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.