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.