Cinque Terre 2

April 20, 2006

My mother has been carrying around a little kiwi since Turin, wrapped up in a square paper napkin. She brings it with her everywhere, like a fat, fuzzy good luck token. Every so often, she takes it out and waves it hopefully at us. "Do you want to eat?"

"No."

"Oh." She looks sad, then puts it away for a little while longer, until -- inevitably -- it makes its reappearance in her hand again, ready for the next offer.

She explains to us that she doesn't want us to waste it. The organic riches of the Cinque Terre area are spread out at her feet, and she is carrying around this silly kiwi like it is the embodiment of all joy on earth.

My mother is inexplicable.

Manarola is a tiny little cliffside town, the second of the Cinque Terre national park villages that are built precariously off the sides of, yes, cliffs. These are terrace towns, where over thousands of years the villagers built terraces on the cliffs in order to build vineyards and eke out a living. Nowadays they're a national preserve, and the terraces are being painstakingly rebuilt in order to resemble what they used to be before neglect and erosion settled in and wiped much of it away. It's the Italian Riviera, and the food here, ladies and gentlemen, is indescribable. This area is the birthplace of pesto, for one thing, and there is fresh seafood every day, since the sea is literally a jump away. The place we're staying at is a youth hostel, but like no youth hostel I have ever stayed at. The rooms are fantastic, the service is great, and the little restaurant attached to it is literally the best food I have ever eaten. Ever. In my life.

It's valuable downtime after all the cities we've spent our time crawling around. Nature is a great relaxant. Yesterday morning we were up by 7, had eaten breakfast by 8, and by 8:30 we were off on our big hike along the trails that connect the villages. 3 hours of hiking over ridiculous terrain, and beautiful scenery.

My mother, who continues to suffer from a chronic inability to keep her attention on the road, continued to display a suicidal tendency to look at things instead of at the trail. In the US, this wouldn't have mattered so much. Americans, being litigious, tend to take care with their natural beauties and keep them carefully corralled so there can be no accidents. There are railings, there are pavements, there are warning signs and gates making things as idiot-proof as humanly possible. The Europeans tend to be bigger believers in natural selection. If you are too stupid to stay on the road and live, you are too stupid to breed.

No railings. No warning signs. Nothing but a sheer drop down. It is lovely.

My mother finally learned to keep her eyes on the road. Mostly.

We hiked around the next few villages (Coniglia, Vernazza) then took a short train to the next town, Monterosso. By that time, 4 pm had rolled around, so we got on a boat and puttered back to Manarola. Fabulous food again, and then we crashed at the early hour of 9 pm. We've been early to bed and early to rise sorts, this trip. When we get back to the states, I'll hate mornings again. In the meantime, I'm perfectly happy to get up before the sun does, and toot around the country before it gets hot.

I sympathize now with the concept of the siesta. The Italians have the right idea.

Also, I am starting to get used to the Italian keyboard. Look! I have apostrophes!

crime is expensive

Shortly after we returned from Italy last April, the Guy went to the mailbox and checked any mail that got delivered while we were gone -- there shouldn't have been any, because we put a stop to our mail delivery while we were out of the country -- and found a summons there, a criminal indictment for several counts on downloading movies. To wit:

Count One: 18 U.S.C. 371 - Conspiracy to commit copyright infringement; Infringement by electronic means; Infringement by distributing a commercial distribution work, traffic in devices to circumvent a technological measure that protects a copyright work, circumvent a technological measure that protects a copyright work, and use audiovisual recording devices to make unauthorized copies of audiovisual works

Counts Two through Four: 17 USC 506(a)(1)(B), 18 USC 2319(c)(1) and 2 - Criminal copyright infringement by electronic means, and aiding and abetting;

Forefeiture allegations: 17 USC 506(b) and 509(a) - Criminal Forfeiture and Destruction

Penalty for USC 371:

* Maximum 5 years imprisonment;
* Maximum $250,000 or twice the value of the property involved in the transaction, whichever is greater;
* Maximum 3 years supervised release;
* Mandatory $100 special assessment.

Penalty for 17 USC 506(a)(1)(B), 18 USC 2319(d)(2) and 2:

* Maximum 3 years imprisonment
* Maximum $250,000 or twice the value of the property involved in the transaction, whichever is greater
* Maximum 2 years supervised release
* Mandatory $100 special assessment
* Forfeiture - ordered by the court.

This sort of sucked.

But not for me.

The indictment was for a previous tenant in the townhouse, one who no longer lived here. One who no longer had a forwarding address. One who apparently had a court date of 5/11/06 at 2 pm, and had no way of knowing this.

One who might well be on the run. I ran his name through google, and all that came up was the indictment. Well, shit. It looked like it was a pretty big one, too, though he according to the paperwork, he hadn't downloaded a lot. 15 movies, most of them crap. Poor, stupid bastard. Let me emphasize the Stupid. I would have returned it to sender, but it looked like it was hand-delivered, and so what the hell was I to do now? Call the court, I guess.

I rang around: to the DA's office, the San Francisco Marshal's office, and the San Jose Marshal's office, and explained the situation several times. They advised me not to worry about it. Now that they were informed, I suppose they're going to try to find him some other way.

When we went to the post office to pick up the mail that had been delivered while we were in Italy, the post office informed my husband that the public defender's office was looking for this same previous tenant. The Guy told them we had no idea where he was, and didn't have a forwarding address. They took back whatever mail it was that was waiting for said putz.

Man. I would not like to be this guy right now. Not at all.

Florence, Cinque Terre

Travel journal, continued...

April 18, 2006

My mother, you will all be pleased to know, does not actually have a fisherman cap.

She has a little tennis sun-visor instead. It is very styling. She looks adorable. There are a lot of Japanese tourists in Manarola, and all of them were wearing the fisherman cap. I pointed out this strange racial relationship between our peeps and those damn hats to my mother, and she laughed. Then she looked thoughtful. It worried me.

Mom's hat. I'm not leaving her face out on purpose. The Guy takes odd photos.

We crashed last night, after the long car drive, and this morning we were still sore when we set out. Way too much inactivity followed by way too much activity. The nice pensionne people let us park our luggage in their closet for a few hours, so we wandered around in Florence for a little while longer, discovering St. Mark(dammit. Lost the apostrophe again)s church, which was rather cute. Then we sat very quietly for a long time in a beautiful piazza, just watching people wander by.

The United States needs plazas. They need open areas where you can just sit and hang out. Europeans have a mastery for leisure that Americans just don't. I posit that it has something to do with a real interest in people. Europeans, by and large, seem to be more interested in people, and are willing to take the time to watch them and talk to them. I don't know. Maybe that's just my imagination.

Given the Catholic holiday, there were a lot of nuns wandering around. They were fascinating. We commented to ourselves on them, were childishly and very youthfully merciless about their age, then proceeded to get our asses kicked by a couple of tiny little old ones who were pushing 90, easy. They passed us while we walked down the street. We put out a burst of effort and overtook them. Two minutes later, we were eating their dust, and were never able to catch up again. Sad.

Caught the train to Manarola, which put us at Cinque Terre, a lovely stretch of five villages on the Italian coast. Our train from Pisa was half an hour late, which made us miss our connection. No worries. The train to Cinque Terre runs once every hour.

Cinque Terre is a series of five villages set on the coast of the Italian Riviera. We were staying in the second of the five villages, Manarola.

The village is gorgeous, built like colorful crayon boxes off the side of a ridiculous cliff. It looks like it might slide into the sea at any moment, and yet somehow, it doesn't. We met up with mom quite by accident at the train station, and hiked up a 60 degree cliff to get to our hostel. Which was closed. Come back at 5 pm. We left our luggage on the terrace -- the Guy fretted about it, convinced it would all be stolen. My personal opinion was that any idiot who really wanted to carry that shit up and down these cliffs was more than welcome to it -- and then hiked down so we could hike back up so we could hike across a long cliff path to the next village, Riomaggiore. The view was gorgeous.

On the way, Mom told us about her adventures in Turin. Funny story. Apparently, she and a fellow violin teacher went to some place or another and asked if they could get the senior rate to get in. Sure, said the attendant. What country are you from? Mom's friend said Canada. No problem. She got the senior rate. Mom said USA.

Sorry, said the attendant. You don't qualify. Mom was disappointed. She could have used her Japanese passport, of course, but she would have looked bad. Must not look bad. She paid full rate.

"I think they do not like Bush," she told me sadly, and shook her head.

I dunno. I thought it was funny.

The youth hostel that we're staying at is the only one in Cinque Terre. I admit I had qualms when Mom said she wanted to stay there, but we booked it regardless -- and holy cow, what a deal. As a family of three, we decided to go ahead and book an entire room. Four bunk beds, an organic restaurant downstairs, and a private bathroom. If you ever decide to visit Cinque Terre, stay there. Ostello "5 Terre" Via Riccobaldi, 21. They have a web site. The food along makes it well worth it.

More hiking and beautiful views tomorrow. Tonight, fantastic food and sleep. Ciao!

Siena, Assisi, and back to Florence

Travel journal continued...

April 17, 2006

Tuesday morning and I am blind as a bat after a long night and longer day. Before we left the US, the Guy picked up an international driver's license from the AAA, and we put it to good use. We rented a car yesterday from Hertz (hurrah for globalism!) in Florence, a tiny little Peugeot that looked like it was designed and created using a box of legos. Very cute. Our aim was to hit Siena, which guidebooks said was "not to be missed" -- because guidebooks lie -- but more importantly to get a view of the Tuscan countryside, which everyone tells us is also not to be missed. Everyone tells the truth. (Guidebooks still lie, however.)

The drive was beautiful, through winding roads that disappeared from time to time into mountains. The Guy kept muttering about how fantastic it would be to ride a motorcycle down these roads, and I swear he yearned after the ones that sped past us. There were more than a few. At one point, he lectured to me at great length about the various motorcycles available in Italy.

I think it alleviated his feelings somewhat. He was much happier when he was done.

The Tuscan countryside was literally like a picture postcard, though I suppose it really is the other way around. Picture postcards are like the Tuscan countryside. Rolling countryside, and panoramic views, pretty much as you would imagine it looked like in the days of the Roman villas and vineyards. Not much has changed over a few thousand years, though I might be imagining that. Like much of Italy that we've seen before, it has a tremendous feeling of age and tradition that just leaves me breathless. Most of the buildings look like they were passed down through generations, after some great- great- grandfather named something like "Flavius" first built it with his own two hands.

The Guy looking conflicted. He really wanted a motorcycle.

Like I said, Siena was not quite what we expected, though we honestly did not have all that much in expectations. It was crowded and beyond crowded with tourists. Yesterday was a holiday in Italy, and it seemed like everybody and their brother had decided to read the same guidebooks. Still, it was rather fun walking through the really narrow streets. You are surrounded by high walls and little shops, most of them closed, and there is a definitely feudal military air to the design, as though the intent was to confuse and trap attacking armies. Florence apparently besieged Siena at one point in its history, and halved its population. No doubt that was in the minds of the city fathers when they rebuild (or repaired, whichever the case may be.)

After a while you walk down this flight of dark and cramped stairs, and are suddenly in the town square, which is this massive plaza that is completely open. The contrast between narrow and cramped and broad and vast is incredible. I imagine that the architects might have been those rare individuals who actually remember the act of being born.

Unfortunately, the pictures we took weren't really able to do it justice.

By around 3 pm we had had our lunch (spectacular food. Absolutely spectacular) and were done seeing the city, so we walked the million miles back to our car. We'd made a sudden change of plans the night before and extended our stay in the pensione in Florence, so we had someplace to spend the night.

Given the security of knowing we'd have a bed for the night, when the Guy proposed Assisi, I was game.

Off we went. It was a long drive, about two hours and well out of our way, but it was definitely worth it. I think it will end up having been one of my favorite stops in Italy.

Both the husband and I have always had a soft spot for St. Francis. The Guy was educated by Franciscan monks, and I ended up in San Francisco. It is a high walled city way on top of a hill, and regular cars are not allowed up there, so we parked below and did some more hiking to get up to the Basilica, where he is buried. Then we wandered around. Again, narrow streets and sudden, breathstaking plazas. The city does not seem to have changed much over the last thousand or so years.

You can't tell from the pictures, but the entire city is a subtle shade of pink. When the sun starts to set, the walls glow. I've never really thought of pink as a particularly spiritual color, but when you really think about St. Francis, it sort of works for him.

I mean, if any saint is going to be pink, it would be the one who gave his name to San Francisco.

Since it's built on a giant hill, there are stairs everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. You would climb up this narrow alleyway and find yourself faced with these fascinating doorways that could lead anywhere, and stairs climbing up into who knows what. We got pleasantly lost meandering through those stairs, and had a grand old time peeking into people's gardens from above.

Even though there were quite a few tourists there, the isolation of the higher streets meant that we could sometimes feel all alone, like the city was mostly deserted. It was fabulous.

We wandered around for a while, exploring the old city, then headed back down to the car.

My husband outside the Basilica where St. Francis is buried. He is sort of a dork.

We drove back and got to the pensionne around 1130. Oy. I had my fill of adventure. Driving in Italy is insane. Italians have the most arbitrary concepts of lanes, and will often refuse to pick one, driving instead in a kind of salsa dance line down the middle. Also, they do not seem particularly enamoured of labeling their streets. There was much swearing on the way home, especially after it started to rain. Nerve wracking.

Off to Manarola today to meet up with Mom. Wish us luck.

Florence

Travel journal continued...

April 15, 2006

The train ride from Rome to Florence was remarkably comfortable. I envy Italy its trains. The last train experience I had was in my college days, going from Rochester, NY to visit my aunt in Chicago -- and that was made most notable by the random couple who met on the train in the seat next to us, hooked up, and then had sex together all night. Not quickly will I forget opening my eyes to the sight of a bare foot waving by my face.

If there was sex being had on the Italian trains, it was in Italian, and I remained blissfully ignorant.

We booked our stay at Persione Ferretti, via delle belle Donne, 17. It's a small establishment run by a South African woman and her husband. On the plus side, it has internet connection! It's a relief to get online, at least long enough to do a brain dump of our last few days before it dribbles out my head. Their computer is probably older than I am, and it's running some peevish version of Windows that I haven't seen in years. The Guy is desperate to fix it. Since many of the system menus appear to be in Italian, I'm suggesting this is probably not a great idea.

On the downside, the room is not in great condition. It's old and shabby, and definitely run down. Also, word to the wise. If you're going to stay at a pensione, make sure that you know what the bathroom situation is. Competing with fourteen people to share a common bathroom isn't a situation designed for convenience. However, the point of being in Italy isn't to spend time hanging out in the room, but to go out and see Italy, and for its location -- convenient to the train station -- the price is great.

Florence is the home of some notable works of art and science, and some of the greatest minds of the ages have passed through or lived there in their time. Leonardo da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Galileo -- there are museums and treasures everywhere. We elected to spend some time in a museum, skip the David, and then just hang out in the city a bit.

Here is a tip for those of you who decide to visit Italy and go to museums. (Damn. I have lost the apostrophe key again. Screw it. No apostrophes for you!) Rent the audio guides. They are very very useful, and if you are in a museum, the last thing you really want to do is be looking down, reading, when the art is actually in front of you. Also, some of these audio guides are damn good.

(Except the one for the Vatican. That is to say, the audio guide was great, but there were so many people, they did not want us to stay still long enough to listen to the full explanations. We kept getting pushed along. Boo.)

We hit the Uffizi gallery. The gallery is arranged in chronological order, and we initially sort of skipped over the earlier art, lacking either understanding or appreciation of it. Then the Guy got interested in it -- and I did to, I admit, so we went back and started to get fascinated by the intricacies of what we were seeing. Followed a few guide groups around for the fun of it; a gang in German had a very articulate tour guide, while a Japanese one was rather amusing in her own snarky way. Interesting exhibit on Leonardo, and I get special points for not being a moron. (Actually, Sara gets special points for telling me not to be a moron. I will give credit where credit is due.) I got an actual reservation for tickets, which meant we bypassed the long line and went straight to the head. Hah. The only down side to that is that we missed the Explosion of the Cart, which was at 12:00. However, we did see an interesting parade in period costume from one square to the next, wholly by accident.

The Guy took a picture of the motorcycle police escort.

Did I mention he's a little predictable?

Afterwards, we wandered about Florence for a while. We crossed some bridges, one of which is famous for the leather and jewelry workers that work along its length. Closed, of course, given it is Easter Sunday. Well.

We did some window shopping, ate some lunch ... and here is the sad thing. Italy is apparently famous for the fashion shopping (and I have to admit, the Italians are spectacularly well-dressed people. They are the European equivalent of Koreans, really) (Meanwhile, I can always recognize the Americans and the Japanese because they are the worst dressed. The Japanese always seem to wear little fishing caps. I do not get that. I bet when I find my mother in Manarola, she will also be wearing a little fishing hat. As far as I know, she does not actually own one. I will bet you she bought one just for this trip.)

...okay. What was the point of this? Right. I do not like to shop. For clothes. Boo. Wasted on me, a bit. The Guy seems to find this intensely disappointing. I always thought that husbands were supposed to protest bitterly against their wives' needless expenditure on gewgaws and the like, but mine seems to take it almost personally that I don't like to buy things.

He's cute.

It is right now 4:00 pm, and we are resting a bit before doing some more wandering. I have to find out where our car rental is tomorrow. Bother. I am a little stressed. We were intending to rent a car and drive out into the countryside, stay there tomorrow night, and then come back to Florence in time to catch a train to Cinque Terre. However, my rental reservation does not actually give me an address for the rental, and we do not have any reservations for a hotel tomorrow since I am not entirely sure where we will end up. NERVE WRACKED. Irritatingly, husband is perfectly calm.

Also wrote an email to my boss this morning asking if our product shipped, after all. Spent all last night dreaming about work. This is not restful.

Rome 2

April 15, 2006

Trip was long. Butt got sore.

Went to Rome.

Oh my God. OH MY GOD. Culture shock. Jetlag. Numb, a little panicked, a little scared, a little excited.

Rome is crowded, smells like cigarettes, and holy cow. Suicidal, reckless people. It's a terrifying thing, watching the little motorcycles and scooters zipping around, rather like watching birds flock and somehow manage never to hit each other. It's fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

Of course the Guy was fascinated by the motorcycles. It was practically the first picture he took. It is possible he is a little predictable.

We found our hotel (Hotel Giulia via Agostino Depretis 70) after some idiotic wandering around. I booked the hotel through Expedia or one of those random things, which worried me a bit. I haven't had a whole lot of success with internet booking of hotels in the past. However, it turns out that I did good! It was only three blocks or so away from the main train station, which was hella convenient. Wandering around with the suitcases was just about to get irritating when we realized we were actually standing right there. The hotel itself was a tiny place on the third floor, tucked in a little, out-of-the-way alley that opened out onto a lovely tree-lined avenue across from a large church. After the wild bustle surrounding the train station, it was a relief to find that there was some relative peace and quiet to be had in Rome.

Jetlag turns out to be a bitch and a half. I'm not entirely convinced we were speaking English at the time, but our concierge was kind enough to ignore the wobbling and painstakingly translated our gibbering into coherent English replies. We got ourselves checked in (small rooms! Small! But clean, which is all that really counts) and then we went to visit the Colosseum and the Forum, and the associated museum.

It was within an easy walking distance, though "easy" is, again, relative. It's been a long time since I've done a lot of walking, and I suspect the entire trip is going to involve a lot of it. Good thing I got decent shoes. You're only in Italy once, and this could be good for me. Character building. Like ... you know. Character building. Pain is supposed to forge one's soul, and all that. Plus, it's exercise. Maybe I'll get to eat lots of awesome food and lose weight at the same time!

...but probably not.

There's this point when you're walking down the street, looking at the map and squabbling a little with your husband, who keeps mocking you -- bastard -- and then look up suddenly to realize that the big bulky thing at the end of the street you're on is actually the Colosseum.

And you think, Holy shit. I'm in Rome.

And then you think, Goddammit. Where's my camera?

I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking when I made the itinerary to begin with. There was a frantic sense that we had to be organized to get in the MAXIMUM VIEWING PLEASURE. Go figure. I'm not a natural traveler, like my sister and my mother; I'm the 'object at rest tends to stay in rest' side of Newton's first law of motion. My sister more than makes up for the second half of that law. The Guy eyed my freakish passion for organization and wisely kept his mouth shut; he would, I suspect, have been just as happy following Mom's meandering, "whatever happens!" path through the country. He was smart enough not to say so.

The reality of the location ended up derailing me a little. Here's the thing about Rome that people neglect to tell you about. It's old. I realize this may seem obvious to people who actually bother to give it any thought at all, but they have stuff there that was accumulating dust before I was.

Yes, I have a slightly skewed sense of my own importance. Yes, I have a tenuous grasp on time as a generalized concept. Shut up.

The Forum sort of blew me away a little. Despite the tourists wandering around, there was this immensity of age that I don't think I've experienced in, well, ever.

Rome is crawling with tourists, which somehow surprises me. I can't think why. The entire country seems to run off of tourism, both internal and external. In all the books we read about Italy, they were careful to caution us about not looking like a tourist. "There are pickpockets!" the warnings screamed. "Be safe! Be smart! Don't stand out!"

I think I saw one person during that entire day who wasn't carrying a map and/or a camera. And that was the security guard at the museum.

The little Asian in the first photograph is, in fact, my husband. I realize we are nearly indistinguishable. You can tell us apart because I wear glasses, and also have breasts. The glasses are perhaps a little more obvious.

The Capitoline museum next to the forum is an interesting place, although I'm afraid that we weren't exactly in any state to appreciate it. By which I mean, of course, conscious. There's a lot of history there, and some surprisingly touching glimpses into everyday life of old Rome during the Empire.

The itty bitty guy in blue is my husband. The big decapitated one in marble is Constantine, I think.

We went back to hotel and crashed at 5, then woke up at 8 and dragged ourselves out to eat fantastic food. Even basic pasta here tastes so much better than in the States. Wherefore, this incredible olive oil? They do not ship this good stuff to us. Perhaps we are not worthy!

Crashed again. Woke up at 3 am and skulked around pretending to be asleep until 7.

Went to the Vatican. Note to self and future travelers, Good Friday is not a hot time to visiting the Holy See. Turns out that it's a big Catholic holiday. Turns out that the Vatican is the mother ship for Catholics.

Who knew?

Long, long, long lines. Got into St. Paul's after a surprisingly fast stand of about 30 minutes, then explored and took lots of pictures. Very few of them were worthwhile. In order to get good pictures of stuff, you sort of need lighting. The Vatican is dark. Dark dark dark. After glancing through our pictures at the end, we decided to do the smart thing and buy one of the touristy picture book guides.

Like countless tourists before me, I fell in love with Michaelangelo's Pieta. I have the lowering suspicion that if I'd had the chance, I would've put up Monet posters in my college dorm. I am not original. Sad.

On the way back to the hotel, we hopped off to grab some lunch. Sitting by the window, we watched buses come and go, and noticed that there seemed to be an inordinate number of tourists in the area, given there wasn't anything around. Out of sheer curiosity, we finished our meal, then went to follow one of the little hordes into a side alley.

...oh, look. It's that fountain. Oops. Was I supposed to know that was in Rome?

Went back to hotel after eating more yummy food, and then ... ahem. I fell asleep. Because I suck total ass. Wandered around that evening a little to get used to the neighborhood. Then more sleep.

Saturday went back to the Vatican, hoping to get into the museum there. HAH. Note to self and future travelers, day between Good Friday and Easter NOT OPTIMAL TIME TO TRY AND GET INTO HOLY SEE. Line literally was 2 miles long, and that was at 9 AM. Museum opened at 845. Fat chance. We gave up and wandered around instead, ending up at the Castel Sant'Angelo? (Stupid special characters on Italian keyboard.) Site where Pope saw archangel Michael, as a sign that the plague hitting Rome at the time was at an end. Also known as big-ass castle where Hadrian was buried. Beautiful views of Rome from its heights, and you can see the private passage between the Castel and the Vatican, which the pope used to use in times of turmoil. Way cool.

You can see the dome of the Vatican in the distance there.

Also saw lots of priests and nuns. Rome is good for seeing people in cassocks. A little disturbed that I saw two very good-looking young priests in the full cassock flirting with some young tourist women. A little more disturbed how incredibly hot the cassock makes a man. Somehow suspect the Catholic church designed them that way on purpose. Early generations of the Holy See were probably all, "Dude! We'll be styling! The women will be all over us!" Except the memo didn't make it to later generations, and celibacy ended up screwing that pooch.

Somehow found that ridiculously appropriate, all things considered.

Went back to the hotel area, then walked down to see Michaelangel's Moses. (Yay! Yan found the apostrophe!) Got in 5 minutes before the church closed, then wandered about a little more until time to leave.

Now we are in Florence. The Duomo is closed because it's Easter Sunday, but we have reservations to the Uffizi at 10:45. (Yay! Found the colon!) After that, more wandering about Florence. The hostel has internet access. Yan wants to IT it. Sad.

Rome 1

So we went to Italy.

Yesterday.

(No, just kidding.)

Obviously, it's been a while since I've updated this thing with any serious intent. Fortunately, I did document the trip while it was happening, which means I can now transcribe the entire thing to my actual journal.

Over a period of time, of course. Perhaps years.

Let us start at the beginning.

We went to Italy. There was rhyme and reason to this; my mother wanted to go to Italy in April of 2006 to attend a Suzuki Convention, but was leery about doing so all by herself. I was hit by an idea. Not a brilliant idea, but nonetheless. I had never been to Italy. The Guy had never been to Italy. A friend of his lived in Italy. Let us go to Italy. We could keep Mom company. We could see things. Cultural things. Italian things.

Relieved, Mom decided she would go after all. This was in early 2005.

At the end of May 2006, two weeks before her departure, Mom called me to ask if I could help her reserve a hotel for the conference.

This is not the sort of thing that bodes well for a trip.

We haven't traveled with Mom a lot; the last time was to Lake Tahoe before we were married, a sort of family get-together that included me, Mom, my sister, and my sister's then-boyfriend John. (Not to be confused with the current boyfriend John, who is a different beast altogether. Unless you're my grandmother. In which case it's just easier to pretend they're the same person.) This would be the first time that Mom and the Guy and I traveled together, without any distracting companions. All of us together.

It's odd how these things turn out. For some reason, I had always been under the impression that Mom was the organizer in the family. When Dad was alive, we used to go on regular family trips. Road trips through the US (Dad was obsessed with road trips) where we were all piled into a car and forced to go for miles at a stretch to visit the World's Largest Ball of Twine (Cawker City, Kansas) or the Mystery Spot. (Santa Cruz, California) were notable for the fact that Mom managed to keep Dad from getting us killed. On trips abroad, we always had a place to stay and an itinerary, the successful implementation of which was often due to Mom's insistence to Dad that he stop arguing with the security guard and get back in the car.

As I say, I always thought Mom was the organizer in the family. "What do you mean, you don't have a hotel?"

"Oh, I thought I would just see what happens," she said vaguely. "But it will be very busy in Turino. There will be many people, do you think? So perhaps it will be best if I have a hotel in advance. Otherwise maybe there are no more hotels."

"Mom," I said. "What exactly do you have planned for the rest of the trip? Do you have places to stay? Do you know where you're going to go?"

"It is Italy, Yuhri. Everywhere I go will be interesting. I will find something to do."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"If you help me with hotel in Turino," she said hopefully, "I will have one place to stay."

It's funny how childhood memories can deceive you.

"So you're planning on just ... bumming around Italy?"

"I do not like the word 'bumming,'" Mom said. "Yuhri. It will be an adventure."

The age of 32 is too late for a woman to discover that her mother is a wannabe gypsy. I've always claimed that Sako came by her vagrancy honestly. I just hadn't realized it was from Mom.

April 12, 2006, 8:00 AM

We left at 7:00 to catch a flight at 11:00 AM.

...except we didn't.

Well, this bodes well. The person who was supposed to get us to the airport has failed to show up. Apparently, he has flaked. He can't be reached on his cell phone. This is still okay, since I built in an extra hour into our travel plans, so we've got at least half an hour to leave the house before I'll start getting worried, so I went online and found some long-term parking lots and made a hasty reservation.

Except they want a printout of the reservation notice, and for some reason, the printer that was working perfectly last night suddenly doesn't accept print jobs.

The husband is upstairs, raging indiscriminately at his friend, at Windows, and at the world in general because now he has to do IT on the silly printer. Ho hum.

April 12, 2006, 9:30 AM

The prospective ride called to grovel in apology. He overslept. The husband, having regained his temper and his equanimity, was willing to forgive.

The stupid printer finally let us print stuff out at 8, which was pretty much the time that I had made reservations for long term parking for. Yan drove fast. We got there at 8:15, which turned out to be just fine for an 11 am flight. Except that the long term parking place told us that we would not want to park there, because there a cut off time on pickups from the airport. In other words, if we parked there, we wouldn't be able to pick up until the next day. Our return flight arrived at midnight, the same time as the last shuttle. WELL, OOPS.

They sent us to a new place, which was not that far away, as it happened. We got lost anyway. At 8:45 we got on their shuttle, which took 30 minutes to get to the airport. The Delta line was empty. Security line was empty. We got there with time to spare, and then sat around picking our noses (so to speak) until we took off.