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.