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.

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.

I’ve been sitting here most of the day, clicking through the 750 photos I took while in Italy, and it’s been a pleasant way to replay our time there which now, seems a million miles away. Funny how that works, isn’t it?

I took an old-fashioned journal with me, thinking I’d write since I wouldn’t have access to a computer for any real time. And although I did write, I’m so out of practice doing so with a pen and paper, that my thoughts left me before I could finish sentences. We were so busy, packing much into each day, it was challenging to find time to sit and write anything, and when I did, I wanted to close my eyes for just a bit to catch my breath.  Stare at the ceiling in our room and wonder who had lived there (and it’s a very old ceiling…)

When I travel, I long to know what it’s like to live where I’m staying. It matters.  I enjoy walking through streets that are off the regular path, and shops that aren’t on anyone’s recommended list. In fact, I enjoy this sort of time spent in a place more than seeing attractions most of the time. It gives me a better sense of who the people are, and what it might be like to be one of them even though I know that it will never be quite right. To some extent, this was possible for us in Rome, Sorrento, and Galluzzo, the small town we stayed in outside Florence.  And it must have worked, because I now know that people from each of these areas are distinctly different, and fiercely proud of it.

In Rome, we stayed in a very small apartment a short walk from the Campo di Fiori on Via dei Cappellari. The streets everywhere are paved with small square, black cobblestones planted in an arching pattern.  Buildings plastered in muted, warm colors rise three or four stories across passageways sometimes only wide enough for a tiny car to pass by.  Windows are shuttered against the heat, which at times, is oppressive, and others, interrupted by breeze from a cross street. Via dei Cappellari is such a street.

A variety of tiny shops that don’t quite make sense together line the way past our apartment: furniture makers sand and varnish chairs and tables, a spotless motorbike repair shop takes in customers, a dress boutique waits for shoppers, and an antiques dealer fans himself in the dim lighting of his shop. We wondered each day how any of them could keep afloat tucked away as they were, with so many others hid in their own tiny areas of such a huge city.

Our apartment was three flights of stairs up through a tiny door that was nearly impossible to open with the skeleton key we were given.  Thankfully, we never did see the person whose apartment we tried to get in at first, thinking it was ours. And it wasn’t so bad after we did get into our apartment to find that an air conditioner was available as long as we were willing to pay 5 Euros a day. But there were no clean sheets or towels, and when the MoH tried to use the telephone to call the rental company, it didn’t work. No surprise since it looked like a relic from the ‘50’s. At least there was a large plasma screen — until I blew a circuit breaker with my flat iron the next morning. So much for our converter, hmmm?

So much for anything remotely close to what I’d consider a “good” hair day for the next couple of weeks. Note to self: Tell Dan the Man haircut dood that I will not be having a cut this short again no matter how thrilled he is with the way it looks. The hat came in VERY handy.

The MoH and I left the RTR & his big brother in the apartment under the AC — literally — while we ventured out to find a phone and food. We found the phone, but figuring out how to use it was another story all together. Yes, it’s explained in tourist books. Embarrassing, but true. So the rental company was contacted about the linens and they were promptly delivered. Woo-Hoo!

Rome is a gritty place. There are scooters everywhere, and the traffic even in tiny streets, is something you have to keep an eye on. Once you realize that the key is to step into the street, make and keep eye contact with the driver, and move quickly across the street, you’re fine. Unfortunately, that only seems to work for the cars. The scooters are not as trustworthy.

There are cafes everywhere. Cafes and bars and gelato shops line nearly every street, and deciding which one to go into doesn’t have to be a science. We never did figure out exactly what “tourist food” was because every meal we had in Rome was exceptional whether it was pizza near the Pantheon, or clams and mussels in wine and garlic in Trastavere across the Tiber. And the pasta? Mmmm…who knew that Carbonara could be made so many different ways.

We walked everywhere in Rome. We walked until our feet ached and our knees weren’t sure how to act when we finally were able to sit. We walked and sweat more than I thought it possible to sweat. No wonder the Romans wore togas. Or was that the Greeks? A nice breeze ruffling a skirt would have been quite nice as long as a puff of Gold’s powder was available. More than once I noticed Italian men and women on their way to work; the men in beautifully cut suits of rich fabric and the women in smart linen trousers and stylish tops. Not a drop of sweat on any of them. How do they do it? That could never be me, wrinkled damp human that I am. Thank goodness for the cool quiet, shaded streets we often found on our way to one place or another.

Often when we travel, we’ll mark a map just to see how much ground we’ve covered. It would have been too challenging in Rome because we often wandered. Sometimes on purpose, and sometimes because we were lost. The MoH and I rarely agreed that we were where we thought we were or supposed to be, so bitching and moaning ensued. Not him. Me. But that’s what happens when you put two strong-willed people together in a strange place with two large young men in tow.  I know I tested his patience this vacation more than I usually do, but there wasn’t a cork large enough in Rome for my mouth or my opinions.  I’ve never been very good at following.

So what did I truly enjoy?

• Walking around the corner of a tiny street shrouded in the shade that early evening imposes on the city and seeing the Pantheon amongst the buildings that have grown around it over the past 2,000 years. It was beautiful, and early in the week, not as crowded as it would become by the weekend. I had my first taste of Italian gelato sitting on the wall next to the Pantheon, trying desperately to keep the deep, dark chocolate from dripping down my arm and onto my white bermudas. My camera wasn’t so lucky.

Pantheon
• Seeing the cat hospice at the Largo Argentina Ruins.  It was twilight, which in Rome is about 9PM, and since the city has physically risen over the past few thousand years, the ancient area is at least a couple of stories lower than street level.  We never quite figured it out, but someone was setting up a show of sorts, displaying edgy contemporary art with music and a light show.  But as we looked more closely, we noticed cats.  Scores of cats in the shadows.  All colors and sizes.  On one corner of the square, you can venture down a flight of stairs to talk to them, give them a few pets, and marvel that in a city the size of Rome, someone would provide such a place for them.  Amazing.
• Sitting in the Campo di Fiori with the MoH the first night in Rome.  We watched a talented street entertainer mimmicking passers by, the armed Carbonieri, and the young people they were keeping an eye on.  A guitarist’s quiet music was a perfect accompaniment to the show seen satisfyingly from our tiny cafe table.  The evening was warm, and a breeze across the square made everything just right.
• The walk through the Borghese Gardens after we saw the gallery.  Sure we were hot, thirsty, and hungry.  Okay, so starving.  And sure, we had a detour caused by some construction going on.  But it was beautiful, and I thought that it would have been a perfect place to sit and nap or picnic, if figuring out how to get the whole picnic thing right could have been a possibility. But no one complained. The grounds are completely shaded and there’s a large wading pool of sorts.  People wearing bathing suits were sunning on towels.  It was quiet.  Fountains appeared here and there, and it was all I could do NOT to sit on the edge of one and dip my feet in since diving was not an option.  As we finished our trek through the grounds, my favorite view of Rome was there, right above the Piazza del Popolo all spread out in front of us.

Rome Skyline from Borghese Gardens
• The wine and the espresso.  Neither was as expensive as the Coke the boys drank or the birra the MoH ordered. Of course, the ground espresso I purchased to make in the apartment each morning ended up opening in my suitcase during our travels, and for the remainder of our vacation, I sported dark smudges on my undies and smelled like coffee, but who’s complaining?
• The spigots that can be found throughout Rome.  All you need is a bottle.  The water is ice cold and free.  I don’t know where we would have been without it because it wasn’t as plentiful in Sorrento or Florence and we missed it.
• The ORANGE purse and wallet I purchased.  I guess I like orange after all.

The low points?

• Begrudgingly, the throngs of people at Trevi fountain.  I suppose in thinking about it now that we could have stayed up later and then ventured to see it, but everyone is up until the wee hours of the night anyway, and transitioning to Rome time, we were lagging.  On second thought, getting up very early would work best.  Everyone is asleep after a night full of revelry, right?  It could be magical.

Trevi Fountain
• My older son admitting that he was not impressed by the Colosseum.  He told us he was really looking forward to seeing it, too.  I’m sad for him because a life spent building up expectations and nothing being able to meet them is a tough life indeed.  He does tend to have a half empty cup about life at times.  It breaks my heart.
• Tour groups.  They were like a virus.  They took up vast quantities of space everywhere forcing everyone off the sidewalks and up against the walls of any space they oozed in to.  They arrived, they armed their point-n-shoots, they shot, they left.  One after the other.  Hoards.  It was beyond annoying.
• The Sistine Chapel.  Michelangelo’s  jaw droppingly beautiful ceiling was actually reduced to a room full of people standing shoulder to shoulder with a grouchy guard incessantly hissing, “Silence!” to the noisy masses who seemed to be there only to try and sneak a photo of something they wanted to be able to say they saw, instead of think about how it was painted and by whom, or why.  Very sad.

And something unexpectedly lovely to end on a positive note…

• St. Paul’s Basilica in the very late afternoon.  No lines, unearthly light streaming through the windows, voices from the mass taking place echoing through the building…Breath-takingly beautiful.  And Michelangelo’s Pieta?  Oh.  My.  It brought tears.  Maybe I was just tired, but still.

Mass at St. Peter’s

Cost so far minus airfare?

Private Shuttle to Apartment:  $120 (Okay, so this was convenience just because we had to stop by the rental office, then get to the apartment.  The airport is not close to the city and the office not close to the apartment.  I was at the “whatever” stage of booking.)

Accommodations:  $650  (Not bad for 4 people for 4 days…)

Food:  $475  (No junk food.  Yes, they have Mickey D’s.  Some cooking in the apartment, fruit, wine, gelato, salami & cheese, and some very nice dinners.  Did I say wine?)

Attractions: $300  (The Colosseum, The Forum, Palatine HillThe Borghese, The Vatican…I forget what else…)

Train to Sorrento:    $120 (Inter-City train)

Orange Purse & Wallet:  Priceless  (Okay, so it wasn’t, but it was in my suitcase when we left, so I didn’t get to collect on the tax that I was charged.  What.  Ever.)

My mother loves watching television. Loves. It. So it’s been a challenge for her since arriving back in Paradise to adjust to our television viewing habits. Um, we don’t exactly have any?

She’s got to feel like she’s in TV Hell.

We do have shows we enjoy, but from my perspective, it’s more about being with my menfolk in the evening after dinner than the show itself. Sappy, but true. Now, the MoH would probably say, “Whatever,” to my response being the avid one-who-looks-forward-to-his-three-shows-that-aren’t-sports type person that he is, but you do get the idea, right?

Outside of those few shows on our highly intellectual viewing agenda (American Noodle, Bones, House, Top Chef…), we surf. Someone grabs the clicker while I’m putting the finishing touches on the latest recipe I’m subjecting my family to and their job is to find something we’ll all enjoy while we’re eating — nothing anyone really cares about. You know, like Dirty Jobs, which is great viewing while eating. Have you seen the one about the clean up after the toilets exploded? Nice.

This isn’t always as easy as it sounds since we’re usually ready to park our butts on the couch with food and beverage in hand around 7PM most nights. There’s never really anything on. One-hundred-fifty channels, not counting choices for the On-Demand channels or pay-per-view options and there’s nothing on. If you have a closet full of clothes and often feel as if you have nothing to wear, it would be similar to that feeling. Completely hopeless.

Like I said. We surf. It doesn’t matter that it’s 6:50 or 7:12, the one with the clicker stops at whatever looks good — erm, that would so not be Cash Cab, okay? Who thinks of that crap? We settle in while we eat, try to ignore the Doggo who waits patiently for any finished plate to lick, never blinking lest she miss that opportunity, and like the relatively content saps we are, watch whatever is semi-interesting. Sometimes, that means staring at the pretty pictures on one of the HD channels.

This is all very contrary to what my mom is accustomed to. She is a stalwart TV Guide person, planning her television viewing time meticulously. In fact, she enjoys reading said TV Guide aloud to others so that they, too, can know what is on and marvel at all the possibilities. So I’ve explained the on-line Guide to her. You know. That place that lists all shows on all channels across all hours of the next few centuries? Yes. That one. I’ve also shown her how the DVR works. That way she can record her favorites, then watch them while I’m wasting the prime years of my life *snort* sitting at my Mac every freaking morning of the week. Okay, so maybe not weekends. But still.

So she’s adjusting, but it’s got to be strange. Annoying? Probably downright aggravating. I know we can be that way. So I also encourage her to watch television in our bedroom when we’re downstairs. Warm the bed up, blow the cobwebs off the Sony and fire up the engine to see if it still runs. And she has. Once.

We have been enjoying American Noodle together, and that’s been fun, but I’m sure she’d like to hunker down with her own schedule, with her own television, which, by the way, is sitting in the garage with the rest of her Earthly possessions and is just about as big as the little bedroom I wedged her into. In fact, now that I think of it, that television is so enormous, I wonder if it will fit through the door.

Okay, so maybe not that big. But I don’t want to think about trying to carry it up the stairs. Besides, we don’t have cable active in that part of the house. Gawd forbid giving the RTR another reason to hole up in his cave. Besides, can TVs actually pick up stations without being hooked up anymore?

So this morning, after diligently recording Boston Legal and Grey’s Anatomy, do you think she’d actually be able to sit down and enjoy them? One would think so. But for some reason, the sound wasn’t working on the television. One of us must have pushed a mysterious button on the clicker and it’s hopeless to try and figure out which one it is without dorking the entire operation up beyond all repair. So I clicked off the power surge for a few minutes and let the whole thing reboot.

It works now.

But she’s upstairs messing around with her laptop which was freezing up every time she had more than a couple of windows open.

I have my fingers crossed that it’s fixed now, too.

Because, like I said, I’m in the prime of my life and have so many swell things to get on with.

Like vacation plans.

I finally found a cute little place in Sorrento for the second leg of our trip to Italy (I booked an apartment in Rome for the first leg) which is happening in less than six weeks and I am sooooooooo not ready…The Hotel del Mare sits nearly at the Marina Grande and is a winding, hilly walk to the center of Sorrento. A great way to work off the breakfast that comes with the room!   It sounds like the four of us will be shoulder-to-shoulder and have some family bonding time.

But I am starting to get pretty excited about the whole thing.

It’s finally beginning to feel real!

Welcome to my Friday Follies. I figured it was a great way to cover what competes for attention in my brain. You know. In case anyone is actually interested. And since Friday is only so long, I can’t exactly include my entire list.

Question of the Day/Week/Month/Lifetime: Would any of the unthinkably serious crap that is taking place in the world right now be happening if women ruled? Seriously. Clearly, I’m not opposed to men in general. I’m quite fond of four of my own, all of whom are quite pleasant humans. But I will never, ever understand what possesses some to be so consumed with a desire for power, that they destroy what and whomever lies in their path. It makes absolutely no sense.  I would say, “Nuke ‘em ‘till they glow,” but Greenpeace would revoke my membership and I’d have to take my sticker off my Mac.

Now I’ve heard everything: BBC News is reporting today that we can now blame the obese for the planet’s energy woes. I can officially expect the BBC to pick up some of the crap I write since they have decided to bring attention to this illustrious study and call it news.

For the shopper who has everything and can’t resist yet another… um…thing: The ultimate cake server. My VBF handed it to me unopened the other day on our morning walk saying she didn’t want it. I think it was something she received at a dinner party? Lo and behold, a wonder of design revealed itself after I was done fighting with the packaging. Just chuck the magnetized heel, and you’ve got a swanky brushed stainless cake server that may or may not fit in your utensil drawer. My VBF is sooooo getting this back.

For summer travel plans: Consider Paradise your destination. Palm trees, fish tacos, an excellent ball park with a less than stellar ball team, and no more spine-wrenching plunges into bathtub-sized potholes! An end to days of signs warning of sewage spills at the bay? Standard & Poor has finally given our fair city an acceptable bond rating again. We will now get to use plastic to pay for street repairs, faulty sewer lines and broken water mains. Party on! Maybe they can also do something about our pump prices?

My gentle menfolk: I am willing to act like I’m somewhat interested in anyone who can convince me that a person interested in the arts needs to take advanced mathematics. But I think I’ve heard it all before. The RTR will be bypassing pre-calculus for statistics as a junior next year since it’s the lesser of two evils and he has to take a third year of math. The MoH has concocted a bribe — monetary — if the RTR can squeak by with a “C” in Algebra II and Spanish. He does have an “A” in PE, however, which is huge when one considers that actually moving his now more than 6’-tall lankiness is not something he enjoys. And that he has a swim coach who makes the entire class do 45 laps — yes, that would be 45 — to compensate for kids caught sneaking into the locker room early. Maybe the RTR needs to swim with me this summer. And pigs will fly.

My Tiny Paradise:

I saw this guy early this morning when I should have been sleeping in. My VBF had an early appointment so I didn’t have to stumble out of bed at dawn’s crack to walk. Do you think I could actually sleep? Um. No. So of course I got up and thought…Hell. I can take macro snail shots while enjoying my coffee! He looked so cute, I couldn’t bring myself to chuck him over the wall into the early morning traffic. Which probably saved me a law suit now that I think of it. Gawd forbid that I hit someone’s Maserati with snail guts.

On the menu? Feh. I never have a menu. But my friend Gina always does. *sigh* In my next life, I’ll be as organized. Our meals are all mushed around in my head with all this other crap I think about. But I have finally edited the photos from our latest dinner party featuring Rick Bayless’s Mexican cuisine and will be getting around to doing that mammoth post today. And I’m thinking next week is going to be Indian…Tiki Masala, anyone?

Me & my mom: Things are great! We’ve only had 3 arguments, 5 disagreements, uttered 49 sighs of exasperation, clucked our tongues 89 times, and been disgusted with one another once or twice. Don’t get me wrong — that’s all normal — at least it has been since I was In High School. We have our laughs and snorts, too. We’ve been on a few field trips, (Wally World, Target…) have drunk umpteen gazillion pots of coffee, analyzed the state of the human condition at least 14 times, moved my bedroom around, and jeered each other’s candidates with gusto. Her cat finally ventured down the stairs by herself today to be greeted by my hissing pretentious attack cat, and the doggo has stopped following my mom up and down the stairs, realizing her favorite person isn’t going anywhere. Her hips thank her. The dog’s. Not my mom’s.

I’d say that’s enough folly for a Friday.

Don’t you?

I feel so much better now.

I think this is the longest I haven’t written since beginning this place I miss so much when I don’t write. And the only legitimate explanation I have for not writing may not make much sense to most.

I can remember living in a dreary apartment when I was finishing my degree. It was brown. Regardless of how much I enjoy that particular color at this point in my life, somehow, brown then seemed dreary. And it was. It was a means to an end, and I tolerated it because I had to.

Well, I’ve been having trouble tolerating the orange. I know brown isn’t orange, but still. Surely you must have an inkling of an idea of why this is a problem. Let’s just say my house isn’t in order. Or my blog, in this case. It makes me sad.

I actually like the layout. I really do. But I spent quite a bit of time on thinking about changing out the orange and switching the font, and all that sort of thing, and when I looked in my files, I saw strange things.

Can someone please tell me why, oh, why do designers have to subject the rest of us to their particular style of code? I understand creative license, and all, but man.

I can figure it all out. Really I can. I just don’t want to. I want to download a theme, plug in my widgets, make minor adjustments, maybe have some fun designing a header or two, and then think about writing. Because that’s the whole point of a blog, isn’t it?

So in fewer words, I’m working on this theme, but not since Thursday, which was days and days ago.

I guess I just become disgusted, and avoid the problem. And that causes yet another problem because I truly enjoy being here and taking the time to spread my particular style of propaganda. Except I haven’t.

But today was lovely. While I wasn’t writing here amongst the orange and wire looking thingies in the header, I was enjoying Mother’s Day with my mother and menfolk. We cruised through our farmer’s market, and then put our name in a few eateries until we found one where the wait was only 15 minutes. Good thing it was a place we’ve enjoyed before.

Have you ever had a breakfast salad? This one had poached eggs on spinach, sauteed mushrooms, tomatoes, goat cheese, and a light vinaigarette. Simply delicious. The pomegranate mimosa was a nice touch, too. It was very pleasant.

A walk along the shoreline was a perfect way to relax afterwards, worrying the entire time that the huge fuschia my mother bought at the farmer’s market wasn’t succumbing to the heat in my trunk while we were oogling over the clear water and nearly waveless ocean. Amazingly beautiful.

We never did quite figure out what the Pink Panther was, though. Clearly, they got curb space early, and had time to get their layout taken care of, shells placed round the palms, bejeweled pylons protecting their Weber and all. Sorry I didn’t get a shot of the pink ostrich feathered umbrella. It was a sight to behold.

And when we got home, we tore apart my patio, trying to whip it back into shape long enough to enjoy the summer season before I convince the MoH that it has to be redone. Seriously. Hell will freeze over first. I promise. But I can dream, right?

My big boys arrived, separately, and it was a nice end to a lovely day. My middle son brought plants he’d worked on in one of his classes — some from cuttings and some from seed. Nice. The older one sort of slinked in through the side, surprising us all, smiling, and knowing that we’d smile back, enjoying his company even though there are always lots of worries to be put aside whenever we see him.

The MoH gave me a gift certificate to a camera store so I can choose a new camera. It looks like I get to graduate from my point-and-shoot and I’m giddy with being able to choose the perfect camera. Okay, so the perfect camera for me. Now.

And that’s just about perfect.

Thanks for checking in on me. I do appreciate you and do have you in my mind daily.

It’s actually quite amazing how much you’re all there.

Really.