Gingerbread House, "Love, Actually," and Lidl

I walked into Lidl to look for gingerbread houses a few days ago.  Lidl is a grocery store, and each year we make gingerbread houses, usually from Costco or Hannaford.  Some years they fall apart immediately, some years we find them slanted by morning, some years they last til New Year's and I let the kids eat them when Daniel isn't home.  (He's much better on the sugar front with them...other than when he buys Nutella.)

In the last month I've wondered a good bit how Christmas is different here from at home.  Some things sound pretty similar: Babbo Natale/Santa Claus; mass; big family meals.  My Italian colleagues tell me that they don't follow all the traditions: no big extended family meals; some visiting; a lot of relaxing.  Sometimes I've thought about one of our favorite holiday movies, "Love, Actually."  Daniel and I watch this every year while we wrap gifts.  The setting is London, there are a bunch of relationships, lots of humor, and yes, of course, love.  So I've thought about this movie as a way to remember that, no matter where we are, Christmas is Christmas: people sing, eat food, give gifts, celebrate.  We're not in a total foreign land in that way -- it's Italy, after all.  Just like "Love, Actually" is England.  We're just folks in another spot.

So I walk into Lidl.  The song playing is "I feel it in my fingers.  I feel it in my toes.  Christmas is all around us, and so the feeling grows..."  This is one of the governing songs of "Love, Actually" as silly as it is.  And I stand there, looking at all these people doing their grocery shopping and their last minute Christmas shopping, and I feel like one of them, preparing for Christmas (though gingerbread houses are all "Finito!" they tell me because Italians didn't wait til the last minute the way I did...same thing happened with Advent Calendars weeks ago).  And we got this song that we all might know.

I laugh and laugh and I sing along to the radio as I go up and down the aisles looking for the elusive gingerbread houses. 

The Gym: Larus

I walk in, not sure where to go -- do I sign in, check in with the women at the front desk, head to the turnstile and swipe my card?  But I have only ten swim passes on my gym card, and I've signed up for two months for the palestra, yoga, and pilates classes  I don't want the turnstile to track my entrance as a pool entry since I'm not using the pool and I want to save those pool entrances.

So I go to the desk.  I hobble together some Italian; the women there gesture and speak and nod and click a button so the turnstile lets me in without my swiping my card (phew, still 8 swim passes remaining).

In the gym, walking on the treadmill, I start googling kilometers to miles.  I want to walk four miles per hour, and the treadmill counter is on kilometers (the other day when I baked molasses cookies, I hollered to Sebastian, What's 350 degrees in Celsius?  He hollered back, Can I ask siri?).  When I cancelled Netflix at the beginning of December, I got a message saying, "You can change your mind at any time, and your subscription will end on December 30."  So I still have netflix: yes, I can watch tv while I walk.  This is exciting.  I find a movie ("To All the Boys I've Loved Before"), put in my headphones, and walk walk walk.

Every five minutes I look around, thinking that someone might kick me out.  Or tell me I'm doing something wrong.  Or tell me that I can't have on headphones.  Or tell me to move my jacket.  I've paid, I'm wearing regular clothes -- not jeans and not too revealing sports clothing -- and I'm not in anyone else's way as far as I can tell.  But still, I feel like I don't fit in.  This not fitting in is strangely okay other than that I feel a little on edge.  It's okay because I also have a strange sense of feeling comfortable, too.  This is a gym, and I'm walking and listening to my headphones, and other people around me are walking or running on treadmills.  Two women to my left are side-by-side on treadmills, chatting, and they make me think of being at the Waltham Y next to my friends, chatting as we walk.  One guy is over by the mats doing crazy strong things while his daughter plays on his phone.  An older couple walks by, and this makes me think of the variety of ages at the Waltham Y.  A man to my right walks/runs on the elliptical, and this makes me think of my sister who masters every machine while I can coordinate my limbs for only the treadmill.

I'm not sure how I feel both the outsider and comfortable (excuse lack of parallelism here), but I do.  I needed a new place to go, somewhere beyond home and work, home and kids' school and activities.  An exercise spot gives me a place to go, a daunting place in some ways, as I learn my way around, but still, a spot where signs are in Italian, everyone speaks Italian, and I can get more comfortable both in being myself and doing what makes me comfortable and in learning another spot, more language, more spots for my feet.

When I leave, I walk upstairs and wave to the women at the reception desk.  They call out, "Ciao!  Auguri!"

They said, Ciao!  They didn't say, Arrivederci: I am familiar to them.

Yes!

Swimming and Locker Room Etiquette

Swimming

I've never been a strong swimmer.  Lessons in the Atlantic during childhood did nothing to increase my skills or confidence: skinny, cold, out of breath from one rotation of the crawl, I used to make deals with God in the middle of winter before I went to sleep.  Dear God, I won't hide hangers under Christine's afghan if I don't have to take swimming lessons next summer.  Or in the summer, Please let it rain in the morning so swim lessons get cancelled, and then let it get sunny in time for tennis.

The first time I met Daniel, he lapped me.

So I never passed my final class of swimming lessons in the one year we got to take lessons in a warm pool at the Waltham Boys Club (my mom felt bad that I was the only one who didn't pass; meanwhile, I thought I had done a great job and didn't understand why they didn't pass me...I'm always amazed at how our children sometimes think that they are better than they are at certain things...I wonder, Where did they get that gene since I am always thinking I need to be better and I'm not as good as I want to be?...but this makes me see that I did the same thing...a strange hopefulness, quite sweet, because it really can only be hope), and I married a guy who swam for four years of college.

Pregnant at thirty-three, I started swimming again.  We'd go to the Chinatown Y and then the Waltham Y, where I'd swim a quarter of what Daniel swam.  Since then, I swam off and on, when on, about once a week.

Daniel's been swimming here in Viterbo twice a week at this huge pool at the Larus Gym since our arrival.  I do yoga and pilates on youtube (my current favorite is Yoga with Tim, who has videos ranging from 10 minutes to an hour, has a lovely voice, and somehow does not intimidate though he looks like he could hold a plank for an hour with no problem), walk most days, run once a week.

A few weeks ago, I was feeling grumpy, antsy.  School had gotten busy with the end of term, the Rome week was over, and I felt like I was going between home and school, home and school, other than walking kids to activities.  I needed both something more familiar to go to and more variety in my daily life.

On a Sunday morning, Daniel and I headed to Larus, the gym where he and Mary swim.  We signed me up -- inscrizione (sign-up fee) plus ten entrances.

I've swum twice: my slow and steady breaststroke, head out of the water or in the water with my eyes closed.  Goggles and open eyes under water are hurdles too big at this point (like driving a stick shift?).  Sidestroke a bit.  Elementary back stroke some.   Mental therapy once I get in the water and move.

The first time, I didn't have a bathing cap or flip flops.  The second time I had Mary's bathing cap, but I forgot my flip flops.  Tomorrow I'm hoping to remember both.

The Locker Room

I get lost.  There's one side for donne (women) and one for bambini (children).  There are toilets, lockers, showers, two ways out to the pool.  I walk slowly and hope that I don't inadvertently walk into the men's room, slip on the wet floor (since I don't have my flip flops), or spell my name wrong for the lifeguard (I really need one of the kids to teach me the Italian alphabet -- I want words and phrases and conjugating of verbs; Mary and Daniel learned the alphabet first...I need to go backwards and learn this now so I can spell my name correctly in these situations).

I go slow.  I hear a few songs I know as they blare during a class in the adjacent pool (e.g. "Fight Song").  I pull at my swim cap to keep it on (do I need a bigger swim cap?.

As I walk back into the locker room, I try to read the signs.  From what I can gather, they say to keep your bathing suit on and be appropriate in the locker room.  Back at home, we laughed about how Puritanical we east coasters can be while in Italy women may wear much less.  So the signs are confusing me.  I'm used to the Y where no one seems an exhibitionist, but the women take off clothing, take a shower, grab a towel, get dressed into clothing.

I look around: the women are keeping their bathing suits on in the shower.  I can't do this.  I'll never dry with my heavy skirted swim suit on (I've yet to see an Italian woman in such a suit); it weighs me down.  I strip down, take a quick shower, and wrap my towel around me as much as I can.  I'm thinking, "Will I get in trouble?"  (Will dutiful child mind ever let go of such concerns of getting in trouble?)

I discuss with colleagues a few days later: it appears I've read the signs correctly.  Stay as clothed as you can in the changing room. 

More to learn.

Ciao

I love ciao: it makes me feel welcome and familiar and liked.

Kids can say, Ciao. 

Adults who don't know each other say, Buongiorno/Buona sera or arrivederci.  I try to remember to say these to be appropriate, but I'm not a formal person, so I slip a good bit, correct myself when I hear the arrivederci response, and take my leave.

Blu Cafe is half-way between our house and the kids' school.  Occasionally we'll leave home early and stop there for croissants and drinks.  We've been there three times, I think.  When we departed from there last week, I said, "Grazie!" as we were walking out.

"Arrivederci!" said the owner.

"Arrivederci," I replied.

Back on the sidewalk I cursed to the kids, "Dang it!  What's up with arrivederci?  We've gone there a few times and he still says arrivederci: I want a ciao!"

The kids said, "Mom, he's probably just being polite."

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Happiness Cafe is two blocks from us.  Even when we don't go in but we're walking by, the owner waves to us big out the window.  One day, as I walked by on my way back to school, she blew me a kiss and called out, "Ciao, bella!"

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Bar 103 is on the corner between our apartment and school.  On Thursdays, Camilla (18 year-old-daughter of colleague of mine) picks kids up from school, walks them home, gets lunch at the Mensa, helps them with homework until Daniel or I can get home from work. 

One Thursday Daniel said, "I didn't get a key and the Mensa cards to Camilla.  Can you leave them at Bar 103 for her?"

"Is that okay?"  I asked.  "Will this make sense to them?"

"Yes," he said.

(me:  Could you imagine leaving keys and lunch passes at a store or Dunkin' Donuts at home for a sitter to pick up?  Daniel: If we knew them.)

So on my way back to school, I stopped in, gave Nadia the apartment keys and Mensa cards, said some Italian letting her know that Camilla would be by with kids, and said, "Grazie."

"Ciao!"

"Ciao!"

Notes on a Tuesday

Tonight may have been the first cookie swap I've ever participated in.  Amy (American), three Italians, and I at Fabiola's home.  It's an American thing, Amy told the Italians.  And then I realized that I'd never actually gone to a cookie swap at home, or anywhere.  I emailed my best friend from kindergarten to get her molasses cookies recipe two nights ago.  This afternoon I went to buy the ingredients at Emme Piu with Connor: Italians don't have or sell molasses.  Fair substitute: brown sugar in 1:4 ratio (brown sugar: molasses) -- who knew.  Hannah helped me find measuring spoons and cup, more knowledgable than I in our kitchen because she helps Mary bake cookies, cupcakes, blondies, etc.  I realized that I hadn't baked once since being here.  Connor read aloud in Italian about dinosaurs at the kitchen table while I measured; Hannah mixed and recited aloud something that she needs to memorize by Friday; when Mary walked in, she took turns with Hannah mixing the batter.

At the cookie swap, they loved the cookies.  And I, in my late and self-conscious state (it's been months since I baked! will brown sugar substitute really work for molasses in a molasses cookie recipe?), was delighted beyond delighted.  Amy and I swapped stories of the cookies and treats our moms made at Christmas: mint brownies; oatmeal chocolate chip cookies; white meringue cookies; brownies with white frosting and a layer of chocolate on top; cornflake cookies with jam; sugar cookies with sprinkles.  Amy's mom put her treats on the porch to stay cool, and the kids snuck them from there; my mom put hers in the basement freezer, and we snuck them from there.

I brought home oatmeal chocolate chip, biscotti with lemon and orange zest, merigue with almond, a chocolate fruit cake of sorts, special to Viterbo.

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For my birthday in July, I asked for a winter jacket, and I got a bright purple cozy jacket.  I had thought that I didn't want to bring my long black puffy coat.  It was ninety degrees in Waltlham when I decided that.  Now I wouldn't mind having my long black puffy coat here, too.

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One of Sebastian's best buddies at school is leaving.  Total bummer.  "We had nice conversations," Sebastian said.

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I released two sets of grades yesterday: one on an in-class essay on The Stranger and one on a personal essay.  Perhaps two of the best conversations I've had with students this year.  

Language

JK: Could you go over the grammar of my essay with me so I can do better next time?

me: Sure.

We visit for 10-15 minutes, and I'm reminded that JK grew up in Korea and moved to the States in middle school, so English is not her first language -- even though she knows more about American brands and terminology than I do, even though she is mentioning how she tried to fit in in America by wearing Jack Rodgers instead of Nike.  I say to her, What's Jack Rodgers?  She says, You know, the shoes.  You have them.  I'm adamant that I don't have these name brand shoes.  We find an image.  Oh! you mean those shoes!?  Yes, yes, they look similar.  But mine are TJMaxx. 

I often forget that JK grew up in Korea and not the U.S.  because she participates in class easily, confidently, articulately.  We find every off verb tense, subject-verb agreement, instance of vague language.  "Thanks.  That was really helpful," JK says.  She tells me more about the difficulties in growing up and trying to fit in where she didn't fit in, and how feeling confident and secure and figured out is still hard.  I adore her and her honesty.

Put yourself into the story

SD: Can we go over my reflective essay?  I thought it was great, but then I got an 85, and I don't understand why.

me: Sure.  Give it 24 hours and then you can come talk with me about it.

...next day:

SD: So I looked at the rubric, and I went check, check, check.  I nailed this.  Then you read it and you didn't like it.

We talk for 15 minutes.  SD is having a hard time understanding what would make the piece work better, and I'm struggling to explain to her what I mean by grounding the reflection in some concrete images or scenes.  We talk.  We get stymied.  We try again.  We go back through the essay.  I ask her about a painter (Jack Whitten) she mentions in the piece.  She pulls up an image of a painting of his: this is self-awareness, she says.  So then put yourself into that picture and see how the painting works for you if you're the image in the picture.  Where would you be in the picture?  Self-aware how and when or not?

SD: Oooooooooooh...okay.  I get it.  I'd never written a personal essay before.  I usually write about other people.

And one student interaction that made me laugh:

Syllables

MF: Ms. Keleher, you said that my haiku has the wrong number of syllables in the second line.  I want to go over it with you.  You're wrong: it has seven syllables.
me: Okay.
I know I can be a careless grader when it comes to quizzes, but I'm pretty thorough when it comes to essays, so I'm surprised because I remember counting syllables, but I think, Well, I did grade 88 essays in the last week, and it's likely I messed up.
Later, I catch up with MF; he is eager to review his sentence with me.  His creative piece for the final writing of the term is a series of 18 haikus, beginning with one titled "boston."   It's quite clever, arranged in three parts, reflecting on life from August until now.  He's gotten a 97%, and he wants to review my comment that he is missing a syllable in the second line (and yes, I had to look up haiku definition to review how many syllables per line -- my friend Justin used to write them, too).  In the salone, he reads aloud to me:

boston
my mom is crying
fireworks out the window
i hug her and go

He reads fireworks as FIR-E-WORKS.
ZW, his buddy, walks by: That's how you say fireworks?  Three syllables?
MF: Oh.  Right.

_____________________________________

Thank goodness these balanced out the disciplinary interactions of the last month.

_____________________________________

Tonight after I returned from the cookie swap and we all ate more cookies, we rearranged the living room to fit both of our mini-artificial trees.  Now we're feeling cozy.

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I got Daniel to come wrap with me.  Kids were sleeping.

Weekend Home

We get out of town about once a month.  Then three weekends home til a long weekend or school trip.  I like when we travel and get out of Viterbo, stretch a bit, drive (ride) a bit, and I like when we have home weekends.  Sometimes I struggle with relaxing as much as I would back at home in Waltham because, well, we're here, and I want to take advantage of being here.  I could take a bus to Bagnaia to a beautiful park or go out to the terme or head to a mountain.  But I could also relax here at home, read a little, take a nap.

Saturday Daniel and I struck out with both a gym (he was going to help me sign up to swim where he does) and a flea market (he and Hannah need winter jackets, and we heard there are good deals here) -- both closed for national holiday, December 8, Feast of the Immaculate Conception, which I tried to explain to Hannah tonight when she told me that she needed to write three sentences in Italian about Madonna. 
Me: Say she's the mother of Jesus, we celebrate her in May, and she was born with no sin. 
Hannah: What? 
Me: Do you know what a sin is?
Hannah: No.

Hannah is seven.  Sin had been drilled into me by age 7.  I remember the image -- did I make it up or did a teacher draw it on the board for us? -- of a circle of white with one black mark on it: that was original sin.  Then we did bad things like fight with a sibling or tell a lie and then we'd get more black marks.  Of course, once we went to Confession, the black marks would go away and our souls would be pure again, though I was never sure whether the original sin mark stayed.  I was both in awe that Hannah didn't know any of this the way I did at her age and thinking, I so do not want to explain all this to her now.  So I did a terrible parenting job and told her, I was taught that a sin is when you do a bad thing, and we're all born with a sin when we're born.  Except Mary wasn't, and that's why there was a holiday for her yesterday....then I went for a walk with Daniel and Mary and never checked Hannah's homework.

But Saturday.  Hannah and I stopped in at a sports store to buy a needle for the pump to pump up the kids' soccer ball.  When we asked whether they had ago per pompa, I got a quizzical look (because I learned later from Daniel, I should have said a hard g...alas), another customer (who happens to be Daniel's boss) translated that we wanted to pump up our soccer ball, and the employee happily took our ball and pumped it up in less than a minute.  I asked him, "Possiamo portare altri?" since Sebastian's new soccer ball was still as flat as it was upon delivery from amazon last week.  He answered, "Certo!"

We headed down to the giant and Valle Faule, the grassy spot with the replica of the awakening.  Daniel and I sat.  The kids went to the top of a hill and rolled down.  Just rolled, never directly down.  They would start down the hill, but then end up parallel with the hill, trying to roll with their bodies vertical.  But sometimes they got up some speed for five or six rolls straight down before they had to propel themselves some more.  I sat there looking at them, just watching, feeling like, Ah, this is a Saturday.  This feels like home.  One kid got a little cut from a piece of glass or a rock.  Another kid got dog poop on a pant leg.  Someone else needed water.

Yep.  This feels like home.

Finding Church

In my first week here I happened upon a church when I wanted a break from a bike ride and some feeling of safety, security, groundedness.  It was the middle of the day, the church was open, and no one seemed to mind that I went in and sat.  I thought, Maybe we'll come to mass here some day.  Here to Sacra Famiglia.

Then the gang arrived, and we tried mass at the church at Daniel's school.  It felt cold, we understood nothing, we left hungry and tired.  (It's different to go with others, to see it through their eyes; I had once gone to this church myself and felt calm, content, comfortable.)  Then Daniel tried the church that goes with the kids' school.  Fine, he said.  Then he tried one a block away.  Again, fine.

We headed to Sacra Famiglia one Sunday in September.  We knew no one, understood barely a word, and sat near the back in the few remaining seats.  It was bright, and the singing felt festive.  Even the kids liked it.

People from work invited us to try their church one Sunday morning, so we did.  When we left, the kids said, "We like our own better," meaning Sacra Famiglia.

So most Sundays we head to Sacra Famiglia.  Occasionally we see a friend or two of Connor's, or Daniel recognizes someone.  Some weeks we get there early enough to get a program so we can follow all the words that we have no chance of catching if we just listen.  One week we sat near the choir.  A woman in the choir took a step over to me right before each song to tell me the number of the song in the book.  I loved her.  We sang.  We watched the gestures of all the kids and actually, of most of the adults, that went with each line of the songs.  Our kids did the gestures.  I tried to keep up with the words and clapped only when I could follow someone else.  This week I scoured the back pews for a book, and when I couldn't find one, decided to be happy that at least we were in time to get programs.  I returned to my pew, and a moment later a woman, who appeared to have followed me down the aisle, handed me a book.  She must have seen me search.

Today we sang.  Facciamo festa facciamo festa....Alleluia alleluia....Santo....  I didn't have the words to the Hail Mary at the end of the mass, but I listened as Con and Han beside me said the words loud and clear. 

We are finding our place, one spot at a time.

Quality of Life

I've been thinking about our quality of life here versus our quality of life back home.  I still haven't read The Blue Zone, but I've gotten the Cliff note version from friends.  A friend told me how Sardinia is one such blue zone place, where people live longer, healthier, happier lives.  I've always wanted to live a long time healthfully and happily (doesn't everyone?...well, no, I know some folks who have no desire to live a long life), perhaps fearful of death (reading/teaching The Stranger this week is not making me any more accepting of the inevitability of death at the moment), but mostly I've always thought, as my mom said a month or so before she died, "I just don't want to go anywhere."

In August and early September, it stayed light late and we ate gelato and enjoyed the sun.  One Thursday night...

[Clang clang bang bang.  Hannah: "Connor, you didn't tell me it didn't close!"  She volunteered to help him put out the plastic and metal recycling...they played their game of drop the bags of recycling down three flights of stairs, it seems.  Sorry, neighbors.  Perhaps we will find a sign that reads, "Please don't drop trash and recycling down the stairs" tomorrow.  Two weeks after the gang arrived in August, we noticed a typed-up sign on the inside of the front door of the building: "PLEASE DO NOT SLAM THE DOOR.  THANKS."  Mary and I cringed, and I said something like, "Oh, gosh, that's embarrassing."  Mary said, "Yeah, especially since it's for us: it's in English." ...we are hiding from my boss the damage we've already done to the apartment -- do all families with kids wreak havoc on homes? A four inch patch of paint on the living room ceiling peeled from slime Connor threw up high; some plaster falling from the wall in the dining room; curtains torn from curtain rods ("It was a mistake!  I was just pulling the curtain back!"); the light in the kids' bathroom pulled out of the socket and broken, and then, because someone turned the light on and left it on even after that, huge cracks through the mirror that the heat from that light formed.]

...one Thursday night Daniel said, Let's go out to dinner.  I went with the gang, but unhappily so.  I wanted to be home, and I was tired, and I had work to do (wherever you go, etc.).  And somehow the light had changed and it had gotten dark quickly, and I had missed the sunlight in its final hours.  That afternoon/evening, I was devastated by the sun's having disappeared on me.  I had the strange fear that it was not going to return or that I wasn't going to get to enjoy it the next day.  It was a fear that I had lost my chance.  The next morning when I pulled out the heavy door (with the don't slam the door sign), the sun greeted me.  I was so relieved, so grateful: it came back.

So I understand my mom.  I can't understand how it was to be her, knowing that she really wouldn't continue to see the sun, but I get her desire to stay.  Not to miss the sun.

So quality of life.  Doesn't it boil down to health and people and time and doing what you love?  And what makes a childhood good?  Is the quality of life for our kids better here or at home?  We get in the car for trips and for errands, but certainly not daily, and sometimes not even weekly.  Clearly this has to be better for us.  We sit longer at dinner.  The kids are happy at school for the most part.  Sebastian reports that the kids here are nicer than the kids at Plympton or at Thayer.  Mary is making friends in grade six and is able to swim and sew and still have time for baking and reading writing.  And I'm happy for these big kids to miss middle school in the U. S.  Connor is working on his pyramid at pottery.  Hannah is playing tag with the boys after school and soccer twice a week; she came for a short run with me this afternoon.  Connor is the only one who is clear that he wants this venture to be only one year: he's happy to be here, he says, and he is up for a one year adventure, not two.  The other three are happy to stay.  The question of whether to pursue staying, for me, comes down to their childhood. 

So quality of life.  Quality of childhood.

At home there's love.  There's good health.  There's purpose. There's friendship.  There's our neighborhood.

In Italy, there's love.  There's good health.  There's purpose. There's friendship.  There's time. 

But still.  Home is home.

Resolutions

Begin day without a screen.
Work less at home.
Play with kids.
Get to bed earlier.
Join a gym to run on treadmill or do yoga or pilates or swim.
Find more ways to practice Italian, e.g. read a children's book in Italian. (maybe in January?)
Sit.
Make dates with Daniel.
When I start imagining life at our house on Claremont Street, go do something here in Italy. 
Put away all screens an hour before bed (harder than it sounds).
Start reading before bed again.
Be kind.  Be kind.  Be kind.

November 30 in Viterbo

On Sundays after the 11:30am mass at Sacra Famiglia we often stop by a pasticceria outside the walls to get a treat and sit.  All over Viterbo I have noticed chocolate fish wrapped up in different colors of foil.  So bakeries sell chocolate fish, okay, I think.  A little different, but that's fine.  Maybe fish are special to them.

Last Sunday we walk into the pasticerria.  The boy there, maybe 17 or 18 or if not, certainly younger, recognizes us and takes the order of Hannah and Mary, the only ones ready.  I see not only the stacks of red and green and blue fish, but people actually buying the fish.  I ask this sweet Italian teenager, What's going on with the fish?

Parents buy a fish for each child and put it in the child's room for November 30, the feast of St. Andrew.  Each color foil tells you whether the chocolate inside is white, milk, or fondente.  Aha!  Now I know why the question of latte or fondente was going around on the WhatsApp group for Hannah's class.  I answered the Hannah preferred milk chocolate, but I didn't know why I was saying so.  I just tried to answer the question.

Daniel and kids left Rome tonight to make it back for school tomorrow.  Tonight on the phone I reminded Daniel, Put out the fish for the morning!

We might have missed Halloween, but we've got the Feast of Saint Andrew in Viterbo.

Other Notes on Rome

1. Go to the Aventine Hill for a break from the city.  Green, quiet, beauty.
2. We like the bread here better than the bread in Viterbo.
3. We like the gelato in Viterbo better than the gelato here.
4. Will someone some day want to raze the Coliseum because it was the scene of so much brutality?
5. What made the good emperors so good (yes, google-able) when they were still starting battles, enslaving nations, not acting with justice?
6. Was Rome ever a force for good? (not counting art)
7. Cis = 7 day pass for bus, tram, and subway...I find it easier to go by foot.  I trust my feet more than cars and buses and trams and trains.  But I got brave today, finally taking the metro and a tram out to the apple store to get batteries for our always-dying phones.  Unsuccessful venture in getting batteries, but successful in navigating my way there.  Confession: I walked the few kilometers back.  
8. Roma versus Real Madrid this past week: Real Madrid still the world champion.
9. Sign at a grocery store: no alcohol sold november 27 and 28 because of roma versus real madrid game.
10. Don't let Connor time races on Daniel's phone or he might set alarms that wake you up at midnight and 5:10am and make you grouchy first thing in the morning.
11. Living in Rome feels calm to me.  Visiting Rome for a week feels a bit stressful, wanting to get to everything, when really, one can never exhaust Rome.  When I lived in Rome, I was able to relax, see things, relax.  Live, not just hit places to see.
12. Come back for Dream Exhibit at some Bramante museum that students raved about.
13. Next time let kids skip Friday of school, too, so they can stay in Rome as long as I do.
14. Do a little less and sit a little more.
15. Don't put down restaurants that are near touristy spots too quickly: had a great lunch a few blocks from Vatican -- meals ranging from vegetable soup to pizza margherita to spaghetti carbonara...and tiramisu and a muffin for dessert.

Art in Rome

On the street

The guy outside the Coliseum who spray paints pictures of the Coliseum.  Cardboard boxes under his padded knees, mask over his mouth, same playlist going daily (Mary says), spray spray spray.  The crowd gathers.  He works works works.  He dries the painting with a can that sprays fire.  He holds it up to the crowd.  They clap.  They walk away.  Alternate ending: Daniel gives kids money not for painting but for the show (Monday).  Alternate ending (Tuesday): a man standing with a woman buys the new painting.  Sebastian says, "He paid for all of us."

Dancers on Via Cavour.  What we called breakdancing when I was in middle school.  But this seems more gymnastics.  One guy puts his head to the pavement, his body upside down, his arms supporting him at ninety degree angles.  But then he lifts his arms and spins -- spins -- around on that head.  His shirt falls a little and you see his totally muscled core.  The next guy does his walk, walk around the area to warm up, and then does a number that is one from the Olympics on that beam, where the gymnast holds onto the handles on the beam and swings his/her entire body around and around.  He is supported by only his hands on the pavement.  Hannah watches.  Watches.

At the Vatican

"Is this the Sistine Ceiling?"
"Is this the Sistine Ceiling?
"This must be the Sistine Ceiling?"
"Nope."
Sebastian: Who decides what's famous and the best?  I mean, all these painting are good.  I could never do any of them.  But then we walk around looking for which painting is the DaVinci or the Caravaggio, when maybe that's not the one we actually liked the best ourselves, but now we know what to look for and what we're supposed to like.

Sebastian: It's funny that humans collect things other humans made and then put them in a place for humans to look at.  Like a little obsessed with ourselves.

Mary: You're going too fast.  I just want to look and take my time.  (Yesterday she said that she has been looking forward to so many things that she finds herself not enjoying the present but instead thinking about what's next, and she doesn't like that she's doing this.  Oh, honey, you're more self-aware than most of us.  Today she took at least thirty more minutes in the pinacoteca of the Vatican than the rest of us.  No rush, Mary girl.  Way to go.

What I noticed this time: the beauty and space of the building itself; the glorious rooms; the high ceilings; a red wall; the courtyards; the elegance of the rooms and of the buildings; the stairs as artwork and not just tough ascension to the museum.
Did I really not appreciate these before?  I was likely bee-lining it to get to Stanze di Rafael and the Sistine Chapel and Laocoon.  Or is it that I pay more attention to houses now?

What else I noticed: so many scenes are of struggle, violence, murder, death.  Perhaps I noticed this more this time around because I had little people with me, and I wondered how they were processing the martyrdom of St. Someone or the Crucifixion of St. Someone or the bodies in agony on the Last Judgement.  Sure, Laocoon and his sons are getting strangled by snakes sent by Minerva, but at least they know this story as a myth and we've talked about it so many times before.

At Santa Maria del Populo

me: Connor, which Caravaggio do you like better?
Connor: The one in the middle.
me: Huh.  That one's not a Caravaggio.  His are the ones on the sides.
Connor: I like the middle one.  I like the other ones, but I like the middle one best.  It's bright, and I like the colors.
me: I'll see who painted it.  Annibale Carraci.  (Really, Maureen, who cares who made it?)
Sebastian: See...people think they have to see the Caravaggio, but maybe that's not what they would like the most on their own.

Lush

After Villa Borghese races (Connor got the record) and go-carts and lunch by the Pantheon, Mary wants to go to a store she spotted earlier in the day: bath bombs galore.  I don't want to go.  My feet are tired, and I'm grumpy.  Hannah comes, too.  They endure my tired, grumpy mood.  We walk far, far down Via Cavour, almost all the way to Piazza del Populo.  Basins of water are just beyond the door.  An exhibit is starting.  "Parla l'Italiano? l'inglese? espanol?"  The artist will speak whatever language you need.  She runs the water and swirls a ball of what looks like colored chalk.  The water swirls, changes color.  The audience watches, mesmerized.  They put their hands in the purple tinted bubbly water.  Scents of lavender.

It's not spraypaints of the Coliseum this time.  It's bathbombs at Lush.  An attraction, a show, a sale.

Aventine Hill

Mary insisted on getting up this morning and going to the keyhole on the Aventine Hill.  I didn't want to go.  In June 2004 I rented an apartment on the Aventine Hill for a month while I took a Latin course with Reginald Foster.  Mornings I walked or ran and then sat on the veranda after watering the flowers.  Afternoons I went to class.  One morning on a walk, I noticed folks looking through a door, so, once they walked away, I walked up to the door, too.  Put my eye up to the hole there: magical gardens, green, and then, St. Peter's dome in the distance.  Magical.  Precious.

This year we saw the keyhole described in a guidebook.  Mary wanted to go.  Hannah, too.  6:45am we're up and navigating the roads from our hotel to the Aventine.  No phone.  I'm tired of my phone and of looking down instead of looking up and of getting lost even when I use my phone.  We snag a paper map from the hotel lobby and Mary finds our way.

Mary looks.  Mary lifts up Hannah so Hannah can see through the keyhole.  I look.

It's even more magical this time around.

Any time we see St. Peter's dome later on -- from a park, from the Vatican -- Mary says, But I liked it most when it was framed all by itself in the keyhole.

Christmas and Culture

I have on my list of things to do to find out about Christmas here.  This sounds silly perhaps: it's Christmas.  We all know what that is.  But I feel like we'll be figuring out the culture all year, and still we'll have so much to learn.  I mean, at home we do teacher gifts -- will that be okay here or just strange? do kids here believe in Santa Claus?  There are signs for Black Friday and Black Friday week here.  In fact, today is Black Friday.  But we're not sure that the Italian stores actually know the origin of Black Friday.  Mary said that one of her teachers asked her this week to explain what Black Friday actually is.  Her description: the day after Thanksgiving when there are huge sales.  Yep, that's about it.

Black Friday for us as kids meant driving into Boston and meeting my aunt and grandmother at Downtown Crossing early.  It was the girls: my two sisters, my mom, my grandmother, my aunt, and I.  Our mission: find our Christmas dresses.  Actually, this meant find the dresses that we would be gifted for Christmas that would then not be worn until Easter.  So we spent the day after Thanksgiving trying on dresses that we would get for Christmas and that we wouldn't wear until Easter.  After Easter, you could wear your Easter dress all you wanted.  I have fond memories of being in Filene's and the adults' bringing me dresses, but I also remember a lot of being lethargic, the way shopping felt weeks later when my dad would take us out on a Saturday to go Christmas shopping for my mom.  We went to Burlington Mall, store to store, waiting for the Brigham's break.  Cathy would try on some clothes to estimate how they would fit my mom; he'd request the outfit that was on the mannequin; we little kids would find a place to sit every chance we got.

But Christmas.  I'm wondering about Santa Claus.  We have only one who still believes, but she believes entirely, and so her belief might carry us all.  And this reminds me: it's the Friday after Thanksgiving -- Elf on the Shelf arrives today!  Once I figure out where I hid that elf when I unpacked, I can hide him again.  It's possible that this year Daniel and I will have three other elves to help hide the elf with their now knowledge of Santa Claus.

In Viterbo, apparently, people get Christmas trees, but only artificial because there aren't enough real trees.  Daniel spouted me some millions of people population in a place the size of New Mexico yesterday, but I don't remember the number of millions.

[One student just said (students are writing about yesterday's Thanksgiving in Italy...today, a 15 minute writing after days of 10...we are gearing up for next week in Rome = five 15 minute entries on blog), "Are you allowed to comment on our blogs?"  I laughed.  No no no! I wanted to shout.  I want to read their blogs because I like them.  I like seeing this other side of them, reading their ideas and stories and things that they might never say in class...though surprisingly and wonderfully, they share themselves in the most raw way at times in sharing their writing...But I need to call some limits for myself.  If I comment on one student's blog, I will feel the need to be fair and comment on every student's blog.  And it's true, I don't have 66 students the way SYA Spain does, but still, 44 blogs a day to read and comment on is too much if I want a life outside SYA.  A friend at Branson once said to me, as I daydreamed about teaching more than one English class, "Stick with the Latin if you want a life."  O, muse of teaching, grant me the sanity not to read every blog entry and the wisdom not to comment even once.  And make the students see that there is so much value in their writing writing writing even if their teacher is not reading and commenting on it.]

We left our stockings at home.  We're hoping/suggesting that Mary make us all stockings for Christmas with her newfound skills in sewing.  With the boys' birthdays in November and December, I never get to Christmas shopping early.

I want to know for whom we buy gifts so the kids have what they need at school, so Daniel and I have what we need for work.  I live carefully, never wanting to offend.  Early on, at lunch with colleagues, one Italian colleague joked, "We think of the stereotypical American treating the meal, coming in and taking care of everything, you know, rich Americans."  I adore this colleague, who is kind and generous and thoughtful and inclusive.  But since then I have not once treated even coffee for my colleagues, careful.

A friend here had her sister visiting.  The third night she was here I asked her how she was doing with jet lag and adjustment.  She said, "Good.  The culture shock has been tough, but it's getting better."  Culture shock.  I asked her what was the shock.  She said, "The language."

Culture shock is the language.  And culture is so much more, too.  I've seen videos and heard from Italians that Italians do not drink cappuccino in the afternoon; it's for breakfast and for morning.  So for a while I stopped ordering cappuccino in the afternoon and/or felt self-conscious when I did order it in the afternoon.  Eventually I thought, Well, I'm clearly not Italian even when (especially when?) I'm speaking Italian, so I'm going to order cappuccino after noon and let go the cultural norm.  Yesterday between soccer and swim pick-ups, Mary and Sebastian and I sat down for ten minutes at a bar: they got their cappuccino decaffeinato, and I got my tea.  When I went to pay afterwards (always afterwards here), I thanked the woman at the cafe for making cappuccino even though (nanostante -- I looked it up before I went to pay) it was afternoon.  She told me that no, it was fine, cappuccino is for any time of day.  She was kind, convincing, lovely.

So I am still working through so many cultural norms.  It's not that I have to fit in or that the kids need to fit in (I don't think Daniel ever worries about fitting in -- he went to a parent meeting for Sebastian's class last night, understood maybe half of what was said, and felt just fine), but I do want to be appropriate, respectful, not offend.  The kids are on their own in some ways here: they have to lead us regarding school as much as we lead them at home.  They need tissues for the bathroom at school because there is usually no toilet paper.  For birthdays, you invite the whole class or your parents bring in merenda (snack) for everyone.  I haven't given in to Nutella bars every day for snack, but we have enough in the house for once per week.

Time to get Elf on the Shelf out.

And time to get an artificial tree for our apartment.

Thanksgiving

I had planned apple pie and vanilla gelato for breakfast.  Sliced turkey and french fries for lunch while we streamed the Macy's Day Parade.  Dinner with our visiting friends at a restaurant we've seen before but not eaten at.

Alas.  Without the pressure of actual Thanksgiving and with Connor's heading to his friend Manuel's house this afternoon to play, I failed on the first two, but we will get to our 7:30pm dinner reservation with the McVeighs.  And I did pick up sugar and cinnamon this morning to make apple pie this weekend at some point.

Today I'm grateful for being here in Viterbo

for our friends who will be here by dinner time

for a job that allows me to read and work with kids

for family back home

for my run this morning around the Viterbo walls

for walking the kids to school today

for Daniel's making dinner almost all the time here

for the kids

for their flexibility and sense of adventure and adaptability

for laughing on the phone with Chrissie last night

for new colleagues who feel familiar already

for mom who made every holiday special and 

still reminds me that special can be simple

in fact, often, is the most special

for tea with daniel, with friends, with the kids

for Mr. Wiggin and Justin and Gram and Mom, whom I thought of today

for heat in our apartment

for Thayer for letting me come to Italy this year

for the TA students who email me this year

for the SYA students who make classes good and fun

for Bar 103 

whose owners put out a cappuccino decaffeinato before I even order sometimes

for Mary's sewing my smartwool sock this morning

for Connor's reading and enjoying his new Roman Mystery books

for Hannah's waking up happy nearly every morning

and cuddling in our bed for a few minutes

for Sebastian's being excited because I'll walk him to soccer today

for friends -- research shows that you live longer if you have good friends -- I am too blessed in this regard, so perhaps I'll get a long life

for Camilla, who picked up the kids from school today

for music: Castle on the Hill (Latin 2H last year!) and Honey, I'm Good to wake us up this morning 

and Italian pop that Sebastian has on his phone and Mary knows all the words to

for the frizzante water Hannah snagged for me this afternoon from the mensa

for health

for love

for people

for today.

Today.

Via Appia Antica

"Have you been to Rome before?  People who have already been to Rome do the Via Appia Antica, but if they haven't been to Rome before, then they bike the route through the city," the bike tour guy told us.

We'd been in Rome about fourteen hours, eight of which were sleeping, and I was torn between taking the kids through Rome -- the Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, Piazza del Populo, St. Peter's, the Tiber, the Spanish Steps, Piazza Navona -- and out of the city, along the Via Appia that used to lead out of Rome and to, I think, Brundisium.  I'd already been to the sites within the city, but they feel like old friends to me, like favorite books, so I was eager to get to them again and to show them to the kids.  Daniel had more reason to favor the Appia Antica route out of the city: 1. the city is crazy with people; 2. the city is crazy with cars; 3. you don't need to see and do everything -- you just pick one thing or two things and enjoy them; 4. two adults and five kids (a friend from home was with us, too) on bikes in Rome -- too many to track and keep safe through the city.

One of the reasons that I don't care for skiing (in addition to the cold, the speed, the potential injury) is the amount of time it takes for gearing oneself up -- getting measured, getting boots, poles, skis, lift ticket.  The bike shop felt like this.  The kids biked around in the back of the shop while Federico outfitted us all.  Then over to the Tabacchi to recharge Daniel's phone, over to the Cornetteria to grab some version of breakfast-lunch, and then we headed out --  lined up, single file to get to the Coliseum and around the crowds, through the traffic, across a few major intersections, and then, finally, to the Via Appia.

Catacombs of someone whose name I can't recall said the sign, so we took a right up a hill.  Joy because it was a paved road.  Dismay because it couldn't be that authentic Via Appia from two thousand years ago if it was freshly paved, nice for the bike, nice for me, a welcome change from the sidewalks and cobbled streets of Rome.  But it was sunny and there was pavement underneath me.  A bike ride from home but in Italy -- yes!

Seven minutes later, we're out of the black paved road, crossing another busy intersection (which, of course, abound in Rome.  The kids got so tired of my stopping them over the weekend as they jostled each other precariously by the side of the road, pushed or kicked each other, played tag on the sidewalk, stepped into intersections before we adults approved, ran ahead.  The tired of hearing me  say, "You are in one of the biggest cities in the world, one of the busiest cities in the world.  You need to be careful."  My favorite admonition was on the way back from the Via Appia, back on the modern Roman roads to return our bikes.  I was the caboose and two people behind Sebastian.  He crossed an intersection, impressed with his balance, no-hands on bike, doing a little hand gesture shimmy shimmy to some Italian song he was singing to himself.  The car trying to take the right he was interrupting stopped short, made a face of surprise and frustration, and waited for him to cross.), and then onto what must have been the Via Appia in all its wonderful, bumpy, old stone-paved road.  I enjoyed it for about five minutes, now wishing back the paved road with the cypress trees around me, the sun overhead.  I'd have taken the lack of authenticity again if that means I get a comfortable ride.  But the only way to get that was to turn around.

The kids went faster and faster though I couldn't understand how.  I was just trying to find the most gentle spots to bike.  Sometimes on the actual road, sometimes on the dirt path on the side.  Sometimes following a jogger, who I imagined was Italian and knew the smoothest path.  So this was the road that led out of Rome.  Or into Rome.  Here were the catacombs of saints.  Here was the tomb of Caecilius Mettus, from one of the wealthiest Roman families.  Here were more ruins.  But mostly, mostly here was this cobblestone road and sometimes big stones paved road, and trees lining the road, and little dirt paths along the side of the road.  And a blue sky.  And sun.

Daniel wanted to stop some, but the kids were too far ahead.  They were on bikes, and it had been months since they were on bikes, much less good solid bikes with suspension to take off the jarring of every stone or rock.  Eventually we let them go, and we biked a bit together.  He wanted to explore.  I felt a bit like the kids, not wanting to stop and look at things too much, just wanting to bike, feel the road even as I groaned inwardly with every bump.  I thought, Do tourists really do this and enjoy it?  I had read reviews of this bike ride, and the ancient history teacher at SYA was offering this ride as an optional excursion next week when the school moves to Rome.  I feel pretty healthy, and I felt a bit pathetic and slow.  Folks were walking, pushing strollers, jogging, biking like us.

We heard chimes.  Bells.  I imagined that there must be a church nearby.  Daniel said, "Want to check it out?"  He hopped off his bike and went over to the stone wall from where the bells were sounding.  I acquiesced, put my bike to the side of the road, and did the same.

Goats!  Goats with bells around their necks.  Maybe a hundred, maybe two, I don't know.  But the chimes were magical.  (On our return trip they crossed the road right in front of us.  Mary jumped off her bike and ran ten feet away, afeared of a goat that looked like it was headed right for her.)

We caught up with the kids.  Daniel invited all of them to get closer to the aqueduct.  Mary alone joined him, while the others went ahead.  While Daniel and Mary explored the aqueduct, I biked up to the others.

Gathered around a stone that looked like a table there for just this purpose, four kids and Julie (friend and mom of child also visiting) were playing a card game (Sushi, they told me).  Today they didn't care about the aqueduct or Caecilius Mettus' rich family and huge tomb or the catacombs.  They cared about their game, playing with their friends.  I put down my bike and walked over, faced the sun, sat criss-cross apple sauce, put my hands on my knees palms up, and closed my eyes.  Meditating.

The sun.  The kids playing.  The folks going by.  The goat bells now too far away to hear.

On the ride out I had been thinking about Horace, this Roman poet from the first century B. C., who loves Rome and writes poems not just about Rome (the ship of state!), but also about being away from Rome, being out in the country away from the hustle and bustle of Rome.  In the morning I had felt a little frenetic, wanting to get the kids to all the sites, but once I was on the Via Appia, surrounded by trees and blue sky and the bumpy road that I found tough to bike on, what we weren't seeing in Rome fell away.  What we were missing was nothing.  We were here, headed out on the Via Appia, and there was no need for anything else.  (I'm reminded now of Scituate, where, for me, the busyness of home fades, and I feel present, not tempted by the to-do list.)

My phone rang: Mary was on top of the aqueduct and couldn't get down.

She gave the phone to Daniel. "She's fine.  We're fine," he said.

Just another day on the Via Appia Antica.

Freewrite

I have the students writing and so I feel guilty if I don't write.  I need to take the advice I give to them: Just write.  Don't edit yourself.  Don't worry about where your writing takes you.  Just keep going.  Having finished Othello essays last week, this week is Rome preparation week: readings on writing and on Rome to get inspired to be writing fifteen minutes per day next week in their blogs.  Yesterday in class their prompt was to write for ten minutes on sei giorni, the six days that they spent in Italian school last week.  (Italian students go to school from 8am-1pm six days per week.  Luckily, Paradiso does not have those same hours.  Phew.)  The few posts I read last night mentioned ongoing chatter in classes; kids who were kind and eager to hear about American life; making lists to pass the time; feeling scared; feeling excited; making Italian friends.  I need to not read all their posts.  If I do, I'll feel the need to respond to every story, and I'll our Rome school week in the hotel reading student blogs rather than going out and about.

The students are homesick.  Thanksgiving is this week.  I never liked missing holidays -- not when I was in college and in Rome for junior fall and not when I was thirty-years-old and spending Christmas with Daniel's family in New Mexico.  It's not that the traditions were any more special than anyone else's, but they were ours and they were home.  So I'm aware of this as Thanksgiving looms just two days from now.  The SYA students are bummed and stressed about preparing Thanksgiving dinner for their host families.  If I don't mention Thanksgiving, I'm wondering whether our kids will feel the pang of not being at home with extended family.  I'm thinking apple pie and vanilla gelato for breakfast; sliced turkey (yes, cold cuts) and french fries for lunch with the Macy's Day Parade streaming in the background; dinner with our visiting friends at a restaurant by the beech woods.

But for now, my ten minutes of writing is up, so I'll go check on invocations and write later.

We're working on writing this week in English class and preparing for next week when we move teh school to Rome for the week.  Last night's assignment was to read some poems on Rome and an interview with Billy Collins.  This  morning's 10 minute freewrite is to write an invocation to a muse...an imitation of Hardy's poem... no editing...just get it down...)

Invocation to a Muse (an exercise for English class inspired by Thomas Hardy's poem "The Vatican -- Sala Delle Muse")

O Muse of Good Cheer, inspire in me 

laughter when there is no heat or hot water for two days in a row.

Make me compassionate when students worry about grades more than about learning.

Grant me calm and humor and understanding 

in the face of children's squabbles.

Let me enjoy a cappuccino in Viterbo

rather than being grouchy all day because I got only six hours of sleep, no heat, and no hot water.

Let me appreciate Roberta and Dave and Pat for their humor and efforts in getting said heat and hot water.

Let me remember that image of the map of Italy with my feet on it as I walk the one block, past Fontana Grande, to get to work.

Let me revel in Renzo's loud greeting across Via Cavour this morning, as I stewed over late assignments, and he yelled over, "Buon lavoro, bella!"

I could only smile once I heard his booming voice, saw his happy face, translated his Italian in my head.

Let me be open to those moments day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

This is a day in Viterbo after all.

Capri

Sometimes I feel like any excursions I write about are not so much about the place we went to see as much as about the errors we made and obstacles we encountered in getting to said place.  I've often wondered whether travel goes this way for everyone, or if we just don't plan enough or motivate enough or get organized enough.  Likely all of the above.  Vesuvius was our exception, and that was on our last morning in Naples, Sunday.  So by then we'd had enough of our own nonsense.

But Saturday was Capri.  Sunny.  Warm.  We drove to find the always unfindable metano for the Fiat -- no matter how many directions we got, the metano eluded us on that Naples trip.  Sunday afternoon, what should have been a two and a half hour drive back to Viterbo was a six hour drive because of the holiday weekend (All Saints' Day) traffic.  We stopped for gas along the highway -- I guess it's autostrada here; highway in Massachusetts; freeway in New Mexico -- and when we finally found a station with metano, the line for metano was ten cars long, so we opted for benzina.  Then we got back on the autostrada, or rather, Daniel continued to drive us, per usual.  Sunday night, once we were home, Daniel said to me, "I think I forgot to pay for our gas when we stopped."  Surprised that he pumped the gas before he had to pay, he pumped, got in the car, drove away.  An honest mistake.  Perhaps at home we would hunt down the gas station on whitepages.com, make a phone call, send a check or give a credit card number, or wait for a note/ticket/bill in the mail, explain what happened, and pay.  But here in Italy we couldn't take such a risk: fines are normal and high; the car isn't ours; we've already had sent to owners of car the seventy euro ticket for driving into Pisa and the forty euro ticket for going into an intersection when the light was turning red.  Cameras are everywhere.  When Daniel contacted the owners of the car, Pat (he and his wife Linda own the car) texted, "We all know it was an error...but it could be construed as theft...I don't think I will get arrested but it could create a mountain of bureaucracy."

Six hours driving home on Sunday.  Six hours driving the autostrada looking for, finding, and paying (yes, they were waiting for him -- "Fiat?  Arancia?") for the gas on Monday.

But really, I was going to write about Capri.

We headed to the port -- no gas, but ATM, and then croissants and coffee by the bay on a gorgeous morning.  I thought, Should we just stay here and skip Capri?

Riding down winding steep roads with my eyes closed (I am losing motivation to learn to drive here -- pathetic, I know, but it feels daunting at the moment), we make it to the port sent on WhatsApp by our airbandb host.  No more ferries today: last one left two hours ago.

Daniel: Which port did you look up directions to?
me: The one on the WhatsApp message.
Daniel: Oh, no.  I knew there were no more boats for today; the host told me.  We need to go to Naples or Sorrento.

We drive some more.

By 1:30pm we are on a ferry to Capri, where we want to see the Blue Grotto, hike up to Tiberius' imperial villa, and get my favorite perfume.  Twice I got a bottle for me a bottle for my mom.  Hers lasted years because she wore it only on special occasions.  I still have the little pamphlet from the store from over twenty years ago, and we are finding the perfume this trip.

We take a boat ride around the island, listening to the history and myths, e.g. if you kiss the one you love when we go through this upcoming arch of rocks, you will stay together forever; Tiberius threw people into the sea from his villa up high, and then he would go to that promontory half way down the cliff to see whether they were dead yet; there is a statue of Mary.  (Sebastian takes photos and videos going through the arch, just when Daniel kisses me.  Mary, oblivious to the camera/phone, and scared about making it through this small opening, frets visibly.  I'll try to attach video.)

The waves are too big, so the Blue Grotto is closed.

When we get back to land, we start walking uphill fast: it's 3:20, and Tiberius' villa closes at 4pm.  Connor really wants to see the villa.  I want the walk up the hill because I remember it as so pretty.  We walk, run, lose each other, find each other.  The path is on the most narrow, sweet road.  There are little stores, restaurants, and flowers.  Flowers.  It's so quaint.  The path is prettier than Tiberius' opulent villa ever could have been.

The villa is closed.

But we go in anyway and wander around, debating which rooms were for servants, which for guests, which for the emperor himself.  It's not a mansion: it's a mansion of mansions.  How could one person have a place this big?  We decide that he likely had a huge entourage, so he had to have space for them all.  We are in awe, amazed at the size.  (That night I skim some Suetonius to learn a bit more about Tiberius.  Gracious.  My awe turns into disgust as I read what he did to folks.  Paranoid and tyrannical, he tortured many both in Rome and out on Capri.)

We walk more slowly back down the path.  As we near the center of town, near the bottom of the path, Daniel asks a woman about my favorite perfume shop.  She points over his shoulder, across the mini-road.  It's there, she tells him, but closed now until March.

It's only in writing this now that I see how my three points of interest on Capri were closed.  In the end, it didn't really matter.  I guess, even in the moment, it didn't really matter: we still took the boat ride and explored Tiberius' villa (treating it as not closed), and I (happily) caught Daniel ordering my favorite perfume that night online (price was four times what it was back in 1996, the last time I bought it...ahhh, well).

Capri.

Mount Vesuvius

What was supposed to be the beginning of the Naples trip became the end of the trip.  What looked like a hike in the rain became a hike in the wind.  Vesuvius didn't care: it wasn't going anywhere, and, lucky for us, it wasn't erupting.

Last time I hiked Vesuvius I was twenty-three, it was summer, and my friend Racquel annoyed the heck out of me.  It was hot, and I came prepared with my liter of water.  Racquel, an ardent lover of animals, felt bad for the thirsty dogs on the path.  She, with her tiny bottle of water, had drunk and shared hers already with them.  Now she badgered me.  I wanted my water for myself: that's why I brought it.  (I like to think I've evolved over time, or perhaps it's having kids -- I'm happy now to actually be the one to have something to share.  So often we were the ones without a diaper or a snack or a water, and people rescued us, and I admire these always prepared people, a person I am not as I was in my twenties.  Now I'm grateful whenever I have something I am in a position to share, thrilled to seem organized and to feel on top of things for a minute.  Still, I confess that I would drink my water now rather than sharing it with the dog.)  Eventually I gave in -- peer pressure -- and Racquel and I have laughed about it, both completely aware of the frustration of the other: I thought she was unreasonable and nagging; she thought I was selfish.

Alas.

We brought plenty of water.

For the first time on our Naples trip, we were at an entrance two minutes early.  We parked behind the one other car there, got tickets for the shuttle, and got in.  At the next stop, we bought our tickets to hike up to the crater.  It's not a far walk, maybe half a mile (I should be saying how many kilometers, but I'm not there yet), but it is uphill, severely at times.  We looked out over Naples, the reverse view we had had for four days: from our apartment, from Pompeii, from the ferry ride to Capri -- we were always looking at Vesuvius, finding it every chance we could.  Now we were on it, our feet on the dirt, looking out toward all the rest.

We looked into that massive crater, finding it hard to imagine it full of liquids, so dry did it look.  We extended our arms to feel the wind (try to) blow us on the path.  We drank hot chocolate at the top, where Daniel asked a man whether it was always this windy, and he said, No, just today.  When I got back to the bottom, Hannah and Connor were playing some game that reminded me Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack all dressed in black black black with silver buttons buttons buttons...except that the game is to count and skip a number every ten.  They counted in Italian and laughed.

No dogs to feed.

No struggles over water.

I wonder what they'll remember. 

Pompeii

I think I've been to Pompeii three times before this year.  Twice I was the student, and once I was the teacher.  I had a clipboard, pen, and map when I was a student; a pink backpack instead of a flag when I was a teacher/chaperone (so as not to lose my six charges, freshmen girls who trusted me more than they should have as I dragged them all over Rome until they insisted that they needed a proper sit-down lunch...fair enough).

This time I was the parent.

Connor is fascinated by volcanoes.  One Christmas he got a Magic Tree House book on Pompeii and the craft supplies -- clay, baking soda, food coloring, cardboard box, white vinegar, empty water bottle  -- to make his own volcano.  Last spring we sat in the living room and watched the BBC documentary/story Pompeii: The Last Day.  The night before we headed to Pompeii we watched the documentary again in our air b and b in Naples: Stefano's fullery, pyroclastic flow, magma, lava, Elder Pliny, Younger Pliny, Pompeii, Herculaneum, three breath death.

The rain kept going.  We were soaked.  Pompeii was out of maps.  This would not be the experience I had had as a student or as a teacher -- no map, no notes, no agenda.

We started in the big theatre, testing the acoustics by having one person down low saying hello and seeing if we could hear the voice.  We hopped from stone to stone in the old pedestrian crosswalks, avoiding imaginary horse poop and real puddles.  Mary took gelato orders in a bar, scooping out stratiatella and taking my euro (I didn't tell her about denarii...didn't even think about it).  Mary and I imagined that perhaps there was grain in the large containers.  We walked in and out of houses, debating which ones had wealthy owners and which didn't.  We checked out what I thought was the hypocaust system (another documentary from Latin class) in the Stabian Baths.  Mary and Hannah climbed into what we imagined was an oven and then back out again.  Daniel and Sebastian made it to the forum.  For the first time, I didn't.  We walked under the amphitheatre where there was a Pink Floyd in Pompeii exhibit.

No map, no notes, no plan.

No Forum, no Villa of the Mysteries, no Street of Tombs.

Walking, running, climbing, imagining, pretending.

Looking around.  Checking things out.  Touching the ruins with our hands and feet.

Connor said to me afterwards, "Next time I come to Naples, I want to see Herculaneum and the museum that has all the Pompeii stuff."

Mission accomplished.