a breeze we couldn’t feel.  I could begin to smell the salt from the bay, so knew we couldn’t be that far away.

I was wrong.  The port is huge, and we came out, luggage in tow, near where the large cruise ships dock.  More of the seemingly always present orange plastic construction fencing lined the busy street, so we had to pick our way through it all, then wander along the docks until we finally found where the ferries dropped off and picked up people headed across the Bay of Naples. 

The MoH’s suitcase experienced a flat as a result of this particular leg of our adventure, so he had to carry it for the remainder of our vacation.  He thought it had just become heavy since he was just as tired as the rest of us from our ordeal, and he just pulled it harder.  The poor wheel had all its rubber worn completely flat on one side.

If I told you I was traumatized over this experience (um…not the flat on the suitcase wheel — Naples), I’d expect you to know it was an exaggeration.  But I can say that I was offended.  Seriously.  And then I was embarrassed by my reaction, so that pissed me off.  Picture an ugly black cloud with lightning bolts flashing out of it hovering over my hatless head, and you’d have the right picture.

So much for relaxing.  For adopting a “whatever” mentality.  For embracing the casual “no worries” attitude that the MoH abhors when he hears someone mutter that particular phrase.  I was only an ugly American who would wallow in self pity, unbeknownst to anyone but her family.  MoH being the mostly calm person he is, ventured off to find a cool Coke to share once we’d found a bench to sit and wait.

When the ferry to Sorrento arrived and we were settled on board, my mood had passed, the deep blue water we skimmed over helping to soothe my ugliness.  It was only then that the MoH realized that the Cirumvesuviana we’d opted not to take to Sorrento had a stop we could have taken to the bay to catch the ferry.  The travel book had evidently neglected to mention that particular piece of information.  Of course, there was more than enough mention made of the rampant crime and pickpocketing that goes on, so clearly, that factored into our decision to forego use of the Circumvesuviana at that point in our little adventure. 

Underbelly indeed.

Maybe if I was 25, I’d have a different outlook than I now do.  But when I was 25, I had two babies and wouldn’t have been able to even afford thinking about Italy, so who knows.  I do know that as much as Naples might be described by some as having “an attractive, rude ebullience,” I will say that the only thing I found attractive about it was being able to board the ferry to Sorrento — regardless of what Rick Steves thinks.

The silver lining?  The MoH. He doesn’t always understand my strangeness, but is always willing to lighten things up when the time is right.  It’s nice.