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.

The unpleasantness of being in Naples wore off as soon as we were settled on the boat that would take us to Sorrento. Maybe it was the deep blue of the sea, or the cool breeze that refreshed our sweaty bodies.  Or Vesuvius, looming in the distance, reminding us of all those history lessons delivered so long ago and so far from here.  Pompeii…Herculaneum…

But it could also have been the tall, thin as a willow whip blonde that walked up the gangplank with the assistance of the crew right ahead of us who bore an uncanny resemblance to Diana.  The Diana.  Her hair was short, and she was dressed in a leather mini skirt and strapless bodice.  Her four-inch heels drew everyone’s attention, and we waited to see if she could balance herself on the boat as well as she could on cobblestones.  Most of the crew exchanged knowing looks, but one took it upon himself to sit next to her as we made our way across the Bay of Naples.

At first, she had chosen to settle in on the first deck in the cushy seats, but after we’d all dragged our luggage up the tiny stairs and flopped into seats where we’d get a good view in the open air, she emerged upstairs.  And as much as there were only a few passengers, and therefore, many open seats everywhere, she decided to sit in the row directly in front of us.

We must have appeared to have been harmless, or uninterested in young women wearing black leather.

I soon figured out I was on the wrong side of the boat to snap my next 500 photos and moved, with the MoH following.  We kept an eye on the boys and the woman as she sort of avoided, but not with any true energy, making conversation with the forward crew member.  He eventually gave up on her and disappeared downstairs.

At some point in a strong British accent, she turned to the boys, and with a cigarette posed between two fingers, asked if either of them had a light.  You just don’t know how hilarious that is considering that not only does neither smoke, but that they wouldn’t expect anyone to think they did.  Well, that anyone like her would ask anyone like them anything.  Ever.  Their raised eyebrows and quick glance at one another after she turned around told it all.

When we stepped onto the dock in Sorrento, she was already getting into what we thought was her mother’s car, because we realized at some point, that she wasn’t quite 20.  Goodness. Nothing like a bit of intrigue to take one’s mind off travel weary doldrums.

Officially, we were rested and ready to enjoy a small town where streets close to traffic in the evening so everyone can walk and shop, sit in cafes and watch passersby, or eat well into the evening.  We did all of that, and crowded into groups clustered around televisions in bars here and there to watch Roger Federer lose to Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon.  It was like a huge street party.

In a walled garden setting lined with lemon trees and dotted with impatiens, we enjoyed pasta, seafood, lovely wine, and dessert at ‘o Parrucchiano “La Favorita,” a restaurant housed in an old building and credited with inventing cannoli.  Who knew?  The wait staff was ridiculously tolerant of our horrible attempts at Italian, and the setting a perfect place to relax after an extremely long day.  Even the cat that wandered through the tables and brushed against our legs added to the perfect evening. And yes, I fed the cat. Incorrigible.

I now know that Sorrento was my favorite place on our vacation.  We never took the bus to Positano or Amalfi, nor did we take one of the ferries we constanly saw headed to the island of Capri.  But I have no regrets because we wouldn’t have been able to enjoy what was right in front of us:  balmy weather, delicious food, hospitable people, the Hotel del Mare, and a clear, warm sea to swim in.

Although everyone seems crazed to spend time in Venice or Tuscany when they travel to Italy, Sorrento is a place to be considered.  I know I’d go back so I could stroll through the quiet streets without an agenda of any kind and let time take its course, but maybe in the Fall, when others are back to work, and the idea of other places to go and things to see don’t exist.

Yes, I’d go back to Sorrento.

With only three days left before we head off to our vacation in Italy, I’m to the point where I wake at 3AM and realize I’ve been making lists in my dreams.  I haven’t done this for nearly two years;  it was a by product of my former profession.

The lists aren’t the usual kind where I rerun whether I’ve got all necessary vouchers, and copies of passports.  Or reservations to avoid lines for particularly popular sites like Galleria Borghese in Rome, and the Uffizi in Florence.  I make make mental lists to check on details like:  finding out which bus line will get us from the train station in Florence to the farm house where we’ll be staying; and how we’ll know which dock to head toward, luggage in tow, after we get off the train in Naples to take a hydrofoil to Sorrento; and whether we should pack a roll of toilet paper and a bath towel each since we’re not exactly sure whether they’ll be included in the apartment in Rome or not.  I’ve read those reviews, remember?

You’d think 550 Euros would guarantee toilet paper, but…what do I know?  I’m a presumptuous American, remember?

The good thing about all of this worry is that I’ll most likely be so exhausted, I’ll sleep on the flight, and when we arrive in Rome at 10:45am (2:45am our time), I’ll be as perky as a daisy.  Okay, so a daisy with purple bags under her eyes, but still.

In the meantime, enjoy the solstice shots I took last week in celebration of the beginning of Summer and Sky Watch Friday.  Looking at photographs of the sky from all around the world is a pleasant way to start a weekend, with an added value of helping me get a grip.

Looking toward Point Loma.

I like the reflection on the ocean in this one.

Going…

Going…

 Gone.

I know the rest of the world seems to believe that Memorial Day is the kick off for summer, but somehow, the whole idea of that particular holiday kicking off anything has never quite sat right with me.

Call me a party poopah, but there’s something way wrong about all those furniture sales, and car sales, and well, just any sale to get people up and out to slap them back into a consumer spending stupor.  On Memorial Day?  Okay, so the sales do help with all the purchasing that goes on for school promotions, and graduations, and weddings, you know, in case someone needs a futon or something.  OMG, Dubyah!  What in hell would we have done without your economic stimulus check?

It’s all nonsense, because today is our favorite day of the year.  Party, anyone?

The Summer Solstice is officially at 7:59 EDT.

And it is the perfect time to celebrate the beginning of summer and all that comes with it.  Things like heat, and humidity, stinking trash cans, more flies, and pets that scratch endlessly for fleas evening parties, warm ocean swims, and lazy afternoons in the shade with a good book.  Okay, so the ocean isn’t exactly ever warm here, unless you consider the not quite 62 degrees F that it is today, warm.

For years, we’ve looked to this day to make our way to a hill or a shore, gawk at the horizon, sip a beverage, and enjoy the sky show.  Well, if there is one.  You have to be a freaking optimist to want to engage in this ancient pagan ritual around here because there’s always a chance that we’ll be socked in and any possibility of seeing anything blue in the sky is slim to none with slim on a fast train out of town.

But optimists we are.

And when I look at that horizon tonight, clouds or no clouds, I know that I will be thinking more about what lies ahead instead of what has passed.  I know that I will wonder about it with anticipation, and not dread, or fear.  I know that I will feel opportunity and possibility, because that’s who I am. I will also feel good fortune because my home’s not flooded. Or my sons in Iraq. Or my family unhealthy.

Somehow, this day has always felt like the real beginning of a new year.  Not  January 1st.

With all this sun gonna come up tomorrowness in me, I often wonder how I missed out on getting a bit of perkiness from whomever was passing it out when I was put on this planet, because perky I am definitely not, nor will I ever be.

So cheers to you on this longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.  Turn your eyes to the sky,  grab some palm fronds, light a bon fire, and watch the sun come up over your horizon.  Maybe do a little dance.

Or do it our way, and watch the sun set tonight instead.

Think about possibilities and tomorrows.

Take action and participate in Candle Night and “take it slow.”

This is my first entry for Sky Watch, an idea started by Tom Wigley of Wiggers World. I spend so much time looking at the sky, I knew it was the place for me to be. Take some time and look at all the photographs the skywatchers collect each week.

In fact, join in.

I think by now you know that I have a “maybe like - sorta meh” relationship with this palm-laden place I begrudgingly refer to as Paradise. I know that there are many cities I could live that pale in comparison are much more interesting, but my grousing is about more than the monotonous weather that draws people here.

It’s about mindset — as in the mindset of many long time residents and other self-elected expert representatives of the region as a whole. Somehow, as large as this city has become over the years, the only thing that ever seems to matter to visitors is the weather.

So why am I on this particular toot this morning?

A. Because I missed the Friday Follies last week.

B. Because it’s Wordy Wednesday

C. Because I can.

D. Because.

The U.S. Open is finally starting here tomorrow. Here, as in, about 10 minutes from our house, here. Like, right here. For the last week or so, signs have begun to appear on the sides of busy streets and freeways that feed into this area warning of heavy traffic, and noting when and where shuttle routes to the event will run.

They expect about 45,000 gawkers golf enthusiasts each day for the tournament because both Tiger Woods & Phil Michelson are locals. Okay, so maybe more than that, but I haven’t quite figured out how Tiger growing up 90 minutes from San Diego makes him a local. Maybe it’s my math.

Now, what does this have to with yet another gripe from me about this place I call home? Today’s San Diego-Union Tribune tells it fairly well:

• Page 5 showcases blatant pandering by the president of the San Diego Convention & Visitors Bureau reminding us all of past big events, and how the U.S. Open will be a “boost for the region.” Read cash cow. Everybody and their dog is going to make money on this event. Give me a break. It feels a bit like a lecture to residents about being on our best behavior so everyone can oooh and ahhh about Paradise while they’re visiting, then come back with more events and more money. How about if some of it is used to fix the potholes in the roads, and the sewer lines that keep closing our beaches because they break. Okay, so maybe plant a few more palm trees.
• Ruben Navarrette Jr., a local columnist writes about the sadness of one stellar immigrant student from Mexico not gaining as much attention as a similar student from Armenia in a piece titled, “The benefit of not being Mexican.” You know something? You’re right. Life is not fair. And if you’re an immigrant — regardless of which country you were born in before arriving here — it should be just as not fair to you as to others who do well in school and can’t afford to pay for their college educations. Get. In. Line.
• On the editorial page, there’s mention of the Govenator being here yesterday, and in this puddle of Republicans in a state full of Democrats, there is perfunctory commentary on Ah-nold’s failed budget reform, and a primarily Democratic Legislature that is too dysfunctional to even be called dysfunctional. He did give us some new buses though, and isn’t that swell?
• And my personal favorites — Letters to the Editor. Oh. My. Gawd. Treats are in store today to truly showcase my favorite pet peeves about America’s Finest City…

1. The consul General of Mexico is pissed off because of a political cartoon “distorting with total disrespect not only our greatest and most important national symbol, but also our National Seal, depicting an outrageous image of the serpent devouring the Royal Mexican Eagle…[which he considers] an insult to the Mexican people.” I am sooooo sorry I missed that one and will only say I wonder who told him he had to write that? Pa-the-tic. How about being outraged that you take such CRAPPY care of the people in your country that they have to look elsewhere for food, work, and education. Pay attention.
   
2. The letter from a woman who’s more than upset about a neighbor who has a chicken coop, “filthy” chickens that are “quite loud,” and a rooster that “has crowed constantly since it arrived.” She continues to rage about “rooster crowing being the third most frequent noise complaint in the city of San Diego” and “salmonella bacteria and avian flu that these individuals foist upon their neighbors.” So…what are the top two things people in San Diego complain about? Less than perfect weather? A crappy baseball team? I’m thinking she won’t be following Tiger and Phil on the links at Torrey Pines this week.
3. Someone from Rancho Santa Fe advocates “a policy that gores everyone’s ox” to resolve the energy crisis, and lays out a step-by-step plan. First chickens, now oxen. What next? Another guy from Temecula weighs in on resolving the energy crisis, but you sort of have to know that anyone who lives in Temecula does so because houses were way more affordable there than in San Diego, so now they’re looking at astronomical gasoline bills commuting. Hell, I drive as little as possible, and for the first time spent over 60 bucks to fill my tank. So I get it, but when you purchase a house that far away from where you work, is it really because of what you can afford, or because you smell a future killing in real estate? Oops! That’s sort of a bummer around here now, too, isn’t it?
4. Kudos to Prudence today, who said that the best solution to our water problems and impending drought doom, is to “stop all new construction permits.” But only until the problem has been solved “permanently.” Read: NO NEW RESIDENTS IN SAN DIEGO. GO AWAY EVERYONE. NONE OF THE REST OF US ARE REALLY FROM HERE EITHER, BUT WE WERE HERE FIRST SO HAVE A RIGHT TO BE HYPOCRITES. No matter that this is a desert with no natural water supply. No matter that no one in Paradise wants what is lovingly referred to as “toilet to tap” drinking water. No one wants any kind of desalination anything off shore because of the harm to marine life.
5. And Here, here! to the guy who’s standing up for golf caddies, jokingly maligned by a columnist for not acknowledging their demanding 18-hour-a-day jobs which are only mildly glamorous, and then only if you’re lucky enought be be hooked up with a “Top 10 player.” Um? Get another job? You know, there are lots of other only mildly glam 18-hour-a-day jobs out there, like uh…I dunno. OB-GYN. High school administrator. Firefighter. Social worker. Get a degree, dude. Nobody cares.

And to those worried about the “cool weather” softening the golf course, and lowering the chances for this year’s U.S. Open at Torrey Pines to be “one of the most demanding tests in the history of the national championship?” Have you ever heard of June Gloom?

It’s not a novel concept, but it does seem to play heavily in others’ judgment about whether this is a nice place to be. And when good ol’ Mister Sunshine isn’t out, in some peoples’ opinions, we’re just a podunk town a few miles from the Mexican border with average fish tacos.

We just never seem to “grow up” as we grow larger. When big events come our way, it sometimes feel like we have to dust the mold off our baby blue leisure suits for the party hoping against hope that we’ll be recognized along with the likes of San Francisco, or New York City. Boston. Los Angeles. And you know? Sometimes we come out of it with flying colors. But most often we don’t. What’s the saying about being able to dress someone up, but not take her out?

So, I just may have to find some time in my incredibly busy schedule to find a dirt lot to park in and join all the other looky-loos bound to find their way to our little piece of Paradise over the next few days.

It’s bound to make June here more than just a time for purple blooming flowers, graduations, and county fairs.

Sun or no sun.

Aren’t you glad Wednesdays are nearly wordless?

It’s quiet now.  So quiet I can hear the refrigerator running — a strange way to measure quiet, but still.  Okay, so if my Mac was in the bedroom where it’s been recently, instead of on my kitchen counter, then I guess being able to hear the refrigerator would be huge.

You know.  The distance and all?

Okay, so maybe not.

Everybody’s gone.  The MoH and the RTR are on a hike.  Do they hike?  Erm…no.  But we’ve sort of decided that we’d kind of like to think about possibly learning.  Maybe.  Notice that I’m not with them.  I’m in the kitchen, of course, again indulging myself in an on-line baking gab fest with other passionate foodies.  And the Gramster got in her car to go for a walk.  That’s where you drive somewhere more interesting than Reach-Out-and-Touch-Your-Neighbor-Gated-McCommunity-Hood to park your car and then get out and walk.

Did you notice I missed Friday?  (Insert affirmative response here.) I thought about it, and somehow the time got away from me.

You’re not dying to know why?  What?  Are you cranky today?

Well.

I’ve been using two guide books to assist my vacation planning.  One is Rick Steves’ Italy 2008 (lotsa advice in black and white text from someone who has a great reputation) think Nitty Gritty — and the other, a very colorful guide published by DK Eyewitness Travel:  Italy (you know, lots of cool drawings, photographs, color, and less text) think Bright and Shiny here.  That one would be for the menfolk.  I figured I’d go light on their attention spans.

Anyway, having gotten all the lodging taken care of, I decided to tackle the recommended strategy for avoiding long lines.  Now, it isn’t that I don’t particularly enjoy standing in long lines.  I am an SDSU grad, after all, and back in the day before on-line registration, all we did was wait in line.  Serious ones.  It was the beginning of my quest to develop some semblance of patience in my time on this planet.

Where was I?

Lines…oh yes.  Avoiding them.  It would be the heat.  I’m spoiled rotten.  Completely and thoroughly.  Like today.  It’s a non-balmy, somewhat breezy, wannabe sunny but not quite makin’ it 69 degrees on this Sunday in Paradise.  So I’m beyond worried about heat, and sweating, and well, honestly, my tongue lolling about on the pavement while I’m there.  How gauche.  Erm…quanto viscoso!  Or something like that.

I am so not someone who can do heat unless it’s in a kitchen, and even then, it’s not pretty.  And I know none of you are feeling the love over this right now since I’ve taken a gander at your temps and you’re sweltering.  Most of you!  Okay, so not you, paisley, but still.

So, getting reservations in Florence to see Michelangelo’s David and the Uffizi are highly recommended.  Now here’s your quiz.  Do you just ignore the suggestion to call, or get on line because you are a firm believer that anything is possible on line?  (Insert Jeopardy music here)

You are correct!  I got on line.  And yanno?  The booking fee is more than the fee the museum charges and I am so not interested in paying anyone for their network, or whatever it is they spend on their servers.  So I decide, with my tail firmly between my legs, to call.  You know, punch the umpteen gazillion digit number into my phone, and then rely on redial until I get through…

Monday: after 10 or so calls, I decide to refer to the business hours, and realize they’re closed on Monday.  Fine.

Tuesday: after 10 or so calls, I do notice that the phone rings in two ways — a regular “busy” signal, and another odd-sounding, and irregularly buzzing type sound which I figured was a “ring.”  And no, I’m not on speaker phone because the phone’s not near my computer.  Gawd forbid that I have to get off my ball, trip over the Doggo who is laying on her bed to get to the phone should someone deign to answer my call.  I also learn that if you let the phone “ring” more than 40 times, a recording tells you all lines are busy.

This is key information. (Lick the end of your pencil and write that down.)

Wednesday: I told the MoH to set the alarm for 3am our time so I could call then.  Really.  But the idea of getting up to engage in this rapidly expanding exercise in futility, going back to sleep, then getting up again at 5:00 to beat the streets with my VBF seemed pointless.  So I spent another morning analyzing Italian telephone rings and busy signals.

Thursday: After the MoH telling me that I should just suck it up and book on line (consider that this would cost almost $80 for the four of us for ONE museum),  I spent the morning making more inane phone calls that no one answered, stressing the entire time that I was not accomplishing anything.  Horror of all horrors.

Disclaimer:  Okay, so I have to qualify “not accomplishing anything.”  That would be accomplishing anything for the trip.  Picture the whole forward motion thing on a football field.  The ref blows the whistle, right?  The rest of the stuff I should be taking care of is well, being taken care by the Gramster who needs to stay busy.

Friday: I have a renewed burst of phoning energy, really looking forward to the crick I know I’ll have in my neck and a beet colored ear before I’m done.  I plan to arise at 3am and proceed downstairs to the MoH’s laptop.  In the dark. Pick up the phone and “dial” the phone number I’ve  dialed for what seems like the millionth time.  It sounds so loud in the quiet house, and it already feels different since there’s nothing to occupy my mind while I’m listening to the beeping of the busy tone, or the odd ringing.

I decide to log on to Concierge to surf through the info they have about Italy.  After about the 4th attempt calling, I notice the phone number Concierge has for the place I’ve been trying to contact. The last three digits of the number catch my eye, and in the dim light cast by the screen, I look back at Steves’ book noticing that something isn’t quite right.  I see an 883 in one place, and an 833 in the other.

Oh. My. Gawd.

I try the different phone number.  It rings three times, and an English speaking voice, cheerfully and heavily accented in Italian answers.  In less than three minutes, I’ve booked two reservations for four people.  Three.  Minutes.

After how many days?

I smell a letter coming.  And it’s stinky.

Dear Rick Steves…

And newsflash.  The menfolk are back from their hike.  In case I’ve swayed you about Paradise and palm trees, here’s another look without the Pacific.  Makes you want to move East, doesn’t it?

No, it’s not smog.  It’s that lovely June Gloom that we get.  If you’re into pure sunshine, June would not be the time to visit.

My menfolk know I’m a sucker for Indiana Jones. I always have been. Sure, Harrison Ford has something to do with it, but I’ve always been easily swayed by anything related to Raiders of the Lost Ark and all that followed. I get a sappy grin on my face and know that no matter how many times I’ve seen any of the movies, if the opportunity arises, I’ll plunk down and watch. I love the corny humor, and the “no way could that actually happen” adventures Indy and his side kicks become involved in.

If you’re shaking your head on this one, here’s my thinking — and it is relatively similar with respect to books and music and food, of course: if I like it, then it’s good, but I won’t argue. What’s the point? Isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?

I can sit and watch No Country for Old Men and enjoy it as much as I enjoy something like The Holiday or Amazing Grace, or Four Weddings and a Funeral, or Citizen Kane. In other words, I’m all over the place when it comes to anything I say I enjoy. But as much as I can say I have a wide range of movies I enjoy, only some rate watching over and over. The Lord of the Rings trilogy fits into this category, and so do the Indiana Jones films. No, they have nothing in common other than I enjoy them.

So when I read Union-Tribune Arts Critic at Large, Lee Grant’s review of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull last week, you’d think it wouldn’t bother me, being the magnanimous person I am with respect to others’ opinions being sacred.  Right?

Wrong.

Movie critics drive me crazy. They remind me of disgruntled wannabes, whether they never made it as an actor, or screenwriter, or had fantasies about being the next great director. Hell, half of them can’t even write, yet they are paid to write about movies they frequently don’t enjoy just to crap on everyone else’s entertainment parade.

“The film is a disappointment, as dull as a bunch of 60-year-old guys sitting around and, for fat paychecks, coming up with something to recapture their youth and the blockbuster movies made a generation ago,” Grant grumbles, most likely annoyed that the fat paycheck he mentions won’t be going into his own pocket. And if George Lucas and Steven Spielberg want to make a movie they know people like me (and my boys who grew up on those blockbuster movies Grant mentions) will enjoy, why not? I’ll probably purchase the DVD when it comes out, too. Why? Because it’s guaranteed to make me smile which comes in pretty handy some days.

Returning to my rant…

Grant takes the time to mention in his review that “the film is set in the late-1950s and we know that because the initial soundtrack music is Elvis Presley’s ‘Hound Dog.’” Oh really? Clearly a significant piece of information. I’m thinking it was smart to set the film in a later decade considering all the actors had aged quite a bit and nothing is more annoying that trying to make us all think they haven’t.

But I’m ahead of myself here. Friday, six of us (including a nephew, my mother, and one older) son piled into two cars, headed to a favorite sports bar to eat, graffiti up the paper that’s spread on the tables for just that purpose, and then went to see the latest of Indy Jones. Outside of having to stifle snickers about the young woman sitting behind me having to rely on her date to explain what was going on and who the characters were, the movie was everything we thought it would be: a fun trip down memory lane with a few new things thrown in for good measure. We had some time to talk about the movie afterwards at Cold Stone while slurping on ice cream in the very winter-like weather we’ve had in Paradise this holiday weekend, but only comments about the parts we liked. My middle son knows everything there is to know about the older Star Wars movies and all things Indiana Jones, so he was in rare form talking to the two younger boys non-stop.

Hell, he’s the one who should have written the film review, not Grant, whose ideas must have taken an entire three minutes to put to paper. Does one lose one’s credibility as a critic if one doesn’t slam a beloved character? Why not just avoid writing about it at all?

I don’t need a film critic to tell me that Indy’s “iconic bullwhip [is] now used with a little more difficulty,” but that “he’s not a guy you’d trade in for a fresher model.” Well, not yet, anyway. Hmmm…maybe that’s the bigger issue. Mayhaps Harrison Ford is a reminder to some that they, too, are aging.

Like this is new information? I get it, okay?

Grant drones on with his attempt to mimmick a turd found in the punchbowl before the party starts by judging that Cate Blanchett is “struggling” in the role of Agent Spalko, and that “those big, bad Russians seem dated.” The film did get a rise out of members of Russia’s Communist party, however, evidently offended that their youth may be negatively affected by how Russians are depicted, accusing the West of tricking them. Now that’s completely hilarious.

Am I missing something, or did Grant actually go to this movie thinking that any of it was supposed to be believable. Really? Scary to think he might me in sync with the offended Russians on this. Isn’t the point of movies like Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull part kitschiness? The characters are generally exaggerated, and reminiscent of those found in films from an earlier era. I don’t want Indiana Jones to be realistic, or believable, or anything other than what it’s been.

But what do I know? I’m not a film critic. I’m only someone who’s spent a lifetime loving movies in all shapes and sizes.

Well, and Indiana Jones.

Okay. So, Harrison Ford, too.

He’s looking pretty nice for 65.