Rain Day

Yesterday at about 5pm, Mary and I were watching Season 15 of Grey's Anatomy (Is it homesickness that makes me pay $2.99 per week to watch Grey's and another $2.99 per week to watch This is Us?  Or is it just that I like a good story and good break?  Or is the Thursday night ritual at home?  Or is it a simple lack of discipline?  It may be time to cancel Netflix because we watch it rarely, but I committed this week to season 15 of Grey's and season 3 of This is Us by paying for the whole seasons so I don't feel a bit guilty each week, debating whether to watch.  And there was that little note above the click spot that read, "Discount based on your previous purchase of episodes"...or something like that...sucker sucker sucker...), and then all the other kids squished next to and around us so we were cuddled in on a rainy Sunday afternoon watching Grey's.  (Appropriate for children?...no, some of the time, it's not.  We either tell them to go away or hope the inappropriate parts go over their heads.)

Daniel came in.  "Pat called.  He's picking you kids up in fifteen minutes to take you to see the olives get crushed."

"No!"
"I don't want to go!"
"We're so cozy."
"We want to stay in and watch Grey's with Mom."

I understood only too well.  I felt the same way the day before as I forced them all to go harvest olives at Pat's while I stayed home and got a few quiet hours to myself.  We're in Italy: they've got to go see the olives (some of which they harvested) get crushed.

There are so many things we say we won't do until we're actually in a situation, e.g. We'll never let our kids have plastic toys.  We'll never get too busy with activities.  We'll never let our kids eat as much sugar as so-and-so.  We'll never let our kids have temper tantrums...  We'll never bribe our kids.

"Name your bribe," I said to the kids.

I was thinking, We made them spend Saturday out, we dragged them to mass again today, they go to Italian Catholic school daily, and now they want a little down time.  This seems fair to me.  And yet.  I'm not letting Pat show up and them not go with him to see the olives crushed.  He's terribly generous, and they'll enjoy it.  (Mary arrived home from harvesting the olives on Saturday and said, "It was awesome!  I loved it!")

Not surprisingly, they requested screen time -- the boys to make and play Scratch games; Mary to watch videos; Hannah to play video games.

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While they were out watching olive-crushing, I reread Act 5 of Othello, worked on Connor's photobook for his upcoming birthday, and tried to read, i.e. translate, the 145 WhatsApp messages from the parents of grade 2 (Hannah's class).  The messages kept coming, so I was toggling between catching up and trying to stay up to date.  We owe 25 euro for the cash fund for baking ingredients and another birthday.  Then I started reading things with the words "Maltempo....scuola chiusa...domani..."  I wasn't getting everything, but it seemed to me that they were possibly calling off school for Monday because of the rainstorms and thunder and lightning.  (We had, after all, lost our power in the morning.  With Pat's guidance, Daniel got it back on in the afternoon, accessing the fuse box that I had incorrectly tried to reactivate in August when I blew a fuse.  Who knew that this time we were supposed to check the box that I had incorrectly checked in August?)

Within an hour, it was confirmed: no school for Paradiso, St. Thomas', and SYA.

Monday would be the down day that they kids had been requesting all weekend.

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Lunedi.

Here we are.

It's just like a snow day at home.  It reminds me of Superstorm Sandy, that East coast non-hurricane that was blustery and got us all a couple days off from school a few years ago.  We slept in.  I went for a thirty-five minute run (a recent minute record for me); walked and listened to a Fresh Air podcast interview with Terri Gross (she made a guest appearance on This is Us last week...) and John Green, author of YA novels, including The Fault in Our Stars and Turtles All the Way Down.  I took a long shower.  Worked on Con's photobook some more.  Shopped on amazon for a watch for Connor.

Mary baked cookies.  Connor and Hannah and Mary went to Tiger and then hid the candy they bought, thinking I didn't see them run by our room with big goofy smiles.  Sebastian's been sitting reading on his kindle when he's not eating Mary's cookies or fried eggs.  Daniel's reading the novel Holes to prepare for his sixth grade English class.

The down day we all needed.

Holidays and Homesickness

Last night I read the director's letter to the SYA students' parents.  He mentioned that the students should be talking to their parents no more than once a week and that, "it may seem counter-intuitive, but feelings of homesickness are best faced by seeking resources within their midst here."

Daniel was at meditation (he has no trouble committing to activities -- at the moment he and the kids are olive harvesting over at Pat and Linda's house, as the Agroecology SYA kids did yesterday...I say to our kids, "You get to harvest olives in ITALY...how cool is that?  Off you go!"...and then I stay home, go for a walk, grocery shop, write a bit...), Mary was doing homework, I was writing progress reports, the other kids were watching Italian cartoons, i.e. American cartoons dubbed in Italian (Our teachers tell us that we should!  Even the director of Paradiso says we should!).

I read them the excerpt from the letter.  They were feeling pretty good about themselves, saying, "Yeah, we talk to the Raymonds and to Ellen about once a week."
"And talking to our aunts doesn't count, does it?"

Halloween is Wednesday.  It's the holiday I was feeling worst about their missing at home.  I can't imagine having left home for a year when I was their age.  I liked routine and traditions and rituals.  I found comfort in the predictable and the simple and the ordinary: bags of candy that ended up filling the pantry freezer for dessert for months; turkey dinner for both Thanksgiving and Christmas; our family and Gram and Margo together; everyone around the Christmas tree in the basement (what we called, "Way down"); a Snickers in my Christmas stocking.

We'll be together for Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter, but I still have some trepidation about these holidays for the kids.  Will they be good enough?  Will the kids be sad?  Will we parents pull off the holidays in a special enough way?  Halloween won't have their buddies; Christmas won't have quite as many presents or The Chateau and Brandeis and cousins; Easter won't have the neighborhood Easter egg hunt in our yard.

Halloween feels like a big holiday for the kids because it's with their neighborhood friends, and our neighborhood is alive and full, and the spreading out of all that candy over the living room floor is artwork in and of itself.  They don't ask Daniel, and I turn a blind eye for a few days as they eat way too much sugar; after some days we monitor or give away, but those first few days are kid heaven and kid freedom.

I had intended to make Halloween special here for them, figure out a way to trick-or-treat or something along those lines.  Alas, the Italians don't trick-or-treat; Halloween is an older kid darker holiday, we've heard, where folks dress up as dead people, and there's more tricking than treating.  A colleague told us, You'll be missing nothing (we're headed to Naples on Halloween).  Her description of Halloween did not make our kids want to celebrate.  Instead, she told us about Little Christmas on January 6 and Mardi Gras/Carnival, the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday.  The nonne (grandmothers) drive down the street in Fiat 500's and give out candy.  And on one of the holidays there is the largest sock ever holding candy for all the kids.  I don't remember which details go with which holiday (I am generally a step behind), but I know that Mary felt more at ease about not trick-or-treating here in Viterbo and that the kids started to look forward to January 6 and Mardi Gras.

While I'm not importing Kit Kats and Reese's peanut butter cups and Twix for Halloween (though I have a memory that my mom did send these to me the semester I spent in Rome and one of my sisters did attempt to do so before learning at the post office that this sending would cost $88 per envelope), I did put some Ferrero Rocher and Kinder chocolates into my grocery bag this afternoon to put out on Halloween morning.

One holiday at a time.

Everyday Hurdles

I find it hard to make appointments back in Massachusetts -- hair appointments, dentist appointments, doctor appointments.  This isn't a new hurdle for me.  I find it hard to commit to appointments, to know ahead of time that that day and time will work, will not interfere with real life (real life's being not appointments), will not make me wish that I didn't have to go to the appointment.  I've tried to change my way of looking at appointments in the last two years: I try to think of them as opportunities to take care of myself rather than as roadblocks in my routine or as one more thing that I need to do.  If I think, Hey, go me, I'm taking care of myself, I enjoy the shift of time and change of routine a bit more, and I even feel good about it sometimes.

But still: making the appointments is a challenge.  When I leave the doctor, the dentist, the hair salon, the acupuncturist, the assistant asks, "Do you want to schedule your next appointment now?"  I feel a little paralyzed, a little pathetic, thinking, How do I know what I'm going to be doing in six months on a Tuesday afternoon (dentist)?  How do I know if my hair is going to be driving me crazy in ten weeks or I can color it myself a few more times and put it up in a ponytail and get a few more weeks out of today's haircut?  I color my hair myself because 1) it's cheaper; 2) the white appears within two to three weeks; 3) I don't have to drive to the hair salon and sit there for an hour or two; I can color it in my kitchen and putter around my house for the hour that I let it sit in there.  As for acupuncture, how do I know what ailment I have or what if I have none?  Daniel says, Just make the appointment and figure out the ailment later.

So making an appointment in Italy feels like double the challenge.  I've got my regular hang-ups, the language, and the issue of where to go.  Luckily, other folks are happy to share their experience: Linda recommends an acupuncturist; Amy, a hair salon; Roberta, an orthodontist for Mary; Dave, a doctor for Sebastian.

In the last week we've hit all these appointments.  I got a hair cut and color that, with some extensive waiting (no problem since I had Othello with me except that it made me late for the school outing to the Terme de Papi, the fancy hot spring pool in Viterbo...a Thursday afternoon, a large piscina filled with water from the spring, trees and hills in sight, and me thinking, Is this really a school day?  is this really my life today? ), took three hours.  I balked later at the time suck, but then I didn't do my hair for four days, so perhaps the minutes even out in the end.  When I got home, I said to Daniel, "Maybe I'll start getting my hair done regularly rather than coloring it every two weeks myself. " (I started going grey/white at twenty-one.  One day I'll just let it go.  But Hannah's seven, and I'm not ready quite yet to be thought of as her grandmother.  Some people pull off grey or white hair beautifully -- Jedda's mom back in California; Eleonora, the always elegant Italian who matches SYA students with Italian families; Linda, whose grey and white streaks look natural and rich and right.  I'm not one of these people.  As my white grows in every other week, I look more drawn, tired, the opposite of elegant.)

In truth, I've cheated: The hair salon was Aveda, and the Italian owners lived in England for the past six years, so communication was easy and clear.  The acupuncturist and I made up the difference between her Chinese and Italian and my English and Italian: I tried to be really clear about sinus/eye issues and sleep issues, and she was good enough to find a way to understand me.  Our language difficulties really came up only when it came to my asking for a ricevuta (receipt), and she explained to me that she couldn't give me a receipt because we weren't meeting at the hospital where she works.  My eyes are better, and I've slept better for the past week -- I am letting go the ricevuta and reimbursement from health savings account.

I'm not sure whether I was happier after the actual appointments or after I had simply made the appointments.  Making them is the bigger obstacle for me.  Committing to them.

Our kids, for the most part, don't seem to have this hang-up to quite the same degree.  Hannah and Sebastian have signed up for an entire year of soccer -- no seasonal soccer here in Italy.  They are fine with the commitment.  (Connor's decided two practices of 90 minutes for the whole year is too much for him.  Hmmmm...perhaps he's like me in this way, and I have some reflecting to do.  He likes home time.  I want him to do something, anything out and about.  I was thinking something physical; he's thinking something where he's making or creating.  We'll get there.)  Mary's signed up for swim twice a week for the year.

Wednesday afternoon after lunch (okay, and gelato) Mary, Hannah, and I went to check out a sewing studio that was advertised at SYA.  Mary has been wanting to learn to sew and knit for three years.  I can teach her nothing.  In middle school one year, we sewed angel ornaments for our parents for Christmas.  I almost finished, but in the end, I needed help.  Christmas Eve I found my mom on the phone and brought it to her for her to finish it for me.  She laughed and explained to her friend on the phone (I imagine it was Mrs. Egleston) my predicament; her sharing and laughing hurt my feelings tremendously.  It was affection, I know that now.  But it was an ominous start for my sewing career.  Maybe ten times I've sewn a button on a pair of shorts or pants I cherish, but back home I send the kids to Daniel, or I add their needed mending to the cleaners' pile since the woman there can tailor, sew, and fix anything far better and faster than I can.

Mary has classmates encouraging her to do chorus or dance with them.  She wants sewing.  Fifty yards from our apartment building is the studio.

Vincenza greeted us and left us for a minute.  She returned with another woman who spoke some English.  They were joyful and kind and funny.  "We are starting one class right now.  Do you want to come now?"  I was thinking, No!  I had my entire afternoon planned of prepping and doing errands and hanging out.

The three of us took our seats around a table with seven Italian women (two Valentinas, a Georgia, and a woman who told me that she used to host SYA students among them) and Vincenza, the teacher.  She measured each woman, then Mary, asked me how long (or short) a skirt or dress should be.  "Non troppo cordo," (not too short) I said, and they all chuckled knowingly.  She spoke Italian the whole time, showing patterns and measurements and gesturing and pointing.  I took Hannah home.  I returned: Mary was still sitting there, engaged, listening, trying to understand.  Class is once a week for two and a half hours.

Afterwards, we checked in with Vincenza about signing up, cost, etc.  There is the subscription fee (subscription fees are what we'd call joining fees, and here in Italy, you pay them for gyms and most activities), she told us, and then a payment each month.  You can pay all at once or at the end or bit by bit.  Mary was ready for me to pay for the whole year.

"How about we pay the subscription fee now, and then we pay for two months at a time?" I suggest.

Mary says, "Sure.  That's great."

We got there and stayed, we signed Mary up, and we're paying for two of the six months to start.

That's progress.

Calcio

While three of the kids are playing soccer (Mary is doing swim), they are not yet allowed to play in games (in fact, they won't even take our money while the kids "train" twice a week) until we have proof of residency -- which we need to apply for within ninety days of arrival for Daniel and kids (my EU citizenship through Ireland streamlines my process a bit).  So no weekend calcio games for a while. 

At training (what we call practice) this week, Sebastian took off his sweatshirt.  His coach and teammates told him that he had to put it back on because it was slightly raining.  The Italians are concerned that you might get sick if you go out with wet hair or get caught in the rain without an umbrella or jacket. 
Sebastian told me, "The coach asked if I had a jacket, and so I told him, A casa." 
"But you don't have one," I said. 
"I know, but I couldn't say that!"

Add that to the list for the weekend.  (In truth, it's been on the weekend list for at least two weekends because I don't want Paradiso to get after us directly or, worse yet, via my colleague who is our contact.)

Connor's gone to one practice because he was sick for the other two.  We walk the one and a half kilometers there, get him out on the field with Roberto, the coach, and a bunch of eight-year-old boys we've never seen before.  Connor doesn't like to sign up for activities much: he likes to be at home or with his friends or making up his own activities (last week he looked up how to make parchment paper and made it with paper, water, and an iron).  But he agreed to try it out.  (I insist on one physical activity because I see all of us happier when we have some physical exercise going on.)   I read Othello in the stadium.  When I look up, I see Roberto showing Connor how to pass properly.  I see Connor passing and running and wearing himself out well.  When he runs up the stadium steps to get his water, he says, "It's hard for me to leave the house to come, but once I'm playing, I love it.  I just love it."

Hannah's team is a co-ed team, but no other girls are playing this year.  The first time I watched her practice, she had her hands in the pockets of her sweatpants.  She kicked the ball some; the kids didn't really pass to her.  When she came over to get water, I said, "Hannah, play like you would play if you were with your siblings or the Raymonds."

Yesterday I watched the end of practice.  The kids were scrimmaging.  Hannah was running.  She scored.  A little boy ran over, gave her a big hug, rubbed her head.  "Anna!" he shouted.  A bit later, she scored again.  "Anna!" three boys jumped up with exuberance, surrounded her, jostled her with glee.  Hannah hid her smile as best she could.  But I smiled big, not able to hold it in as well as the seven-year-old: the boys know her name.

from September...
Metano e benzina

Benzina I learned from Pimsleur.  Pimsleur became my music, my NPR, my car phone conversations, my company for chores around the house.  Pimsleur taught me Italian for thirty (or sometimes sixty or ninety) minutes a day from late April through July.

My favorite line was, "Dove a imparato l'Italiano?"  (Where did you learn Italian?)
The answer, according to the trusty CD, "Ho imparata da un corso di Pimsleur."

Walking, talking advertisement for Pimsleur!  I laughed out loud when I learned the sentence.  No one asks how we learned, likely because we haven't shown off (ahem) our learning quite yet.

Macchina and benzina and caro I remember: car and gas and expensive.

The owner of the car sent a text advising us to get metano rather than gasoline.  She told us, It's less than half the price of gasoline.  Only certain gas stations have it, and it takes about ten minutes to fill up the tank with twenty euro.

Over the weekend we added 15 euro of metano, saving our pennies and the environment at the same time.  We drove away from the gas station and noticed that that the gas gauge hadn't adjusted at all.  Today I watched the gauge line go down and down and down.  The gas light was on, and I couldn't figure out whether we had already used up all the methane.  We figured out that we need to press a button that activates our using either the benzina (gasoline) or metano.  Then the car uses that source until you switch it over to the other.

Conversation in the Fiat:

So methane is a natural gas?
Yes.
So it's better to use it, right?
Yes.
How do we get it?
Don't we get it from cows?
From their flatulence?
Or just their poop?

Food

Roberta took me Friday to a government building (I followed along blindly) which reminded me of the RMV; we are starting the permit process for staying for the year.  While we waited, I asked Roberta about politics and her favorite food.  (I'll get to politics another day.  I've been listening to too much U. S. news this week with the Kavanaugh hearings.  Troppo.)  Roberta is Italian, grew up in Viterbo, married a Brit and lived there for many years, then returned to raise their son in Viterbo.

"You mean, any food?" she asked.
I narrowed it down to dinner.
One favorite was too tough, so I requested three meals she loves.

"Well, pizza, of course," she said.  "We Italians love our pizza."

As our kids can tell you, there's pizza croccante, which they say is the same as pizza bianca.  Folks eat this for breakfast or a morning snack.  It's basically crispy pizza dough with yummy oil and salt.  At school, the kids buy it for 50 cents for snack.  I like it with scrambled eggs (not an Italian dish at all.  Italians don't eat eggs for breakfast).  There's pizza rosa, which has sauce but no cheese.  The most popular pizza in our house is pizza margherita -- crust, sauce, mozzarella.

"Melanze e ??????"...in other words, eggplant and something I couldn't understand.  After she finished her description, I said, "So eggplant parmesan?"  "Yes," she said.

Her next meal was rabbit.  She said, "I don't even usually eat meat, but this dish is delicious.  Oh, it's so good."

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The boys and Hannah have tried cingiale.  In the Asterix comic books, Obelix can eat three wild boars for dinner.  The kids love Asterix; hence, they are enjoying cingiale.  This morning on my run (when I run around the walls or up and down random streets outside the walls, I listen to my music -- many from my sister's playlists) and I laugh thinking about friends at home; I jog along at a speedy ten minute mile, proud of myself for getting out there once a week, and I think about these friends, this couple who run 10k's with barely any training, marathons with no trouble) I saw a sign: cingiale crossing.  And there was the picture of the boar crossing the road.  Late Saturday afternoon we drove to Lago di Vico for a mini-excursion, some nature time.  Daniel found a sign that warned of cingiale.  As we headed back to the car in the dark, we told the kids to make lots of noise to keep any wildlife away.  "Why?  What's here?!" they asked.  "Oh, we don't know, but in Prospect Hill at home we'd do the same thing if we were there in the dark."  The myth of the Calydonian boar was becoming a little too vivid as we got through the dark up to the parking lot, kids screaming loud.  (Thank you, kids.)

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When we got off the bus in some town near Terracina, the director told the students, "Be back to the bus by 3pm.  That gives you enough time to eat lunch and to wander around and see this town a bit if you want."

Two hours? I thought.  I could eat a sandwich and get a gelato and be back on the bus in thirty minutes.  What are we going to do with all this time?

Rather than go off by myself, I followed the other teachers.  An Italian colleague had gone ahead, found a restaurant, and gotten the owner to open up another room for the group of us.  We sat in this small room, the owner pulling the wine from a shelf right there on the wall behind my chair.  He took orders, walked outside and around the corner to the kitchen where his wife was, returned later with many plates of cacio e pepe -- a Rome specialty my colleagues told me.  It's not as good anywhere else, and now we're close to Rome, so it will be excellent here, they told me.

At 2:45pm, we were on secondi piati, and still minutes away from dolce.  The director sent a message to the students saying to postpone ETD to 3:15pm.

The next evening for dinner, we ate finely sliced meat -- I am inept here in describing the food as an Italian or food connoisseur would.  There were potatoes and prociutto and caprese and melanzane and this melt-in-your-mouth meat.  There was wine and a chocolate cake that hid warm gushing chocolate in the middle.  There was the after-dinner drink.  Then the coffee.

Food is everything.  There is no embarrassment about eating or talk about being hungry really.  It's just time to eat and to eat well often.  There is a pride in the food and in sharing one's dish.  It's quite beautiful.

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At home we eat turkey bacon and turkey sausage: here we eat sausage and porcetta.

At home we drink tea: here we drink tea, cappuccino, latte macchiato (warm milk with a drop of espresso), espresso/cafe.

At home, I'll eat Kind bars and saltines and Trader Joe's dried fruit and Arnold Palmer for lunch: here I eat leftover pasta and salads.

At home, we eat Joe's O's (i.e. Trader Joe's cheerios) for breakfast unless Daniel's cooked for us: I've traded Joe's O's for Noi Voi's Honey Loops (store brand at Emme Piu), and everyone other than Connor and me eats Daniel's cooked breakfasts.  Or, on a special day, we grab croissants (the typical Italian breakfast).

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Mary has been experimenting with her baking and cooking.  She began in September with her cupcakes.  This past week she made stuffed zucchini and pasta for dinner and biscotti for dessert.

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I wonder, Will the kids want to change our Waltham Christmas Eve dinner tradition from the Chateau when we return?

"Yo?"
"Yo mi llamo."
"Como te llamas?"
"Mi llamo Mary."
"Como?"
"I got to get to bed, Sebastian.  Thanks for helping me."

I was so excited that they were helping each other with Italian.

Then I realized that this was Spanish.  The middle school starts Spanish in grade six.  I've no idea how their brains are processing this.  On Saturday morning there was a WhatsApp thread for SYA Italy faculty: birthday wishes for Santo, the SYA Latin and Greek teacher -- Tanti auguri!  Auguri auguri!  I felt bogus sending wishes in Italian, even lamer sending them in English, so I sent them in Latin.   A brain freeze: happy birthday in Latin?  My self-consciousness with Italian was now affecting my ease with Latin.  This was more than uncomfortable: this was frightening.  I typed in my pathetic slow way: Felix dies natalis, Santo!  I knew it didn't look right, but I just sent it.  Moments later I thought, How embarrassing -- there are much more elegant ways to say Happy Birthday in Latin.

But my language confidence was down, so far down.  While I'm feeling good teaching English (even if the students/parents are concerned that their children are not getting A's in English, and it's junior year....she grades too hard!  We need A's for college applications!  Luckily, the director responds to kids/parents, supports, communicates), last week I was feeling despondent about Italian.  I'm not even close to first grade level yet.  I'm not having full-on conversations yet.  I don't understand when people answer my questions in Italian (though I'm excited that they answer in Italian rather than respond to my Italian question in English).  I was thinking, I may just have to give up on this Italian thing.  If I could get myself to one of Ale's Italian sections each day, that would be super.  But I've got Othello and senior college application essays and vocabulary quizzes and my walks and my kids.  I have many excuses.  And I want to learn, I do...but, my goodness, it takes a lot of energy and vulnerability in putting myself out there when I am going to make so many mistakes.

Thursday afternoon I walked up Via Cavour to our apartment.  A familiar looking man stopped me on the sidewalk.  He gestured, said, "Buongiorno!  Finito oggi?"  (or this is what it sounded like to me)

"No, non ancora," I said. (No, not yet.)

"Ahhh, solamento per pranso," he said.  (Just for lunch.)

"Il tuo italiano sta megliorando," he said.  (Your Italian is getting better.)

"Oh, no no!" I said.  "Ho bisogno imparare molto." ( I need to learn much.)

We talked a little more.  He pointed to the Edicola, the newspaper store across the street from SYA, and told me that he reads to learn.  Terrible at facial recognition, I could almost place him now: he works at the Edicola (sells newspapers, stamps, etc.).  We parted ways, and I smiled the rest of the way home.

What I was needing was not just language acquisition but connection, some indication that I could break this language barrier and connect to people outside home and work (and gelato and cappuccino) here.  He gave me this.

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When I go into my office the next morning, on the second floor of the building, I open wide the shutters and look down at Via Cavour.  I wave to the three men standing across the street each morning.  They wave back and smile.

This morning I realize: those men are standing in the entrance to the Edicola, and there's the man from yesterday afternoon.

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An Italian colleague told me this morning, "Hey, I went into the Edicola this morning, and the owner was saying that he was talking to you and how well you're doing -- how you're smiley a lot."

I confessed to Daniele my hopeless feeling last week, how I was thinking, I'm never gonna get there.  He said, "You've got to stay positive.  You just keep reading and talking and putting yourself out there."
I look at Daniele (he teaches Italian Culture and Global Citizenship), fluent in Italian and English and I think, Spanish, too.  The next language he wants to take up is Arabic.  It takes years to learn a language, he says.  But you just keep working at it, being positive.

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But then, last night, Mary wanted to google the Italian fable she needed to read in Italian for homework.  It was over two long pages, small print, and eight o'clock was looming.

"Would it be cheating to look up the fable and then just answer the questions?" she asked.

I say yes.  Daniel says yes.  We tell her we'd rather she read only half of it and not worry about finishing the whole thing.

 I offered to sit and read with her.  She slouched, angry with us.

Half an hour later, a sister had saved her little brother from Baba Gaga in the woods, then gotten help from an apple tree and a mountain of milk and some other fantastical foods who agreed to hide her and her brother from Baba Gaga if she tried their wares.  We read, laughed, guessed.  We didn't get every word, but we got enough to know what was happening, and we had a great time sitting on my bed reading.

Were we reading at an A level for a sixth grader?  Not even close.

As Mary headed off to bed, I said to her, "Mary, there is no way that we could have done that a month ago."

"I know, right!?"

Breaks

A friend in college told me once, "You're the only person I know who plans relaxing."

I thought, Is there any other way to do it?

The American in me judges my day by how productive I am.  Or by how much is not checked off my to-do list rather than what I have checked off my to-do list.  Actually, I don't know whether it's the American in me...or just me.

But sometimes I get lucky.

Last Monday the students were done for the day, I was prepping, figuring out residency documentation, then meeting with a colleague about a student.  Colleague said, "I know you're a pathetic drinker, but want to go have a sip of the good stuff?"  Weeks earlier, when someone had asked what kind of drinkers Daniel and I were, I had answered, "Pathetic.  We are pathetic drinkers."  I had explained that we can handle a glass of wine at most, likely not an entire beer, and often we even share one of these.

"Sure," I said.

He grabbed wine glasses, and we headed down to the school garden where the Agroecology students have been making wine, where Daniel helped carry barrels of grapes, where we watched the students grind the grapes, where Daniel and our own kids got to help mash the grapes one Saturday morning.  He poured us each a few sips while we looked around at the kids' work.  A ten minute excursion and a little wine on a Monday after work.  Not my usual Monday afternoon anywhere.  I walked up Via Cavour to our apartment smiling, grateful for the simplicity, the invitation, the ease.

The next day during morning break I went a separate way from my colleagues: they headed to Bar 103 for morning coffee; I headed to the sports store to get cleats for Sebastian, who was trying out soccer that afternoon.  As I walked around the walls on the way to De Marco Sport, I felt a little bad, thinking that I could have gone to break and dealt with the cleats later.  But I was a bit attached to my walking, my getting the cleats, my getting back to do some work before my next class.

I walked, got the cleats (lucky store number two had his size), and then sat back at my desk and settled in to watching Act 1 of Othello (Kenneth Branaugh, 1995) to prepare to show it later in the week.  Amy walked in.

"Ale and I are going out.  Want to come?" she asked.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

Amy headed over to Ale to ask where they were going.

I stopped her.  I realized that it didn't matter where they were going.  I could just go because really, that was all that mattered, going.  Taking a break.  Being with people.  I was getting a second try, a redo from morning break.

The three of us headed to Bar 103.  Sat in the sun.  Had a snack.  Then lunch.

It was so civilized.

It was not on my to-do list.

It was perfect.

Peace: Perugia to Assisi

Late Saturday afternoon SYA cancels its participation for the Sunday Peace Walk because of the rain.  Daniel, the kids, and I -- in Perugia since Friday night -- balk at their backing out and buy provisions for the 24 kilometer walk on Sunday.

At 4:30am, Daniel tells me, "I can't do the walk.  I have too much work to do.  I'm going to find a cafe to do my work."  He's got law work for a client back in Boston and his sixth grade English class here at St. Thomas'.

I expect that the kids will be devastated, want to back out without Daniel, want to stay out of the rain.

But when we wake them two hours later, they are anything but deterred:

"SYA cancelled, but we're not gonna be slackers!"
"Let's go!"
"I can't wait to tell them that we did it.  We are so going to do the whole thing!"

-------------------------------------------------

The boys get ahead fairly early on, and Mary, Hannah, and I take our time.  We stop to eat almonds, cheese, raspberries.  The boys call us a couple times an hour to see how far behind we are; to find out if we also got the free Perugina chocolate at one stop (yes, we did!  turns out we could get it free right here without a tour at the factory); to ask where the closest bathroom is (I have no idea).

We walk up and down a country road, through a town, along a road parallel to the highway.  The scenery changes, but somehow, always we can find some green.  We are surrounded no matter where we are on this walk.

Daniel calls to check on us.  He walked two kilometers with us, then returned to the car, stopped for some folks needing a ride, and then drove them back to the walk.  He's not even begun his work.

At 2:30pm (we started at 10am), Sebastian calls and says, "There's a church here!  Everyone is stopping here, and there's music.  It's awesome!  We made it!"

I tell him, "You must be at that dome we can see in the distance: you're at the St. Francis Basilica!  We'll be there soon!"

Many chocolate and water breaks later, the girls and I reach the church.  It's immense.  Inside is a line of people waiting to go into the small chapel in the middle of the church, apparently the original chapel of St. Francis around which this church was built  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portiuncula. A friend told me that there were paintings of the life of St. Francis on the walls; I can't find them, but that's okay.  It's nice to sit, look around, rest our feet.

--------------------------------------

We sit outside in the piazza, shoes and socks off, depleted, waiting for Daniel, who has gotten an entire hour of work in today, to pick us up.  We wait some more.  Finally, we catch each other on the phone: he tells me, "I think you're at the wrong church.  Are you at Santa Maria del Angeli?"

He's not kidding and he's right: we haven't actually finished the walk or spent the last hour at St. Francis' Basilica. We are in the comune di Assisi, but we are not at the top of the town, that structure that we could see high up from a distance during the walk, a structure that looked like a fancy fortress from afar.  We're in Assisi, but we're not in the old town of Assisi (I suppose this would have been like if we have made it to Bagnoregio but not over the bridge to Bagnoregio Civita, the old city -- there's no comparison.).

It's the journey.  It's the journey, I remind myself.  Sebastian tells me, "We were  happy before we found out that we were at the wrong church, before when we thought we had completed the walk.  Let's get some gelato."

I tell myself, Get over it.  But gracious, my mood has shifted.  The kids are physically exhausted.  I'm grouchy.

I nudge and nag the kids who have no interest in getting their feet back into sneakers.  We trudge a mile to the train station to meet Daniel, who thinks he can get the Fiat close enough to pick us up.  When we finally see him, the kids collapse into the car.  

Except Mary.  Mary wants to finish the walk.  She wants to get to St. Francis Basilica today.  She said she was doing the walk, and we came all this way to do it, and she wants to finish it.

The Fiat takes off with everyone except Mary and me.  Mary and I, fortified by way too many potato chips and determination, walk fast and hopefully and happily.  We are completing the walk!  Yes!  The final 4K is uphill, and we are just fine.  Happy, even.  Daniel and the kids cheer out the window as they pass us, and we cheer, too (picture above).

The top -- o the top!  This is what I could see from afar on the walk, and I wondered what it was.  The basilica is on the corner of the town; it looks like the top of the cliff.  It takes over the entire corner.  It's immense and majestic.  But when we go in, the ceilings are low and painted, and it almost feels cozy.  A priest is saying a mass.  The final song almost makes me cry and I don't even know what it is, whether it's Latin or Italian.  But it feels familiar, like home.

These guys walked most of the walk on their stilts.  Our goal was not to be behind these guys.

Connor's feet at the end of his walk

Green only in the distance here..but we're walking on an ancient Roman aqueduct!

Umbria

An Italian colleague organized SYA folks to do the Peace Walk October 7, 2018, from Perugia to Assisi.  Daniel was all in.  We were all all in: 24 kilometers, a chance to see Perugia, a chance to see Assisi.  We were so excited that we made reservations to stay in Perugia for Friday and Saturday nights at an Agriturismi Turistici, a bed and breakfast spot with a farm, outdoor pool, fresh breakfast, gorgeous grounds.  Having gotten economical deals at airbandbtype spots for every family excursion thus far, we were ready to treat the kids to their own mattresses (okay, three mattresses for four kids...but one was a queen, and this was still a step up from one or two kids on the floor, bribed with the prize of not having the middle seat in the Fiat for a day or choice of movie next family night...the latter not yet fulfilled from almost a month ago...need to get on that...) and a pool.

If you want to go the Perugina chocolate factory in Perugia, make your reservations well ahead of time: by Saturday morning, not only were there no available tours for Saturday, there were no available tours for two weeks.  Ah, well, we can still find chocolate in Perugia.

Also, if you are actually going to book the place with an outdoor pool, perhaps go to that place when it is still hot out and the pool is not covered for the season.

Rain.

Rain.

Rain.

But here's the thing: I, who need the sun, easily accepted this rain because I have been feeling starved for more green.  In Viterbo, the window boxes are vibrant, and the mini-palm trees on balconies add that Mediterranean feel; green hangs down some outside walls.  But Viterbo is also a medieval city with winding roads (intentionally confusing to stymie invaders) and a big wall around it.  It feels dark at times with the tall buildings, the cobblestone streets, the maze of roads.  Outside the walls, a mere thirty yards from our apartment, there are trees and grass and even a small park.   But I'm used to the green of our yard (admittedly not as green as those of our neighbors), Prospect Hill trails two blocks away, Thayer Academy's campus and fields.  I'm used to spaces a bit more open.  I'm glad that we live in the city and within the walls of Viterbo: being new, we need the easily accessible liveliness and stores and people and Italian.  We need to be able to walk everywhere.  We are part of life here because we are within these walls.

And still: I've been needing a nature fix.

Umbria is the landscape I've been craving: green upon green.  I don't know the name of trees or the particular mountains I see, but I know that, even with Act I of Othello not yet prepped for Monday morning, I am so glad to be here in Perugia.  Everywhere we look we see grass and trees: at the agriturismi; on the ride into Perugia; from the vista spots in Perugia.  We don't have to make a plan to find a hike because we are surrounded by the green.

On the walk home from soccer today (first time!), Connor told me that he liked Tuscany, where we hiked in Bagno Vignoni.  He said, "I liked the forest around us and the hills and the fields.  It was awesome."  I agree with him: Tuscany was picturesque in every way.  It was like so many postcards and photographs and paintings that shout Tuscany.

But Umbria.  Umbria went beyond all expectations: green.

When I told a colleague about my love of Perugia and Assisi Monday morning, she said, "Yes.  The Italians call it il cuore verde d'Italia."
I gave her a blank look instead of my usual, ubiquitous, signalling-yes-when-I-really-have-no-idea -what's-going-on and want to be agreeable and appreciative response, "Si.  Si."

She smiles, "The green heart of Italy."

Almost two years ago I got texting.

Three months ago I got WhatsApp.

Usually Daniel picks the kids up from school.  On Wednesdays, the SYA students often have excursions, so I can pick up the kids from school.  Han and Con are out at 1:30, and the big kids are out at 2pm.  So I picked up the little kids and hung out with them for half an hour.  Two other moms were in this same position, picking up elementary grade kids and waiting for middle school kids.  They were wonderfully friendly.

(Waiting outside a seventh grade birthday party weeks ago...a Friday night at 10:30pm, we stood outside the pizzeria for the party to end; a circle of parents was nearby; one looked over at me, nodded to the others and said, La mamma de regazzo Americano.   I walked over the ten feet, introduced myself and put out my hand, "Buona sera.  Mi chiamo Maureen."  I shook all their hands in turn with a "Piacere."  One woman's face lit up and she cried, "Ciao!  Mi chiamo..."  I can't remember her name, but I remember her kindness. 

So pick up on a Wednesday.

Sonia is the mom of Francesco, and she is delightful and funny and friendly.  She offers to add me to the WhatsApp group for Hannah's class and for Mary's class.  Daniel is already on the WhatsApp group for Sebastian's class.  (We should hook ourselves up with Connor's class...when a boy in his class wanted Connor to come over to play, his mom called the SYA director to get our contact information.  This family is hosting an SYA student for the year, so they could contact SYA.)  I am thrilled: how kind of her!  I'll know what's going on!  We can help the kids know what's going on!  Maybe I can practice my Italian -- reading and writing.

Alas.

Fifty-six messages daily from Hannah's class.  What's the math homework?  There are seven October birthdays.  Please bring money for the birthdays.  What's the English homework?  Here's an invitation for Leonardo's birthday.  What's the Italian homework?  We'll bring a snack tomorrow to celebrate the feast day of St. Francis, so the second graders don't need to bring snack.  Did your kids write down what pages to do in the blue book?  or is it in the red book?  There's another birthday next week.

Some nights I sit on my bed with WhatsApp on my phone and google traduttore on my laptop, and I read all the texts.  Other days, I am lazy, and I ask a colleague to listen to the message (troppo veloce per mi!), and they tell me, "There are birthdays.  Bring cash."  Or they tell me, "Yes, ask me.  You do not need to read all these messages.  Ten just say, 'Grazie.'"

Last night I rsvp-ed for Hannah for Giorgio's birthday party next week (at McDonald's...apparently McD's here uses real and local beef...and KFC uses local chicken...while I've not yet tried either, I am still quite pleased by these small details -- go, Viterbo!). This morning I bragged to Hannah, so pleased to be on top of things for her.  I showed her the WhatsApp message I sent.

Alas.

It's the party for Giorgia.