Family – Page 2 – kellementology

Fifty Years, Love and Memories

Today is my mother and father-in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary. Fifty years is a very long time. I should know because that’s how long my very own bones have been on this planet learning to walk, and run, falling down, then starting again. Relentlessly.

Fifty years.

A marriage lasting fifty years is more something to read about in the section of the newspaper that also records births and deaths, engagements and graduations than it is something people I know have accomplished. Sure, my grandparents were married fifty years, but it took my mother’s mother three tries to get it right, and at that point, I think maybe she was just tired.

When I think of my mother and father-in-law, they’re rarely considered separately. They go together like a nicely wrapped present, and if you’d told me years ago that they would matter to me as much as they now do, I would have had trouble believing you. But they matter quite a bit.

Maybe it’s because of their unwavering support — their interest, their enthusiasm, their curiosity, energy, patience, graciousness…uncomplicated kindness.

I’ve known them for nearly half the time they’ve been married, which is an interesting perspective now that I think of it. And in that time, we’ve shared quite a lot: Thursday night pizza and wine — lots and lots of wine; annual dinners out to celebrate our anniversaries and birthdays all in one big night; old jobs and new jobs; trips and family holidays; mint juleps and phone calls from the Kentucky Derby. It may not sound like anything out of the ordinary to others, but I’m smiling as I think about it all.

I think about my father-in-law’s quiet, positive outlook, and my mother-in-law’s plans of places to go and things to see. I think about what caring grandparents they are, and how good they are at making sure everyone knows that he or she is thought of in a special way.

I guess thinking about all of this today has made me realize that outside of a few stories about how they met, and where they lived, I don’t know all that much about their lives together — except that they raised a remarkably patient man I happen to be married to. I haven’t seen many photos, either, and wonder about them now.

We’re all going out to dinner tonight to celebrate their 50 years together. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to get a story or two out of them, and if I’m lucky, some photos not too much longer from now, just to see.

Fifty years.

The MoH and I aren’t quite half way there, but we’ll get there. We’ll get there with bells on, grinning all the way.

January 31, 2009

The Things We Keep

Yesterday I tackled the garage, and although I’m far from being done, I’m satisfied with the progress I’ve made. It’s a jumble of items you’d expect to find in a garage: a fairly recent deposit of my kitchen overflow; remnants of our recent construction; boxes expelled of Christmas decorations waiting for their return; and my son’s truly unbelievable collection of crap.

Not exactly a glamorous way to spend the first day after the holidays home alone, but pleasant. I popped the garage door open to let in the light and brisk air realizing that if I had an attic or basement, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy either of those or my less than friendly neighbors as they passed by on their morning walk, furtively avoiding my gaze and the greeting perched on my tongue, just waiting for an opportunity to be human. Ever the optimist am I.

I think the reason I avoid organizing our garage or anything else in my house that collects pieces of our lives over time, is that I’m forced to think about the memories attached to every item I handle. It isn’t that I regret those memories — it’s more about having to accept the time it adds to the task, and the mood I’ll need to wallow in when I’m finished.

My thoughts wandered from annoyance with my son for keeping what resembles a rat’s nest wherever he goes, to flippant defiance: What if I printed our address in craigslist in the “free” section and just left the garage door open to the inevitable riot? Instead, what I’m left with this morning are what lies between, like thoughts about boys growing up who were never interested in playing sports, but did to indulge us.

Thoughts about school and career, and where all that knowledge and understanding goes when one is done with it. Of an old house and all its poignant memories. Of grandmothers and Martha, old friends I should call or write, and school kids I will never, ever forget.

Beauty lost to function and sentimentality to practicality on many counts during my purge. Copper pieces that have gleamed in the morning sun and cast sparks of light on my dining room wall for years are in the discard pile. Decorations for Valentines Day and Easter that used to liven up the house when the boys were little also ended up in the pile along with a huge bag of stuffed animals I haven’t opened in years. If I see them, I’ll have to think about who owned which and at what point in life. It’s sort of leaning against the discard pile, not quite a part of it, and not quite separate. Is there a child’s stuffed animal heaven somewhere I haven’t heard of?

But there are things I’ve not quite decided to let go of, and If they’re any indication of who I am or what I’ve been, then I’m as odd as I’ve always thought I’ve been. As odd as the stack of Martha Stewart Living magazines that seem to be about much more than the paper they’re printed on. What does one do with that many magazines sitting, collecting spiders and bugs with too many legs to count? Do I get one out each week, leaf through it, cut out what strikes my fancy and toss it to get on with the next? There’s something about a sharp pair of scissors cutting along a perfectly straight line and thinking through one’s life.

Ferd, a giant bunny, sits in a corner on a stack of coolers. It’s not a very dignified place for something that reminds me of how simple love can be if we allow it, and how easily life can be taken for granted, or lost if we’re not careful.

And these bottles? I dug them up in the washed out area of an old dump near one of the last places my grandmother lived. It was in the middle of nowhere — one of those places people used to go and then forgot about after the freeway was built. The bottles aren’t valuable, but I like their varying shapes and embossed surfaces, each a slightly different tint than the next. She was like that.

Or a bag I packed the day I left my job, nearly two years ago. It’s moved from one side of the garage to the other, but I haven’t unpacked it yet. But I might blow the dust off the silver bar that used to sit on my desk to remind me that others see us quite differently than we see ourselves.

I’ve done quite a bit of thinking since finishing my work yesterday, and realize that as much as I got some exercise and fresh air, I’ve only moved everything from one side of the garage to the other. It’s more organized than it was, but it’s all still sitting there.

It’s only been sifted.

January 6, 2009

My Non-Fickle Car Life in Hondas

This morning, someone on CNBC made a comment about American car customers being fickle. I didn’t recognize him, and that doesn’t really matter. Sometimes, I think the talking heads that flash on and off the television don’t know what comes out of their mouths most of the time, running a bit like someone who is in the throes of intestinal distress and searching for a bathroom.

I immediately disagreed, knowing I would fail to qualify for fickleness. I’ve had a love affair with Hondas since 1975 when I purchased a brand spanking new Civic hatchback with a “Hondamatic” transmission. I was 19 years old. I loved that car and the responsibility of making my $84.75 monthly payment. I think it was the first time I actually began to feel like an adult with something that belonged specifically to me.

There was a period where I was Honda-less, though. I had a Jeep CJ-5 before Chrysler or whomever bought the company turned them into something that only looked like a Jeep. It was fun for a while. I learned how to drive a stick, let some air out of the over-sized tires and blast up the side of a giant sand dune — my hair bandana flapping in the hot breeze, my bikini clad skin darkening by the minute.

I never quite fit the role of desert rat I was introduced to by my first husband, but it was what lured me away from Hondas for a few years. I could talk about things like leaf springs, and 4-wheel drive traction. I slept in a tiny tent in desolate areas, and drove around without doors attached to the side of my Jeep on warm days. I visited shops that smelled of grease and sparkled with chrome rims and exhaust pipes. I also spent time stuck in the middle of nowhere with flat tires, cracked radiators, and broken u-joints. That’s what happens when a vehicle purchased for everyday use is thrashed about on days off and vacations. The two don’t exactly mix.

It was interesting while it lasted, but I sadly divorced the Jeep. The radiator fan finally spinning off its track, I left it in a parking lot where a customer asked if he could buy it for his son. I said yes, and watched as one of the more interesting parts of my life was towed away, its new teen-aged owner grinning ear to ear, leaving me with mixed memories.

And then I bought another Honda.

At that point, my two older boys were about five and six, and because the four-door gently used Civic made a strange noise when it was in high gear and reaching a particular speed, we named it the ST, for “Silver Tornado.” It served quite a few important years getting me to and from work, to SDSU to finish my abandoned degree, and my boys to and from school, and visits with their dad. I have warm memories of our very own type of “car talk” revolving around the world they viewed from their backseat positions: trees, hills, clouds…and water towers. When I think of the topics now, they’re all that can be seen when you’re a small human seatbelted deep into a car. Such very cute little boys.

I miss them now that they’re grown.

After I finished my credentialing program and the MoH and I married, we were able to leave behind our string of cheap apartments and purchase a condominium, creating a new home for our composite family. Having a good monthly salary instead of the once a week check I squeezed while in school soon allowed me to donate the old ST to the local high school auto shop, and purchase a shiny new teal Honda Accord with a luxurious creamy interior and automatic windows. Automatic transmission. A moon roof.

I thought I’d arrived.

Although my two older boys had many years in that Honda, too, it quickly became the RT’s car. His place to drip milk from his car seat, and then drop French fries from Happy Meals in cracks where I’d find them petrified weeks later. His car to sit in more quietly since his brothers were so much older and often not in the car with him. His space to have books and cars, rocks, and odd seeds he’d collect at school, calling them army men. The creamy upholstery slowly began to age, the relentless sun in Paradise scorching it to the point where it would soon tear.

So with a mere 11,500 miles on its not quite 10 year old engine, I sold it to one of my son’s friends and bought another Honda: an Acura 3.2 TL which still sits in my driveway today.

The plan was to give it to the RT when he was old enough to drive, and although that time is rapidly approaching, I’m not quite ready to give up my car. Yes, there are dings in the sides of it from careless people in parking lots and students slinging backpacks over their shoulders in a hurry to get home. The carpet is beginning to wear in spots as well. I tire of the dust showing more quickly than it would on a lighter color, but I like it. I like the idea that its reliability and comfort holds the remaining couple of years of driving my youngest here and there — he with his iPod earbuds in, me forgetting that when I want him to notice something out the window, forcing him to politely pull them out of his ears to listen to his mother.

No, I think I’ll hold on to this the last of my Hondas. It has a few more memories left in it.

And then I’ll talk the MoH into one.

April 10, 2012 — I am now the owner of a light blue MINI Cooper with a white top and the Acura I enjoyed for so many years now resides with the MoH’s parents who I hope are enjoying its comfortable ride. I have to say driving the MINI does remind me a bit of tooling around in my first little Honda Civic — the small one with the hatchback. I suppose this makes me fickle, but I’d say that considering 34 of the 38 years I’ve been driving I’ve owned a Honda, I can’t be too fickle.

November 21, 2008

I should make a list.

It’s official. I’ve finally gotten to the point in my life sans former profession where I feel like I need an additional six hours a day added to my clock. I’m happy to say that in contrast to my former need for six hours extra *delete rant that was to have been inserted here…*, I’m happily feeling that I not only need to get all that I have to get done…done…I want to.

It does not mean, nor will it ever, that I am perky, however.

It does mean that I just may have to blow the dust off my calendar, or more realistically, use my cyber calendar more effectively. The way I feel right now, I could become a compulsive list maker with the very first order of the day being, make a list, which has never made much sense to me.

My very non-perky giddiness is being fueled by so many different aspects of life right now — and it’s an interesting one to me, if no one else.

With the election just around the corner, I’m successfully undistracted by everything the media has to say about Palin, or Ayers, or the Dewey effect, or just about anything that’s coming out of their mouths right now. They’re on overdrive and have me wondering what in Hell they’ll talk about after it’s all over. I feel like I need to organize a party for election night. When Obama crosses that goal line, we should be able to jump out of our seats and scream just like we do when any of our sports teams win. Yes, I said when — not if.

I. Can’t. Wait.

In other news, my mother has a boyfriend. She’s 70, you know. But there’s something wrong with calling a man who’s well into his sixties a boy, and man friend sounds strange. Man cake? She says they giggle about silly things, email back and forth, and go to the kareoke sessions at their complex together. Sounds like camp doesn’t it? She also just garnered one of the coveted garden spots, inheriting some established rose bushes and will no doubt have it transformed into a veritable botanical nirvana before spring. What does this translate to? The guilt I’ve been carrying around not spending more time with her has eased up a bit, and I’m right in line to have her tell me she’s too busy the next time I ask her if she wants to go shopping or something — which happens once every blue moon or so.

You go Mom. What does he call you? Blue Eyes? Oh, my.

And then, of course, there’s the remodel the economy tried to squash, but couldn’t. In fact we started the process yesterday and now I’m feeling like I need to pinch myself over it all and then snap out of it. There’s so much to do. Do you have any idea just how many bathroom vanities, pedistal sinks, vessel sinks, over mount, under mount, wall mount, porcelain, stone, hammered copper, wooden, antique, modern possibilities there are? It’s sort of Heaven and Hell all at once.

Like hot flashes. Raging heat, then freezing cold. Okay, so maybe not. *looks at watch wondering just how long menopause actually lasts when one has no equipment left*

Then there’s my food blog which has begun to feel like a business. That’s a good thing, but I’m a bit slow on the uptake and need to sit down and think about it all while I’m not in front of my Mac which is beyond distracting. I know I’m the only person on the planet who feels that way, of course. Or better said, the only person who has no resolve, no will power, no stick-to-itiveness. Actually, I’m great at all those things as long as they’re connected to my Mac. I finally decided to take on my own domain with my food blog and having my memory refreshed about the process is less than thrilling. But I’m relentlessly persistent and will figure it out…

…after I’ve sucked it up and decided I can no longer put off creating a weekly baking schedule and menu plan. Gina is a pro at this and posts it like clockwork. Impressive.

But what about world peace you say? Well, there has never been a time that I haven’t realized my freedom to have the quality of life I enjoy isn’t something to be taken for granted. I know this. I know there are people who haven’t had the opportunites I’ve had, or the health and food we enjoy. I know there are people who have to deal with war every single day. No, I can’t imagine. The peace I enjoy is not something they understand…What did Cat Stevens sing about all those years ago? Something about a Peace Train…

**start copy**

Join The Revolution

Here are the rules and the story.

(1) Copy this into a post (2) ADD YOUR NAME to the bottom of the tag list
(3) Tag at as many people as you’d like.

The Peace Globe project began in the fall of 2006 with a simple post from one blog, Mimi Writes. The post ignited a flame in the blogosphere. The flame became a passion. The passion became a movement. It amazingly traveled from blog to blog to blog across the globe. Bloggers wrote passionate articles on what peace means to them, along with the promise of three Latin words scribbled on a globe – Dona Nobis Pacem (Grant Us Peace) – branded with the integrity of their names or blog names. It was positively inspiring to watch. And it began to happen all over the world – from Singapore to China to Afghanistan to Brooklyn.

It was simple. And powerful.

In less than three weeks bloggers from all across the globe will blog for peace.
We will speak with one voice. One subject. One day.
Won’t you join us?
November 6, 2008

How To Get Your Peace Globe In 4 easy steps!

1. Right CLICK and SAVE the peace globe below or choose from other designs here.
2. Sign the globe using Paint, Photoshop or a similar graphics tool. Decorate the globe anyway you wish. You can even include the name of your blog. Click here for hundreds of inspiring examples from previous BlogBlasts.
3. Return the peace globe to me via email ~ mimiwrites2005 at yahoo.com – Let me know your blog’s name and url by leaving a comment here and signing the Mr. Linky. Your submission will be numbered and dated in the official gallery . Your globe and post will be listed on the Official BlogBlast For Peace website and The Peace Globe Posts page.

Here’s the most important part.
4. On November 6, 2008 DISPLAY YOUR GLOBE IN A POST. Title your post “Dona Nobis Pacem”. This is important. The goal is for all blog post titles to say the same thing on the same day. Write about peace or simply fly your globe.

Go HERE for the other 3 globe template choices!)

If you’d like to help spread the word, take this button to your site. The code is in my sidebar.

I, Mimi Queen of Memes, hereby royally tag the following…….

(Before you copy this list on your blogs, ADD YOUR OWN NAME to the bottom of the list. )

………………………………………………………………………………………………YOUR NAME HERE.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE TAGGED TO PLAY.

Please passing this meme through the blogosphere. Peace + Power
This is Mimi Pencil Skirt reporting from the lovely land of the Peace Globes.
Memeing the Movement.

**End Copy**

I’m officially tagging (and I NEVER do this…) Scott, Gina, Jerry, Ben, Meleah, Ritzy, Francis, paisley, ladybanana, Phil, Mike who are all lovely people and will probably think, OMG, what is she doing? By all means, consider yourself tagged if you’re in the mood. Maybe even try to write a better post that I have about world peace…

October 23, 2008

Does My Rear Look Big Like This?

The Yackstar has to be nearly twelve. I should know, but I don’t, and each time I wonder, I have to count. That wouldn’t be easy either, but the day I use is the one I met with the RTR’s principal. He was going to be in the first grade, and I was going to enroll him in our neighborhood school. It was April Fool’s Day and we’d just had to put our dear old cat Holis down.

You don’t forget things like that.

Her name isn’t really the Yackstar. It’s Precious, but you’d never know that because in much the same way that our dog’s name changes, hers does as well. But I only really called her the Yackstar when I was referring to her and her proclivity for yacking on the rug near the laundry room, which is now beyond all possible methods of repair.

Right now, I call her Fresh Nuts. Yes, I know she’s a female, and no, she’s not crazy. It’s more of a deriviative: Precious, Freshness, Fresh Nuts.

Get it?

Probably not, but I think it’s hilarious.

But when she’s finally decided to venture outside in what seems like weeks, and then decides to sneak into the cranky neighbor’s yard, and then yeowl loudly about not being able to figure out how to get back into our patio, I don’t think it’s hilarious at all.

There’s no way I’m hissing, “Here Fresh Nuts! Here, kittakittakitta. Heeeeeeeerrrrrrreeeeeee Fresh Nuts!” No. I have to use her proper name so when the cranky neighbor slams not one, but two of his windows at 11:30pm even though I’m barely making a sound, he won’t think I’m being derogatory.

She slept outside all night, and when I hissed over at her the next morning, she ran from the bushes sporting spider webs and dried leaves, yeowling to get through the fence. Even the guaranteed to get her complete and undivided attention sound of a catfood can being tantilizingly opened and the droolworthy aroma of Friskies Turkey & cheese Dinner In Gravy waved under her nose couldn’t inspire her to remember how to squeeze through the fence.

So I left her there.

Her appetite must have encouraged her to remember.

August 13, 2008

Babysitting 101? Not.

Your husband asks you if it’s okay that a nephew comes to stay for a few hours one night while his family is out on the town. You say, “of course,” because how difficult is it to watch a 5-year-old? After all, you’ve raised three boys of your own, and taught countless children. Right?

You:

are fairly certain you still have some of the trillions of Legos your boys collected and that you begged the two older ones to take away, to sell on eBay, or maybe build a shrine to their mother with — somewhere.
feel more than a little anxiety when you can’t find the Legos, but resourcefully drag the little pool table that no one ever played with from the dark fuzzy region under the RTR’s old bunk bed so your nephew will have something to play with.
tell the RTR that since his older brothers entertained him endlessly when he was growing up that he needed to entertain his little cousin and that this would be called Paying it Forward.
order pizza because that makes everybody happy no matter what
finally remember that the box of Legos you saved are shoved in the garage with the Christmas decorations — somewhere
ask your nephew if he wants to play with the Legos or go to the pool with the MoH who’s planning on doing some laps
should remember that five-year-olds don’t always completely understand the concept of a choice
smile when you see that the RTR has gotten out the army men and know that should keep them busy for about 10 minutes

tell the little guy after he says that now he wants to swim, that Uncle MoH has already gone, and should be back any minute now
feel relief when the pizza arrives
smile when he quietly asks where the trash is, then sticks his head in the can and barfs up more than you’ve ever seen a little boy barf — and you’ve seen a lot of barf.
feel his cool forehead, wipe his little face and let him rinse his mouth, but think, “Dang. He must do this a lot. He’s not even upset.”
watch him run back up the stairs to play like nothing happened.
see him come back into the kitchen and barf again, then ask him what he had for lunch, hoping nobody else in his family was barfing since that would sort of spoil their evening at the theater.
point to the clock explaining where the big hand needs to be for his mother and father to come get him.
carry your Mac into the livingroom, placing it on the floor so he can watch Star Wars with the RTR and get comfy with a blanket.
hope he nods off even though he doesn’t look like he’s going to.
watch him barf again even though there’s not much left to barf.
wonder what his parents are going to think we did to him when they get back.
know you’ll probably never be asked to babysit your nephew again.
decide babysitting is different than riding a bike or jumping rope.

Who knew?

August 11, 2008

You, Too, Can Organize and Decorate with Teens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He put his new desk together, and the chair.

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

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

Bets?

August 6, 2008

You’re so over the Italy stuff, right?

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.

(more…)

July 23, 2008

Our Italian Saga Continues

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.

July 21, 2008

Naples & “Rude Ebullience”

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.

July 17, 2008

Tag: Family