First Week: Full Faculty Meetings

At 9am I am running down Via Cavour, late for the first all faculty and staff meeting (12 people).  I'm thinking, I can't be late for the first meeting!  (Back in August 2002, I went from 93 South to 93 North en route to Braintree and arrived to my first faculty meetings at Thayer at least twenty minutes late.  The chairs in the library were arranged facing the door, so there I was, walking in facing my 60 new colleagues, late on my first day.  Yesterday I thought, I really cannot do that again.)  A woman walking along hollers, "Don't rush.  You're in Italy!"  Over my shoulder I yell, "But I'm late!"  I realize in that moment that that woman spoke perfect American English, that I know her voice, that she is one of my colleagues.

After two hours it's break time: espresso, cappuccino, caffe at the bar on the corner.  Then back to work.  At 1pm it's time for pizza from Taverna Etrusca with colleagues, spouses, families.  Two hours later, the official work day is done.

Today is a similar feel though I didn't run down Via Cavour first.  At 10:30 the director calls for a break, and someone brings in champagne and pastries to toast the recent wedding of a teacher.  In tandem, someone takes down coffee orders.  We work until 1:15 and then leave for the day.

It is not that there is not work to do.  People are revising courses; creating experiential learning plans with activities in the city to make learning hands-on (per a directive this summer); working out daily schedules on huge pieces of paper in the middle of the table; prepping for the two week orientation, for the retreat to Terracina, and for classes.  Each day folks arrive with new lessons prepared to review and run by the group, new ideas, new questions.  The director flies back to the states tomorrow to accompany the students on their flight to Rome.

But the breaks, the coffee, the food: these they work in as natural and necessary.  (When it was new faculty meetings last week, run by the director for the math teacher, and me -- all Americans -- we did not do the coffee break...hmmmm....)

What I learned in the margins of faculty meetings this week:

• Italians drink their espresso/cappuccino/caffe quickly.  They just down it.  They may linger for hours over lunch and dinner, but the morning coffee break is efficient.  This baffles me.  A tea drinker at home, I've been enjoying cappuccino here, the last one with cup in hand and sipping sipping.  I have to work on gulping it down Italian-style.
• Arrivederci is a formal goodbye.  You don't use it with friends or colleagues or people who know your name.  With them, you use Ciao.  But with store owners, strangers, etc., you use buongiorno and arrivederci.  The director yesterday told the bar owner my name.  Her name is Nadia.  From now on, he tells me, I use Ciao with her and she will do the same with me.
• The director has informed students that they are not to expect answers by email after 5pm.  I am wonderfully surprised by this, and I think that I might have sanity this year, a life.  But then, I may also have to discipline myself not to do work after a certain hour.  Some habits are hard to break. 
• You say congratulazione for a wedding and auguri for a birthday.  (Congratulazione to recently married colleague today and auguri to Hannah later in week.)

Cinqueterre: Part 1

Friday ETD: noon
Friday actual TD: 2pm

The plan:
Drive three hours Friday, stopping on the way to see Capalbio, a medieval town in the hills of Tuscany; to swim in the Mediterranean Sea in La Torba; to make it to our yurt in a tiny town by 8pm.  Finish drive to Cinqueterre Saturday morning, having all day Saturday and Sunday at Cinqueterre.

What really happened:
Friday:  We walked around and ate gelato in what felt like fancy and extremely well-kept Capalbio, spent 40 minutes at La Torba in the warm sea (Italians are adamant about calling it the sea and not the ocean), arrived at our yurt a little after 9pm Friday.

Saturday morning we grabbed yogurt and fruit at a tiny market and ate on the sidewalk,  hit Pisa for half an hour (It was a three hour wait to climb up -- sorry, kiddos, not this time.) (And who knew that the leaning tower looked like something for a wedding cake -- I expected antiquity, gray, weathered: I got white, bright, frosting-like.  The tower is happy, fun, festive.  It's surrounded by tourists and smiling people taking photos.  A little like a wedding.), then sat in traffic for over an hour and finally got off in a random town and went to a playground where kids played and we adults stretched.

In a wonderfully lucky moment of productivity (it's hard to abandon completely the to-do list mentality), we used the photo booth on the sidewalk to take four identical photos of everyone (except me) to submit to Italian government for residency permit.  Sitting in the playground with Daniel, I thought, Who gave us permission to be in charge of these kids?  We have no idea what we're doing.  We don't actually know where we are, we don't yet have a place to stay for the night, and somehow we are in charge of these kids.  I was reminded of taking our oldest home from the hospital two days after he was born.  Walking out of Newton-Wellesley Hospital, I eyed the nurses, thinking, You're not going to stop us?  You're really going to let us take this newborn home even though we have no idea what we're doing?  And we just kept walking.  We were now in charge of this life and we had no qualifications at all.

Phones out, we searched for a place to stay on a Saturday night in the summer in the Cinqueterre region.   We narrowed it down to a beautiful hotel in Cinqueterre with a view of the sea for $287/night and a large apartment outside Cinqueterre for $81/night.  We clicked the latter.

Hills and hills later, Daniel drove the narrow roads to Claudio's apartment.  On our right, some boys hollered out and offered to move the cones in the driveway.  We met Claudio, the owner, his gaggle of a soccer team practicing in the driveway since they had lost their match earlier in the day, and looked out at the view of hills and a solitary church up high.

The kids watched the soccer-playing Italian kids, and eventually, Connor asked, Possiamo jugare?  One boy stopped, whistled loud, and yelled to the others.  Adding Connor and Hannah to teams, they continued their game.

Claudio sat with us and reviewed maps and restaurants and hikes for Saturday and Sunday.  I left the map and instructions at a restaurant Saturday night, we called Claudio again on Sunday morning, and
he met us in Spezia to show us where to park.  He pointed us to a pasticceria for a breakfast of cannoli and croissants (reminding me of the two dozen donuts and half dozen muffins we used to get from Dunkin' Donuts every Sunday when I was a kid..."That's so unfair!" our kids say since we don't do the same for them...).

It's 11am on Sunday, and we're in the wrong line to get train tickets from Spezia to Cinqueterre.

Marriage

August 22, 2018
me: Daniel, I listened to two podcasts this morning.  It was so cool.  Do you know who Martha Mitchell is?

Daniel: What's a podcast?




March 27, 2018, phone conversations

Daniel: Did you see my text?  Pat called today and said his English candidate for next year just fell through.
me:  I just saw that.  Let's talk later.

1 hour later...
Daniel: The mechanic says that the minivan is dead.  He says he can tell you that we really do need a new car.
me: *HA.  But if we go to Italy for the year, we might not want to get a new car.
Daniel:  Good point.


*Minivan was 15 years old, and I'd been wanting to replace it for two years.

Wherever you go, there you are.  (Confucius?)

How are the kids adjusting? folks ask.

One kid is happy and excited upon waking up, popping up to find us and see what we're doing, not ever wanting to catch up on sleep and nap because then she could miss something.  She does a little Italian, goes out when the outing sounds fun, gives kisses.  She is game for every adventure, likes most when a sibling goes along, and asks for time and attention in simple ways -- will you read to me?  will you peel this orange for me?  will you cut up watermelon for me?  will you do my workbook with me?  She plans her upcoming birthday in much the same way she's planned the last two: ice cream/gelato cake by Daniel; outing to water (Connor's pool; YMCA; Lake Bolsena); pizza.

One kid reads all day and gets really excited by outings planned for the lake.  He motivates the entire gang -- including parents -- to make the lake outing happen.  He is thinking that he might want to get some exercise since he lies around a lot reading.  He occasionally asks me to do some Latin with him so he doesn't fall too far behind in school.  He helps me with the new learning management system (computer system), encouraging me to figure it out and he'll help me rather than watching an eight hour online course.  He likes that he can sit in the front seat with us in the car so we can chat but he doesn't like that the back seat feels so removed from the front seat.  He likes to talk with his parents especially when it is time to go to sleep.  He is being more adventurous eating than we've ever seen, and we are thrilled by this -- this does not mean eating salad, but it does mean eating pancetta and dried sausage and sauteed peppers and sushi.

One kid reads and comes up with her own outings, begging us for freedom and independence, taking her sister with her and having a sister date of gelato or french fries and a little shopping.  And when she's lagged behind and lost our crowd on the way back to our apartment, she works through the struggle and fear and finds her way back home.  She sets an alarm to get used to the time difference, reads her books and shares the funniest parts aloud, cooked dinner tonight (spaghetti, toast with butter and jam, sauteed onions and peppers, green olives, slices of cheese, salad), negotiated parent's doing her daily chore since she made dinner, requested of her parents more excursions since we're in Italy and so, really, shouldn't we be out doing more things?  (Parents are trying to accommodate by getting work and life list things taken care of before weekend.)

One kid keeps to himself with his books, but gets up earlier than the others if it means he can have a quiet breakfast with a parent.  He likes his space, requests family meeting to talk about screen time, has begun working on his Italian summer workbook for school with little prompting.  He drinks huge glasses of milk, and he says little for hours, but then, if you catch him one-on-one, say, while you're making him some lunch and cleaning up other dishes, he'll sit and eat and talk and talk and talk.  He'll head out on a walk with you to see the statue of the buried giant ("The Awakening") and share a gelato, talking and climbing and happily hanging out.  He'll laugh hugely with his siblings once they're all playing chicken in the lake, carrying another kid on his shoulders.


Santa Maria del Paradiso begins in three weeks, and we'll all adjust again...

And we adults...

One stays up communicating with work and house back home until late hours, respects the siesta hour by reading and napping for a bit, is game for excursions especially when they are not entirely planned and leave room for some adventuring.

One gets up before everyone else to get in some yoga or walking, is sending assignments to students so she can learn a little about them before they arrive, is trying to balance doing work/giving kids time they need/getting down time for herself.


Wherever we go...

I'm on hold.  Again.  This time with an American company, the bank.  We are down to our final five euros, we need six passport photos for our residency appointment, and, of course, money for the evening gelato excursion.  I'd made it three weeks on a credit card, euros I'd taken out of the bank, and the euro gifts of a friend and my aunt.  But with six people, we went through the remaining quickly.  When we went to Ireland four years ago, we intended to get Euros at the Dublin airport.  I don't remember whether our cards didn't work or we didn't find an ATM, but whatever the reason, we borrowed from the kids, who had gifts of euros from my same aunt.  Their gifts became our bank, and we borrowed almost every last euro.  Today I borrowed only one euro from Hannah to buy her bobby pins for her growing hair.  No matter how much we tell her, Keep it short: it looks great short, and it's so easy to deal with every day, she is determined to grow it for a bit.  Today we gave the girls some time to wander four streets in Viterbo by themselves.  Daniel and I were testing out our ATM cards (yes, unsuccessfully, hence the hold situation now), and I gave the girls three roads and two piazzas (Piazza del Plebiscito and Piazza della Fontana Grande) to traverse or sit in until our return.  Within about twelve minutes I felt nervous and went looking for them, afeared of child kidnappers and sex trade (sounds ridiculous perhaps, especially in a quiet little town like Viterbo, but, well, that's where my head goes, or my heart goes, or both go).  I checked the Piazza Plebiscito, walked fast down one street, then up another, looked over at the gelateria (Gelateria Gelart) that we have frequented, then peeked into the shop Tiger, one of the only shops open at 3:30 in the afternoon (the Italians do respect the siesta time; we, on the other hand, get moving so slowly in the morning that we are ready to go out when they are ready for napping...in this way, my solo life of two weeks has changed).  Of course: there were the girls looking at brightly colored pencils and hair scratchers (who knew?) and soft blue clay and so many other trinkets.  On my first day here a colleague and his wife took me to Vodaphone to get a new sim card and then for a stroll around the shops.  They took me into Tiger, saying, "Your kids will love this shop."

I don't know how much independence to give the kids.  Very little at this point, I think.  But I'd like to get to the point where they can walk to the pasticceria and pick up panne or pizza or cornetti.  (Daniel made a rule yesterday that the big kids can have one cappucino a month.  Excitement on this end.)  Or I'd like them to be able to walk to Paradiso (their school, which begins mid-September) by themselves after a month or to bike there if we ever get them bikes.  At home the kids can play video games at the library if they get themselves there.  They can go between houses in the neighborhood so long as they communicate with us.  They can walk to school so long as they are with one other kid.

I'm still on hold.  Captial One has now used over thirty-five of my two hundred international minutes for the month.  My Italian patience is not holding even though I asked God for flexibility and patience on Sunday at mass, aware that these do not necessarily come, but opportunities to practice flexibility and patience will come.  Perhaps I should have asked for something else.  Opportunities to do nothing, to put playing and relaxing ahead of the list of things to do, to be back in vacation mode when I couldn't decide whether to read or walk or write or nap or explore (or, in truth, clean the new apartment).  When I was about eight, I sat at my brother's hockey game and said Our Father's and Hail Mary's to secure a win for my brother's team.  The parents yelled and worried (and this was almost forty years ago -- some things don't change) and gave up.  I sat there smug, knowing in my heart that they would win because I had just asked God for them to win and said the Our Father's and Hail Mary's for security.  When the buzzer sounded, I wondered what had happened: how had my prayers not worked?

Opportunities abound for patience and flexibility here: the lack of reliable hot water and internet; the closed hours at stores, restaurants, post office, banks; the learning of Canvas, a new computer system for work; random sleep schedules for six people; different needs for each member of the family.  Learning Italian.  Resetting my password so I can use an ATM here.

Daniel wanted an excursion a little less conventional than our Lago di Bolsena outing over the weekend, so he showed us a picture of a high bridge that led across to an ancient village (whose caves were dug out of the rock by the Etruscans, the predecessors to the Romans).  We agreed on another lake visit (by another town on the lake) after the ancient town visit.  We missed our ETD by only 90 minutes, getting into the car by about 11:30am.

Bagnoregio turned out to be the most touristy spot we hit yet -- exactly not Daniel's type of outing (though he really liked it).  We followed the other tourists along the road, up to the bridge (where we paid 25 Euro to go over the bridge and up to the city), over the bridge, up the steep climb to the city itself.  We explored the Etruscan caves, the chiesa in the main piazza, the views, the ancient olive presses.  We sat for a long, relaxing lunch on the piazza.  (When Mary and I did moments tonight, lunch was my good moment.  I didn't even have to think.  I knew it as it was happening, sitting there, sipping cappuccino.)

We'll remember walking, running, and hiking up the bridge; exploring the dark, cool caves; and the city high up almost in the air, but what we'll likely remember most will be the frustrating, the sweet, the funny at Bagnoregio:

• Daniel's parking the Fiat dangerously close (one and a half inches to spare, Sebastian noted) to a wall and my cringing and closing my eyes and protesting; 
• the woman in the cute white skirt and blue top whose hat blew off her head as she and her man crossed back over the bridge, and their searching for the hat below afterwards unsuccessfully;
• an Italian man's asking us, "Where are you from?  Your accents are really good."  At first we were excited, then we realized that he was talking about our pronunciation and accents in English;
• my thinking that four and a half hours was more than enough for the parking meter for our excursion and then our rushing back to avoid a ticket.

By the time we reached the town of Bolsena on Lago di Bolsena, what I had envisioned as another low-key lake visit became a lesson in patience for me: the thunder rolled, the skies darkened, and I had serious internal turmoil going on about the frustrations (all fair) of our tenant back at home. As Daniel filled me in on major appliances not working back at home, I could feel, even here on a summer vacation Italy day, my insides go tight, my heart beat fast (or was that the cappucino, I wondered), even as I just sat in the car.  Instead of a the calm, sunny, lovely lake afternoon I had envisioned, I stood there cold inside and out, getting wet by the rain as the kids jumped and splashed and screamed in the lake and as Daniel (not as concerned about non-working appliances) counted the seconds from lightning to thunder, estimating how many miles away the storm was.  I was ready to go back to Viterbo; the kids were happy to play in the lake, tempting the storm.  Daniel joined them, I put money in the parking meter (limiting this aspect of the outing to one hour), and then I waited out their playing, the storm, my inner angst.

One of the kids said, "Now today was a real adventure."  And by adventure, he meant this playing and splashing in the lake and in the rain, making their own fun, being out in the storm, throwing each other through the air.

What they'll remember from Lago di Bolsena today:

• staying in the water as long as they possibly could while it rained and thundered until Daniel said, "That's it!  Everyone out!"
• hiding out on the veranda of a hotel across the street from the lake, under cover, until the storm let up.

At lunch I felt pure ordinary joy as we all sat there crowded around a table sharing a meal.  Peace.  And I thought, This is perfect.  This is what I want.  And I thought that any second anything could change (yes, that's life with kids, and maybe, that's also just life) because someone could get upset or argue or break a glass or just anything (or in just life, someone gets sick or hurt or dies).  But that moment was one of those moments I want to bottle up, that I can always go back to as a moment of simple, pure, together good.

Daniel didn't get the experience he was expecting at Bagnoregio, and I didn't get the experience I was expecting at Bolsena.  This is okay.  I got lunch, and he got less conventional lake time with the kids -- no boat or toys or other people.  Just the lake, the kids, the rain.

Conversations at Gelateria Gelart

Potre avere per favore stratiatella?
Potre avere per favore fragola e limone?
Potre avere per favore ciccolato e stratiatella?
Potre avere per favore nocciolo e ciccolato?


Your children speak such good Italian!
Oh!  They practice that one sentence every day.


I know School Year Abroad.  The students come every year to learn to make gelato here!


Remember when we found out that we were coming to Italy for the year?
I was so mad.  Then excited, but at first mad.
I was excited, and I was sad.
I was so upset because I wanted to go to Thayer.  But I was excited to go Italy, too.  But at first I was just upset.
I felt excited and scared.  And I was glad because our friends are going to Argentina for half the year, too.  And then we'll be away, too, so we won't be left without them.


Did you hear him say that we speak good Italian?

Lago di Vico.  Lago di Bolsena.  I'd never heard of either before three weeks ago.  Now I know that lago means lake, that both lakes are in the Viterbo region, that you're not supposed to swim in Lago di Vico (oops -- though really, I only put my feet in), that Lago di Bolsena is the largest lake created by volcanoes in Europe (http://www.italymagazine.com/featured-story/lake-bolsena-volcanic-miracle).  Truth is that I've always been horrible at science, so I didn't know before now that any lakes were caused by volcanic eruptions.

(It's possible that I'll become better at science before I learn to drive a standard.  Sitting beside Daniel this weekend in our front seat three-seater, I felt overwhelmed for him since he was shifting gears, steering, not actually hitting other cars, and looking at signs that we could not translate.  He, of course, was entirely unfazed by all of the above, pleased by his "hyper-focus" and the admiration of his wife on our sixteenth wedding anniversary.  His card was a picture of a wizened Native American medicine man and a note that we would enjoy our family day to Lago di Bolsena and our Italy adventure.  My virtual card was my admiration of his driving and my insisting to the kids that I was actually going to sit next to him on our drive.  Confession: the kids come first a lot of the time.  I let them choose their seats -- dinner, car, etc. -- before Daniel even gets a word in.)

Lago di Vico I biked to a week ago.  I returned to Passione e Pedale on Via Saffi, got a bike with a motor, and decided quickly on Lago di Vico because it was the closest lake.  Fifteen kilometers each way Martine at Passione e Pedali told me.  She told me the route, recommended a coffee stop at San Marco de Cimino, and sent me off.  I thought, Wow, do I look like I have any clue as to what I'm doing?  Does she think that I, a single woman with no clue outside these city walls, will come back in one piece?  Is she not even a little bit worried about me?  Do people just do this all the time?    She said, "We'll be here between six and seven for you to return the bike."  It appeared that not only did she think I'd make it back, she thought I'd make it back way before dark, even expected me to do so.  I took my excited and scared self (yes, again, scared) and biked beyond Porta Romana, following the signs to Ospedale (hospital -- a good landmark on my way), San Marco, and Lago di Vico.  I used the motor for every uphill, but sparingly, wanting to make sure that I had more than 50% battery remaining for the ride home.  Cars whizzed by, I got tired, I got happy, I felt a little amazed that I was biking to a lake in Italy.  I pictured my little route on a map, just a little bike slowly going along a crooked line from a town to a lake.  I was a little bike icon on mapquest.  I got happy again.  I reached the lake but couldn't find access, biked a few extra kilometers in getting lost, paid way too much for papparadelle con cingale by the lake, took off my sneakers and put my feet in the water.  I liked the solitude and I envied the groups of people together.  I watched two boys playing in the water, splashing each other, swimming.  Early on in the ride I had thought, We could rent bikes for the whole gang and do this ride.  On the way back I thought, There is no way we are doing this as a family.  As I held fast to the handlebars and squeezed the breaks the whole way down the long, steep downhills, I thought of the boys when they ski, and I thought, They would not slow down biking down these hills and they would kill themselves.

At 6pm I returned my bike and motor to Daniele at Passione e Pedali (with 70% of the battery remaining -- yahoo!) and then ate a huge gelato.

That was the solo lake adventure.

Yesterday was Lago di Bolsena.  It was time: I needed the water and some summer extension (work begins in three days) and an outing beyond the walls.  The kids didn't.  They are happy to read on their kindles, play some more Monopoly Deal, and get daily gelato.  They truly are.  And while this amazes me, I realize that perhaps doing these ordinary things (family meeting tonight about chores) anchors them, gives them a sense of home and the ordinary (we did insist on mass this morning amidst much grumbling), and the vacation aspect of wandering around and eating pizza and gelato and relaxing is good enough for them.  I shouldn't be surprised: I was the same way for two weeks, declining invitations to lakes and breweries and preferring to settle in, read, sleep, relax.

Still, it was a summer Saturday, and we had our borrowed orange six-seater Fiat.  Lago di Bolsena, here we come.  26 kilometers to get there.  In the car we worked on not interrupting each other (ongoing practice for all of us), cringed every time we pulled into a narrow parking space (how do these Italians drive and park here?), tried to understand the signs, argued about who got which seat.  We stopped for a quick errand for Daniel.  We got hungry.  We didn't know where to turn to actually get to the lake.  We passed horses and cows and kept our eyes open for gas, but not any gas.  Linda (owner of the car) recommended that we get methane (metano) since it is much cheaper than gasoline.  We discussed why, talked about cows' flatulence and poop (of course).  Daniel kept driving, and we kept being excited, and then, to the right, we could see a glimpse of the lake.  Then more of the lake.  We entered the town of Capodimonte, took a left down a hill because we saw a parking sign, and arrived.  Umbrellas, people, water, little areas of grass and sand.  We ate a few cookies I'd been hoarding in the cabinets rather than grabbing food, changed into bathing suits while hidden behind towels, and, in a rare splurge (though truth is, it was a bargain at 8 euro per hour), rented a pedal boat with a slide for an hour.  The water was warm.  The boat was fun.  The skies kept clouding over and the thunder resounded every five or ten minutes, but we stayed.  We swam.  We played.  I thought of those boys I had seen in the water at Lago di Vico.  Now these four were the ones I was watching.

Two Saturdays.

Two lakes.

Four kiddos.

Sixteen years.

Steps to old wall that Sebastian wanted to explore...

It's Friday, and the gang is here.  They arrived on Tuesday afternoon, and the only constants from the previous two weeks are daily cheese, walks, and gelato.

We feel like we have teenagers with the jetlagged crew sleeping until noon, though today the girls set an alarm to wake up at 9am so that they could adjust (yes, they did this on their own...telling in some way, I'm sure).  This means, of course, that when I'm ready to go to sleep, the kids have another two hours of energy to exhaust.  At home, when the kids can't get themselves to calm down and sleep, we assign a chore or two to tire them out and/or make them want to relax quietly in bed.  Last night, at midnight, Connor and Hannah went down the forty-two steps to put out more rifuto organico.   (Any food can go into this category of compost, not organic only and not only fruits and vegetables.  To revisit trash and recycling yet again: I've failed Thursday plastics and Saturday trash once each, and I'm determined to keep up a successful record from here on out...last night after gelato we sorted through my failed Saturday trash attempt of fifteen bags of trash to organize it more accurately into trash, give-away, paper, plastic, and food.  The contents all remnants that I found and purged in cleaning out and settling into our apartment).  While they made the trek down and up the stairs, Sebastian folded laundry in the living room, and Mary went to sleep.  Lying in bed ten minutes later, I could hear Connor pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios.  And as frustrated as I was by 12:30am, completely depleted, I smiled going to sleep, thinking about how quiet it was, almost eerily quiet, going to sleep for those two weeks by myself.  These sounds were annoying, sure, but they were also goofy and funny and happy.  The kids were acting just as they would at home -- staying up, needing some guidance, wanting some food, or, in the case of Mary, going to sleep because she had a plan to wake up at 9am today.

In some ways I'm reminded of Scituate days: the kids read and play Monopoly Deal and eat gelato (/ice cream).  They laugh and play and fight.  I wonder how they have so much time to read but I don't.  We explore and walk and even climb.  Yesterday Sebastian, Hannah, and I took a walk around the walls of the city.  As we neared Porta Romana (closest porta to our apartment), we saw some old stone steps.  Sebastian said, "Can we go this way?"  And I said, "Sure."  The stairs led to a path along the wall about seven feet up from the ground and extended twenty-five feet or so.  Then the path stopped, and our options were to turn around or to climb down with a jump.  Sebastian climbed down first, I handed him Hannah, and I went last.  I rested my foot on a nail, which broke suddenly, and down I went, with cuts and scratches to rival some of the best  on the kids this summer.  I was reminded of a walk along a sea wall in Scituate with Mary and Hannah in July.  That time, the girls were more prudent, and we chose the safer path down from the wall.

Today's excitement was getting internet working again (out all yesterday), picking up our car for the year (which we are borrowing from folks here), and getting to the grocery store.  Tomorrow Lago di Bolsena.  The temps are climbing again, and to the water we'll go.

Despite the noise and mess and dishes, I'm home.  We're all home.  And it's almost time to head out for gelato again.

It doesn't look like a big jump down, but it was daunting.

Our orange Fiat for the year: stick shift, three seats in back, and three seats in front.

"Are you nervous?" a friend asked me before I left for Italy.

I told her, "The only thing I'm nervous about is missing the kids for those first two weeks."

I've never been away from the kids for two weeks.  One week for a conference in Colorado; ten days to chaperone trip to Greece; a night here or there for other teaching conferences.  But two weeks sounded long.  At the same time, any time I was worn out this summer by the demands of family life, e.g. making another meal, listening to sibling fighting, nagging the kids to do a chore, I would think, But you're going to get two whole weeks to yourself!  It will come!

On the one hand, I thought, I can't wait for those two weeks.  On the other hand, I thought, Will I get lonesome and bored and not know what to do with myself for two whole weeks without my family, friends, neighborhood, work, structure?

And now two weeks have passed, two weeks in another country.  And Daniel and the kids arrive tomorrow morning.  In the same way that I was so eager to get time to myself two weeks ago, now I am so eager to see them, be with them, feel the fullness that they bring to the days. 

The time alone has been refreshing in the most simple ways.  I've read two books, started writing again, walked, run, biked, napped.  I've explored by myself with no worries about who needs food, a bathroom, or some one-on-one time.  I've made the simplest meals and eaten pizza daily.  I've consulted only myself when someone invites me to dinner or gelato or an outing.  For the first time in a decade, I've added songs from itunes to my playlist.  Once, long ago, my sister added songs for me; adding more songs -- even though I really wanted to have more than the 7-song-loop -- felt like more screen time and more learning time than I could manage.  One morning last week I sat down and added songs.  It was a wonderfully simple and fun half hour.  Today I listened to three podcasts.  My friends talk about podcasts all the time, even share them with me.  I listen to my friends, curious about the topics, but mystified by how one actually finds and listens to a podcast.  Finally, this morning, I pressed the icon on my phone, listened to what popped up (the downfall of Bill Clinton's presidency), found a Gretchen Rubin podcast a friend recommended, and then listened to a bit of one more called "Why We Sleep."

Had it really been this simple all along to add a new song to a playlist and listen to a podcast?  Likely yes.  But it hadn't been for me.  I did not see or feel the minutes or mental energy to do either.  I felt the same about writing.  I like to write: it makes me happy.  I like thinking about what's going on, reflecting on it, discovering something new to me.  But again, I could not find the time or energy for it.  These two weeks have been a gift of time.  I've gotten to explore, and hang out, and just be.  And while I am sad for missing time in New Mexico with Daniel's family, I can't imagine having gone and stayed sane with this Italy time coming up.

Tomorrow -- or really, later today -- they'll be here.  I can't wait.

Chairs in the tiny town of San Marco del Cimino.  I took this photo imagining two men or two women sitting visiting as some men were in the bar where I had a snack.

It's Sunday afternoon.  I'll head outside soon for a walk.  Most days, I walk.  I walk to get exercise, to find places, to get lost, to get gelato or pizza, to pop into churches and sit in the back, maybe light a candle.  Today I walked up to St. Thomas' (12 minute walk for Daniel's commute -- yahoo!), where Daniel is going to teach one hour of English a day to sixth graders.  The church beside the school, Chiesa della Santissima Trinita, was open, so I went in slowly, afeared that someone might kick me out.  One summer years ago, in hitting the seven basilicas of Rome, I went to Santa Maria Maggiore and was denied admittance: either my shorts weren't long enough or my arms weren't covered.  Frustrated to be stopped by the guard as Italians with less coverage than I had on walked in easily, I was rude to the guard.  I don't remember what I said, but my anger and frustration for the injustice was clear.  It was poor behavior on my part, and, once I left, I knew it.  When I returned days later with long sleeves and pants, I apologized to the guard.  He nodded, not quite giving me the absolution I was hoping for that afternoon. 

Today I had on shorts and a tank top, clearly not church attire.  But no one stopped me.  I sat in the last pew.  The priest was saying the Eucharistic prayer.   I'm pretty sure that I learned in Catholic school during training for a Bible bee that you are officially late if you get there after the Offertory, when the gifts are brought up and we do the "Blessed be God forever" part.  After the prayer, I shook hands with two people and said, Pace.  When it was time for communion, I didn't go up at first.  The Bible bee training was still in my head: you were officially late (not that I had actually been trying to make it there for a mass), you can't receive communion.  But then I thought, Who makes these rules and does it really matter?  So I went up, tank top and all, and the priest gave me communion.  It's peaceful, having communion.  It feels like home for me no matter where in the world I am.  It's a ritual, not just religious but cultural.  Even if I hadn't gone up, just being there was the ritual, but I was there and I felt like I didn't have to follow that rule.  It was okay.

After mass, I sat.  I watched the priest do the double cheek kiss with some folks, kiss some boys' foreheads, visit with a young woman.  He was expressive, gentle, conversational.  I liked watching him, wondering what stories he knew of these people, because he was clearly expressing joy in one instance, awe in another, and sympathy in another.  He had a nice face.  I cannot tell you what I mean by that because I'm not good on facial details.  I finally have down the colors of my husband's and children's eyes, but eye color and hair color and house color are often lost on me.  I remember stories pretty well, but physical details often escape me.  I'll often tell my husband that someone has a "nice face."  And by now, he knows what I mean.  It's a face that's open and attractive and transparent; it looks right out at you so you're not trying too hard to figure it out.  You could keep looking at it for a long time.

I headed to the door, nodding and saying, Buongiorno, to the priest.  He stopped me and asked (I figured out later),  "Di dov'e?"  I explained that I was from the United States, that I am teaching here this year (a verb I really need to learn), that my husband is teaching next door, at St. Thomas' this year.  The priest was pleased, happy both that we communicated and that Daniel is teaching there this year.  We laughed and parted.

The priest is not the only one I see talking with people.  As at home, people are often stopping and talking with each other.  The group that surprises me most is the older men.  They are gathered all hours of the day.  Yesterday, when I stopped for a snack in San Marco del Cimino (on my bike ride to Lago di Vico -- yes, another bike rental!  This one with a motor for the 30 (?) mile round trip to the lake.  I loved the motor.  I loved the lake.  I did not love the cars that went by me really fast or the downhills -- which I had thought I would like best -- during which I gripped the handlebars and breaks so tight because I could slow down only so much and those hills just kept going), four men were sitting outside the bar where I was, chatting, smoking, sipping coffee.  This is a normal scene here.  Older men just visiting with each other.  Just being together, not really doing anything, just being.  I see them in Viterbo, too, outside bars (i.e. cafes), outside shops, keeping each other company, reading newspapers, talking talking.  I have been wondering whether these men live longer than other men because they have these ways to hang out with each other seemingly often.  Recently I've read articles about how being or staying healthy is largely affected by having a good social network, by which they mean not 300 facebook friends (which is fine, but not what they mean), but real true friends that you talk to, connect with, see.  A friend told me about the book The Blue Zone, which also mentions true connection with other people as a component of good health.

So I think about these men, and I feel happy for them.  And I wonder how to create more time for all of us back in the states so we do this, too.

It's time to get outside for a walk to I don't know where.  Could be just the wall loop.  This is a moment when I miss my friends.  My walking friends.  They are in California and New York and Massachusetts and Tennessee, and they have walked with me over many years, over many streets, over many, many conversations.

Snack the Italian way (and I don't even drink coffee!)

Lago di Vico/Vico Lake

Chiesa della Santissima Trinita

Paradiso uniform for second and third graders

Helpful tips for Italy:

If you want pepperoni pizza, order d'avalo, not pepperoni.  If you order pepperoni, you'll get pizza with bell peppers.  Instead, you order salami pizza.  It's tasty -- I just finished mine from last night.

Learn how to drive a stick shift.  Today when I was walking, I looked into every car I could, and the first ten in a row, driven by young, old, and middle age folks (yes, everyone) was a standard.  After I counted twenty plus standards (did people think, Who is this strange woman looking into my car?), I spotted an automatic.  I was thrilled...until I saw that it was a BMW.  I have nothing against BMW's, but I don't imagine borrowing, renting, or buying one.  My confidence is low on learning the stick shift.  I was taught once by a high school friend and once by a boyfriend (the latter, on trying to understand why I could not get it down, I accused of simply being a bad teacher -- I believe I said something like, "Well, when one of my students can't understand something, I think about how I could have taught it better."  I was only twenty-two and clearly frustrated and embarrassed that I was terrible at driving a stick).

Don't throw away a key in your apartment, even if it looks old-fashioned and useless, and even if you have packed up and purged and removed two dozen bags of stuff that the previous tenants left, so you think that this is just one more random toy or souvenir that someone picked up.  It could be the key to your hot water heater, which is on your balcony, and which you need to access to get consistent hot water.  Otherwise, you may find yourself looking for a hardware store with unreliable hours or admitting to the manager of the apartment, your colleague, that you threw away the key (or be tempted to lie and not tell him that you ever found it).

Do clean out the kitchen cabinets.  You might find a couple bags of the tiniest and most delicious chocolate chips.

Get WhatsApp so you can talk to your friends and family through the internet for free.

Put your plastic recycling out in a bag and not in the recycling container provided by the city.  Otherwise, your colleague, when he stops by, will carry that bin full of empty water bottles (since you're buying water with no arsenic in it) back up to your apartment, and you'll have to wait another week to put it out on plastics recycling day (when you really wanted a super clean and lovely apartment for when your family arrives).

Save the Honey Nut Cheerios cereal box and read it with google translate.  It makes you feel pretty good that you know that you can almost read a cereal box in Italian.

Pack a change of clothing or two in your small carry-on or backpack in case your luggage gets lost.

Before the luggage shows up, go shopping at all the Saldi rather than returning to stores that you thought you'd like once your luggage arrives four days later.  You can't ask American Airlines to pay for clothing you got after your luggage arrived.

Buy postcards at the Tabacchi, tobacco shops.  They have a large T for a sign outside.  You don't have to wait for an hour for stamps.  And be aware that stamps to the U.S. are 2,20 Euro.

Eat the watermelon.  It's much sweeter than at home.

Don't bring bread when you're invited to dinner.  Just stick with wine.  You might be embarrassed when the host says something nice like, "Oh, I always forget the bread!  Thank you!" but then no one eats it, but they all drink the wine that the other guests bring.  And when you try a small piece (thinking, It was good to bring this, wasn't it?) you realize, Oh, bummer, this is rather tough, and even though Italian restaurants at home put out oil for your bread, which would make the bread just fine with a little oil and salt, you've seen no one -- at their home or at a restaurant -- put out oil with bread in Italy yet.

Don't let your sister know that it's your smoke alarm that's beeping when you talk to her (even if she figures it out over the phone when you don't even know what that annoying beep is).  Then she'll ask you daily if you got a new battery yet (and you're thinking, Will that hardware store have that, too, once it opens tomorrow, or do I have to go to another store for that?).

Do not almost get rid of the blue frocks with white collars that you find in a closet during your cleaning and purging.  Instead, realize that they are the Catholic school uniform for your two youngest, and certainly do not share photos of these frocks before they arrive.   Your eight-year-old son and almost seven-year-old tomboy daughter may not get on the plane if they see these ahead of time.   (And appreciate that your boss' wife has kindly left them for your children to borrow for this year.)  (I am proud of myself for not sharing photos of these frocks with the kids even though it's hard for me not to do so.)

Wait for there to be no cars to cross the road.  Crosswalks mean very little.  If you are someone who plays Frogger (as one of my roommates once accused me of in San Francisco, "Oh, Maureen, I saw your crossing the street playing Frogger!  You need to be more careful!") when crossing, try to change your habit early so that you don't annoy drivers or get yourself killed.

Always eat gelato.  Two flavors a day works pretty well.

Take advantage of the afternoon siesta when everything closes down.  Take a walk.  Take a nap.  Call your brother.  And when you catch him busy at work during his fifteen to twenty hour work day and he talks to you for a while anyway, and it's 1 in the afternoon in Italy, and he says, "Where are you?  What are you doing?"  and you tell him, "Oh, I'm just walking around the quaint streets in no particular direction, and if I get lost it doesn't matter, because somehow, once I look up my address on my phone, I'm always a five minute walk from my address," smile and laugh and appreciate when he says with kind humor, "You're one of those people.  I see people like you walking around by the river in the middle of the day and just hanging out, and I think, 'What are those people doing?  How don't they have somewhere to be?  Why aren't they working?  What's that like?' "  Appreciate his sweetness and his revelling in your enjoying a summer afternoon.

Don't run three fans and a few lights and a the washing machine all at the same time, and certainly not at 8:45pm when you're also defrosting the freezer (I'd like to say, My mom would be so proud of the defrosting, but really, she would think nothing of it, just a given that of course people defrost freezers when they should.  This is the second time in my life I've defrosted a freezer.  I have visions of her going up and down stairs with pots of boiling water for each shelf of the freezer when we were kids.).  The electricity will go out (because you've blown a fuse), you'll text colleagues for help, and they'll tell you where the fuse box is in the living room.  You'll put back up the lever, and nothing will happen.  Then you'll call Roberta (of course), and she'll try to help you over the phone, but you can't send her a photo of the circuit breaker because you have no light, and you can't take a photo and have your phone flashlight on at the same time.  Eventually, she'll call the landlord, and he and his wife will come over, kindly search around, then show you that you hadn't pushed up the circuit breaker.  The circuit breaker is in the box above where you pushed some blue lever up.  The three of you will call Roberta and explain what happened (in English and in Italian), and you'll all have a good laugh, and you'll apologize innumerable times for making this nice couple come out at 9:30 at night to help you get light.

It's strangely rewarding being able to read first grade Italian on a Cheerios box (even if using googletranslate).

Yay for chocolate chips!

The lock to the hot water heater.

Snail mail is my favorite.  Slow and frustrating to my family, friends, and colleagues, I didn't get texting on my phone until a year and a half ago.   (I do feel quite savvy these days having gotten WhatsApp to chat and text with folks back home.)  In the past, I have been more likely to sit down and write a letter to a friend.  Sipping tea and writing a letter feel like a good substitute for a visit or walk with a friend.  (I've never been cool enough to say, "Let's go for a beer!  Let's go for a glass of wine!"  It's not that I don't drink either -- I drink both -- but inviting someone for tea or a walk comes out more naturally for me, and I think I'll actually follow up on it.)

Having left Boston with many things undone, I sat down some days ago to write some belated thank you notes.  I found a few postcards from the previous tenants (Bologna, Santorini, Ravenna, Alaska Inside Passage -- all places I've not visited), wrote my notes on these, and went to the Poste Italiane.

In the past, I had gone to Vatican City for stamps and mailing notes because people advised that Vatican City is more reliable than the Italian mail service.  So this was a new experience for me.  Inside the door was a huge machine with a screen with choices that were written, of course, in Italian.  All I wanted to do was buy some stamps, and I had no idea which category I needed for that.  I asked another customer; he pressed a box and out came a number for me, just like one I'd get at the deli counter at home.  My number was 144.  On the screen by the sportelli were the numbers 123 - 127.  Last week when Dave (works for SYA) took me to get my Italian social security number, we had a similar experience, so this day I came prepared with my book (The Nightingale).  After twenty minutes, I sat down and read.  And read.

Fifty minutes later 144 was up on the board to report to sportello (counter -- learned this also when getting social security number) 9.  While waiting, I had googled stamps in Italian (francobolli) and how to ask for them.  In halting and tentative Italian I said, Buongiorno.  Posso per favore comprare francobolli?  The postal employee indicated that sure, I could buy some stamps, how many did I want and what kind?  I gestured to the postcards and the envelopes, and then asked for treinta, thinking that will give me an extra twenty-five for thank you notes that the kids still need to write when they arrive, and any other notes we feel like writing.  Postcards are always fun to send.

The woman left her desk and went into the back.  She returned a few minutes later, I ran my credit card, and she asked me for my documentazione.  I had no documents to give her, and I could think of nothing I should have.  A few more gestures and her reaching into her purse let me know she meant my passport.  My passport to buy stamps with my credit card?!  I was so not prepared: I try not to carry my passport with me, thinking that's the best way to keep it safe.  She smiled, gestured again, looked around a bit, and then gave me my receipt and thirty stamps.

Outside I added the stamps to the postcards and notes and put them in a red box.  Some red boxes I've seen around town are all taped up.  There's no spot to actually put the mail in.  These looked functional, so in went the stamped notes.  I looked at the receipt, noticed it said 72,00, and thought, That's strange.  Maybe it's supposed to say 7.20, as in $7.20 and not 72 dollars or Euro.

When I dumped out my pockets onto the dining room table later, I saw the receipt again.  I got that sick feeling, my mom would call it, of what have I done and what does this mean?  There's no way I could have spent $83 (Yes, I googled it...been googling euro to dollars; kilometers to miles; Celsius to Farenheit.  I write down the formulas with the thought that eventually they'll sink in.  Another item on my list to google is driving a stick shift.  Must happen this year if I want to drive anywhere.  Scary, but must be done.  I figure that if I learn it in theory first, then I can practice on the car we're borrowing for the year somewhere quiet.  What did we ever do before google?) on thirty stamps.  I imagine the mistake, wonder what else I purchased that I didn't know, and later on text the all-knowing Roberta (admin assistant and general go-to for almost everything SYA).  When she doesn't respond, I think, Why don't I google stamps, too?  (Wished I had thought of this before bothering Roberta...)

To mail a postcard or letter from the United States to Italy is $1.15.  To mail a postcard or letter from Italy to the U.S. is 2.3 Euro, which, google tells me, is $2.55.  (Eventually I really will stop converting every measurement and Italian word, but I'm still in the transition phase.  Likely I won't have time to google every little thing once the gang arrives next week.  And this could be good for me.)

So indeed I did spend 72 Euro on thirty stamps.  When people travel, there should be a built-in warning, Plan at least $100 over budget for those early errors you make because you just won't know any better.  (How in the world do immigrants survive when they get to a new land?)

Now I've accepted the charge and (almost) let it go.  I don't want to see real mail go.  But it may be the thirty stamps and then emails.  And we must use one stamp to send a note to our own mailbox for LeeAnn.

LeeAnn is our mail carrier and one of the highlights of our day at home.  She knows every person in the neighbourhood, what they do for a living, how their days are going, who's sick, who's lost someone recently, who has a birthday coming up, who sends postcards to complain to Trump about his administration ("Nevertheless, we will prevail!"), in which corner of the garage to store Santa boxes in December.  She is light in the day.  If she has a minute, she'll tell you a story about growing up in Lowell and wishing she could have played more basketball, or she'll play a quick game of knockout with Sebastian, or she'll do silly snapchats and send me photos of the kids with her in the neighbourhood.   She occasionally leaves huge bags of popcorn sticking out of our mailbox from the store where she buys her lottery tickets.  And when she is driving around early in the morning during the Christmas season, Connor and Hannah yell from their bunkbed by their window, "LeeAnn's here!" And they run to the door to holler, "Hi, LeeAnn!"  She is funny and real and kind and blunt.  She is no-nonsense and sensitive at the same time.  She is friendly with the youngest and the oldest folks on her route.  As she makes her deliveries each days, she collects stories, a welcoming nature beneath her self-proclaimed "tell it like it is" m.o.

One day she said to me, "So, Daniel's getting together with Mary Murphy."
"What?" I said.
"Yeah, I saw his name on her calendar when I was over there," she said.
I thought, remembered.  Mary Murphy is an eighty-four-year old kind woman a couple blocks over that Daniel had met and with whom he was planning a cup of tea.
"Oh, yes!" I said.
"She's great," LeeAnn said.

I'm glad I'm here buying ridiculously priced stamps.  And we all will miss LeeAnn this year.

Italian mailbox that does not take mail

The magic number

Unexpected farmhands and tractor in Viterbo

The truth is that I am a huge scaredy-cat.  I always have been.  I find any tv shows with bad guys scary, even this one show that lasted just a season back in the 1980s, called "Lottery."  Per the title, each show a few people won the lottery, and often there would be a mystery or theft or confrontation or missing person.  I couldn't get myself to not watch it (lottery winnings are intriguing), but Friday nights had some fear in them.  Sitcoms were a little safer.  And while I was attracted to the news whenever it was on, to the stories of robberies and kidnapping and break-ins, they haunted me later when I went to sleep or babysat at night.  I checked under my bed before sleeping, scared that someone might grab my ankle.  I hesitated to slide open the closet door, afraid that someone might reach out and grab me.

I still babysat by myself at night when I was a teenager, lived in Berkeley alone, lived in Rome for two summers in apartments, etc.   After college, I lived in Ghana for a summer.  I wanted so much to go, yet I had many scary dreams before ever even leaving.

Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love) writes in her book Big Magic something about it's being fine to have fear so long as you don't let fear be the driver.  Fear is fine, let it come along, and let it sit in the passenger seat.  I must have shared this with Connor (now 8) a couple years ago and not recalled, but when I dropped him off for a day at recreational summer camp in Waltham, he would not let me leave.  He had thought that he would get to be with his sister and buddies, but he was older than they were, so he had to go to an unknown group solo.  As we stood hiding in the bushes debating our next move (him -- how to avoid this unexpected situation; me -- how to get him to his counselor), he said to me, "I know what you're going to say."  Golly, I didn't know what I was going to say, so I was curious what this six-year-old thought I was going to say.  "Oh?" I asked.  "What am I going to say?"  Connor said, "You're going to say, 'Just take your scaredness with you.' "  I didn't recall sharing that nugget with Connor, but what a champ he was to remember it.  And he did -- both take his scaredness with him and participate in camp every day that week.

Back in Viterbo...I rented a bike for a day.  Daniele, the store owner, offered me a route since he's also a tour guide and does bike tours.  I had intended just to bike around, get lost, find places.  But I liked his idea of a route.  So I tried it.  It went outside the city walls, by McDonald's on the left (not joking...at least it's outside the city walls), and then along a shaded, green-covered road with a huge wall on one side.  This road was quiet and would take me to the Terme and to the Castel d'Asso, i.e. the hot baths and the necropolis.  Daniele told me to take this pretty road rather than the busier road that ran parallel.  This one is more beautiful and peaceful, he said.

He was right.  It was lovely.  (It reminded me of a ride decades ago in the Cotswolds.)  But a few things gnawed at me as I biked down this lovely road: 1) my helmet is so annoying and won't stay on; 2) Alitalia is supposed to deliver my luggage today (it was Friday), and if I'm not there, they won't leave it, and I don't want them to bother Roberta and for her to have come over to receive it; 3) this road is so quiet at this time that it feels deserted, and I feel a bit on edge.  The old childlike fears returned.

Sidenote: My sister Christine understands every bit of this, and she would not babysit at night by herself when we were kids.  So now, while she is in Massachusetts, and I'm in Viterbo by myself, she texts and calls me every night to make sure that I have gotten home safely and have locked my doors.  One might think that, age 46, I'd feel irritated by this.  But no, I actually feel comforted.  And the scaredy-cat in me feels glad that someone will know each night that I am safe and sound and going to bed.  (At home, when I go to sleep, I nudge Daniel until he assures me that the doors are all locked or he gets up to lock them.)

With my helmet off and tied to the bike, I stopped.  My concerns were too heavy, troppo pesante.  I couldn't relax and enjoy the ride.  With all my stops and starts, I hadn't gotten more than a mile, so I turned back, headed up a hill, and explored outside the walls in the more bustling city, the busier roads that Daniele was trying to help me avoid.

The Chiesa da Sacra Famiglia was open and empty.  I locked up my bike and went in and sat.  It was peaceful, empty, yes, but I felt no fear.  I just sat.  Meditated.  Enjoyed the quiet (I suppose, what Daniele had been trying to give me for an experience on that road).  Roberta texted and let me know Alitalia was indeed coming this afternoon, early afternoon, between 2-6pm.  I biked around some more, finding the comune piscine and the gym that I think we'll join once we figure it out, enjoying the exploring amid the bustle.

When I went to see Daniele about my helmet later on, he said that I could keep the bike until the next day so I could finish my ride out to the Terme and Castel d'Asso.  I told him how I turned around because of my luggage; I did not confess my fear.

Christine told me that night on the phone, "Don't go on that quiet road.  You shouldn't do that alone."

The thing is, I felt confident that nothing bad would happen on that beautiful road of foliage and shade.  But I didn't want to have the worry with me the whole time, not enjoying the ride because of that jiggy (word my mom coined some years ago) feeling.  Then again, I had to get out to the terme and necropolis.  I just had to get there for myself.

Saturday morning I got up, hopped on my bike, put on my new helmet (much better), and headed out.  But on the busy road.  I had no fear.  I loved it, cars and all.  The fancy hotel with the terme looked gorgeous, the ride got quieter once I turned to head to the necropolis, and I felt calm inside.  I glided so quickly, barely working on the bike, and then, unexpectedly, farms.  Vineyards and farms and tractors.  Another feeling of the Cotswolds.  A biker here and there.  Green and green and more green.  Endless fields.

The truth is that I did make it to the necropolis...but I did not get off my bike and go exploring in the caves myself.  The boys in Thailand stuck in the cave, being alone, needing to return the bike by 11am (convenient reason) -- edged into my peaceful state: I kept moving.  Even now, as a grown woman, the news sticks with me, even when the likelihood of a newsworthy event's happening to me is so statistically unlikely.

The way back was all uphill, a slow, steady climb with the slight wind against me -- no more gliding.  I liked it, the feeling of exertion and the feeling of trying to meet the 11am deadline, justifying my not exploring those caves.

I'll rent a bike again, maybe myself and maybe with a motor to make it up to a lake or maybe when Daniel and the kids are here.  I'd do that quiet road with them (hmmmm....strange to think I feel safer with a brood of children with me...).  Or maybe, next time I rent a bike, I'll start on the offered route and then find my own way again -- to churches and pools and farms.

Sacra Famiglia

Sacra Famiglia

Lettuce?

The apartment is quite wonderful, and it needs some serious de-cluttering, purging, cleaning.  Basically, I need to do on a smaller scale what we've been doing for the past two months in Waltham -- grrrrrr....at least I shouldn't have to think too hard since I have no attachment to things that belong to a family that I've never met.  On the phone, Christine told me, Get some gloves and deal with it.  One room at a time or an hour a day.  You'll be so glad it's done when Daniel and the kids get there.  Her husband overheard her side of the hour long conversation.  She'd be done with some of it already if you two just got off the phone and stopped talking about it.  Fair enough.  Her husband is not one to talk about what needs to be done; he just does it.

Got the gloves.

More importantly, after a few hours of cleaning, I went for a walk to time different routes to Paradiso, and then rewarded myself with a gelato.  Cioccolato e stracciatella.  I think I'll clean every day and have a gelato break afterwards.

"Those are stumbling stones," Warren told me.
"They're what?"  I asked.
He pointed, and I looked down at the road.
"Stumbling stones.  They're a memorial to Jewish people in Viterbo who were seized during the Holocaust," Warren said.

I bent down.  You could easily miss these three small copper cobblestones as I would have if not for Warren, the math teacher here at SYA.  (He and his wife Amy and I were on our way to get gelato.)  On each copper cobblestone is the name of a person who lived at this site; a birth year; the year the person was taken to a concentration camp; the year the person died; the location where the person died.  All three were taken from Viterbo: Emanuele Vittorio, Angelo di Porto, Letizia Anticoli.

The stones are meant to make people stop and look at them, to take a moment to read these names, and to remember what happened to the world and what happened to individuals who lived right here where we now live.  These cobblestones are small but as powerful -- if not more? -- than a large memorial to honor those who died in concentration camps.  They remind us individuals who each had his or her own story.

I've always thought of Rome as a place that has layers of history -- the Etruscans and Romans during Monarchy, Republic, Empire; medieval times; the Renaissance; all those popes commissioning art; World Wars; capuccino and gelato and pasta and tourists like me now.  Viterbo is no different.  (Is anywhere, really?)

https://www.wantedinrome.com/news/the-stumbling-stones-of-jewish-memorials.html

https://www.npr.org/2012/05/31/153943491/stumbling-upon-miniature-memorials-to-nazi-victims?t=1533301214876

It's been a long time since I planned out only one day at a time.  I do have a new calendar (thank you, Chrissie) that waits to be filled, a stack of papers to review, and an online schedule for SYA -- coordinating these three is on my list for this week, but I keep putting it off, picking a small excursion for myself instead.

Yesterday I wandered inside the walls.  Then I decided to find Santa Maria del Paradiso, the Catholic school the kids are attending in the fall.  It looked so old -- a tall flat facade church of gray stone and gray brick, heavy wooden doors about ten feet high, a semi-circle mosaic over the door, of Mary and Jesus with two angles around them.  Inside the gate to the right, kids were laughing and running in the courtyard, kicking a soccer ball, pretending to listen to a camp counselor who was trying to organize them.

I had typed the address into my phone, and I had gotten so close on my own.  Panting up yet another hill (Viterbo is all ups and downs), I finally asked an Italian man where Santa Maria del Paradiso was (doubt he was as excited as I had been the day before to be asked for directions; nevertheless, he was kind and helpful).

me: Dove Santa Maria del Paradiso?
Italian: .....decenza....a sinistra....

Ellipsis indicate the many words I didn't understand.  But down and to the left!  I felt victorious just understanding those two parts.

I walked back, .8 miles, I think.  Our kids are so walking to school even though we are renting/borrowing a car for the year.  I can imagine that I would give in to driving them some, but with Daniel in charge for drop-off and pick-up, they will be walking unless we find them bikes first.

Little street in Viterbo

Viterbo is surrounded by a wall built in the eleventh century.  A five kilometer loop, folks told me: a perfect route for a walk (or run, I initially thought, until I noticed, in the walking, the ongoing inclines and declines).  I found my way to one Porta (not sure which one, but I have now entered and exited, thanks to two colleagues, through two porta (portae in Latin; porte in Italian?), and I can find my way from the apartment to these two porta.

On my walk around the walled city (Approximately 20, 000 people live inside the walls of Viterbo; another 40,000 people live in Viterbo outside these walls.  I've never been one to know, remember, or care about population, but I am glad for this information.  People ask questions about population and region -- Lazio -- and nearby towns -- Rome is 80 miles south; Florence, 130 miles north.  I now have some basics down which make sense to me and even help me have a sense of where I am.) I found (cherco?) chances to practice my Italian.

Saldi everywhere in Viterbo these days, so one store drew me in with its sweatsuits.  Hannah will be the first in our family to celebrate her birthday here in Italy (August 30), and she loves sweatsuits, which only my aunt Margo can successfully find.  And even she couldn't find one this summer before we left.  But this store had the sweatsuits hanging in the window with the sign SALDI! beside them.  Sale!  I used the words regazza and filia and seite to describe Hannah as the woman who worked there laid sweatsuit after sweatsuit on the table.  They even had Hannah's favorite Adidas, albeit in black and in a material that did not feel flexible or comfortable.  (Like me, Hannah will not sacrifice comfort for fashion.)  I asked whether I could exchange the one I got (Nike, colorful, size 8-10) if it didn't fit, and she said, "Cambia? Si."

Back on my walk, the wall always to my left, I followed the American rule of walk against the traffic.  One hill was so long that an athletic guy coming up the other side was walking his bike.  I thought, Run this?  No way.

The cars sped by.  I passed a mechanic's shop, where 15 motorcycles sat out front, and a woman with the hood of her car up spoke fast Italian to the guy trying to start her car.

A man spoke to me in French, and I had to tell him, No parlo franchese.  Parla l'inglese?  He said, No.  But with our gestures and Italian (Dove sono magazini grande? I asked.), he pointed me in the direction of the grocery store.  Another man stopped me and asked me for directions.  All I could say was, No so.  Mi dispiace.  But I wasn't too sorry.  I thought (not for the first time in my life), I feel like Nick Carraway: I got asked directions!  I must belong here.  Or someone thinks that I (look like I) belong here.

In the grocery store I needed to find bags for trash and bags for compost.  I approached a woman shopping, saying, Scusi.  Dove....? 
She said, "Non lavoro qui."

"Io lo so," I said.  "Ma forse sa"...I gestured to the other bags in my hands.  I was not giving up just because she was not an employee.
She said, "Busti?"
"Si, busti!"
"Que cosa?" she said.
"Per...per...trash...recycling...food..."  I couldn't come up with the word for trash.
"Rifuti?" she asked.
"Si!  Rifuti!"  I'd never been so excited about trash.

No Pimsleur for me today, but that recycling paper that I read yesterday came in quite handy.

Site of Catch-22 filming

George Clooney is, apparently, here in Viterbo.  Daniel is not here yet, and the kids are not here yet, but George Clooney, apparently, is.  Strangely, this makes me feel at home.  On June 20 of this year, I let Mary (it was her birthday) skip school, and she and Sebastian and I went to see Ocean's 8.  I hadn't see any of the Ocean movies, but the gorgeous women cast made me want to see it, so off we went.  Clooney never actually appears, but he is there, as they say, in spirit.  Inspired, we borrowed Ocean's 11 from the library, and watched some of that one summer night.

So strangely, Clooney's being here gives me some comfort of home.  (When I lived in Rome for a month in the summer of 2004, I remember the piazza of the Pantheon being closed one morning because they were filming Ocean's 11.  Interesting timing...)

While the kids and Daniel are en route to New Mexico, I spent my morning getting the equivalent of a social security card here in Italy (with instruction, help, and transportation from Roberta and Dave, the couple who run the office and extracurriculars at SYA here).  I declined an invitation to a lake even though it's 99 degrees here today.  (I'm still using Farenheit, and I will try to learn Celsius perhaps next week.)  The lake sounded perfect.  But I needed a break, a chance to nap and sit and find my way a bit myself.  Not that I've found my way at all yet today.

I did spend time figuring out the trash and recycling system here in Viterbo.  Swimming at a lake or reading trash and recycling literature?  Strange choice, one might think.  But I have to say that I felt so pleased to be sitting down reading that little paper in Italian with my google translate on for help.  At 1:30am, up because of jet lag, I was up unpacking my carry-on (my two suitcases have not yet arrived -- a delayed flight to Philadelphia; a rebooking on a direct flight on Alitalia; an unexpected charge of $285 for luggage that has not yet arrived), and I could not figure out at that hour where to put the trash, the plastic recycling, the paper recycling, the glass recycling.  It was information overload from yesterday, and it was slightly debilitating.  Every category of refuse ended up on the floor in a heap.  So today, the basics: I can now likely teach the kids and Daniel what goes where and when each bin goes outside the door.  Every day lunedi a sabato a recycling or trash bin goes out, or rather, per the literature, the night before each giorno, a bin goes out.  Trash and recycling used to be the easiest job in our house as it went out only on Tuesdays back in our Waltham neighborhood.

A friend shared a poem a couple of years ago.  It is called "What the Living Do."  It detailed dropped groceries and plumbing issues and car doors.  It did not talk about days on a lake.  The living go to lakes in Italy, I know, or to Scituate for two weeks and enjoy the break from reality as they sit on the beach, do yoga overlooking the harbor, eat ice cream almost daily, play Connect Four and Othello and Boggle and soccer, read books, eat lunch with friends, chat with friends on the porch.  I don't mind reading Italian instructions (with google's help) about trash and recycling.  I'm living.  In Viterbo.

And now I will close my computer, visit the grocery store a colleague showed me yesterday, and purchase water (My kids have urged me from the states not to drink Viterbo's tap water -- they googled this information last night with Jacqueline and her mother-in-law.   Google claims that Viterbo's water, unlike the pure water of Rome freely flowing from many fountains, has traces of arsenic in it) and toilet paper.

What the living do.

"What the Living Do"

Go this way, Hollywooders!

Maybe I can find a youtube video on this system.

Road blocked for Catch-22 filming