Baccini [little kisses]

"You know what's wrong about Italy?" Maddy asked.
"What?"
"Nothing."

I keep thinking of my conversation with Madeline, and as I try to come up with things that are "wrong" with Italy, I just can't. I love it here. I love the food, the landscapes, the regionalities, the history, and most of all, the people. The way the people look [mostly, all like Michael's cousins, which is great for me] and are: polite, cheerful, kind. I am sure if I stayed here, things would change a little; surely, the rose colored glasses would fade. Like all first-blush love, it's easy to look past the not-so-goods, when you are so in love with the rest. Would the crazy driving get to me? Would the inefficiencies eventually send me screaming? Do foods need to expand past fruit, some vegetables, bread, pasta, cheese, sauce, rice, ham, and chicken [for the most part]? These problems now seem like surmountable objections.

Yesterday we came back from a three day trip to a little town near the Italian/Slovenian boarder. We stayed at an agritourism apartment, where the owner of the place -- the same lovely gentleman who owns the place on Lake Garda--runs a vinyard and farms land that produces corn and kiwis. It was staggering in its natural beauty: huge, imposing mountains, lush, productive land, and clear streams. The whole place is gorgeous and livable, even for a country girl. Americans obviously do not venture into the area often, as we were met with quite a bit of curiosity. The people, too, were a little different from some of the other regions: these Italians seemed [to me, anyway] a little more reserved, a little more proper...it's as if the air from the neighboring Germanic countries came and changed these Italians a bit. But not too much: we were met with the same kindness and humor that I have come to expect in Italy. Our experience in the region sealed the deal for me: I fell, all in, for Italy.

So, I plead: Couldn't we just stay here, learn the language, and be Italian?

OK, of course not. Michael has a perfect job for him. So do I. And we have a life, family, friends, and home we love back in Montana. But today, I get to emote. Today is our last day here; tomorrow, we leave for Switzerland for 10 days where we will have a different sort of adventure up in the Alps [and no internet connection].

So goodbye, Italy. Or better: until again.

The Sporting Life

Having ruined my heels while walking on cobble stones through a castle [what a sentence to be able to write!] Michael suggested that I go shoe shopping in Salo, the upscale town a few towns over from us. Well, you don't have to ask me twice, so off we went.

Shoes in Italy are displayed in cases: huge, often winding, windows of flats, dress shoes, pumps, boots, flip-flops, and a few sport shoes, are presented to the customer with care. The shoes are artful in their placement and intentional in their suggestion: shoes in Italy are about glamour. Glamour, in this case, is found in sumptuous leathers, shiny metalics [with jewels], cleverly placed ornaments, and heels that come in high, higher, and unwalkable. Shoes are just another way of presenting la bella figura, a term that has taken on real meaning while living here for a bit.

Bella figura means beautiful figure, but really is an Italian philosophy of living, emphasizing beauty, good image, aesthetics and proper behavior, even in every day life. At first, I found the idea to be a little oppressive: kids' clothes are ironed, people are put-together for every occassion, and there is a social structure of behavior, nuanced by class awareness, that I am only beginning to understand. Of course, as an American who is used to wearing "work out" clothes to the store after dropping off the kids at school, and whose idea of ironing is pulling out the shirt a little damp and smoothing it down with my hand, it's easy to dismiss the idea as purely form over substance, and too much concern with superficial life. But not so fast.

As our friend Guido explained to me yesterday at lunch, Italy has created a way to be fashionable no matter who you are. Therefore, Mrs. Everywoman and her husband can put on their shiny shoes, their pressed clothes, a little parfume or cologne, maybe a jewel or two, and have a walk and an ice cream, and feel, well, good. Bella figura isn't about beauty but about time to appreciate and care for what you have, when you have it. For the beautiful young things, this may be one thing, and for the less young, another. But always, the best foot forward. And more, an appreciation for life. This bella figura, he told me, creates a sense of community and pride for the Italians: "We are a fashionable and elegant people," he said, leaning in, "and this has changed the international perception of Italy from just a spaghetti country, to one that produces great wines, beautiful cars, top fashion...and you see why. Just look around at how everyone has a little bit of pride in themselves and that pride translates into what they do." He then went into a long discussion about how Tuscany has been touched by God, which probably is right, but I haven't been to Tuscany, really, except for Pisa, so he lost me a bit there.

In any case, if I think about how ironing my kids' clothes might make me take a minute to appreciate their little arms and little waists [when you iron their clothing you really see how little they are! Even Maddy is so tiny!] then maybe I wouldn't mind ironing their clothes. Of course, outside of Italy, and inside of Montana, the social construction is different, and the bella figura equivilant is something else entirely.

So different is the social construction here, that I now have a chuckle every time I see my new shoes. While trying on shoes, I was deciding between the ones above and another pair. "The other are more feminine," said the lovely sales woman helping me, "these are more for sport." Only in Italy are three-inch-heels considered sporty shoes. So with her definition, and a big smile on my face, I was a buyer -- and an athlete, too!


P.S. Turns out that those kinder chocolates are Italian. They fooled me with the German word for kid. I should have figured that they were Italian: who else would put a toy in a chocolate egg and call it a snack? Gotta love Italy for kids.

Nick's Wishes

Walking on a long cobble-stone road, Allie accidentally bumped into Nick, and his face hit the wall of an old apartment building.
"Why are these walls made with pointy paint?" asked Nicholas with fat tears coming down his face, one tear after another streaking dirt and sliding down the scraped area of his cheek.
"Well, they are old walls and that's what you get in Italy," I said, not knowing the reason.
"I don't like pointy walls, Mom. I like smooth walls, and I want to go HOME. Home Home."

For little Nick, I fear Italy includes too many girls [read: three sisters] and not enough fishing.

Things Nicky likes about Italy:
1. Kinder chocolate eggs. These, I think, are actually German. They are chocolate eggs with a little plastic toy inside and then some sticky candy gunk that looks like egg yolks and a little spoon to scoop it out. He LOVES these, and asks for them everyday. I think he's had them twice. The insides look, for lack of a better discription, very gross.

2. His six-year-old male cousin, Andy.

3. All the boys on Vespas.

The first two are natural affections. The third is a worry. Nicholas, having to walk everywhere and having not much else to look at since he does not yet care about girls, clothes, or bars, has noticed the number of young men on Vespas.
"Oh yeah, Mom, when I get older I am sooo doing that." [Young man speeding past us, way too fast, on blue Vespa.]
"Listen to THAT Mom!" [Obnoxious Vespa, way too loud, speeding past, almost knocking us over, color forgotten.]
"AWESOME!" [Three Vespas, one with girl on back hanging on for her life, speeding past.]

I am trying to be cool Mom here, and support this new Vespa craze, but the truth is, every time a Vespa zooms past, I point to one thing:
"Son, he is not wearing a helmet! How stupid can you get??"

It seems in Italy, Vespa drivers [and most bicyclists] have not gotten the memo about helmets. That same memo was lost with the smoking-is-bad-for-you memo and the tanning-until-you-look-like-burnt-chicken-is-not-a-good-idea memo.

Here are the things Italians ARE worried about:

1. Cold water. Somehow, cold water here is not tolerated. I have yet to have a glass of water served with ice, and even when I ask for it cold, it comes a couple of degrees above room temperature. I am not sure what Italian cold water will do to me, and I don't think I will have the opportunity to find out. Ice cubes are banned, I think.

2. Air conditioning. Until I married a European, I did not know about the dangers of air conditioning. Now, I am aware that if it blows on my face, I might get sick. I never GOT sick from air conditioning before meeting Michael, but I have seen him red faced and sneezing after having air blow on him. Is it European air conditioning? Some strange gene that is bred out of second generation Americans? I don't know, but the Italians will warn you, and turn off the air.

3. Any sun, at all, on your child's head. If Rachel pulls off her hat -- even for a minute-- some well-meaning old lady will warn me that her hat is off, and suggest that I put it back on. If I choose NOT to put a hat on her, I am asked about the hat's location and I can see that my status as Mom has down-graded one notch for not being on top of the hat issue. I have learned to travel with a hat.

Today, we went to a very impressive castle [second biggest in Europe - don't know what the first is] and saw a spectacular church with Roman tile in the basement. Nicholas and the kids had a great time, especially at the castle, and as we walked we talked about the castle's history: the fighting, the wars, the bloodshed right where we walked.

"Cool, right Nick?" I asked, thinking this would surely make his list of fantastic things in Italy.

"Awesome, Mom.... But I would like to live on a plane."

Progess!

Pint sized pleasures

With every child, a re-set button. A family "start again" switch that begins the moment that little stick comes back with two straight lines. The re-set is a do-over in all things: the happy [first smile, first tooth, the wonderful cuddles and coos], the dull [picking up bite-sized bits of food off the floors of "family friendly" restaurants, the interest in baby excrement as a window into baby's health] and the awful [sleepless nights and nights, the constant scan for choking-sized objects, the inflexibility of an infant].

Our decision to spend the beginning of this summer in Europe was a family "thumb of our noses" at that re-set button. After all, if we wait until Rachel, now 10 months, is ready for real adventure, then Maddy, now 9-years-old, will be ready for high school. Plus, Michael and I have been in a little bit of a holding pattern for nine years, and it was time to do something different. Many friends have asked me, "how can you travel across the world with four young children?"; my answer: how can I not?

But, a catch. While Michael and I have spent the past nine years going through baby and baby and baby, this is Rachel's first go around. And sometimes she lets us know: enough.

Last week, on our fabulous adventure to Varazze, we pushed Rachel a bit. Unfortunatly, on the night before our arrival, Rachel became sick with a very high fever, and by the time we reached Varazze it was clear we had a sick kid. But, there was no time for a sick kid: we were ready to have fun with the Italian side of the family. A big party was planned, and lots of great times ahead! So... we kept her up for the marvelous party [she finally fell asleep at 11:00 pm after a dose of Tylenol and Advil and a lot of walking about with me]; I said no to my siser-in-law's offers of a high chair ["It's just for a couple of days - let's not go to the trouble!" I said with a laugh]; and naps? ["She'll nap in the stroller! She'll be fine!" I said as I waved away cares with my hand]. Of course, she was fine, and she trooped through it all, but by the last night in Varazze, enough was enough. Rachie woke up every half hour to nurse, and she left with a rash all over her body, tired and red eyes, and a continuation of her [now low-grade] fever.

Two days "home" in Toscolano-Moderno, and we finally have our little one back. Normal nap times, properly mashed up food fed in a proper high chair, and asleep in her crib by 7:00, Rachel is happy and healthy again. Seeing her blossom at "home" we knew: Venice was off. Our plan to celebrate Michael's 40th birthday in grand [or at least semi-nice] Venetian style was off the books for the Braun gang. Taking the car 45 minutes to Brescia, then taking a two hour train ride to Venice, then hopping from one water taxi to another....just to walk around the historic city of Venice...is for parents without infants. We have already asked so much of her.

So, we are stuck a little with a baby's routine. But, I'll tell you: it's a glorious thing. What a unique way to see a country! In the time some people see most of Europe ["Ten countries in ten days!"], we are becoming part of this little town. Yesterday, the grocer asked Michael's name and today I was addressed as Segnora Braun; we have our favorite ice cream place [having had the time to try all the ones around here, and there are many]; the old ladies who seem to walk around as much as we do now address me when they see us; I know the city inside and out and am even beginning to notice when flower beds change around town. And, really, we don't do much. Especially when Michael is working, we shop for food [Maddy went today and bought some things by herself: you'd think she'd won the lotto she was so happy], we try and speak Italian, we have little day trips [around Rachel's naps], I have had oodles of quality time with the other kids, and I get to be a mother here. Of course, all of this is a less intellectual experience than one could have[a seeming consequence of motherhood], but it is satisfying nonetheless. We have gone deep, and I have little Rachie to thank.

When in Rome (or Varazze)...

In the Ligurian region, where Varazze resides and from where we just returned, there is a much different feeling of Italy than in our sleepy town of Toscolano-Moderno. In Varazze, the Italians are louder, the clothing more chic [and less of it], the food deliciously different, and people, in general, more adorned. Varazze is a beach town on the sea, with yatchs, and the tanned, fit and gorgeous people who seem to adorn such ships.

Raising down-to-earth kids in such an enviornment must be a little challenging, and my sister-in-law has managed and more. Our kids were enamored with their cousins [and rightfully so] and with their counsins' town; they studied them and the town's kids' every move.

So, perhaps I should not have been surpised when the girls asked for a new swimsuit. A bikini. An Italian bikini.

Hmmm. Let me say that when I started this parenthood gig I took the Waldorf philosophies of parenting very seriously. And part of that idea--while not explicitly stated, I don't think--is that little pre-pubescent girls should not be wearing bikinis. But here's the thing: in Italy, many women and most of the little kids don't wear TOPS at all at the beach, so having a bikini on here is almost modest by comparison. So I said "yes" to the bikini, with the understanding that the little swimsuit was for Italy [or Europe, to be generous] and home. With big nods, and little Rachie and Nicholas escorted up to the apartment with Dad, the girls and I went shopping for an Italian bikini.

Shopping in Varazze is fantastic. The shop people are more than helpful, pulling out this and that, suggesting one style or another, and all the while smiling and telling you how beautiful you are, with big claps of their hands. In every store where the girls looked for their suits there was an excitement in the air: it felt like the scene in Pretty Women where she finally gets to shop the right way. The girls loved it, too: both of them smiling, and speaking Italian the best they could. Finally, both settled on cute little suits: a Betty Boop number for Allie and a yellow fruit-themed suit for Maddy. Pretty and appropriate, really, for their ages. Both beamed as the sales lady handed them their packages, feeling light and happy as the sales lady laughed and waved.

After the pleasure of shopping for them, I decided to steal an hour and look around by myself. Dropping off all the kids with Michael, I was ready to enjoy my own shopping adventure. What felt like something special for the girls turned out to be similar for me: as I pulled out shirts, pants, and dresses to try on, the shop owners, their helpers, and the Italian shoppers all chimed in their two cents about the clothes I tried on. "That one's beautiful! You're gorgeous! That dress is the one for you..." With enthusiasm and glee, these comments were given to me [and everyone else who was trying on clothes] by the super chic, very glamorous and beautiful women in the store. It was all in good fun, too: not fake or laced with additude -- the opposite of all of that. There was a genuine feeling to all these women complimenting one another, laughing, joking, and enjoying the idea of fashion and new clothes. Not once did I see envious side glances or sighs of discontent. We are all lovely and isn't it great! Seemed to be the feeling, all from women ranging in age from 19 - ?

How fun to feel part of this club of women, if even for a few minutes, and how different than shopping in America for clothing. Who knows how I really look in the silky violet halter dress I picked out; I do know, however, that whenever I put it on I will feel lovely and ready for fun, just as I did the day I bought it. No wonder Italian women can walk down the street with such confidence!

As for the girls, today they begged and pleaded to go to the beach to try out their new suits. All fear subsided as -- even in their cute bikinis -- they played in the sand, made castles, fought with their brother, and swam with other kids at the beach. A normal day. Still, in America, I will ask that they resume wearing their tank swimsuits, and that they tuck their Italian bikinis in a back drawer. "When in Rome..." the expression goes. But why does everything have to be so much more FUN while in Rome?

A new venue and some new blood

Today we leave for the town of Varazze in the Ligurian Riviera [see above picture]. You can check out the town here and a little sample of Italian web design [read: there might be some job opportunities for those of you excellent at web design]: http://www.varazze.com/italiano/index.htm .

We are visiting Valerie, Michael's sister, and her family [three kids: 14, 12, 6 and her hilarious Italian husband, Antonio]. Michael's parents are joining us too, as are Michael's cousins and aunt. It will be a big familia gathering...Italian style. I have not seen the Italian family for two years, and none have met Rachel. It should be wonderful to get together again.

The kids are looking forward to seeing their cousins, and I know we are all happy for some new blood. It's been three weeks of a LOT of family time.

Be back Monday with some new stories and pictures!

Ciao for now,

Daphne

It's time to go to a playground or It's beer-thirty somewhere

Italians have a way of making everything as fun as possible. Think of anything enjoyable and the Italians have a corner market: food, wine, ice cream, history, language, art, fashion, cars, family, on and on.... Knowing this, I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised to find out that they have parenthood figured out, too. At first glance, perhaps some can be a little loud with their kids, and it seems that a smack on the butt [or face, as I have seen] gets a cultural O.K. But I am not talking about childhood [which I am sure is, in general, fantastico here, too] but parenthood. Here's what the Italians have figured out:

bar + playground = happiness

Why don't we have this in America? Why must we Americans languish through a 5:00 playdate in the summer, sitting on a concrete turtle sprinkler, sweating through our shirts as moisture pours down our back, butts hurting, brains aching...just so our kids can have some fun? Is it part of some rite of passage in American parenthood that we all must suffer a little during our childrens' playtime?

Well, there's no suffering in Italy. Not for a playtime, anyway. Here, there are BARS at the playgrounds.

Yes. Bars.

While your little tyke[s] run around the playground, you can sit and have a spritz or wine or beer...or an ice cold coke for that matter. And, while you refesh yourself, you sit in a CHAIR under a TREE and someone SERVES you. Hungry? No need to pull out day-old veggie booty and chomp away as if it's enjoyable. You can order some chips and salsa, or nice olives with crackers, or a soft cheese and sliced meat plate. In fact, these bars are so social that even people without kids come and hang out. One of our favorite playground/bars is frequented by very hip, attractive youngsters who are certainly not parents. I can imagine having conversations with them that have nothing to do with kids, and enjoying it very much. In fact, when we go to these playground/bars I do enjoy it very much.

The "playground" we love in Moderno is surrounded by cherry and olive trees, with jasmine plants strategically placed to curl around pots of rosemary and basil. There is often a breeze with gardenia smell, which is just as relaxing as it sounds. We sit on white picnic chairs with a plastic brightly-colored table cloth covering the table, and find shade under an umbrella. A tabby cat calls the bar her home, and she curls underneath our feet and begs when our salami and cracker plate comes ["she's a thief!" we were warned when the food was put down, but I am not sure how much she has to steal when our kids are around]. We are not the only ones enjoying the evening: the kids get a "special" drink too, since such harmony requires a toast. They all love getting ice-cold fizzy water, with a fresh lemon squeeze. They order their water and run to play, only to return red-faced and hot when the drinks come. They gulp down the fizzy water with great pleasure, and one always enjoys a large belch after, with the other two laughing at the defiance. All of this: seven Euros.

Most importantly, no one is drunk here or at any of the bar/playgrounds I have frequented. This is truly just a place to meet. Kids skip, slide, swing, and find friendships on a warm summer evening; in Italy, adults sip, sigh, and do the same.

The Circle Game

On the walls of every Italian town are posted death notices. Big, white paper announcements of recent deaths are plastered next to the SuperShop food discount offerings and other advertisements. These death notices are graceful in their simplicity, with elegantly fonted script and bolded information about age, name, and date of death. I really appreciate that when you die in Italy you get a nice, big notice about town, as if to say, "Hey! This is big news!" For a survivor of a loved one's death, there is no suffering through some small, poorly written obituary in the town's paper and no need to call neighbors about the loss: the news is already [literaly] all over town, and everyone can grieve and celebrate life, together.

On our way to the market today, we noticed a new one had been plastered on the wall, for a 91 year old woman who died two days ago. The kids and I stopped and reflected about her life a minute--surely this woman had seen a lot--and imagined facts about her. A graceful Madonna was painted near her name, and her peaceful presence gave the whole announcement a sleepy, realxed feel.

I imagine that she was like so many of the wonderful older women we are meeting around Toscolano and Moderno. Without exception, they stop and compliment me about the kids, or have a special smile for Rachel. Never have I been around a culture so sure of the blessings of children, nor ready to welcome them into the world. Rachel has seized the spirit, and is now a full-on bambina ham, expertly executing the endearing little backward wave adults give children. Say "ciao" and Rachel will perform the Italian hand wave usually on cue, much to the delight of all the older women, and to the delight of us.

The Bicycle Ride

My lovely sister-in-law [who married an Italian and lives here in Italy] tells me that there is an expression in Italian that goes something like, "you asked for the bicycle...now ride it." I thought of that expression a couple of times today, as this morning Michael left to teach for a week, and I am here in Toscolano with four kids, a few Italian phrases, and no car. It was my choice to stay here alone with the kids, as I could have gone down to the coast with my sister-in-law and her family or have even suggested that my in-laws come here to help me out [they offered and we get along great]. But, really, I am 37 years old, and should be able to handle this challenge. So, for the next week, I am riding my bicycle.

Today, day one, went well, although I am so tired the back of my eyes hurt. Part of my exhaustion comes from living in a culture where efficiency is not as highly valued as in my own. Here's my two cents about being here with a big family: the laundry machines are too small and take too long to wash so I am always doing laundry; the speed in which Italian cars wizz past on cobble-stone roads is ridiculously unsafe as the roads are big enough for two horses but not two cars and as such require at LEAST one adult per child for optimum safety; and having to go shopping every day for food is fantastic when you are by yourself and can enjoy the pleasures of finding the perfect peach on Monday, a ripe melon on Tuesday, etc., but is less enthralling with four kids. This is especially true when your four children are all under ten, and when child one is looking at milk products and discussing the "fantastic" and "delicious" options available of sweet milky desserts, child two is screaming about child three, child three is complaining about being hungry and "I mean hungry like I am going to die hungry," and child four is leaving small bits of Plasmon cookies everywhere much to the disgust of the shopowner. Would it ruin Italian culture to have a Target around where they could buy everything all at one place for the week? OK, it probably would, which is why we--and they--grin and bear it [or love it], and make every little trip an adventure.

So I will do the same. Today's big adventure was two fold: going to the store and going to the beach. First, I am proud to say I ordered all sorts of things from the butcher today, and got neither too much nor too little meat, two beautiful frittatas from the kitchen, and three whole wheat rolls from the baker. The kids did so well that the shop owner gave them all jellied fruit bon-bons, which Nicholas waited until AFTER we got out of the store to spit out [well done, Nick]. We ate like kings at lunch, although I think all the kids were tired of me re-living my ordering experience, but did not say so.

The second big adventure was that we walked to the beach. The beach is a good mile and a half away, which doesn't sound like much, but see above note about the cars. We made it there alive and in good spirits, and I was even asked directions by an Italian [I am blending! Of course, who travels alone with four kids, so I am sure she thought I must be local, but still...she thought I LIVED here!!] Anyway, we have rented our little beach chairs from the same nice man for three days, and today he gave us half off: the deal was that for today he speaks to me in English and I answer in Italian. This creates a funny exchange, as his English rivals my Italian, so we both primarily shout out nouns. I pointed to the balloons the kids were given by the ice cream vendor and shouted out: palloncini! [why do I know this word?] and he says balloon! and I say umbrellini! and he says umbrellas! and so on. The kids and I giggled a lot on our way to our beach chairs.

After a cold swim, a long walk back [with me screaming, "a car is coming, hug the wall, kids, HUG THE WALL!!"], and sighs of missing Dad, the kids crashed into bed. The last thing Nick told me tonight was that he thought today was fun. I am glad he thought so, because it was just the sort of a day I was hoping for, too. Ride on, kiddos, ride on.

Two gentlemen and four ladies in Verona

Today, we went to Verona. This time, we had a plan: lunch at a restaurant off the beaten path, a visit to Juliet's balcony [yes, that Juliet of Verona], and a walk through the Renaissance gardens of a knight of Verona. Home by 6:00. It was time to get Swiss about this Italian adventure.

Lunch was fantastic. We are committed to eating new foods, and today Michael and I ordered well. A delicious fresh pasta with garden mushrooms and veal chop for him, three-cheese stuffed zuchinni flowers for me. A glass of light red wine for us both, and fresh, crusty bread to even things out. While Nicki asked if they had a hot dog or grilled cheese [no luck on that, kiddo], he enjoyed Michael's pasta and all four managed to fill up on bread, ham, pasta, melon, mushrooms, and water "with gas". I am proud of their flexibility in eating, as they have all but given up on the idea that there will be a "kids' menu". Children here eat what the adults eat, or not - and go hungry. I love it: cuisine is such an excellent way to understand cultures that I would be very disappointed if they could have boring kids' food at every meal. This way, we don't have to fight it.

Verona is a dream. It is a beautiful city with gorgeous shops filled with the lastest fashions in shoes and clothes. Every little apartment has red geraniums or some other lush, full flower, in a window box, making the whole city alive with natual color. I felt like Ferdinand , and wanted to just sit and look at the flowers [of course, in his case he wanted to sit and eat the flowers, but I think the general sentiment is the same]. People watching is enjoyable, too, as tailored clothes and snappy shoes seem to be the norm: not too much or too silly, just people looking fit and elegant. I suppose the people of Verona must keep a long tradition of looking "just so."

But I have four children! So, off we went to look around. Juliet's balcony is the tourist trap it should be, but lovely all the same. People have put love notes on the wall before her balcony, and just a look around one sees a world full of languages with professions of enduring love. It is all very sweet and romantic, as are the young women who wait in line for 30 minutes or more to stand on Juliet's balcony while their boyfriend/husband/lover snaps a picture or two from below. One woman threw her long, curly, brown hair over her shoulder and puckered for her boyfriend as he took a picture and sent her an air kiss. I loved that moment for them, and for the fact that whatever else is going on the world, people are still in crazy love.

The garden was less touristy. In fact, we were the only ones there. Too bad, for it is a little gem. In it, one can see the tradition of precision and beauty that allows Italians to make some of the finest and most beautiful automobiles in the world. Here, the garden was perfect in its lines and yet still accessible in its design. Michael started races between the kids to make it through the brush maze, and by all counts the kids had a fantastic time. I felt my tradition as "Mama" and the ghost of the mothers before me -- perhaps in the very spot I stood -- as I watched an activity that had gone on for hundreds of years: giggling children running through the garden mazes with glee. To think that in a few years, our children may be professing their love on stolen scraps of paper. It made the moment all the sweeter.

My blue cheese idea

Fourteen years ago, when Michael and I were dating in New York City, we ordered pizza and salad and brought it up to Michael's apartment. [It seemed decadent at the the time to rent a movie and eat in; had we known then how our life was going to go we would have run to the nearest Indian food joint and danced all night -- at least for the memory of it. But I digress.] In the middle of our pizza-fest, Michael decided to try the blue cheese salad dressing on the pizza. He put some dressing in a bowl, and started to dip the pizza. "Surprisingly good," he said, or something like it. He proceeded to eat the dressing with the pizza. Thirty minutes later, dressing and pizza gone, Michael lay on the couch with a sour stomach and a pale face. "The dressing and pizza: not a good combo," I laughed. "Yes, a very bad idea." From that point forward in our lives, every decision that seemed super-excellent at the time but turned out to be, well, less than perfect, we've called a blue cheese idea.

Yesterday, I had a blue cheese idea.

After a tour of Roman ruins in the morning and a most yummy lunch in Brescia, I turned to Michael and suggested we go to walk "old" Bergamo, a beautiful and historical city above Bergamo. "Only" 30 kilometers away, we could drive to "old" Bergamo, let Rachel sleep in the car, and tour the city in the afternoon. Perhaps, we could even enjoy a piccolo drink in a piazza. "It will be great!" I beamed. "Don't you think it will be too much for the kiddos?" said Michael. "That's a lot for one day." "No... It's close and we'll just have a little walk. Plus, I don't want to go home now." Ignoring our family rule of "one big thing" a day, we packed up the whole gang at 2:30 pm, and got ready for "old" Bergamo.

Sometimes, there are signs that things will not go well. In this case, first it was the drive. Puzzling is one word for the Italian road sign system, and our 30 kilometer drive that should have taken 25 minutes was taking over an hour. The Italians have a creative way of putting up signs, and are approximate, it seems, in establishing distance. Actual signs, in order, to Bergamo:
1. Bergamo 29 kil., pointing one way
2. Bergamo, 28 kil., pointing another [after driving 10 minutes without traffic]
3. Bergamo, 32 kil. [What?!?]
4. Bergamo, 19 kil. [after driving three minutes]
5. and so on. Time and space bend in Italy, I guess.

But we did get there, in about an hour and a half. The "main" city of Bergamo is really lovely, and as we drove around I felt positive. I even remember telling Michael I could live in Bergamo.

Turns out that while I might be able to live in Bergamo, but I cannot PARK in Bergamo. It took over an hour to find parking at a distance close enough to walk to the old city of Bergamo, where we wanted to walk around. And by "walk" I mean close enough to walk 20 minutes to a train where you stand in line for 15 minutes to buy tickets and then stand in line another 15 minutes to board the train that TAKES you up to old Bergamo. Turns out you cannot drive into old Bergamo because there are so many people who want to walk around and have drinks, etc.

By six o' clock, we found ourselves in old Bergamo. But now, I had tired, hot, and hungry children. I also had the pleasure of the company of [seemingly] 1 million Italians enjoying old Bergamo, too. And since this town was made for about 100 people, we were all walking in the same scrunched path, all in one great horde of humanity. The crowd dictated the speed of the "walk," and between the sweat and parfume we were all feeling the need for some air. At one point, Michael started making a "casting" motion with his hand, which lets me know he has--in self defense--taken his mind to some fishing stream in Missoula where he can enjoy a moment of peace. To really drive the point, Nicholas grabbed my arm and with tired eyes and looked up at me, pleading "Mom, this is not fun." And Maddy, the super trooper of our trip so far, was pale and sick looking, and asked how much longer we needed to walk around.

We knew it was time to go, but at 6:30, the kids needed something to eat. But what? Everything was the same: snack bars of pizza and coke and ice cream. We had had more than enough of all three the past week, but in desperation, filled them with more. By the look on Allie's face after the pizza arrived, pizza is now not considered a treat but rather part of a sentence. Finally, we turned around and headed back down to "new" Bergamo, where our car awaited. And by headed back down I mean stand in line for the train for 45 excrutiating minutes and wait for the train to take us down so we could walk to our far-away car and drive the hour back home, playing a game of 20 questions to prevent the kids from throwing up.

Everyone was quiet when we returned. The kids savored peanut butter sandwiches [we brought one jar of natural peanut butter when a taste of home was necessary] and fell into bed. Michael reached for a glass of wine: the drive was harrowing and stressful. I stretched out my legs with a glass in my hand, too: "Now THAT was such a blue cheese idea that we might start calling bad ideas Bergamo ideas." At that moment, I don't remember if Michael laughed.

Bambini

Our four children are a suprise, even here. Italians stop me in the street and in the store -- I have been stopped three times -- telling me that my large family is no longer common in Italy and they all give me their "compliments" [complimenti] on our large brood. I like that they are happy to see so much productivity by my husband and me, and that my children know enough to smile big at these moments. [My kids, after all, are grandchildren of a great salesman and of a great marketer, and do know when to play it when it counts.]

However, it seems the large family does still exist in Italy; at least we met one. Yesterday we were invited to lunch at the home of my husband's colleague, his wife, and four of their eight children. Yes, eight. The house was immaculate. The lunch was served with china, silver, linens, the works...and for all the children, too. The kids [mine included] sat through three hours of food and talk. There was no kids' table. There was no video. No ketchup. There was not even a toy in SIGHT. I was very proud of our kids for making it through, but at the same time, noted that for these Italian kids, this sort of lunch was not so uncommon and their behavior was not met with "oohs and ahs."

At one point in the lunch, the Dad barked at his son, "Play something for us." Now, in my house, such a request at a party would be met with sighs, moans, and then the requisite encouragement by the adults. This kid, though, said "Of course," and off he went and hammered out some Schumann. "Bravo," we applauded, and, quick as he started, the moment was over, and he sat back down at the table. Immediately, we were served coffee, in small cups, black.

Sometimes, Michael and I play a devilish game of "what we would be doing if we didn't have four children with us on this trip." We would have had, by now, many long, delicious lunches; great, long hikes in the mountains; a concert or two; a trip to a few old churches and castles; and a laziness that has disappeared from our lives for nine years. Michael once shared our little "what if" game [I am sure every parent plays it] to an older man next to him on the plane here. "You think that now, " he said, "but all you do is miss them once they are gone."

So,once we are back to our reality here, we know we must tolerate the realities of being abroad with little ones. Rachie needs two naps or she is intollerable. There must be three meals, plus snacks. There must be time to "play" everyday. There is probably a sweet or two, for good measure, if we want them to try new types of food. And on and on.

But what we get in return? A whole lot of memories: Allie, who enters the car and immediately strips down to her underwear and exclaims in a toothless seriousness, "I am so hot. So, so hot, please PLEASE GET THE AIR ON NOW." [It's like 72 degrees here now.] Then, Allie later putting her pizza in an ashtray at the restaurant because she thought it was a fancy plate [she had never seen an ashtray before -- I think America might trump on that one]. Maddy, who is as desperate as I to know Italian, speaking as much as she can at every turn. Also, her golden hair growing longer and preferred skirt getting shorter the longer we are here. Then, Nicholas, whose main goal in life is to eat as much gelato as possible; and he, who misses Montana the most. Still Rachel, who will remember none of this, but is my main pass in making the even the grumpiest Italian happy and ready to help.

Home, but not home home

We have taken to calling Toscolano "home," and to avoid confusion, call our home in Montana "home, home." This creates a series of "who is on first" sort of conversations between the kids, which is alternatively annoying and hilarious, depending on my mood and their comic timing.

When we first arrived here, I wasn't so sure about "home," this little town. There is nothing so special about it at first, and it certainly is not as beautiful as some of the other Lake Garda towns. But the problem with the beautiful Lake Garda towns that we have seen is that they are full of tourists. This town, however, is mostly for itself, and as such is sleepy and sweet. This town lets us have a real Italian experience versus one made for tourists, and the two do not feel the same. For that, and lots more, I am now very happy Toscolano is "home."

The people here are beyond friendly to me and the kids. My attempts at speaking Italian are met with smiles and comprehension [they try to understand me and help out when necessary]. Outside of Toscolano, when I try to speak Italian I am returned with Italians speaking GERMAN to me. There are loads of Germans here, as this area is very close to Germany, and I guess my rubbish Italian is like the Germans trying to speak Italian. The only problem, of course, is that I don't speak German. I speak Italian, they speak German back, and I stand there like a imbecile, smiling. I sure hope my Italian improves by July.

None of us are wearing watches. Mine broke on the way to Switzerland [irony THERE] and I was to fix it in Italy. But, Toscolano has a wonderful church with a beautiful tower and bell. The bell rings [tolls?] on the hour, and the half. When the bells begin to ring, Allie and I have taken to stopping everything and counting the bells to know the time. When we are done counting, it is with great smiles that Allie and I look at each other and exclaim with glee, "It's TWO!" or "Five thirty! Wow!" I no longer want to fix my watch.

Thanks to everyone for the comments. I really love to hear from you -- a lifeline to "home, home."

We are here!

After a harrowing drive through Switzerland and some of Italy, we made it "home". On the road down into the Lake Garda region, Maddy threw up three times in the car, but we could not stop because there was no space to pull over. Nothing like being nine and holding a plastic bag filled with your own puke while your Dad zooms around skinny corners trying to keep the family alive while driving in Italy [he did great]. Perhaps not the European experience I was going for for her, but an experience, no doubt.

Our apartment sits on the lake, and is perfectly Italian. Painted frescos, old [300 year old] wood beams, tiled floor, and antique furniture. We are renting it from a kind older man with four kids, so he has set me up with a crib and high chair...and lots of smiles. It's so lovely to feel so welcome. We share the villa with other touristas, and it seems most meet in the villa's common garden for a drink and light supper in the evening. There were a number of German children running around the garden when we arrived, so I feel hopeful the kids might make a few friends -- they will learn a few words of German in Italy!

The kids are fascinated by the bidet in the bathrooms, and all have [of course] washed their butts clean. Rachel took a bath in one this morning since there is no bathrub.

Last night -- our first night in our Italian home -- we decided we had to have pizza. Off we went...and the pizza was made by a Chinese man and we were served by a Chinese woman! They were very lovely, and the pizza was good...Michael and Maddy tried out their Chinese words on them.

Perhaps the Chinese parents will also have a hard time getting used to Italian babyfood. Today, as I looked for some options for Rachel at the supermarket, I could choose from jarred trout, goat, or rabbit! They even have the pictures of the animals on the jar. It's sort of mind blowing, but suggests these kids probably have some pretty sophisticated tastes by the time they are three. I am tempted to give one of these jars a try and see if Rachel will enjoy a little rabibit. Now, the trick will be to find a nice bambino chianti.

We are certainly getting looks in Switzerland with our big family. There is a palatable exasperation when we walk into any store, and when we take up the whole sidewalk. I didn't notice it too much until today, when I went shoppping downtown Zug with just Allie and Maddy. Suddenly, people were a little friendlier. I will be curious to see if the six of us are received differently in Italy.

We did have a most fabulous lunch. And I had wine at 12:30! While I know most of Europe has this habit, it just feels so fabulous and new to me. See the picture above with the dark, but fruiy, wine -- also note Maddy jumping in the background, and Allie in the way back. (Nicholas was off behind the tree and Rachel was crawling around the grass.) Could I drink wine at lunch every Saturday, or is that dangerous territory? Maybe it's the elevation in Montana that makes it more difficult to enjoy these small pleasures.

Tomorrow we head into Zürich to pick up our car, and get ready to drive down to bella Italia first thing Monday morning. I am eager to see our apartment -- cross your fingers for us.

Milk Serum Soda, Anyone?

The speciality drink of Switzerland is Rivella, a bubbly, carbonated drink made from milk serum. Yes, MILK SERUM. It tastes really great, and is just another reason to love Switerland. Somehow, everything here is a little nicer than anywhere else. So, when Swiss kids need to drink their milk, they actually get a great tasting soda. Perhaps Willy Wonka did not give up the store: he just moved it here.

Allie, my 7 year old, loves Switzerland. She finds it cozy and managable, and "super duper clean." No wonder: today we went to a children's playground where there was not one bit of trash anywhere, and all the equiptment sat on lush, green, soft, grass. Rachie even crawled around on the ground as the kids played. The Swiss kids playing there were quiet and respectful, taking turns and mindful of their voices. The equiptment itself was a dream: challenging and fun for the kids and clean and safe for the parents. I am happy Allie loves it here, but I fear for her in Italy a little bit. The last playground I went to Italy, the equipment was covered in gum and graffitti, and all the playstructures sat on top of cracked asphalt. A different kind of fun, for sure.

Of course, the best fun comes at unexpected times. Last night, the whole famly was up and starving a 2 a.m., so we pitched a picinic in Michael's parents' laundry room, and gobbled up a dinner's worth of food, telling jokes, sharing stories, and laughing at the craziness of the moment. By 5 a.m. we all felt sleepy, and with hugs and thank-yous from the kids, plopped back into our beds, and slept until 11:00. Tonight it's just Michael and me -and occasionally Rachel --enjoying the early morning hours. I miss last night's moment already.

WE CROSSED THE POND, AND TOOK OFF OUR HATS

The first thing that we noticed about leaving Montana is that NOT EVERYONE wears baseball hats to travel. And, people come in different colors. Pretty exciting stuff.

We arrived in Switzerland early this morning, tired and happy. Greeted by Michael`s parents with smiles and a quick car ride to their beautiful home, I was able to let go of being in charge, if for a bit.

Of course, now is when I will begin to regret all the years before me when I was not studying a language. People around the world really do speak more than one language, and do so well. I, on the other hand, have mastered the art of head-bobbing and super-smiling, hoping that my nice demeanor will make up for my lack of skills. Being abroad again makes me feel so committed to having the kids learn another language well -- the trick, I think, is to send them over here when puberty hits. Nothing like an amorous relationship at 16 to kick start language fluency. I KNOW I AM RIGHT ON THIS.

And here I am, out of my confort zone at every turn. Even this computer is with a Europen keyboard, which means that I can type é and ö and ä and à without even thinking about it. Now, if I could just figure out what all of these fun letters MEAN.

Off to get some sleep and figure out how to upload some pictures tomorrow.

Three Suitcases

Dear Reader,

I did not pack tennis shoes. After much internal debate, I decided to leave my American shoes here, in America. My exercise will come from walking, hiking, climbing, and schlepping, but not from jogging. If I were in crazy good shape, and could sprint through Italy with a smug, “Well, I have to keep in shape for the Montana triathlon” side smile, I would “just do it.” But, with my nursing breasts, child-baring [and baring and baring and baring] hips, and slow gait, I figure I am not going to fool anyone. I will walk, like those skinny Europeans do, while enjoying café and croissants, in my sensible black shoes.

So what is in those three suitcases of stuff? Amazingly, I packed few clothes for all of us. Instead, I have packed the beginnings of a new Walgreens store. Two bottles of fluoride rinse, Tylenol, Benadryl, Motrin, Cortisone…and then the infant versions of each. I also have enough cosmetics to start a theater company, which is odd because I don’t wear that much make-up, and certainly don’t plan on putting on a play, but have decided I need my purple sparkle eye liner just in case. Ditto for the tanning cream: with and without golden flecks. I imagine Michael’s face when I pull out the third bottle of baby sunscreen, and it ain’t gonna be pretty.

Still, three suitcases are fairly reasonable for the six of us. In college I had to flirt with the underclassmen to bring up my four huge suitcases into the dorm room. Alas, those flirting days are over: the only men interested in helping a 37-year-old woman with four kids just for a flash of a smile are way too old to be carrying luggage up stairs. So, I’ll be right behind Michael carrying my share of bags. With age, I guess, new kinds of exercises are explored: and all in comfortable--but not tennis--shoes.

Getting Ready

“We won’t be eating this in Italy, kids,” I warn three of my children, as I place a heaping bowl of edamame in front of their noses. It seems this week’s theme in our family is, “We won’t be … in Italy, kids.” Every time the words come out, I have a sense of satisfaction that so much of what we do and eat will have to change. Even Rachel, my 10-month-old, was warned that she won’t be eating cheddar-cheese grilled sandwich bits in Italy. And while she seems pleased with the upcoming change in dietary possibilities, my little phrase of comfort of what won’t be happening in Italy has created an increasing apprehension in my older children about what we will be doing and eating in Italy for seven weeks. When they do ask about what our life will be like once there, I suddenly become “carefree Mom” and answer with a shrug and a sing-song voice, “We’ll have to seeee, it will have an ad-venture.” At these times, I annoy everyone, including myself, but I don’t know what else to tell them.

I have traveled to Italy many times, even with very small children. And I have lived in a few countries for much longer than the paltry seven weeks we will be making Europe our home. But I have yet to travel abroad for seven weeks with four children, one of whom is still up at all hours of the night and about to walk. The sheer number and youth of our family give people pause when I walk through the grocery store, so I can imagine the looks our family will garner when we traipse through the security checks, the airplanes, the museums, the restaurants, the little town of Toscolano, en masse. When I think too much about what the six of us will be doing in "everything is smaller and chic-er and harder to navigate Europe," my breaths become short and shallow. So, I am not thinking much about how we will all manage, and this is strangely freeing and strikes me as sort of Italian. I am blending already.