I missed yesterday’s writing, but it should count that I spent a good amount of time discussing writing with a friend — someone who is also working on his first novel. And the entire experience left me remembering how much I used to profess that thinking is the most important aspect of writing. Of course, that doesn’t make much sense if I never actually sit down to write after that thought, so here I am. Processing. And I’ll do that through this weekend considering my novel, moving things around, adjusting bits of my character’s life — bits of ideas that only come with letting writing sit for a while. Letting it sit for as long as I have is probably not a good thing, but that will change in a few days.
Category: Fridays
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Dust, Old Things & Memories
Somehow when we started all of this construction business, I figured it would be fun to post the ups and downs of going through the mess I know is involved. Best laid plans. What seemed like forever was really only about six weeks, so I should have been able to write about some of it, but it’s not like we were renovating the Taj Mahal.
I guess putting up with this most recent mess isn’t such a bad way to live if in the process I can once again discover the joys of good housekeeping. *insert loud snorting and guffawing here* But I tell you, the old body just isn’t what it used to be. Hauling furniture up and down the stairs may sound like a great idea for working the glutes, but I pay for whatever gain I may get with excruciating pain in my arms. Imagine a hot pole being stabbed through your arm every few seconds if you type, or cook, or grip anything. Lovely. I am seriously good at sucking it up, however. I come from a very long line of women who just grin and bear it. Imagine the badges we’ll get when we reach those pearly gates.
But I am enjoying putting things back in order. Having to look at all of it in dusty piles and eliminating a few places I used for storage has forced me to reconsider some of my possessions. If I actually knew how to use eBay and didn’t mind mailing things, I’d have a roaring business ahead of me, but it’s more challenging than that.
When I look at many of my things, I can’t say they have any but sentimental value. For the most part, they remind me of times in my life that were filled with hope and some dreams that never quite came to fruition. When I look at them, I smile, remember, and know that it’s fine that none of it happened, but stuffing it all in a box to sit in the garage doesn’t seem right. So I’m sorting through it all and wondering what stays and what goes. What matters and what doesn’t.
What matches…
Because when you get right down to it, if I don’t think it matches, it’s outta here. Well, maybe not quite that harshly. There’s more of a routine that goes something like this:
1) Move the item to a spot where it’s less noticeable — like the office upstairs. It’s the “I love it, but there’s no place to put it” graveyard. Nobody ventures up to the land of the Resident Teen but us, so I can put my items up there to sit for a while. A long while.
2) After I’ve given the item all the love and attention it’s going to get, and the layer of dust on it makes it appear somewhat like a chia pet, it goes in a box that’s headed for the closet. Any closet will do. It’s still in the house, and maybe comes out at certain times of the year — maybe — but clearly, things aren’t looking good for it.
3) Once the box is full, it’s moved down to the garage to sit along side other similar boxes. When I walk by the boxes, I’m reminded how much I liked those items, and oh aren’t they cute and I should go through them to decide what will stay and what will go. Later. Much later.
4) When we get tired of not being able to park both of our cars in the garage and actually clean it, I sort through the items, keep a few for old time’s sake and donate the rest.
The time is seriously now for one of those donations. I will wave lovingly from the garage as the truck pulls away with my memories hoping they will find a new home.
*sigh*
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Construction and Ugly Cookies
I’m exhausted, and I’m always surprised when I realize it. Like someone who doesn’t spend 12 hours a day at the office shouldn’t be tired — ever. So not only am I exhausted, I’m annoyed that I’m exhausted.
It’s pretty pathetic. No, I’m pathetic.
To give myself half a break today, I’m looking at the disaster area that used to be my house, realizing that my black mood is most likely the result of construction that isn’t due to conclude for another two weeks — well, and deciding to engage in nearly two weeks of baking and writing about cookies. What in hell was I thinking?
It’s always exciting when construction begins, but I’ve been through it twice before, so know that it gets stressful. I should know better, but the last two times, I was out of the house all day and didn’t have to watch and worry. As nice as it is to be able to see all the changes happening each day, it’s not pleasant to see all the kinks in the plans, as well. Add this additional cost to that additional cost, and the persistent drone from the talking heads on the television about the nation’s economic woes only makes it worse. This morning I wanted to pull the covers over my head, wish the crew could let themselves in, and let them work as if I didn’t exist — which would be a bit strange considering the lump I’d make on the bed sitting in the middle of an empty room.
Our room is the only one in the house that’s nearly empty. The others have all had our possessions shoved into them and smaller items perched on top, stacked in ways I’d never have attempted in any other situation. We’ve been lucky that only one thing has been broken, and it wasn’t valuable from a monetary sense, but did have some pleasant memories attached to it.
There’s dust everywhere. Even though plastic sheets are draped from time to time, it seems not to matter because the garage door is open, and the constant breeze through the house just distributes the particles everywhere. In the beginning, I tried to vacuum at the end of each day in the small area where we can actually move around, but have given that up since I’ve run out of space to set things that weren’t packed. I have dishes that have survived more than 100 years sitting in the middle of my family room. As I stare at them, I wonder what I’m going to do with them. Even if I purchased more boxes, there’s no more room in the garage to put anything. And next week, the painters come.
Being the foodie I am, you’d think that sitting in front of my Mac tending to my food blog and cooking to my heart’s content would keep me happily occupied, wouldn’t you? And it should, but at this point, I’m tired of that, too. In fact, I’m so tired of it, I’m questioning why I’m doing it — and not just the cookie making. Somewhere along the line, it has consumed my entire life and I make time for little else. Like I said — pathetic.
All I want to do is clean my house. I want to organize the piles and go through boxes and stacks. I’m supposed to be choosing hardware for the doors and stair rails, but I’m not. I should be tossing things we don’t need, and organizing yet another donation of items we no longer use, but can’t. There’s no space to do it in.
Taking a shower is a pain, and putting on makeup or doing anything with my hair involves squeezing into a little space in front of my mirror in between the cat food tray and litter box, so I don’t. But when I have to, there are usually strange men walking back and forth and it’s not that comfortable acting like I don’t care if they can see me putting on my eyebrows or peering at the wrinkles under my eyes in my magnifying mirror. But who cares, right?
And the scariest part of all of this — Christmas is how many days away? I can’t even imagine how I’m going to pull that off. But I’ll try, and it will be great *whips superficial happy face from back pocket.* If one or two — okay, so maybe three bad days in the course of this is all I’ll have, then I guess that’s not too horrible.
I just wish the intensity wouldn’t build up in me like it does, surprising me when I should come to expect it.
And when it finally wraps its ugly coils around my throat, I don’t want to have to squelch my anger, or feel guilty over it and have to go into my “count my blessings” mode. I don’t want to have a little heart to heart with myself about how nice it’s going to be when it’s all finished, or be thankful for what we have because we’re so fortunate, because I’ve already done that. I do that every single day. Relentlessly. It doesn’t erase the upwelling of ugliness that permeates every pore in my skin, and so I give in to it.
What I do want is to take a hot bath. I want bubbles, and candles, and wine with that bath, please, and a book that almost reads itself. Just one bath. That’s all.
Maybe then, my mood could possibly improve to grey with chances of silver linings.
But writing it here helps, and eating five or six of the ugliest cookies I’ve ever seen.
Okay, so, maybe only sort of ugly.
But ugly.
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Martha for a Few Hours, Almost
The visit from the “floor” man was interesting yesterday. I found out he is a general contractor, and the floor sample and measurement plan quickly became secondary to the larger discussion around what to do about bathrooms, and closets, and fireplaces, and windows, and stair railings….The list seems endless.
We’ve gone through a couple of remodels before, and the visit with this man was different from the start. He wasn’t trying to sell me anything. I didn’t feel like he was the one with the agenda. He was thoughtful, and listened (which is quite challenging around me when I’ve been mulling over something for as long as I have this and finally get to talk about it with someone who gets it).
A quote — actually several — is due today by email and I’ve been told I can think about all of it, or parts. Again, absolutely no pressure. Refreshingly, he isn’t the one saying that, I’m just realizing it.
Giddy with possibilities, which as far as I’m concerned, is the secret to happiness…I went through the house and took photos of everything. You know. Just in case.
In case we like the quote and work begins. It’s always fun to have before and after photos.
But I can also say that it was to document that the house was completely spotless and organized.
Well, except for the closet.
Clearly, I can only pretend to act like I’d maybe kind of wannabe Martha.
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Wordle and Other Excellent Friday Distractions
Have you spent time with wordle yet?
It’s fun if you don’t have anything better to do. In fact, it’s perfect if you do have things to do, but just can’t seem to motivate yourself to do them.
Cleaning the house seems more attractive by comparison considering the dark mood I was in after spending some time pencil writing last evening. I actually accomplished something while sitting in the late afternoon sun, thinking, remembering, questioning. And then my neighbor came home and wandered over to talk. This would be the neighbor who feigns neighborliness until one’s out of earshot. The one who puts his trash out on Sunday morning to sit for an entire day so the rest of the neighborhood can enjoy its loveliness. The one who who seizes any moment to mention that our dog barks when she doesn’t. And who lets the spindly trees that are supposed to be a hedge grow without trimming them. Robert Frost had something to say about good fences making good neighbors, didn’t he?
Sometimes, I like to think that things happen for a reason, and the exercise was enough to make me really wonder about whether some aspects of our lives need to be put down on paper — even if they’re fictionalized. And if they actually happened, then why the need to fictionalize?
I’m just not sure.
But my mood was with me through the night, and it wasn’t until after I returned from my early walk with my friend that I realized the mood was gone, my spirits lifted.
That’s what exercise, non-stop blathering about everything under the sun, and laughter will do.
Of course, finding more interesting ways to distract myself also works. I haven’t been able to decide whether I look best in Mucha,
Modigliani,
or Botticelli,
but I’m leaning toward the latter since we saw La Primavera, The Birth of Venus, and other beautiful works while we were in Italy.
Well, and the eyebrows are right. Nonexistent. Or very nearly.
In my next life, I will have eyebrows.
Perhaps I will write about that.
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Books, Brioche, and…Boredom
Finally, finally, all things Italy are done. The planning, the packing, the photos, the writing. And when you’ve spent the time that I have getting ready for a trip like this, there’s a kind of void after it’s over. A huge void. Kind of like the Grand Canyon.
I just might be…
…and I’m not quite certain…
…but thinking perhaps that…
I’m bored.
Wait.
I’m never bored.
Ever.
I’m not quite sure what to do about this feeling.
And even more strange?
Because I’ve been up to my ears with all things flickr, Photoshop, iPhoto, and Blurb, I’m not in the mood to sit here, either. It’s Friday and the whole weekend is yawning ahead. It is Friday, isn’t it?
I thought so.
I’ve got three cookbooks opened to some very nice brioche recipes all requiring overnight refrigeration, (I can’t decide if I want plain or chocolate…) and I’m wondering whether the MoH would like to go down to the water tonight to sit and stare at the horizon with a bit of food and something nice to drink. Or maybe go see Mama Mia…
But there are other things to consider as well:
- Like how to get my doggo to stop her incessant scratching and my cat’s interminable yeowling. The fleas are beyond nasty this year, and although I’ve sprayed, and vacuumed, and washed, brushed, combed and yes, finally broke down and bought some Frontline (disgusting poison…), it doesn’t seem to have put a dent in them. I. Hate. Fleas. Which is why I hate carpeting. And whomever conducted that study that reported simple vacuuming daily will eliminate up to 99% of the fleas because it destroys their shells? What-ever, dood. Sounds good, but no cigar. Well, not around here, anyway. My cat is the world’s greatest fleabus. It doesn’t make sense to me. We have almost NO dirt anywhere. There are flagstones, and concrete, a few flowerbeds that are predominantly damp, a patch of damp grass…WHAT GIVES?
- I need a new book. I loved Such a Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster (laughed my ass off…well…not quite since my scale still insists upon telling me the gawd awful truth). It lambastes Jenny Craig and the whole concept of a weight-loss plan that includes packaged food AND has the greatest kiss-off line I’ve heard in a long time. Click the link and watch the video. I also just finished The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Pachett, one of my favorite authors. It was her first novel, and I’m letting it stew a bit before I say what I need to say about it. But her books have that effect on me. And since I’m on a “thinking about writing seriously” kick (again) and still have 8 gazillion books here I haven’t read that can inspire me from one perspective or another and keep me from actually doing my own writing, Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is next up. It looks to prove that when you want to write a book, you can write whatever you want, and sometimes, people notice. Yes, even people like myself, who notice, then let it sit on their bookshelf for, oh, about five or six years.
- I need to sign up for a photography class and a writing class (you know, because sometimes, homework is a good thing…) through one of the university extensions here. I seem to have recovered from my post traumatic distress syndrome over all things “school,” and both of these classes will occupy my time, feed my creativity, and give me yet another excuse to not actually start my own real writing. Okay, so writing somewhere other than this blog.
- I have to make a fix-it list for this house. I know I used to joke quite a bit about it, but jeez. I’m tired of putting money into having the carpet cleaned and want to rip it out of the house and heave it out the windows. I need a painter to even out the walls where boys incapable of standing up without hanging onto the walls have left smudges that can no longer be wiped. And the fence on the patio needs replacing (along with the neighbor it shields us from), along with the drip sprayers and lights. Then there are the screens the cats wrecked (and the one I totaled while we were trying to break into our house last night after swimming because we were locked out….) because the extra key wasn’t in it’s normal place… and…yes, things need to be fixed. I checked. There is a Handyman section in the Yellow Pages. My fingers will be walking. Soon. They will be walking miles.
- And last but not least, try not to feel so wistful about this blog. It’s sort of crawling along while my food blog is roaring. Okay, so, not like the Internet Market type roar, but everything’s relative, yes? As much as I enjoy both of them, this one is special because it’s just about whatever comes to mind. It’s me. And sure, so is the other one, but it’s about my food, which isn’t necessarily me, even though they say, “You are what you eat.” Um, thank-you. Next? But the crickets have been chirping loudly here lately, and I’m trying to adjust to the idea that it’s okay and that I didn’t set out to write here to do anything other than expend energy and get back into the habit of writing. From that perspective, it’s all been worth it. One step leads to another, right?
Right.
So shut up and write.
On to the brioche…
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Soothing Sunsets and Sleepless Nights
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. -
Solsticeness
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?
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Teenagers, school, and grey hair.
How do we get to Friday so quickly now when it used to seem as if it was forever hovering in the distance of my pseudo nine-to-five work week? It’s amazing, and I’m left feeling yet again that I need some kind of a drive through where I can order a few more hours each day with a super-sized box of salty hot fries.
And I’m pensive. But that shouldn’t stop my Friday Follies, because I’ll indulge in a bit of Peaflock egocentrism instead of worrying about the economy, or whether I’m being green enough. About whether the RTR will persist in his subtle efforts to resist all half-assed attempts at parental pressure to become a neurotic type-A studentisto at some point in the future. Smart young man.
So how is my almost 16-year-old last birdie in my nest doing these days? I thought you’d never ask. Outside of continuing to be the gentle and respectful, scruffy around the edges, but hugging type person that he’s always been, I’d like to say he’s seen the light and has become an organizational sensation with a sparkling bedroom. A notebook that one might be able to detect some semblance of order. A backpack whose lumpy contents I don’t have to wonder about.
He hasn’t.
But his bathroom is cleaner than ours now, because The Gramster is sharing it with him. It looks like a real bathroom now with a mirror you can actually see your reflection in. And he’s loving the guitar, the lessons, and even his cool guitar teacher. I keep asking him when he’s going to get House of the Rising Sun down so I can sing, and you know, I think he’s working on it. I’ll let you know if I actually get a gig on YouTube so you can spit your cereal milk or coffee all over your keyboard.
But school? Well, let’s just say we’re gently reminding him that if there’s not a solid “C” in Spanish and Algebra II, then the MoH has decreed that when we get back from Italy this summer, he’s getting a J.O.B.
So I’m still trying to figure out exactly whose consequence that is since the RTR doesn’t have a driver’s license, and since I remain challenged to completely understand which higher plane of existence he spends most of waking moments on, I’m not comfortable with the idea of him being behind the wheel of any vehicle. Too. Scary. That means that I would become the J.O.B. taxi.I hate driving. Thoroughly.
Besides, I think our philosophy is losing credibility faster than you can yell, “Phony!” at me. If I haven’t raged enough about it before, or, if you were smart and skipped through the pretty pictures of those twenty or so posts, you know that I do have rather strong opinions about the general quality of public education. In spite of the two decades I spent working as an educator — a damn good one, thank you very much — I’ve always believed that what we do best is try to fit all children into the same sized hole. And because my pensiveness is about my son today, and not public education, I’ll leave it at this: If I truly believe that, then how, how, how do I continue to find myself veering toward that norm? It’s amazingly difficult to pull away from that force.
So how is the RTR winning this? About two months or so ago, his art teacher invited a spokesperson down from a school in San Francisco to speak. The funny thing about it is that each day when I pick him up at school, we have the same exchange:
Me: How was your day?
Him: Pretty good (although this fluctuates between other responses such as, fine, average, normal, okay…)
Me: Did anything new and exciting happen?
Him: No.
It’s one of those warm, fuzzy mother and son moments that we smile about. So it figures that the one day I forget to play the tape, he actually has something to say:
Him: Mom. You know how you always ask me about whether something new and exciting happens at school?
Me: Yah?
Him: Well today, a person came to our art class.
Me: What did he talk about?
Him: Well she was from this art school in San Francisco and it sounds really cool. You don’t have to have SAT scores.
Me: Really? *Oh. Swell.*
Him: Yep. And when she asked if anyone wanted information, I raised my hand.
Whoa. This is the part where I have to control myself and not act like I’m giddy that he is showing an interest in something that doesn’t resemble tiny military figurines or tanks, World War II and YouTube comedy segments. He’s spoken to someone from admissions on the phone twice.
Do you know how difficult it is to keep up with the whole, “It matters that you WORK hard in school, because in life you have to WORK hard if you want to find the right kind of WORK for yourself instead of just finding a job that pays well- blah-blah-blah-dee-dah-work-work-work…” diatribe when the school your son has decided he’s attending has this philosophy:
The Academy of Art University maintains a no-barrier admissions policy for all undergraduate programs. The Academy was built on the educational philosophy that all students interested in studying art and design deserve the opportunity to do so.
All he needs is a high school diploma. Period.Okay, so… and parents who are willing to pay the tuition.
But it’s right up his alley of interests. So go figure.
Guess the MoH is going to have to whip out his checkbook. But the RTR is still taking the SAT next Saturday.
Just. Because.
And the next two years will fly by as we continue to pander to the great education god in the sky and resist temptations to walk the streets with signs that plead, “Will clean your bathroom for son’s GPA.” Okay, so maybe not.
He told me the school doesn’t recognize GPA, either.
Go figure that his non-plan looks like it’s going to work. Just think about all the grey hairs and wrinkles I could have saved worrying about that sweet kid.
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The family that views together?
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!
