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.