tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87092831052965035042024-02-19T13:28:22.118+01:00Fuori le Mura - A Year in La ToscanaA New Hampshire family's year just 'outside the walls' in Lucca.Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-64349519602421913582012-06-28T22:25:00.000+02:002012-07-05T05:02:08.766+02:00Arrivederci Lucca!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niko enjoying one last ride </td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">The last days went quickly, a swiftly
revolving door of packing, transportation arrangements, farewells, final trips
into town and on the walls, cleaning the house, and in preparing to leave our
home away from home the poignant moments outnumbered the mundane, pangs of what
we knew we’d miss grew stronger, and we felt like we were finally beginning to feel
our roots anchoring slightly, our connections with the people and places in
Lucca deepening.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Racing down Viale Europa towards the walls. Monte Pisano in background.</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">The easy to
get to activities never abated, either. Niko and I went out one morning and
walked to the roundabout not far from our house where we could look up at a
bridge where traffic usually flows down heavily in the morning. This was a
Sunday, though, and a bike race was in store. The pack of five hundred cyclists
glided faster and faster toward us and we almost got clipped by a couple of
them who had been forced up on the sidewalk portion of the roundabout. We
jumped to the grass and enjoyed the phalanx of streaming color, the gust of
air, the whir of wheels without motors. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three of more than thirty Fiat 500s</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"></span>Afterward we walked in to town through Porta Sant’Anna and saw a few dozen <i>Fiat Cinquecento</i> owners with their pride
and joy lining up for a yearly rally around the walls.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This 'taxi' is so small Niko could almost drive it</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"> A couple of
nights later we rode our bikes to <i>Leo’s</i>,
a pizzeria in San Concordio where we’d eaten once before. While enjoying our
meter long pizza and watching Italy versus Ireland in the Euro Cup a group took
a table across the aisle from ours. I tried not to pay too much attention to
them and, indeed, the rest of my family didn’t know who it was I was trying not
to pay attention to. We concluded our meal and stood up. I had a very cool
situation before me to practice some Italian and meet an icon. When would I
ever have a chance like this again? I went up and excused myself for
interrupting and introduced myself and family to… Mario Cipollini! We talked for much longer than I thought we
would considering he was eating dinner with a friend and his two daughters and
is one of the most famous Italian cyclists ever. He was very nice and seemed
interested in us, unlike the impression you might get from the press and
reputation he had. Toward the end of our conversation he even said, “Too bad
you’re leaving now, I would’ve asked you to help my daughters with their English.”</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saying Goodbye to Friends</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">We began to
see people we knew more often as we went about town and both expressed
amazement after going to pick up Ingrid from a friend’s house when the mom had
us in and we sat down and talked with her for an hour and understood most of
what she said! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four models of English for the Italian children: Australian, British, American and Canadian!</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">Some expat
friends of Lauren with whom she created an English reading series for Italian
children at the library joined us for a solstice/going away party at Marina di
Vecchiano, a beach south of Viareggio, two nights before our flight. Most of
the day’s beachgoers were headed home by the time we got there close to six.
The weather was still warm but had begun to cool off, the water was wonderful
and Niko gathered his courage to have me hold him as the waves crashed against
us and he squealed in delight. Ingrid played with a friend and we relaxed with
a tasty picnic dinner, fire, and conversation with friends as the sun set.
After I dropped the family off at home around ten I made it for coffee with my
photography class at the end of the final dinner at a restaurant out of town
and said some more goodbyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Porta Santa Maria- One of many entrances to get <i>Dentro le Mura </i>in Lucca</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">I set about
on a little project of <a href="http://youtu.be/se15fRykkm0">filming passage through the walls</a> and into town by way
of all <i>“</i>Doors<i>” </i>and passageways, hoping to eventually edit them down and piece
them together to show others a bit of the everyday magic of the town’s set-up. Actually,
it really was probably more of an excuse to help me say goodbye to Lucca. It
did occur to me more than once that we wouldn’t have gone in and out of these
amazing entrances nearly as much if we had lived in the historical center, an
advantage to living <i>Fuori le Mura</i> we
hadn’t thought of one year ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ingrid officially passes Italian 4th grade and is admitted to 5th!</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"> It
was around then, eleven or so months ago, that I started the blog and wrote how
we hoped to find adventure and that “…</span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 150%;"> we wanted a
challenge, but we didn’t want it to be <i>too</i> exhausting. We wanted our
kids to be appreciated and to have a reasonable chance of making friends in our
new location, but we wanted them to learn about another perspective on life and
on the world via a different language and culture, ones that would be within
their grasp and ours.” Now, almost a year later, we look back and see we had
adventure and challenge aplenty. Nikolai and Ingrid were appreciated for sure,
made friends, and ended up speaking Italian much better than us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">End of year performance at Nikolai's Pre-school followed by 'Graduation' & Diploma.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 150%;"> We’ve
been in and out of the revolving door a bunch the last couple of weeks and are
now back ou</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">tside it for good, on the other side, and are still a bit
dizzy from the spinning. We’re back home. Lucca and our year there seem
suddenly so far away and I’m already getting used to English surrounding us,
becoming reacquainted with our house and woods again, gearing up to move back
into what was our more familiar life before we left—or will that familiar life
be a different one now, even though we’re back home? In some ways, it must be.
I can’t find the words or structure to sum up our year much better other than
to say that knowing what we know now we would still have made the choices we
made despite some rough patches along the way. This year has been a good
teacher. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just before heading off to the airport.</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"> I’d
like to thank my employer for making this opportunity possible and to thank our
family and friends for their support (we’ll try not to constantly talk about
our time in Italy, promise, but if we forget, just remind us!). And thanks to
you for reading, for sharing in this year of adventure with us. It’s been fun
writing my first blog; I encourage you to try one if you haven’t. With that
said, our year in Italy is now over, and so too this blog. <i>Arrivederci a tutti! Arrivederci</i> Lucca!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-9730358270612919832012-06-20T16:25:00.003+02:002012-06-20T19:39:49.206+02:00A Leaning Tower, a Lunch Lost: An evening in Pisa<br />
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We
have four days left in Tuscany. Time to be tourists! As our flights draw near
and the weather gets hotter I find myself feeling less of a need to always
speak Italian within our family while in public or always wear pants and nice
looking shoes. The shorts have returned, as have the flip-flops. We’ve even
been visiting stores on the main drag and buying some of the typical tourist
gifts for family back home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Last
night we’d planned on going to see the Torre Pendente in Pisa. It seemed to
make sense, being one of the most iconic structures in the country and
sprouting out of the ground only a short train ride away. There was nothing to
stop us. We’d spent some time earlier in the day riding around town, saying
goodbye to a friend and packing. After our friend left Niko’s energy finally
ran out. Within twenty minutes he was asleep on the couch. This is not normal
for the little guy; he gave up naps months ago, so we thought we should hold
off on waking him. The train we’d hoped to take was to leave in twenty minutes
so I finally decided to rouse our slumbering five year old, but he resisted all
attempts. We could wait another half hour, but that would be the latest train
we could take, so we sat tight and he indeed was chipper and ready to go see
the tower when we woke him. </div>
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I’m sure you see where this is going, so I’ll cut
to the chase. He felt worse and worse as we got to the station, I carried him
all the way to the tower, he complained more, then finally, to everyone’s great
relief, he lost his lunch while Lauren held him and tried to get him to a trash
can and I stared down onlookers in the sea of tourists who were looking in
disgust at the proceedings. That was that, though, and the little guy soon
recovered, running around. It wasn't looking at the Leaning Tower and getting vertigo from the tilt that caused Niko's stomach to squeeze, but whatever bug it was seemed to have had the worst with him and set him free. He asked about the pictures we'd planned to take.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That
was the big deal, after all, this most touristy of things to do, and I was
excited to get some shots of us contributing to the Tower’s demise or bravely
holding it up if for only a few more seconds.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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So
we posed and re-posed, realized that it was a bit harder than it seemed to get
everything in alignment, but got our photos and marveled at the beautiful grass
fields and the baptistery, cathedral, and tower (it was most entertaining
seeing so many people from all over the world posing in various postures with
the Tower as prop, too!). <o:p></o:p></div>
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We
rode our bikes back from the train station in good spirits and got back home
before eleven and all found it hard to sleep until midnight, abuzz with all of
the day’s new sights and experiences. </div>
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In three days we’ll be headed down to
Rome for our flight, which takes us to Zurich then Boston. What more sabbatical
adventures will there be in seventy-two hours? Perhaps I shall recount some in
my last post, which should appear
before month’s end. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-90564154052691984182012-06-13T20:40:00.001+02:002012-06-18T22:05:53.644+02:00Italy: What I'll Miss...and Won't<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">As
our departure draws near I’ve been imagining what I might miss about Italy once
we’re back in New Hampshire. I want to be realistic, though, and also include
what I probably won’t miss so much. Maybe I’ll think of very important other
parts to add later, but it’s a start and it helps me as we prepare for our
voyage back to our permanent home. What would you miss about the place you live
now if you moved away? What wouldn’t you miss?</span></div>
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I’ll
miss waiting outside of Ingrid’s school at dismissal with other parents and
grandparents while each class comes out and the teacher bends down to peer out
into the crowd with each student until the parent is pointed out and eye
contact is made, the child bounds down the steps for an embrace before handing
off the backpack and asking if she can run a lap around the school with her
friends before heading home. I won’t miss a school day that ends at 12:45. I’ll
miss the strident church bells that ring for fifteen minutes a few times on
Sunday mornings (I don’t sleep late enough for them to wake me otherwise this
one might’ve gone to the other side). I won’t miss construction vehicles
backing up (beep, beep, beep), the crane lifting loads, workers yelling at the
site on the other side of our neighbor’s yard for the past five months. I’ll
miss the warm aroma of fresh bread and pastries emanating from bakeries. I
won’t miss the stench emitted by Vespas and various diesel vehicles that are
everywhere. I’ll miss being able to walk five minutes to pick up some bread. I
won’t miss the traffic and pollution. I’ll miss gelato, tasting it, of course,
but also seeing it heaped up so beautifully at the gelatería. I won’t miss the
milk from the grocery store that you can keep on a shelf for months before
drinking. I’ll miss the pizza, thin, delicious, satisfying; I’ll miss the
carrots and many other vegetables from the supermarket that are never waxed and
almost always taste fresh; I’ll miss the pasta, the fresh home-made pasta but
also the dry pasta bought in stores which is somehow better than what we buy
back home and I’ll miss the locally grown and pressed fresh olive oil, of which
we have consumed gallons. I’ll miss the barley and bean soup Eva helped us
make. I won’t miss the relative uniformity of cuisine here (okay, I admit we’re
pretty spoiled in the US with such a great variety). I’ll miss the fruit and
vegetable markets. I’ll miss the walls which encircle the town center and are
topped with a pedestrian road and lined by trees, sitting up there and watching
everyone go by, jogging a loop around it, traveling by bike on it, walking up
there on a Sunday afternoon with all of the families doing a post lunch
passegiata. I won’t miss the enormous tour groups who walk in a large pack of
forty or fifty up there or in town. I’ll miss the pleasantly warm and sunny
weather of September and June. I won’t miss the long, gray winter with no snow,
high humidity, temperatures in the 30s and 40s, and a cold house. I’ll miss
using a bike as primary means of transportation, and being able to easily do so
(flat terrain, everything located within two or three kilometers); I’ll miss
seeing so many other people from all walks of life doing the same. I’ll miss
being able to see world-class bike racing in person and to see live coverage of
entire races on television. I won’t miss mismatched sound and lips on Italian
TV, whether dubbed from another language or in Italian in the first place. I’ll
miss the rattling of my bike as I ride over cobblestones in town and the
occasional ding of bicycle bells from those hoping to prevent a collision. I’ll
miss the 80 mph speed limits on the highway and the aggressive confidence I’ve
learned to drive with to avoid getting plowed into. I won’t miss seeing ninety
percent of the car colors only in black, gray, or white. I’ll miss riding back
from photography class close to midnight in February or March, very cold but
with no cars out, hardly any people, and lots of quiet. I won’t miss all of the
lice problems in the schools this year and having the little buggers brought
home to us and set up camp for three weeks. I’ll miss seeing the packs of
cyclists out training, and the packs of cyclists out just as much to exercise
their mouths as their legs. I’ll miss the narrow roads, the incredible climbs
and switchbacks through olive groves and woods, the routes with fast down hills
where the curves are plentiful but not always so acute that you need to slow
down much for them, the anticipation of what will be around the next corner. I
won’t miss all of the cigarette smoke or seeing middle school kids waiting for
a train on a field trip smoking while their teachers stand right there with
them. I won’t miss the bad dollar to euro exchange rate, $7.50/gallon gasoline
and the high price of almost everything else. I’ll miss the Parole d’Oro a few
kilometers to the south where we’ve gone for picnics where the kids have played
hide and seek in the empty canals that lead down to the aqueduct. I won’t miss
the much smaller body space bubble here, all of the crowding, cramped spaces
and jostling in groups and frequent absence of lines. I will miss the trains
and the train system. I won’t miss the strikes and the often seemingly endless waits
at the train crossings. I’ll miss discovering, time after time, almost wherever
we travel, towers poking out of a forest, a many centuries old church down a
non-descript road, walled towns atop hills, cobblestones, laundry hanging out
windows, forts and cathedrals. I’ll miss specialty food shops of all kinds and
personal service, asking the local butcher if he can get a full turkey for us
by Thanksgiving and waiting for two minutes while he calls someone and tells me
he should be able to do it and to stop back in a few days. I won’t miss
shopping at Esselunga, our primary grocery store (well, okay, maybe a bit).
I’ll miss all of the events that take place in and near Lucca and how easy it
is to get to them—Lucca Comics&Games, Settembre Lucchese, Desco at the Real
Collegio, Italian 10k Road Race Championships, European U23 Cyclocross
Championships, Procession of Santa Croce, Free Concerts, Lucca Summer Festival
(music), and on and on. I will miss Italian. I’ll miss hearing preschool
children speaking it, complaining about not wanting to go home from the
playground or describing the best way to roll a toy car down the slide; I’ll
miss hearing grade-school kids speaking it, asking their friends if they want
to sleep over, describing how a game they’ve made up works; I’ll miss hearing
teens speaking it, flirting in Piazza Grande, joking; I’ll miss hearing adults
speaking it, arguing about politics, giving their opinion about how someone was
dressed, describing which are their best vegetables that day, calling their dog
over, giving directions, conversing with friends; I’ll miss older folks
speaking it, chiding one another for a naïve move while playing dominoes at a
bench table on the walls, complimenting a passing younger woman on her
appearance, encouraging a grandchild learning to ride a bike. I’ll miss the
challenge of speaking Italian. I’ll miss the sense of satisfaction when I can
express myself a little more clearly than a couple of months earlier, when a
store owner doesn’t screw up his face or try using rudimentary English in
response to me. I won’t miss not being able to instantly and effortlessly
communicate any idea. I won’t miss the lag time where I am understanding what a
group I’m with is saying and then, in the time I prepare to say something, have
the group’s conversation already moved on to something else (hey, to be honest
it happens to me in English, too!). I won’t miss having a person I haven’t met
before smile, amused, after I open my mouth and say a few words, realizing I’m
not Italian (okay at first but after a year it gets kind of old). I will miss
the more fluid sense of time, of meeting times and of saying goodbyes that go
on and on. I will also not miss that. I will miss all of the people I’ve met,
especially those from Lucca Italian School, my photography class,
and the Shambala group I practiced with. I will miss writing a blog about a New
Hampshire family’s year in Italy. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-17743907058754247082012-06-07T22:59:00.000+02:002012-06-18T22:08:50.579+02:00Lucca Italian School<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">After
a week or so of unpacking, sweating in the sweltering July heat and nightly
upper 90% humidity, rushing from long line to long line in post office, police
station, and tobacco shop for a wide array of forms, stamps, and permissions in
an attempt to make our beyond ninety day stay legal (we had a week to do it),
trying hard to form intelligible questions for and understand answers from the
officials we encountered along the way, wondering why everyone seemed to be
staring at us, confused as to why we kept blowing a fuse in the house, not sure
why we didn’t see more kids around playing, hoping to get beyond ‘cave man’
language, we realized it was time to look for help. We found </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><i><a href="http://www.luccaitalianschool.com/">Lucca Italian School</a> (LIS)</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">, located outside the
walls and just a five minute bike ride away.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best way to cut Italian pizzas. One of many skills learned at LIS!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
All
four of us sat at a table in one of their bright, cheery classrooms with Angelo
and Eva, two of the three (the other being Daniela) founders of the school. They sympathetically (it was
obvious we weren’t the first confused beginners they’d dealt with) explained
what they offered, making full use of gestures and drawing when needed (and
yes, they also speak English but only use it when absolutely, absolutely
necessary). We decided Lauren would begin the next week.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7vUJXTiDH-07M7wAdYkLi8Dbi55IL_TgRYQIYxCnEEDGD6rvPhRbzTeUvBZLw332oS5xginITvFjjvjws-DWNe0v7LHkZfBH2_6rSkO_JBaLXUvE8vC7eHWnDJ4WTAfZjonrtaRlaL9H/s1600/IMG_5204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7vUJXTiDH-07M7wAdYkLi8Dbi55IL_TgRYQIYxCnEEDGD6rvPhRbzTeUvBZLw332oS5xginITvFjjvjws-DWNe0v7LHkZfBH2_6rSkO_JBaLXUvE8vC7eHWnDJ4WTAfZjonrtaRlaL9H/s320/IMG_5204.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eva demonstrating beautiful dough-rolling form</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Eva made Lauren feel immediately welcome with
abundant smiles, laughter, and warm-hearted teasing. After each daily four hour
session Lauren would come home energized, motivated to study, and full of
stories about her day. While I could appreciate this a bit second-hand, I
really began to approve of her lessons after she came home from an evening
cooking class with Eva and the next day proceeded to make a most delicious
dinner of home-made ravioli stuffed with ricotta and spinach, lemon chicken in
such a savory and sweet, succulent sauce that I was tempted to simply drink it,
and a cool and refreshing panna cotta. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiTtn-f-ptG9qBaTBt6H0pg6VtiGmVZ9cMwnJMOdeGFA4RbTx4hUz8PlmyixbSs2ueql_3TKs973OXzUdCU4KFPPO_KhyphenhyphenfaLtUxJa0iKbv-fyvnn-FhaGjoiJZTZ9OK404W9nv0X5zL-a/s1600/IMG_1233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiTtn-f-ptG9qBaTBt6H0pg6VtiGmVZ9cMwnJMOdeGFA4RbTx4hUz8PlmyixbSs2ueql_3TKs973OXzUdCU4KFPPO_KhyphenhyphenfaLtUxJa0iKbv-fyvnn-FhaGjoiJZTZ9OK404W9nv0X5zL-a/s320/IMG_1233.JPG" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Federica</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Ingrid
would be starting fourth grade at the local elementary school before too long
and, well, there was this little problem. She didn’t speak Italian. Enter LIS.
Federica, a recent college graduate, came to our house a couple of times a week
for a month or two and began to give Ingrid a base so that at least she felt
she knew <i>some</i> Italian. Perhaps
even more important, however, was that Ingrid had met someone who was patient,
liked to have fun during her lessons, and helped to boost her confidence so
that, when she did begin school, although a very, very nerve-racking day, it
was not one of sheer terror!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lauren
and I rotated weeks so that one could do classes while the other watched the kids.
In all each of us ended up doing five to six weeks at LIS between July and early October (I’ve
also done a one hour private conversation class every week or two since
December). My fellow students ranged in age from fourteen on up into their
seventies and came primarily from all over Europe, the United States, and
Japan. Class size was always small, between four and eight typically, allowing
for plenty of individual attention and a good sense of camaraderie amongst the
group and teacher. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmsOEFLB0dTE-tT2n5n9L8BFb_kZRUqE1ss9KHR5PBEiAP04Uzkx4xdqDbAHuJyX1cSfXsNpORAF2qcIbw8JNVemL2lFjnU0GNRmjQDwiNCZI87WU3ZA5bw7wJAyyx6q3sBIE1fc3NhDs/s1600/IMG_8756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmsOEFLB0dTE-tT2n5n9L8BFb_kZRUqE1ss9KHR5PBEiAP04Uzkx4xdqDbAHuJyX1cSfXsNpORAF2qcIbw8JNVemL2lFjnU0GNRmjQDwiNCZI87WU3ZA5bw7wJAyyx6q3sBIE1fc3NhDs/s320/IMG_8756.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marina</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Marina
taught me first. I soon seemed to detect a slightly different rhythm to her
speech and indeed quickly found out that she was a proud <i>Napolitana</i>! How exciting! We didn’t end up making it to Southern
Italy, but Marina brought a piece of it to us. Her smile was contagious and her
patience and understanding of our trouble with the language genuine and
never-ending (and she cooks a mean pasta casserole). <i>Grazie di tutto</i> Marina! <i>Sei bravissima!</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8R8Cv2B_KA-2a8oQhU99IdhGtdpnHViosXYIpZBTP2LXbsgCYYCgX-d-D9fK7nN4Vuc8yLWZQUQmJ2UJ90XezCZP9teZy1hn7JPEtNEdp-m9rfVYQgLhT37nojWHTsXV4Ypod-jpowOvU/s1600/IMG_5201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8R8Cv2B_KA-2a8oQhU99IdhGtdpnHViosXYIpZBTP2LXbsgCYYCgX-d-D9fK7nN4Vuc8yLWZQUQmJ2UJ90XezCZP9teZy1hn7JPEtNEdp-m9rfVYQgLhT37nojWHTsXV4Ypod-jpowOvU/s320/IMG_5201.JPG" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eva</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Besides
a few conversation classes, I mostly encountered Eva in the kitchen. She is the
master chef and meal planner extraordinaire of the school. Eva knows how to
get it done and make it taste good. Although it takes three times as long, she
even lets her students attempt to do the cooking themselves. Don’t worry, Eva
won’t let you do it the wrong way. I remember my first encounter with the <i>mezzaluna</i>, for example. After her demonstration of its proper
usage I gave it a try but Eva appeared promptly at my side and re-taught me the
tried and true technique for success chopping herbs. Eva is quite the jokester,
so watch out when she makes an outrageous request or comment, she may just be
kidding around… or not! Eva, <i>sentiremo la tua mancanza</i>! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxiLoydX07q08FLyXO86Z-PfxjwQX5aGHNausfHzi9vx2ooWOG9BAeKEauUafEeQ7JmSToxDuwBmEu5wUELgF1gjH3Wb4Hlb7g8q0ijU-qRKZgUj1flEcR-jWDAAngAYP-meKLOIHsxjoW/s1600/IMG_0703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxiLoydX07q08FLyXO86Z-PfxjwQX5aGHNausfHzi9vx2ooWOG9BAeKEauUafEeQ7JmSToxDuwBmEu5wUELgF1gjH3Wb4Hlb7g8q0ijU-qRKZgUj1flEcR-jWDAAngAYP-meKLOIHsxjoW/s320/IMG_0703.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laura</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Laura,
who hails from just outside Lucca, brought loads of energy and a fun-loving spirit to the classroom and
often used interesting listening selections and movie clips brought in on her laptop. One
great activity I remember was watching a staged conversation between two
Italians who used only hand gestures. That in itself was entertaining, but in
pairs we subsequently had to try to write out their conversation! Yes, it was
difficult, but quite fun imagining what they were saying while also
giving us some clues into Italian body language and expression. Laura was also
a reliable source to provide current slang and certain other expressions you
might want to know (just to be able to hear clearly and understand if used by others around you, of course!). Laura, <i>sempre ci fai bella figura! Spero che tu possa
andare spesso in Germania. Stammi bene</i>!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMRCqSEL3iQ8WDYrOhJQOS3_6l2HGMN74HT80nSutzIFZaL8CDRkNMd_MX_Enr-Wl3xp3Bydl_qISZ247vZmrMrx-YQI5UykdpDbUq_rsIK7pr6A97tGWw95ABXILmhVZLSMYHK7bWfnT/s1600/antonella2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMRCqSEL3iQ8WDYrOhJQOS3_6l2HGMN74HT80nSutzIFZaL8CDRkNMd_MX_Enr-Wl3xp3Bydl_qISZ247vZmrMrx-YQI5UykdpDbUq_rsIK7pr6A97tGWw95ABXILmhVZLSMYHK7bWfnT/s320/antonella2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antonella</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After
awhile I moved to Antonella’s class. Antonella has taught for many years and is
a master of the language, including all of the particularities of typically
Luccan speech. She also helped me figure out appropriate phrases to use in
stores, not always as easy as it might first seem. It’s a good thing, too, for
much of what I had been imitating and using myself turned out to be a bit on
the rude side! Antonella clearly loves what she does and takes a genuine
interest in her students and in making sure they’re learning as much as they
can. We had so many good discussions in her classes, ranging from the more
serious Amanda Knox case to one student's assertion that all Italian opera
stars were ugly and the ensuing debate he had with Antonella. I stayed out of
that one but enjoyed the show! Antonella is one classy lady and a fine teacher.
<i>Ti ringrazio tanto</i>, Antonella!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ApbpRSgX_GBqI-l0AKSCbIxjiFq93iEDwQ9fnFDZS509Iky9tBNMH-S3VdXC2Gd7LGj0Vtkeqlwz9Su_SKk1EY6CwYrCn4eJi-vyGrjJct8QMJLlG0SbwlpUyxjQvaQ9r_f7e8haB1rt/s1600/IMG_0712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ApbpRSgX_GBqI-l0AKSCbIxjiFq93iEDwQ9fnFDZS509Iky9tBNMH-S3VdXC2Gd7LGj0Vtkeqlwz9Su_SKk1EY6CwYrCn4eJi-vyGrjJct8QMJLlG0SbwlpUyxjQvaQ9r_f7e8haB1rt/s320/IMG_0712.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Susanna</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Susanna
came on board permanently after I stopped taking classes but I have come to know her a
bit. I discovered her home town on a bike ride where I took a train north and
then biked back through the hills. She sure has one heck of a commute, and her
hometown of forty people is out-numbered many-fold by its animal residents--quite a different world from
Lucca--so you know she is another highly dedicated member of the team! Sweet and
laid-back, Susanna surely makes a great impact with her students. Susanna<i>,
grazie per venire a la festa e ti scriverò magari in quanto riguarda il
coniglietto che regaliamo a Ingrid (tipo ‘Aiutaci!’), va bene</i>? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWelkitjupDSf6T5RsoJl6yXn0Nt5LX2C-3RGkJghmUHeKM3eGmEtR0huipi9XEkVTB9XIXcLPihntPVWG13HE_VNSYvsI1ELoRbhJ-5UEmYnjZYK7UfZe9ibGSSKayPHOE6Wvi5nKVM1i/s1600/IMG_5333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWelkitjupDSf6T5RsoJl6yXn0Nt5LX2C-3RGkJghmUHeKM3eGmEtR0huipi9XEkVTB9XIXcLPihntPVWG13HE_VNSYvsI1ELoRbhJ-5UEmYnjZYK7UfZe9ibGSSKayPHOE6Wvi5nKVM1i/s320/IMG_5333.jpg" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angelo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Angelo
is a most unassuming co-director of the school and chief of financial services,
but don’t let his modest attitude fool you. Not only is Angelo a whiz on all
questions cultural, historical, economic, linguistic—and who knows what else (he rarely
lets on but speaks excellent English and German, among others, and mostly
self-taught), he also plays one heck of an accordion and belts out the Italian
folk songs so well that you, too, will find yourself doing your best to keep
pace singing along and forget that you ‘don’t know that much Italian yet.’ In
all senses of the phrase, Angelo rocks! <i>Magari verrai alla zona italiana
‘North End’ a Boston per suonare un giorno? Grazie mille</i>, Angelo!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC91kG9q0jr-vjTFVT04KdhmM8sH4AswPp5QWdpllUD_B_hmWQA4F1lqU0grSm32vitVMWaZb0GfPwO7HaXWewcRT8FQBxI7VHws5uyGsJ7tssYAxW-mqfX9WYCWggNQOzSZ8ySU8oatHc/s1600/IMG_0714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC91kG9q0jr-vjTFVT04KdhmM8sH4AswPp5QWdpllUD_B_hmWQA4F1lqU0grSm32vitVMWaZb0GfPwO7HaXWewcRT8FQBxI7VHws5uyGsJ7tssYAxW-mqfX9WYCWggNQOzSZ8ySU8oatHc/s320/IMG_0714.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniela</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Daniela,
co-director herself, is the goddess mechanic, able to put all of the pieces of
the Fiat together into an appealing and smoothly running whole while deftly
taking care of any routine maintenance or hiccups in the motor along the way
and keeping the paint waxed and shiny without the passengers ever realizing
what went on behind the scenes to make their ride possible in the first place
and continue to be so amazing day after day. Besides that, she’s a great
teacher. Over the course of many one hour conversation classes, Daniela proved
at the ready to talk about anything and to help clear up specific events I’d
heard of in the news. She didn’t bat an eyelash when I would suddenly ask her a
grammar, pronunciation, or vocabulary question in the middle of a conversation;
she always had clear examples to help me emerge from my gobbledygook. Daniela
also informed me of events, places or local characters that she knew I’d be
interested in, leading to several great adventures, including our family’s favorite
place to spend time together, <i>Le Parole d’Oro</i>. Her sense of humor and ability to put anyone at ease
also help to make her an excellent personal guide to the language and culture
of Italy and a great person to chat with. Daniela, <i>complimenti di tutto, in bocca al lupo, e grazie
per aver condiviso la tua conoscenza e il tuo tempo. E stato un anno
indimenticabile</i>!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwAGDxW6vjkCrUwhhVfliShaSE1IoCpaqlS4N3F8XSnQq5a7oR7qlKTWf1fA7Heq-jJw2vbgDg8AZHffdODtBPe9gsGKYx1ROId4FBJuy2u87KbnwsPC4PyRLhSNqhql5WcPzn1g_Uyuyx/s1600/IMG_1168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwAGDxW6vjkCrUwhhVfliShaSE1IoCpaqlS4N3F8XSnQq5a7oR7qlKTWf1fA7Heq-jJw2vbgDg8AZHffdODtBPe9gsGKYx1ROId4FBJuy2u87KbnwsPC4PyRLhSNqhql5WcPzn1g_Uyuyx/s320/IMG_1168.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caroline and Niko know what a party's for!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Lucca
Italian School helped us in many ways, from the outings they led, pizza-making
parties, singing with Angelo, advice on doctors in the area, to of course getting
us up to speed so we could communicate better in Italian. Most importantly,
though, they helped us to feel a part of a community, something that isn’t
always so easy to find for foreigners in a foreign land. <i>Teniamoci in
contatto amici!</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i></i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La festa era divertente. Arrivederci!</td></tr>
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<i><br /></i></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-21815237336652408372012-05-29T15:41:00.000+02:002012-05-29T15:41:32.365+02:00Meditating and Moving the House<br />
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This
morning I sat down in our second floor bedroom to meditate. The chair began
vibrating. It became stronger. The curtains started swaying and, since I was
looking out the window, I noticed the house was moving to and fro. Then it
started making circles. This was no mystical experience, as it turns out. I
noticed a few people hurry out to the street from their apartments. They
stopped, looked back at their building and waited. I felt motion sick. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This
was our third earthquake since moving to Lucca. On the 20<sup>th</sup> of this
month a fairly strong earthquake with epicenter in Emilia-Romana, one of
Tuscany’s neighboring regions, crumbled some buildings, killed a few, and left
many shut out of their homes for several days for fear of strong aftershocks. I
was asleep when that one hit and although many felt it here in Lucca I was, for
the second time, oblivious. This morning’s quake was 5.8 on the Richter scale
with the epicenter near Bologna, I believe, affecting many of the same areas as
the last quake (technically many consider this an aftershock from the quake on
the 20<sup>th</sup>). Some had just moved back in their houses when this one
hit. One priest was killed when part of his church crumbled, at least fourteen others have died, and information
abounds on today’s <i><a href="http://www.repubblica.it/">La Repubblica</a></i>
site where you can find all of the details. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As
for us, Niko and classmates didn’t feel it at school and neither did Lauren who
was walking around town, but at Ingrid’s school they felt it and spent the entire
morning outside playing games. As for me, I will attest that it was pretty
puzzling for the first few moments, disorienting for the next few seconds, and
disconcerting for quite awhile after that, this house of concrete set so
quickly and easily in motion. After that jolt of adrenaline to start the day I
decided that sitting was even more important than before, but took the liberty
of moving my meditation session outside. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-87887326129823770412012-05-22T18:50:00.001+02:002012-05-24T10:10:02.605+02:00From Bianchi to Giro d’Italia: My Love for the Bicycle<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ToN4jz8c9DOEOvHIEaLcagTNG4mMiJt8gaPFBkwg5Qsb7QfQdjU_YpwcPaPHQyRgTETqdqdInufSSrbBk66t7ggP4oAYZj3BnZyqrGTeAOPom6AQSThxEwxYuFXDcv2mkufHEAatXd9x/s1600/IMG_2513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ToN4jz8c9DOEOvHIEaLcagTNG4mMiJt8gaPFBkwg5Qsb7QfQdjU_YpwcPaPHQyRgTETqdqdInufSSrbBk66t7ggP4oAYZj3BnZyqrGTeAOPom6AQSThxEwxYuFXDcv2mkufHEAatXd9x/s400/IMG_2513.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">I
finally learned to pedal without constantly stopping or crashing, round and
round the garage and then on jaunts of a hundred yards down the street—maiden
voyages that seemed like I had crossed the country—on a small red Schwinn. A
Huffy dirt bike followed with the requisite wheelies and occasional jump down a
hill in the yard, then the department store ten speed, facilitating travel to
friends’ houses. When I was fourteen, though, and finding limits with my
current steed and having discovered a touring event called the Minnesota
Ironman when hundreds of cyclists rode past our house on a route of either 62
or 100 miles, I knew I had to do it, too, stated the case for something more
substantial and my parents helped me buy my first racing bike.</span></div>
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It
was a Bianchi, <i>that</i> color Bianchi,
the dreamy, other-worldly celeste green that was then in fashion and has come
back into style of late. It was clean, it smelled of fresh grease, never-ridden
rubber tires and a leather saddle, the frame smooth to the touch and bearing
the blue stickers which spelled out its brand, so full of vowels, enticingly
foreign and suggestive of another land that for decades had worshipped the
sport I’d just discovered. I kept it in my room, marveled at it, washed it,
adjusted brakes and wondered where it would take me. Sometimes I rode it, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One
of the first cycling maxims I learned was that crashing was not so much about
the ‘if’ but the ‘when’. It was only a matter of time, I was told. For me it
didn’t take long. First came a head on crash with the front grille of some
monster of a car driven by a seventeen year old on a rainy day ten miles from
home as I was making a left-hand turn. I came to with a ring of people standing
around me, couldn’t feel my legs for a few seconds and was taken away to the
hospital by ambulance. There was the broken right hand in a crash a couple
hundred meters from the end of a road race two years later and a summer of
washing dishes and gaining dexterity with my left, some road rash acquired on
group rides, one tumble involving a horse who jumped his fence before running
alongside the pack and then cut bravely in front of us. He escaped unscathed.</div>
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There
was never any question of stopping, of course, of giving up the sport just
because maybe, possibly, the next crash would be much worse. We’d even started
wearing helmets and I lived in Minnesota, not in the French Alps. The draw of
cycling had not too much to do with its apparent danger. Even before the racing
aspect began to appeal to me it was the freedom of the bicycle, the travel
under my own power, the ability to explore new roads on my own and without a
map, the sounds of wind, cranks and gears and the regularity of the pedaling
cycle coupled with my breath, the smell of asphalt or rain or freshly cut grass
or even, on chilly days, the warmth from underneath vehicles while waiting at
stop lights; it was feeling satisfaction of effort and fatigue and it was the
discovery of the sport. It was all of this that kept me coming back to my
two-wheeled friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I
learned that cyclists didn’t stop due to misfortune, however serious. In 1996
there was Lance Armstrong and his testicular cancer (which spread to lungs,
abdomen and brain), his surgery and chemo and rehabilitation. Oh yeah, and his
subsequent seven Tour de France victories in 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004
and 2005. But even before him came the first great American cyclist comeback
story, one who wore the <i>maillot jaune</i>
in the Tour even before Lance. It was Greg Lemond, he who was shot by his
brother-in-law in 1987 (after his 1986 win of the Tour de France) while out
turkey hunting, suffered from lead poisoning and carried 37 shotgun pellets
embedded in his skin for the rest of his racing career. After struggling with
appendicitis and with tendonitis in the knee he made an awesome comeback in
1989 to win the Tour in its final stage, a 25 kilometer time trial in which he
had to make up 50 seconds on Laurent Fignon who led him in the overall
standings. Leading the equipment revolution in time trialing by using aero
helmet and aero bars, Lemond blasted through the course in an average speed of
54.545 km/hr or about 34 miles per hour (a speed difficult for most to achieve
even for a few seconds on a downhill—give it a try!) and bested his rival,
winning the Tour de France by 8 seconds. A come back within a comeback.
Inspiring? And how. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The
man against himself aspect of the time trial and that day Lemond took the Tour
with his unfathomable performance probably played a part in my subsequent
competitive leanings. I drifted more towards triathlon where decent biking and
running (and very average swimming) added up to more competitiveness than in
cycling or running alone. It couldn’t be beat for variety, either, and there
was always some aspect to get better at. After some years away from the sport I
came back to enjoy it in 2003 and raced for four seasons, including a few
cycling specific events on a race car track. I even bought a new bike. In 2006
I dug into my savings and purchased special race wheels. I tweaked my training
schedule and thought I was finding smart ways to train better and get faster
and I did, for awhile. Then, training for the 2007 season, I did too much (a
quantity so difficult to determine until after the fact) too soon, didn’t
listen to warning signs from my knee, didn’t rest enough, didn’t want to give
up, didn’t want to quit, kept hoping the next round of physical therapy and
exercises would be the one that would finally cure me, but every time had those
hopes dashed with recurring problems from the knee. I haven’t been able to race
since. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> When
I knew I’d be coming up for sabbatical all sorts of possible destinations came
to mind. We finally decided on Italy. Lucca, a
city of about 85,000 in Tuscany, would be our new home town for the year. “Why
Lucca?” many people here have asked us. Besides many other factors (not too
big, not too small, centrally located with good train system, etc.) it seemed
to come down to the fact that Lucca itself was flat, the area inside the walls
had many reduced traffic zones facilitating walking and cycling, and the town
was encircled by a car-free twenty-foot wide four kilometer path. I guess I
kind of also had in the back of my mind impossible dreams of riding with
Italian cycling squads through the mountains, having coffee at a bar Sunday
mornings with the local club before heading out on a three hour ride, but had
consciously seemed to have settled on my new world of great-grandfather-like
two-wheeled locomotion. Flat terrain, pedestrian speed, close range. Lucca
would fit the bill. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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I
could still <i>watch</i> cycling, and I
was in Europe, and not far from France, so within a couple weeks of our arrival
I arranged a brief foray to see the stage of the Tour de France that went
through Briançon. This experience in itself deserves a whole blog post, but
I’ll just summarize it by saying it was the highlight of the summer even though
we only saw the riders in person for a few minutes as they rode through town
and up a steep hill.</div>
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Then there was the under 23 European Cyclocross
Championships right here on and at the base of the walls in Lucca! Mud, running
up hills, powerful cycling, flashing colors, broken bikes, determination,
courage—all this and more were on display throughout the day's races. </div>
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And
finally last week the <i>Giro d’Italia</i>
itself. How amazing to be able to walk to the train station, take a thirty
minute ride to Montecatini Terme and see the riders arrive after nearly seven
hours of racing! </div>
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I even got to stand with hundreds of others post-race,
squashed together as Italians do so well, and watch the live taping of an
interview about the day’s stage with some of the top riders, including today’s
world best sprinter, Mark Cavendish, and one of the world’s best sprinters in
the 90s and early 00s,</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3KwCBBdRvGGaXDuJyIv12jV1xJ3MVC5sHsCSHMNaaITavBqZJm_2IovKFGGM2zjUKdX1Co2oWfLhcY9AtWemD5pjZdvIw67Lph0kUGJN06QjZaXMmOkVHU_WedRFnbvcyEuTOf8qcZLv/s1600/IMG_0957.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3KwCBBdRvGGaXDuJyIv12jV1xJ3MVC5sHsCSHMNaaITavBqZJm_2IovKFGGM2zjUKdX1Co2oWfLhcY9AtWemD5pjZdvIw67Lph0kUGJN06QjZaXMmOkVHU_WedRFnbvcyEuTOf8qcZLv/s400/IMG_0957.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Cavendish and baby daughter soon after stage 11</span></td></tr>
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Mario ‘The Lion King’ Cipollini (who, it turns out, was
born in and still lives in Lucca!) or, ‘Super Mario’ as he was often called—or
simply, loudly, followed with a blast of an airhorn, “MARIO!!!” which the crowd
called out several times. The next morning I drove, bike in tow, close to the
Tyrrenian Coast, parked, and rode a kilometer or two to the town where that
day’s stage would start. After admiring the teams’ large and colorful coach
busses and their squads’ scores of top of the line bicycles on display and
watching kids get autographs from any pro rider who appeared, I started towards
the start line, as did the Giro riders themselves. It didn’t feel too bad to
get passed by the likes of Ivan Basso or his teammates.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The
morning after our arrival in Italy I had poked around in the basement and, in a
dark corner, found two adult bicycles that, given the encrusted dust, cobwebs
and animal hair, looked as if they hadn’t been ridden in a few years. After
some serious scrubbing they looked like they’d be usable and indeed, after the
addition of a kid seat to each, we’ve ridden them every day, whether to bring
Niko to and from school (we bought Ingrid her own bike), pick up groceries,
ride into town for special events,</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">or basically for any type of commuting or
transportation within a two or three kilometer radius. It’s also true that we
were trying to go without a car, and did so for five months, but finally
yielded to the pressure of cold and wet weather, difficulty keeping up with the
groceries and a desire to explore more than trains or combinations of trains
and busses would allow and rented a car for the rest of our stay. I became
quietly fascinated by the spectacle of the daily riding world here. How could
these Lucchese people manage to talk on a cell phone while weaving in between
thick pedestrian traffic and avoid crashing much less putting their foot down?
It was a sixth sense, I was sure, so unnatural was it for me to see folks in
their seventies and eighties agilely guiding a bicycle through town along with
two sacks of groceries and only occasionally ringing their bell to ward off
would be blockers of their path, </span></div>
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a mother in heels headed to daycare then work, so stylish and so
smooth in her riding despite a fifteen month old on the tiny seat in front of
her and a three year old on the seat behind her, the nonchalance with which
scores of riders soldiered on in the rain holding umbrellas overhead. So this
bike riding and bike culture was a bit different than what I’d experienced back
home but I was getting used to it and at least I was rolling myself—albeit with
a bike I could hardly lift with one hand.</div>
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Have
you ever had to work hard to convince yourself some less than desirable
condition was okay, or even good? As in “yes, whatever it is is not great but
quit complaining already?” Like you know you want more somehow, you want it to
change but don’t want to admit it because you know you should be happy with how
things are and try hard to appreciate what you have, keep hoping that this bad
situation will resolve and work actively at trying to change it but it never
does, you keep trying to think this way, to convince yourself, but have trouble
succeeding? Yes? Let’s have a beer together sometime. I can relate. While my
knee permitted me to commute around short distances on the flats, I couldn’t
help feeling the excitement and joy of the sport of cycling all around me,
noticing cyclists in </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">groups meeting for a lunch hour ride, weekend training
session, individuals out for a morning spin, every one dressed up in what
looked to be professional kits. Back in the States this would make you the
fodder of skilled racing cyclists’ jokes, the over the hill weekend rider
shaving legs and dressed in the latest and most colorful pro team’s jersey and
shorts, complete with matching shoe covers and helmet, but it is a given in
Lucca. Here it is all about <i>la bella figura</i>. There actually are quite a few pro teams that train
in the area, too, especially from the Netherlands, from what I’ve been told.
But mostly those I see are everyday cyclists and they don’t even necessarily
race but do dress to the hilt and draw nary a glance in town or in country, so
common a sight they are. I am one of those husbands and dads who will almost always
remark to his wife and kids, “hey, look at that cyclist/group of cyclists!” the
instant they’re visible, so exciting it is for me to see them. Lauren and the
children are used to it and gamely put up with me but since the injury I’ve had
that surge of excitement pointing them out but it’s been followed by a bit of
emptiness and a tinge of resentment and the effort of trying to be happy with
what I have (at least I can walk!).</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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A
guy can only exert self-control for so long, though. I finally threw caution to
the wind and talked with Cristiano at the local bike shop. He took my
measurements and pieced together a decent used road bike with a compact gear
system which would allow me, in theory, to go up hills, however slowly. </div>
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I knew
the risks at stake and that my knee hadn’t been doing great, but just couldn’t
help it. The depth of the bike culture here and the enticing hills encircling
the city were too much for me. So there I was, he of the Bianchi racing bike
bought in the States twenty-five years earlier now the proud owner of a Trek
bought in Italy (and guess what? the bike shop even bears an English name ‘Fast
& Furious’ !)! I still like to think I have some rationality and hopefully
bring a bit more wisdom to bear than before, however, so I didn’t immediately
(or later, either, in fact) head out on a mountainous multiple hour adventure.
Over several months I’ve probably gone out only fifteen to twenty times on
rides usually around an hour long. My speed? Well, the readout is in kilometers
per hour, so without doing the conversion to mph it looks pretty good! My
actual, slower speed really doesn’t bother me much. Although that and getting
into the danger zone with longer distances preclude me from group rides the
small adventures I’ve had on this bike so far have already made the purchase
worth it. I’ve ridden up through olive groves during harvest on switchbacks,
explored back country roads barely wide enough for one car, come across small
churches several centuries old, descended through small towns at a pace making
me thankful for a bike with quality brakes, gotten away from the pollution of
the plains and smelled fresh grass, flowers, mud, found the clean air with my
eyes, too, making the views of the nearby Alpi Apuane mountains and Alpennine
mountains even more stunning. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If
one has never found the deliciousness of the sweet and bitter in competition,
if one has never been drawn to it repeatedly and felt extremely alive and
challenged at the same time it might be hard to understand why a person would
put his body through such struggles as are necessary to find his potential, to
find his limits. One of the beauties I found in endurance sports was the
opportunity to compete against myself, to overcome perceived obstacles and find
ways to improve that didn’t depend so much on how well others performed. But
there was the flip side of that where limits were not accepted and improvement
gradually became more important than enjoyment and satisfaction with what I
had. Watching the Giro riders, all younger than me now, as they prepare for a
day’s stage, I realize they no longer appear so much as immortals and
superstars as Greg Lemond did to me when I was a teen. I appreciate what they
can do, and am still amazed by it, and inspired, but it is somehow different.
And yet, watching them race I vicariously feel the thrill of competition. Even
as they start a stage, I can read the anticipation on their faces, the
determination or joy or nervousness. That day is another opportunity to
challenge themselves and push themselves to their limits. Many make the sign of
the cross as they head off past the official start line, knowing that they can
do their part but that there is always chance out there, too, that there is the
unknown, a new day’s adventure to come. They have not yet met their limit, have
not yet realized their potential, and the possibility and hope present in them
is palpable. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Inching
up Tuscan inclines or cruising down them, rolling steadily across the plains,
the dreams of athletic improvement I had most of the first part of my life have
been replaced by another vision of transformation that will be equally, if not
more challenging. So simple in theory but difficult in practice, it is to get
back to what spoke to me initially in the early days of the Bianchi, to in
every moment appreciate whatever situation presents itself, to notice more
often and savor the strain of muscles as they move, the taste of a drink of
cold water, the rich odor of a freshly plowed field, a smoothly spinning chain
and cogs, the sight of a little boy pedaling, slightly unbalanced and jerky,
away from his Dad who’s let go of the boy’s seat, has stopped jogging after him
and let his son ask a few times, “Do you still have me?” letting the question
go unanswered, letting him pedal away and set off on the rest of his life,
making his own adventure, a whole world to discover.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-89426441801353373252012-05-10T22:22:00.000+02:002012-05-24T10:09:14.188+02:00Venice : La Serenissima<br />
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When
I heard Venice was known as “<i>La Serenissima</i>”, I marked out a weekend in early May on the calendar
as the construction vehicles continued to churn away next door and metal
pounded metal. What a great place to spend a few days in peace and serenity
before the big trip home in June! I looked it up and Wikipedia told me that,
originally bearing its name due to its “title as one of the “Most Serene
Republics”, the state existing for a millennia based out of Venice, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Republic_of_Venice">La Serenissima Repubblica diVenezia,</a> or the Most Serene Republic
of Venice, in modern times has a reputation “widely based on its preference for
economic supremacy over military might, despite its long history of war and
conquest.” Hmmm, not exactly what I was thinking when I saw
the moniker, but close enough I supposed. <i>La Serenissima</i> in the 21<sup>st</sup> century surely spoke to the
longing of so many of us to get away from it all to this city of connected
islands, to listen to Vivaldi, cruise down the canals slowly with our white and
black stripe-shirted Gondolier rowing away, crooning operatically, while we
sipped champagne and looked into each other’s eyes…and plus, not too many
battles had been happening there lately and how could Venice’s “economic
supremacy” hinder our dream of a few days in paradise? I reserved our seats on
the train. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It
is true that I heard that Venice plays host to quite a few visitors in May (and
June, July, August, September, October….), but I didn’t really worry about that
too much. Here was a city with canals instead of streets, “streets of water!”
as we explained it to Nikolai in getting him psyched for the trip as he was
recovering from a cold a week before we left. When the morning came to walk to
the train station he appeared to have completely recovered, the sun was
shining, and we could certainly handle the crowds. We’d been in Italy ten
months, we could deal with a little jostling in line. </div>
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We
were greeted with swarms of tourists who, like ourselves, were hoping to taste
some of the Venetian magic (and many of whom, unlike ourselves, poured by the
thousands off cruise ships that would make the Titanic look like a bath toy).
As we rolled our suitcase and pushed Niko in his stroller and lugged them both
up and down all of the bridges over the canals, making our way from the train
station to our apartment rental in Canereggio, we had to be careful about
stopping too long to heft a suitcase up or to bend over to hear what Niko was
saying (“I have to go pee!”) so as to avoid getting plowed into by the steady
stream of pedestrian traffic flowing without abatement down <i>Strada Nuova</i> into the heart of the city. And yes, everything did
cost a pretty euro. It’s also true that this vacation proved similar to almost
all this past year in that we had to find a pharmacy and get Niko some <i>Tachiprina</i> to make him more comfortable after he complained and
rebelled all day Saturday as a fever came and heated him up like a convection
oven does a potato (our little baked potato slept a four hour nap Saturday
afternoon and stayed in the oven a good twelve hours that night. Once out the
next morning, he gradually cooled down throughout Sunday and was soon back to
normal). There was Sunday night,</div>
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when a small group of Americans and Brits made
up for paucity in numbers with boisterous bravado, overstaying their welcome on
the terrace at a restaurant across the canal from our apartment, drinking far
too much and talking (when they weren’t yelling) far too loudly. Their fun woke
us up at midnight and kept us up for another hour. One gentleman found it
appropriate to imitate the New Zealand rugby team’s pre-game war chants
designed to intimidate opponents and show their strength. His lone, drunken
rendition would’ve been comical had I been alert and ready for cheap
entertainment. But eventually the fatigue of another day in <i>La Serenissima</i> conquered all and sleep pulled me relentlessly into
its grasp. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That
was about the worst of it, and there was plenty not to groan about, too. Ready
for a sentence about the rest, a long sentence, run-on (and on), breathless?
Here it is.</div>
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Walking
down the banks on the <i>fondamente</i>
alongside canals whose water slowly lapped along, pushing against the small
boats moored next to old houses crammed together with <i>organico</i>—compostable material—waiting in small plastic bags
attached to hooks off the ground for the trash person who wheels his cart—one I
saw was blue and named Bertha—clunking up and down the steps of the canal
bridges, as children accompanied by mamma headed to school and a man in a suit
strode </div>
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alone to work, shop owners were beginning to pull out awnings, open
doors, the morning quiet but not still, tourists on vacation and sleeping in
while everyday life for Venetians continued on, a day like any other, jobs to
get to, groceries to find, clothes to be washed and hung out to dry, friends to
talk with, or running through the streets early, too, every fifty meters a
choice, my route’s continuation hidden by twists and turns, alleys, courtyards,
immense churches, and I pass them all, sometimes ending up with nowhere to go
but back to the previous option not taken and follow that one, thinking naively
relative position was safely in mind, that once ready to start making a loop
and knowing where the starting point was that merely heading in that direction would bring feet back home but being ensnared by the twisty 'S'</div>
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of the <i>Canal
Grande</i>, dizzied by all of the turns
and previous trips on vaporettos, these water busses finally the only solution
to get bearings back, slow but trustworthy and steadily heading forward,
permitting thoughts of how luxurious it is to be able to get lost for awhile
and explore, following my nose to another discovery, a bakery just opening and
permitting a cache of warm pastries and rolls for wife, daughter and son, such
a cliché of American vacation to Europe but isn’t there some truth to these
notions we repeat, a trip to a vegetable stand off a side street, talking with
the vendor and letting him select what I need according to when it would be
eaten, the draw of taking pictures of the fruit markets, these displays of
color, this atmosphere of particular sounds and smells we wish to capture or
soak up, this life seemingly lived so vividly, talking with the men who know
the tomatoes or melons or squid so well, this contact we crave that in so many
places has been reduced by</div>
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mass scale and do-it-yourself service, or watching
dapper waiters in white coat and tie bring out the silver platters of ten euro
tea to one table among dozens in Piazza San Marco while a trio plays
appropriate music for the atmosphere and cigars are pulled out, cigarettes
smoked, the trails of white lazily rising up but soon dissipating, far before
reaching the observation deck of the Campanile, San Marco’s bell tower, the
wind whipping around up there sending a chill through those who have no jacket
so that they soon wait for the elevator to return them one hundred meters
below, taking in the entire city and surrounding bays and sea when ear-shatteringly
the six o’clock hour is struck by one bell just eight feet above, then another,
and a third, and a fourth, understanding now why they can</div>
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be heard for so many
kilometers from here, returning to the maze of streets with no cars, streets
with no cars, with no cars, no cars, and walking past designer shops
advertising a pair of sandals for seven hundred euros with matching purse for
one thousand six hundred euros and the contrast with the young person maybe
twenty years old sitting on a main tourist corridor, hair cut close with
electric clippers,</div>
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hair also incongruously growing out of one side of her face
around her eye to cheek and chin, seeing her stricken by this freak show-like
anomaly and begging for money, walking past without talking to her or looking
directly at her, a watery-eyed lady seeing us unfold a map back in Canereggio
and commenting, “It isn’t easy, is it?” and exercising our Italian with her,
learning some of her suggestions, hearing her say, when I explain how Niko and
I each have a ‘k’ in our names that she thinks very highly of the ‘k’, or
eating at a “cheap” touristy pizzeria where Italian is seldom spoken but
persisting</div>
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with our waiter in his language, learning he has a brother in CT,
answering his questions about us and seeing him snapped out of his usual
schtick, being the first tourist on the island of Burano after a forty minute
ride out early Monday morning, traveling with commuters, the only one on the
outdoor section of the boat, snapping pictures like crazy of the sun hitting
the snowy tops of the Dolomites while buoys and boats passed between us,
keeping camera out on a walk through this island of three thousand known for
lace-making and its colorful assortment of houses, talking with a man who
occasionally takes a break to peak around the corner to say good morning to
this dog or that cat and at times to a person, too, or asking the slow and
dignified senior who has just wheeled himself out to a deserted courtyard for a
morning cigarette if I may take his photo, wondering about the story behind
that face, heading back to the mainland as the first boatload of tourists
arrives, and finally stopping to give some change to a man sitting and begging for money, a man who we’ve passed so many times before like the thousands of others who’ve done the same walking on without even looking and getting up the courage to ask him for his photo and seeing him seemingly glad for the request and attention, thanking</div>
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me after the picture, touching him on his arm and he doing the same to
me after, being invited inside the tent to sit down with two workers camping
out in the center of the large piazza outside the train station after talking
with them awhile about why they’re out there, these two workers (and forty
others like them) with fifteen or twenty years experience tending to passengers
and their every need on the sleeper cars between Venice and Paris now without a
job due to Trenitalia’s cost-saving measures, two ladies in head scarves coming
up to us and asking us to fish their camera out of the river, serving as the
interpreter between them (speaking in English) and the two unemployed workers
saying, all smiles, to tell them they are railroad workers, not fisherman, but
then watching as they find a long pole and head off to try to fish out the
camera while the ladies lead them to the spot saying it’s not the camera, it’s
the memory card, it’s the memories they cannot lose, it’s the memories.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"> I
guess Paradise as it’s popularly conceived would be pretty boring, and Venice
is thankfully no such place to me, but for variety and challenges of its own,
surprises along with a taste of magic and wonder, <i>La Serenissima</i> is one place I highly recommend you visit. Just be
prepared for anything, leave your expectations at home and allow yourself to
get lost.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-16145838182859723992012-04-30T17:59:00.000+02:002012-04-30T17:59:45.731+02:00Danzaland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">Almost every Tuesday and Thursday
afternoon since October Ingrid has gone to a dance class at her school along
with about twenty other girls. The dancing doesn’t stop there, either. The
smooth tiled floors at home (and in one of her favorite rooms also a body
length mirror) seem to provide her inspiration enough to take out the MP3 and
speakers and play with movement and expression whenever she’s not doing her
homework, preparing restaurants for us, or running her brother through an
obstacle course or a session of school.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"> </span></div>
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The
big show is coming up on a Tuesday night in May commencing at the very Italian
hour of 9:00pm in Bagni di Lucca, about a forty minute drive from here. I’ve
never seen Lauren sew a thing but recently she’s found some nice flow in planning out
and sewing by hand Ingrid’s three costumes for the event. Impressive (sewing
costumes is one of those tasks I am most relieved is wholly within her domain)! </div>
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When Ingrid heard <i><a href="http://www.danzaland.it/">DanzaLand</a> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">was
happening in Lucca on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, she wanted to see
everything. We compromised and made it to a few open workshops where a leading dance artist in a particular genre held classes for various levels, saw a few local dance schools' performances, and at the end witnessed our first ever break-dancing contest. </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>By the end of the weekend, Ingrid was pumped and back to the dancing. <span style="font-style: normal;"> I'm all for it, really. I just hope our little ballerina could perhaps find another song to interpretive dance to so we can be spared from listening for the twelfth time in two days to the soundtrack of </span><i>Titanic. </i>Then she can twist, turn, spin around and express her feelings all she wants. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1P2-XkFLKJJwLOccRVGdYPi84-Ogfh83BwtBLeHaa3bfD8v8S26XyB1i7Q_VplBO4R8VGynCzSXdq2PitmPX0STlrd3tgsATi9ywCKzYxtNUkRgp-RPpEdsha0gV7Wn9QmnfoJ3CrA66o/s1600/IMG_9124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1P2-XkFLKJJwLOccRVGdYPi84-Ogfh83BwtBLeHaa3bfD8v8S26XyB1i7Q_VplBO4R8VGynCzSXdq2PitmPX0STlrd3tgsATi9ywCKzYxtNUkRgp-RPpEdsha0gV7Wn9QmnfoJ3CrA66o/s400/IMG_9124.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intermediate Musical Class led by American Brian Bullard</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ballet Dancers from a local school</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Same school with legs flying and stars and stripes shining</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When did breakdancing make it to Italy? </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some great moves were thrown down for sure</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Johnny', with his big smile and mullet, always seemed to be having fun and danced his way to the Senior title.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Number 88, around eleven years old and half the size of Johnny, was the clear crowd favorite. The judge's, too. He won the Junior title</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-30419969077103583112012-04-24T12:01:00.000+02:002012-04-26T20:27:08.505+02:00Answers to Lucca Blog Photo Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thanks to all of you who tried to sleuth your way to the correct location of the locations originally published in the "Lucca Blog Photo Game" earlier this month and congratulations to my dad, who pretty much got all of them. Bravo! Find below the photos along with the answers. If you haven't tried yet go back and look at the original post and see if you can get some of them before you look at the answers!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3khm9USw-6ilOB8T4uPxkgxGnIX-jBLYVw5cl9hfckw_805Fcqni7SNCPnSnAK0zSSKg6p9QXDIVAjVBLhHSGBt3GyBl-508Hq7q0IEFhfPBrthCj-E_8Qt-7rXXiraCkJNkuobvCKzxK/s1600/IMG_7630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3khm9USw-6ilOB8T4uPxkgxGnIX-jBLYVw5cl9hfckw_805Fcqni7SNCPnSnAK0zSSKg6p9QXDIVAjVBLhHSGBt3GyBl-508Hq7q0IEFhfPBrthCj-E_8Qt-7rXXiraCkJNkuobvCKzxK/s400/IMG_7630.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 1: Chiesa di San Michele in Foro in Piazza San Michele</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 2: Section of Medieval Wall (most of the current wall circling the town is Renaissance era) and gate at <br />
intersection of Via Santa Croce and Via Elisa and the Via del Fosso)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 3: Headed up the ramp at our local supermarket, Esselunga in San Concordio</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigtHjT9zToTF-7WID8EPrwFBaNPVsXVEfRD5CZC2qRFDz2uGEKZBuhtQLLjotCb5e6AFnhoecDth356MCUXkYJDhD5l8R9LFGouaQWlRjpCxUjWdzkGT00Tb-kOaEMwkvBFINsDgMgH_eh/s1600/IMG_7680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigtHjT9zToTF-7WID8EPrwFBaNPVsXVEfRD5CZC2qRFDz2uGEKZBuhtQLLjotCb5e6AFnhoecDth356MCUXkYJDhD5l8R9LFGouaQWlRjpCxUjWdzkGT00Tb-kOaEMwkvBFINsDgMgH_eh/s400/IMG_7680.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 4: At intersection of Corso Garibaldi and Via Vittor Veneto near L'Edicola<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYtpkhHkhW3g5eIXgl4KNUBX_oXrRqABQzk6PQDHEhkFaZPPta5ijzoYYVgcp7GfVre210wGK128hL612kxfsNOMxAZe0lUZMvVirYMiExNu7gfIFIIcYyEs0bbLplJ4bzK5ywZefM5gV/s1600/IMG_6399.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYtpkhHkhW3g5eIXgl4KNUBX_oXrRqABQzk6PQDHEhkFaZPPta5ijzoYYVgcp7GfVre210wGK128hL612kxfsNOMxAZe0lUZMvVirYMiExNu7gfIFIIcYyEs0bbLplJ4bzK5ywZefM5gV/s400/IMG_6399.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 5: Approaching Porta San Pietro (above it, on the walls)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 6: Beer on steps of Chiesa di San Paolino, via San Paolino</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 7: Man headed out of town from under the walls at Baluardo Santa Maria</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 8: Denise King croonin' out the Blues at Lucca Jazz Donna in the Piazza Ducale</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 9: Le Parole d'Oro in Guamo. Channeled water to the Nottolini Aqueduct which then brought it to town</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo 10: Lauren and I atop the Ponte della Maddalena, or Ponte del Diavolo in Borgo a Mozzano</td></tr>
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</div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-68021299682828865922012-04-20T17:25:00.001+02:002012-04-21T09:15:06.587+02:00Umbrian Calculations and Expectations<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bettona, viewed from our apartment rental</td></tr>
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A
vacation from a vacation? Such it appeared to some we’ve met here who know
we’re on sabbatical when we said we were extending the Easter break a bit and
heading off to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Umbria">Umbria</a> for a week. ‘Why do you need a vacation?’ they seemed to
be thinking. To us, though, it didn’t really feel like a vacation from a
vacation, but just a vacation, which we did feel like we needed. Why go? Did we
seek relaxation? A change from our routine? Discovering new places? A break
from the ‘city’? New people? Different experiences? Sure. A little of each. And
with each passing week we sensed our time in the Peninsula winding down, our
return to the United States coming up ever sooner, our time to explore and
discover more of Italy while we’ve got the chance vanishing like espresso at
the bars. So we went.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The
luxury of being able to travel is not lost on us, especially in this country of
financial crisis, friends and acquaintances almost universally unsure of and
preoccupied with their financial future, some suddenly forced to check throats
for strep or make focaccia another five years when they thought they’d be about
to retire, others losing the extra job they had to make ends meet, polls on the
radio saying how during Easter Italians would be taking 70% fewer vacations and
for those who were leaving home that they’d reduced their time away to a day or
two. So yes, there was some mild guilt that came with our decision. We were
definitely fortunate to be able to travel in the first place.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But
of course in planning this trip there was also excitement. There would be novelty
and exploration; there was the anticipation of the wonder and delight in our
children (isn’t it funny how the inevitable upcoming fights and “I’m
bored/cold/hungry/fed up with my brother/sister” don’t figure into pre-travel
imagination?) our adventures would surely bring. I don’t know if the planning
is half of the fun, but I do enjoy it, what with the Internet searches, VRBO
listings, Wikipedia briefings, Google Maps, and all of the guidebooks and
suggestions both computer and book. Sure, it probably lessens<br />
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the sense of
discovery and novelty a little bit, but for most people it seems that the
trade-off there is worth maximizing their odds of finding what they are looking
for and ‘having a good time’ that prior research and planning can afford, not to
mention the heightened anticipation of what’s to come that it brings. Given our
research we expected a few things. We expected to see a lot of vegetation in
this region known as the ‘Green Heart of Italy’, we expected to eat well in a
land known for its wild mushrooms, fine olive oil, top-notch <a href="http://www.edgeboston.com/index.php?ch=style&sc=food_drink&sc3=&id=112647">truffles</a> and
exquisite wild boar and prosciutto, we expected to sense a more easy-going
attitude in the Umbrian people, we expected tiny hill top towns, regional and
national parks, stunning vistas. We expected all of that and Umbria
delivered—and yet, when we experienced it ourselves, it didn’t seem to have
lost much of its magic for already having read about it somewhere. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And
then there were the surprises. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our
GPS, for one, became fluent in Italian, something we never thought possible,
and now, apparently, she cannot revert to her ways of old. This unexpected
outcome was met with mixed reactions. While at times Niko used to yell out and
say he was sick of the “GPS lady” (due to her annoying, overly-americanized
version of <i>la bella lingua</i>), more
often than not he and Ingrid would delight in it, along with us, making fun of
her obvious mispronunciations of Italian that not even the most seriously
foreign language-challenged English speaker would make. Here is how the
transformation took place: we pushed some of her touch screen buttons one day
and found there were in fact several languages she could speak. We selected
Italian and found her now fairly perfect accent and refusal to say any street
names rather boring in comparison. “Switch her back!” the kids said, but
apparently she would have none of it and now we’re stuck with her newfound
banality. Our guide will still inform us if we’ve gone off route, but instead
of the slightly disconcerting “re-calculating” she used to utter (inevitably
met with the family’s ‘uh, not again!’) she will say, “<i>Ricalculo</i>”, somehow more precise, antiseptic…boring, and
refuses to even say the names of streets, simply uttering the Italian
equivalent of “in 100 meters, take a left.”<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Assisi in the distance, Basilica to the left, Fortress above</td></tr>
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The
books and websites told us that Umbria was a ‘mystical’ region, having
something to due with the foggy hilltop towns and caves up high in the hills
and mountains where religious folk would go to meditate and pray: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Assisi">Assisi</a>, for
example, the home of San Francesco or, as we know him, Saint Francis. Like our
GPS lady, St. Francis went through his own transformation, albeit a bit more
substantive one. Apparently he went from being a woman-chasing, warring youth
to a man who gave away everything, divided his cloak in two to share with
another who had none and spent time preaching to his many followers, including
the occasional bird or squirrel. So far no surprises, right? But imagine our
state of confusion when, after having just visited his tomb from the thirteenth
century in the lower church of the Basilica (lost for several hundred years but
found again within the structure in the 1800s) when, while walking up the main
street leading into town trailing a small cluster of seminary students in black
robes, we seemed to see a reincarnation of St. Francis himself. The seminary
students had nudged each other, looking up. Or gaze had followed, and indeed,
this man coming toward us wore no shoes or sandals and sported only a burlap
sack-like garment. He spoke aloud as he walked, carrying a bag with some papers
and a book or two. Apparently he was preaching, headed<br />
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down from the direction
of the hermitage where St. Francis and followers would go to have some peace
and quiet, meditate and pray. We had been there, too, but the only Francesco we
saw was cast in bronze. Mysterious. When the would-be St. Francis veered over
to talk to us I asked him if I could take his picture. He brushed aside the
request saying there were more important things to talk about. “I’ve been walking
the hills for thirty years,” he said, “and have written down words of
inspiration from God.” He continued, but my shock at speaking with a ghost and
my still less than adequate Italian<br />
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combined to render his brief sermon all but
incomprehensible. When it became apparent he’d like to sell us some literature,
however, and when he said he’d spent a year in the United States back in high
school I snapped out of my reverie and asked how much. “Whatever
you are able to give,” came his reply. So we bought his book and I asked again
if I could snap a photo. “There are so many others more worthy than I,” he
replied (Of the eight people I asked to photograph on this trip he was one of
the two who refused), and hobbled away on his red and extremely swollen feet,
calling out his message just a bit louder than before, leaving me staring at
the cover of his paperback volume and its picture of an alluring—and yes,
slightly mystical—<i><a href="http://www.assisionline.com/assisi__169.html">Monte Subasio</a></i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Heavy
incense, chanting, prayer, standing up and kneeling then sitting and then all
over again, church-goers (every one from three to one hundred and three)
crossing themselves whenever they walked before the altar and crucifix,
speaking, more incense waving, giving money, watching people go up for
Communion, shaking hands and wishing each other peace—these are some of
Ingrid’s experiences of her first Easter Mass. I’d taken her to the small hill
town of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bettona">Bettona</a> for the service and, afterwards, some of the strange costumes
we saw people wearing during the service began to make sense and revealed our
next suprise. That large man sporting the black leather suspenders and holster
in front wasn’t dressing in typical small Umbrian hill town fashion, he was
thus bolstered to help support the cross itself he would be carrying during the
procession in which many of the more casually dressed churchgoers also seemed
to be participating.<br />
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‘Why not?’ we said, and joined in. Having townsfolk on the
side of the route watching us parade by made me feel a bit like an imposter, somewhat
sneaky, but also a tad proud and part of the club, if just for a moment, this
my “authentic vacation experience.” After a while we thought we’d had enough,
gotten out of it what we could, and decided to make our exit down one of the
many small alleyways snaking through town. “That was a neat procession, Ingrid,
eh?” I said, beginning my meaningful fatherly examination of our experience.<br />
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But before she could show her assent or ignore me we heard a chant and there,
up ahead, coming straight at us, was the priest, his acolytes, and the
villagers behind them. They were coming for us! Imposters! Or no, no, we were
just in their way, that was it. Phew. Stepping into a doorway so as not to
become the de facto leaders of this ceremony as they approached, we realized
there wasn’t much we could do but to join in again. The second time we tried to
leave was by car, but once we got up to the<br />
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main piazza we needed to drive
through to exit this tiny hill town still encircled by its Medieval (and parts of the original Etruscan) walls, the lone police officer on duty
that day had us stop as, he indicated, the procession would be coming back
through in a little while. I guessed it wasn’t just about us getting our
tourist experience out of it for ourselves, cut the motor and sat back for ten
minutes or so until they came through, beginning to feel as if I was being
delivered some sort of spiritual message myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Although
we’d been told <a href="http://www.norcia.it/en/home-page.aspx">Norcia</a> was a hotbed of food delights and had read the same,
nothing could prepare us for the heavenly meal in Umbria’s oldest restaurant, <i><a href="http://www.hotelgrottaazzurra.com/it/ristorante-hotel.aspx">Il Granaro del Monte</a></i>. Thick wooden
tables, hand carved scenes in leather on the chairs, and the huge, bricked open
grill lent a medieval feel to the place. Having arrived to lunch somewhat early
by Italian standards, we were ushered in to the main dining room by an eager
waiter with some time on his hands who had been hanging around outside to look
for customers. We’d planned on going there anyway but let him show us the
various dining rooms and show us our choices of tables without letting on. We
sat down. Able to relish and appreciate fine food but not being “Foodies” per
se and being overwhelmed by the array of appetizing choices, Lauren and I each
chose a different set menu, mine consisting of an array of fine Norcian meats
and freshly grilled bruschetta as appetizers, homemade tagliatelle pasta with wild
mushrooms and fresh black truffle-infused, locally produced olive oil as a first
course, Norcian wild boar “in his juices” and a plate of five varieties of
grilled meat as a second course, and an artistically presented puffed barley,
chocolate and cream pastry-like delicacy for dessert.<br />
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We relaxed with the kids
as one of the chefs prepared various bits of meat on the huge open grill near
our table and the place gradually filled up with other diners ready for a big <i>pranzo,
</i>leaving the waiters with less time
for chit-chat and no need to fish for customers outside. Over two hours later
we stood up, winded by the effort, struggling not to fall back into our chairs.
I had never eaten so much meat and swear that was among the top three pasta
dishes I’ve ever had. We expected good, but were surprised by how good, and
didn’t really want to leave. If heaven’s menu came close to this, we were now
ready to do what it took to be accepted through the Pearly Gates. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As
luck would have it, we didn’t have to leave…at least not yet. The owner of the
restaurant (and of the other, more exclusive restaurant and hotel nearby), a
kind, motherly figure, came over to say hello, wondering if I spoke Italian.
She took my hands when I replied that I did, wondering where I was from and
what I did there, continuing on to say how she’d love to set up a program for
American students in Norcia and beginning to talk about the facilities they
had. Maybe she was on to something. I briefly dreamt of the perks of leading
such a trimester abroad program with my students, of being prepared daily
lunches of the caliber we’d just had, but for free. It certainly was tempting.
The hotel and restaurant were quite busy by that point and the owner had to go
take care of some snafu with reservations but as we were headed out past the
front desk she began to show us a map of the area, then, due to difficulty
reading the fine print, had a colleague continue. This young woman was very
excited to practice her English as Norcia doesn’t see the volumes of Americans,
Brits and Aussies that the more touristy towns of Assisi and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orvieto">Orvieto</a> play host
to. I continued the conversation in Italian and she in English, catching the
attention of one of her colleagues who pointed out the farce. Once we were
pretty much oriented for the rest of the afternoon’s adventures the owner came
by again and told the young lady to give us a tour, too. So we got another half
hour in the place, checking out the luxury hotel next door, its various rooms,
mini spa, and restaurant, everything explained in detail in a most charming
accent, only the occasional error, like telling us they have another restaurant
in town just 250 km away, slipping past her inner editor. I know the owner was
trying to drum up business, but still, would this happen to us in Florence?
Pisa? Not likely. So we’d heard that the Umbrians were hospitable, but this
treatment (‘we’re just normal folks,’ we kept thinking, ‘what’s going on?’)
took us by surprise, and didn’t feel all that bad.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKvpzSMERQ00l0af905O1gClGzi1zG1LFDOYPI27SWQzV4PiufMdec0lnN74uBd6oYaZ5VlJQfT7uoqpIJaRLGj_FbbC8ZPBPZHdgRCXx0iuCIuW_sP8sQ7qfvlzl6ZyqEfRFSsfSMo3cr/s1600/IMG_8429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKvpzSMERQ00l0af905O1gClGzi1zG1LFDOYPI27SWQzV4PiufMdec0lnN74uBd6oYaZ5VlJQfT7uoqpIJaRLGj_FbbC8ZPBPZHdgRCXx0iuCIuW_sP8sQ7qfvlzl6ZyqEfRFSsfSMo3cr/s400/IMG_8429.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piano Grande and Sibillini Mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The
parts of our trip that took us far away from other travelers and locals to Mont
Subasio and the <a href="http://www.sibillini.net/en/index.html">Sibillini National Park</a> also provided their own surprises in
the degree to which they exceeded expectation in being so amazingly beautiful,
relaxing, and inspiring. It’s said there comes a time when a teacher senses
he’s taught a student all he can and that then he must let the student go it
alone. Apparently our GPS lady thought that just such a time had come for us.
She cut us loose. After leading<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwc16u567B8RM8ItH4SDkMGuF5iSVuaGbYvFsZ8L3UbixkVGHSjUtcavRragt21DipCE7X0F29U2EqHcNpvJBppgWMHE1OZ6CHlJzhcOMkb1nx1j7htkdxiK18QGQL9s3OxvT_TngfzPr/s1600/IMG_8471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwc16u567B8RM8ItH4SDkMGuF5iSVuaGbYvFsZ8L3UbixkVGHSjUtcavRragt21DipCE7X0F29U2EqHcNpvJBppgWMHE1OZ6CHlJzhcOMkb1nx1j7htkdxiK18QGQL9s3OxvT_TngfzPr/s400/IMG_8471.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piano Grande and base of the Sibillinis from Castelluccio</td></tr>
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us through many kilometers of climbing into the
mountains and rounding the bend to the vast high plain (<i><a href="http://www.lifeinitaly.com/tourism/umbria/piano-grande.asp">Piano Grande</a></i>), the Sibillini mountains towering over it on the far
side with the tiny hamlet of Castelluccio in the distance, the voice directing
us now fell silent. The map still showed our car, but going where seemingly no
car had gone before. Our digital, four-wheeled icon floated in a vast sea of
green with no roads in sight. Instead of warning us about being off road or off
the map or ‘recalculating’, at least she had the grace to let us go our own way
whether she thought there was a path leading where we wanted to go or not. The
few dozen horses grazing freely on the plain didn’t seem to<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraAYOLQc4NcuAaXFfhjiWHCAlgJWsn-M8mHKkoRNzoUgKsw1TmmzW-X215tAKBDgozWzSH2DZ40GfxRdaA1NlZtLJO7KcqZSoMCMR3wTo_lhrlgroPAnloYMKP59OUl2mLVcGtUqbtBTF/s1600/IMG_8427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraAYOLQc4NcuAaXFfhjiWHCAlgJWsn-M8mHKkoRNzoUgKsw1TmmzW-X215tAKBDgozWzSH2DZ40GfxRdaA1NlZtLJO7KcqZSoMCMR3wTo_lhrlgroPAnloYMKP59OUl2mLVcGtUqbtBTF/s400/IMG_8427.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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need much direction
anymore either. Had they, too, already had all the direction they needed? There
were no fences, they drank from the puddles left from melted snow, knew where
home was but walked where they wished and were in no rush to get there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Heading
up Monte Subasio the story had been a bit reversed. There our GPS lady guide had
shown the road continuing up and over the mountain and she’d practically urged
us to continue. It was reality that stopped our progress soon enough once the
last snow drifts still melting became just too deep to crash through. We parked
up there and saw only four or five other people in the hour and a half we spent
watching the gliders they’d brought swoop silently through the wind, eating our
picnic lunch, hopping the fence into the vast, hilly pastures and running down
the open fields while dodging the thousands of cow patties left by the herd now
grazing a mile or so away on another part of the mountain. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyA_ZZdAq6NIKpMo9boXb1cmYmaxzLwtuSs0kRCLZRNk22U2FaESMj3R9c4T9s5whFPke0oLVglIIhna8eWvp7hSqJkZjr8IvIQDR4VKYoy8-VVy8Rn1jvJosNLJVvf9wFbSGnNdRy2v2o/s1600/IMG_8247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyA_ZZdAq6NIKpMo9boXb1cmYmaxzLwtuSs0kRCLZRNk22U2FaESMj3R9c4T9s5whFPke0oLVglIIhna8eWvp7hSqJkZjr8IvIQDR4VKYoy8-VVy8Rn1jvJosNLJVvf9wFbSGnNdRy2v2o/s400/IMG_8247.JPG" width="398" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halfway up a long hill on Monte Subasio. Can you see me?</td></tr>
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<br />
Ritual,
tradition, following a certain belief system, and sharing within a community
can all help one’s sense of spirituality. San Francesco was a bit of a wanderer
and recluse at times, though, and he seemed to thrive on the natural world,
which brought him closer to God, but he did also bring what he gained in those
more isolated arenas back to the people and tried to lead them to a more spiritual
and kind way of life. He had done some recalculating of his own earlier on
before settling on his spiritual path and becoming a guide and role model to
others. While our guides had helped pave the way to our experiences throughout
our Umbrian vacation, and we owe them our thanks, we feel far more appreciative
of the people, the places, the food, the experiences in and of themselves. Up
in those mountains and away from many of the distractions of crowds and modern
life I even felt something… was it spirituality? I don’t know, but I sure felt
alive and connected with the world. I don’t know if I can successfully pass
that on, or if mentioning it will help anyone else in any way, but there it is.
At the very least believe me when I say I’ve gained a first-hand experience
that confirms for me why many lend the ‘mystical’ moniker to this fabulous
region.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHdBGRxZrL8f6Fpybs5So2f-hGhyoFWWt5yVVWRYU6vY2vUAiWvj-fNF_A0aVXOyzrZ8OEmq5zGruxzrxFYPG2TQcageWYJMyu0onpWWR86Ualfp5jettsStop7GzG5YSiJVoLdMMiztfM/s1600/IMG_8542.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHdBGRxZrL8f6Fpybs5So2f-hGhyoFWWt5yVVWRYU6vY2vUAiWvj-fNF_A0aVXOyzrZ8OEmq5zGruxzrxFYPG2TQcageWYJMyu0onpWWR86Ualfp5jettsStop7GzG5YSiJVoLdMMiztfM/s400/IMG_8542.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Toward
the end of one long day when we were navigating back to our apartment near
Bettona we got turned around—“<i>Ricalculo</i>” we heard yet again—and tried for a bit to follow GPS lady’s new
suggestions. But then we got off track once more almost immediately. It was
then we realized we weren’t even looking as much at the road ourselves to try
to figure out where we were but instead relying much more on her. Too much. She
was guiding us in circles! We ripped her off the windshield. She sounded out
one final time before Lauren found the ‘off ’ button and silenced her for good.
Listening to guidance from the right sources may be prudent, and a little
forethought and planning never hurt either, but at some point it’s so rewarding
to let all of that fall by the wayside and be open to surprises and to
experiencing them thoroughly, come what may, even if it’s not what you’d
planned for. What you find may completely exceed your expectations. When it
came down to it maybe we couldn’t satisfactorily articulate what we were
looking for in our “vacation from a vacation” other than to point at our week
in Umbria after the fact, no longer quite so concerned about the time in Italy
slipping away from us, and answer, with conviction, “That.” <i style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></i></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-6446359793199967872012-04-06T15:15:00.000+02:002012-04-06T18:46:54.725+02:00Lucca Blog Photo Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3khm9USw-6ilOB8T4uPxkgxGnIX-jBLYVw5cl9hfckw_805Fcqni7SNCPnSnAK0zSSKg6p9QXDIVAjVBLhHSGBt3GyBl-508Hq7q0IEFhfPBrthCj-E_8Qt-7rXXiraCkJNkuobvCKzxK/s1600/IMG_7630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3khm9USw-6ilOB8T4uPxkgxGnIX-jBLYVw5cl9hfckw_805Fcqni7SNCPnSnAK0zSSKg6p9QXDIVAjVBLhHSGBt3GyBl-508Hq7q0IEFhfPBrthCj-E_8Qt-7rXXiraCkJNkuobvCKzxK/s400/IMG_7630.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #1</span></td></tr>
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Have
you ever written a blog? If so, you’ll know what I’m talking about. If not, and
if you ever do, I dare you not to look at the counter that tells how many
people have viewed your blog and breaks it down by month, or even week or day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6on9bv40xQEYLiHEAPvZaEsRwKa9qn4fv7Xj7ByywhYeHFJR06dFpYMUg0g8nDqjOYGbjvBQbdzNybzzpBqgNXwNSU8sKw-_ST_DlF5o9iStW-4dTJUtGP_k2xfjE_Rae1jpHEPekd-93/s1600/IMG_7404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6on9bv40xQEYLiHEAPvZaEsRwKa9qn4fv7Xj7ByywhYeHFJR06dFpYMUg0g8nDqjOYGbjvBQbdzNybzzpBqgNXwNSU8sKw-_ST_DlF5o9iStW-4dTJUtGP_k2xfjE_Rae1jpHEPekd-93/s400/IMG_7404.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #2</span></td></tr>
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If
you’re reading <i>Fuori le Mura</i> you probably use
the web enough to know that many bloggers include ads on their blogs and that
they make money each time somebody clicks the add. Thus, they are extra
motivated to create quality content, thereby attracting both readership,
advertisers and, eventually, money. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2bdGs3LaJxxhTAINcxU0qph4wIUvDEYcU-LTKQOrzc17iRPXEJVPlvJAwaVHTx3TvJOeCUWTSVXg06kXGoM9DZZDsBoZoFiLrKZUzb94F1NRX1tzmBL2Pd5NWjIQzsGze16poRgCSg47/s1600/IMG_7692.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2bdGs3LaJxxhTAINcxU0qph4wIUvDEYcU-LTKQOrzc17iRPXEJVPlvJAwaVHTx3TvJOeCUWTSVXg06kXGoM9DZZDsBoZoFiLrKZUzb94F1NRX1tzmBL2Pd5NWjIQzsGze16poRgCSg47/s400/IMG_7692.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #3</span></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
But of course there are millions of other
blogs that have no designs on money-making but exist purely out of interest in
a particular topic, out of a desire to share knowledge about such skills as
organic gardening, learning French, or summer grilling. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigtHjT9zToTF-7WID8EPrwFBaNPVsXVEfRD5CZC2qRFDz2uGEKZBuhtQLLjotCb5e6AFnhoecDth356MCUXkYJDhD5l8R9LFGouaQWlRjpCxUjWdzkGT00Tb-kOaEMwkvBFINsDgMgH_eh/s1600/IMG_7680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigtHjT9zToTF-7WID8EPrwFBaNPVsXVEfRD5CZC2qRFDz2uGEKZBuhtQLLjotCb5e6AFnhoecDth356MCUXkYJDhD5l8R9LFGouaQWlRjpCxUjWdzkGT00Tb-kOaEMwkvBFINsDgMgH_eh/s400/IMG_7680.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #4</span></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
And then there are
millions of blogs centering more on travel, daily life, or family—not to
mention the millions of other types of blogs. Clearly some of these bloggers
can be just as motivated as their commercial counterparts and although most of
their drive to keep up with their blogging probably comes from deep personal
passions or convictions or desire to share with the world, I’d wager a bet that
at least <i>part</i> of their motivation
comes from the blog counter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #5</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lauren
wonders why it matters, why I should be concerned with a graph that
shows whether the </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">number of readers that month has stayed the same, increased,
or decreased, and by how much. She does pose a good question, and I guess all it really comes
down to is my self-competitive nature, formerly expressed in running, cycling,
Nordic skiing or triathlon races or training sessions.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #6</span></td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I do think I’ve learned
from years of tweaking training schedules and continually trying to improve my
race results (end result being getting injured five years ago and as of yet not
being able to return to any racing or even serious training) and will avoid
coming anywhere near my prior demands for ever better performance. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfDXrsFY_AS911hDsFU_HSMHg3lQhG2jqZMVZGOQv6eTI6bzhpfFXKQ1P14aoN7egQxRagh1Ira_jhgjMTx4CI9PCLAGpD1VqyVyqHcgwQETk1eygLnZSlHYedOBjybCS7dMWrp2tLNDK/s1600/IMG_7283.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfDXrsFY_AS911hDsFU_HSMHg3lQhG2jqZMVZGOQv6eTI6bzhpfFXKQ1P14aoN7egQxRagh1Ira_jhgjMTx4CI9PCLAGpD1VqyVyqHcgwQETk1eygLnZSlHYedOBjybCS7dMWrp2tLNDK/s400/IMG_7283.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #7</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
With this blog
it’s more of a curiosity. Sure, it’s meant for family, friends and strangers to
take a look at if they want, but another selfish deciding factor was to have a partial record of our year in Lucca and if seventy or seven hundred
people read it this month it’ll still be there for us ( I think… or maybe I’ll
print it out in the end just to be sure) for years to come.</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_XX341WiW5BQCOuIG2NhB5iZcB5pMqqhRfajVFWB58o-CQ0lNCMDgBM1jr5k5iE3T1jUSqYt9a4hIeR4CysIjO87fNrqKF68LgWn2YkcTcrvXdl9OPM5qtDikbDju3aESWt7cQ-cVfpk/s1600/IMG_6779.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_XX341WiW5BQCOuIG2NhB5iZcB5pMqqhRfajVFWB58o-CQ0lNCMDgBM1jr5k5iE3T1jUSqYt9a4hIeR4CysIjO87fNrqKF68LgWn2YkcTcrvXdl9OPM5qtDikbDju3aESWt7cQ-cVfpk/s400/IMG_6779.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo #8 (Where and Who is it?)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span><br />
The
blog counter says that there is readership out there, although the comments, I
must say, have been few and far between (as in 0.3% of the time someone reads
the blog). That is just fine, but to facilitate part of the advantage of the
blog format, in which reader can participate as well as writer, I challenge you
to participate in this little game today: identify where the pictures I've included in this post were taken (all but one in or right around Lucca), and try to be as specific as possible. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnCDSWV5N_SpIiVy3BbXd3iSt6_JS5hxU4SgWCjWcNzbQVmpY_tLpnHhHl38_kbFw_wV2IVwiZ7TovY92WeJW6GfAgat2gNxQHuAKFBj3KjnTlJYBIHw2PZ2PfnvKMsW6ajQ2SFsXCIbMS/s1600/IMG_5945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnCDSWV5N_SpIiVy3BbXd3iSt6_JS5hxU4SgWCjWcNzbQVmpY_tLpnHhHl38_kbFw_wV2IVwiZ7TovY92WeJW6GfAgat2gNxQHuAKFBj3KjnTlJYBIHw2PZ2PfnvKMsW6ajQ2SFsXCIbMS/s400/IMG_5945.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #9</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">For those of
you who haven’t been here, there’s always Google Earth Streetview, or Google Images, and maybe I’ll
include a more general game in the future if I get any response this time. In general I think they go from easier to harder. Okay, good luck! (And no, it's not all about the blog counter!)</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPP4cK0C93xyj2ins6Dt3m2wAGvqL17hOHYapTdPOdgOp4PCggyOmFBGX79I1NgvB0dNbm2yBgiQCTiQJ15qBoQTtXcsxO8rT65UJpGccrkMqdCe1ttUJgb4OsJnbezTh-sg9TWBKbTr28/s1600/IMG_7300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPP4cK0C93xyj2ins6Dt3m2wAGvqL17hOHYapTdPOdgOp4PCggyOmFBGX79I1NgvB0dNbm2yBgiQCTiQJ15qBoQTtXcsxO8rT65UJpGccrkMqdCe1ttUJgb4OsJnbezTh-sg9TWBKbTr28/s400/IMG_7300.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Photo #10</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-5326358418827977572012-03-29T11:00:00.002+02:002012-04-03T10:05:49.652+02:00Nineteenth Century Canal Hide & Seek and MadLibs<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilkKPMhvdHEz93sq41betc0X_GnC9JJScPxMY3yp89ulGiWMrTSO7ojawA_vPdgkGY8i66xqPt5lPfhDFmciJUXd3k8eaGjplbeYkNdcWyI4ZWfiC-YfIm9hFhB0Dxlg75qUHhLmWZmbUz/s1600/IMG_5870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilkKPMhvdHEz93sq41betc0X_GnC9JJScPxMY3yp89ulGiWMrTSO7ojawA_vPdgkGY8i66xqPt5lPfhDFmciJUXd3k8eaGjplbeYkNdcWyI4ZWfiC-YfIm9hFhB0Dxlg75qUHhLmWZmbUz/s400/IMG_5870.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Path Along Nottolini Aqueduct</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Partway through an hour long
conversation class the other week my teacher asked if I’d been to the <i>Parole
d’Oro</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (the Golden Words). I didn’t think I
had, didn’t recognize the name, and my interest was piqued. Daniela revealed that
it was a tranquil, park-like setting that even many locals weren’t aware of.
Knowing that we would jump at any chance to find some time in nature, and with
the spring weather of late and planning on taking a walk there herself to
forage for some fresh herbs for the kitchen, she thought that maybe some
day our family would like to visit </span><i>le Parole d’Oro</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
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She
was right. That Friday we made a picnic lunch and, instead of our usual two-wheeled routine, picked up the kids by car. En route, soon Niko and Ingrid recognized the
<a href="http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acquedotto_del_Nottolini">Nottolini Aqueduct</a>, below which we’d done a little bike ride back in August.
The aqueduct stretches 3250 meters from Guamo to San Concordio and includes
over 400 arches.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpGzLNnWPjfN6eFo4Xd_yW-D9p75paUFuik81J-8M4JP_LfF2VWQkqF5_mBQTXqzWuTezLHlrQp7MjdABW2yN_BefiLV601zNGWnUxXDJyYa1PopZwjuLGqhE28IdAUlHvGdoyHZQQUM3e/s1600/IMG_5859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpGzLNnWPjfN6eFo4Xd_yW-D9p75paUFuik81J-8M4JP_LfF2VWQkqF5_mBQTXqzWuTezLHlrQp7MjdABW2yN_BefiLV601zNGWnUxXDJyYa1PopZwjuLGqhE28IdAUlHvGdoyHZQQUM3e/s400/IMG_5859.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Plans began for it in the Eighteenth
Century but it wasn’t started until 1823 and was finally completed in 1851,
providing fresh, clean water for the whole town of Lucca. Town fountains are
still active and daily dozens of people can be seen filling up sets of six 1.5
liter bottles for drinking water.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUsTohsBXgBL6-qnqHMCNoxgxziTHrJVRSXs1JH7rhj2M83ir7VxNXYraSmJrAgZLaxpu5e2I-dNc8hRnDg1so0UaqYbSygP6OvfHLb5zl_pHIWtTbqct6lfpEHaraJWSz2p-74Is08k8/s1600/IMG_7443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUsTohsBXgBL6-qnqHMCNoxgxziTHrJVRSXs1JH7rhj2M83ir7VxNXYraSmJrAgZLaxpu5e2I-dNc8hRnDg1so0UaqYbSygP6OvfHLb5zl_pHIWtTbqct6lfpEHaraJWSz2p-74Is08k8/s320/IMG_7443.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
At some of the fountains there’s even a
complete chemical analysis of the water for those who are curious or worried
about it being safe (the former mostly Italians wondering what good mountain
minerals they’re getting, the latter being mostly foreigners hoping to have
their Tuscan vacation untainted by ingestion of giardia or lead). </div>
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We
drove to the end of the aqueduct and took some side roads leading to a tiny
dirt and stone parking area with just one other car. This is what we saw:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiKSZn_7Ulv9PmlK3qsSxd8FpWBf44gRv-u6TTcRA2cChyphenhypheneCs89c70UsfbGqz0e2zk7yw4utXIaAs2VWGBCPtSyyZENX_nbaM2ig4As4uRqc0BrLZBdE7LjpLnokTXizSVEmaqbZMTH3FR/s1600/IMG_6666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiKSZn_7Ulv9PmlK3qsSxd8FpWBf44gRv-u6TTcRA2cChyphenhypheneCs89c70UsfbGqz0e2zk7yw4utXIaAs2VWGBCPtSyyZENX_nbaM2ig4As4uRqc0BrLZBdE7LjpLnokTXizSVEmaqbZMTH3FR/s400/IMG_6666.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Then
this:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UJDYU1uCPNt67Lb6U4EHkKuhC9-GgGq4M2ptsFeharr1CF_Xju34eCLHsGbLQqvMH8W7k0uA8D5cm9J9oPSux7-57qW4K8DeSbbrf8DEw2ui-o4GWIp4jbjQ1ETj4oFnHZW4XsHr_GY0/s1600/IMG_6668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UJDYU1uCPNt67Lb6U4EHkKuhC9-GgGq4M2ptsFeharr1CF_Xju34eCLHsGbLQqvMH8W7k0uA8D5cm9J9oPSux7-57qW4K8DeSbbrf8DEw2ui-o4GWIp4jbjQ1ETj4oFnHZW4XsHr_GY0/s400/IMG_6668.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 'Golden Words' themselves appear, no longer golden, at the top of the bridge.</td></tr>
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We
continued uphill past the abandoned house and past the fenced off new one which houses the caretaker of the ruins. A
canal had been dug and then sided with large blocks of stone. It winded its way
uphill, every now and then being fed by small side channels which Niko and
Ingrid had fun hopping over. So this was the source, or almost the source. This
is how they channeled the mountain water into one spot and then guided it on the long,
gravity-fed journey over the aqueduct to Lucca. Pretty impressive! And fun, too. The canals,
plenty of grass on each side, secondary channels, and small stone control huts
proved a great playing space for a wild game of hide-and-seek for the kids
(parents didn’t join this time, wanting to keep a good eye out that our five
year old’s excitement didn’t lead him to accidentally back into a fifteen foot drop into the bone dry canal). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8j3QDgNy0e1QeklETQ0WuT2QDScUq3KU2eizGWN7TKdfpNTFuA_K-sLOH12OwRn_FLrvwuvCgMEB_vu6p_bmF_lF0B099_qKb8wRseWeMR4kwWXhj-eW1OF68eucUJrkYP3kV2dWvIxMX/s1600/IMG_6649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8j3QDgNy0e1QeklETQ0WuT2QDScUq3KU2eizGWN7TKdfpNTFuA_K-sLOH12OwRn_FLrvwuvCgMEB_vu6p_bmF_lF0B099_qKb8wRseWeMR4kwWXhj-eW1OF68eucUJrkYP3kV2dWvIxMX/s400/IMG_6649.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ingrid incredulous Niko found her so quickly!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Up at our picnic spot, after lunch, a few rounds of MadLibs were in order. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIjxdoL8K59vEv9YiBLMoZegK_4U3h7THG4ViS6wqodA2pLS1h5dIIADYnb3JpT1W8TtyCFxe3FMUmvq_d6cmrq7H74DRmdEtNexlMu0_hrmBSEYTZMFyPkVxVj-wYryd96o_6lTGd0kz/s1600/IMG_6626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIjxdoL8K59vEv9YiBLMoZegK_4U3h7THG4ViS6wqodA2pLS1h5dIIADYnb3JpT1W8TtyCFxe3FMUmvq_d6cmrq7H74DRmdEtNexlMu0_hrmBSEYTZMFyPkVxVj-wYryd96o_6lTGd0kz/s320/IMG_6626.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We saw one jogger heading up past
us and into the mountain trails beyond and one older lady with a pitchfork
headed up to search for some fresh additions for her dinner that evening.<br />
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 150%;">This wonderful treasure, Le Parole d'Oro, just five kilometers or so away, left us relaxed…</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblb5TbgLwT_xFPXNDG3gHjq86WtNi6BMwELMkIRQ0asDTMStjOND8SbqqiX5cVudxy7-d2UVaIdqkEftOImOv-3w2zlfcEtaa6ms0Ee_FY2pabtkF7tXpisQ20kQB7v5o5XLPug_rf5n2/s1600/IMG_6643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblb5TbgLwT_xFPXNDG3gHjq86WtNi6BMwELMkIRQ0asDTMStjOND8SbqqiX5cVudxy7-d2UVaIdqkEftOImOv-3w2zlfcEtaa6ms0Ee_FY2pabtkF7tXpisQ20kQB7v5o5XLPug_rf5n2/s320/IMG_6643.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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...and a little silly.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFliwEBDFnBAw0uCpR01cuB2WtNEZHZ0Zc2v3kmhgf1ibsTrq6508gEd6xVtE3QjnpHk40WyuAq2btC1CTWzFUw3QfjjpP4MbWu2b8A1I91ZBrZw4w8TIVki7UH3ROJPsE32fqaxlumw-1/s1600/IMG_6646.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFliwEBDFnBAw0uCpR01cuB2WtNEZHZ0Zc2v3kmhgf1ibsTrq6508gEd6xVtE3QjnpHk40WyuAq2btC1CTWzFUw3QfjjpP4MbWu2b8A1I91ZBrZw4w8TIVki7UH3ROJPsE32fqaxlumw-1/s320/IMG_6646.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I think we'll be returning.</div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-22945599668876392912012-03-20T18:45:00.000+01:002012-03-28T19:44:16.785+02:00Obelisks, Gelato and Catholics: Un viaggio a Roma<br />
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We’d never seen so many men without
pants. Or shorts. It wasn’t what we’d expected of twenty-first century Romans,
but, being our first trip to the Eternal City, we were open to anything. After
our first dozen or so sightings, though, it became ever more apparent that
these were not, in fact, locals. By our second day we had learned that they
were Scots in town for the big Six Nations Italy-Scotland rugby match,
which ended up being played before a 75,000 strong crowd, a great percentage of
whom wore kilts (and, despite Lauren’s curiosity on the subject, we never did
find out if it is common practice to forego any other article of clothing
underneath the plaid and pleats).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqltFSQGua5-DgVuOQZgCsM8h6qLz4vCqJb9Jhh4QhwmwuKrRhoffgb9HGHso_9AjlbrfcQemoYcMXX2mJfr4Iq6zqQTjpprgRLjAm_qA347A2pIZwUDQzVHJ_AEtsp2jojodqC2fXDrO/s1600/IMG_6039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqltFSQGua5-DgVuOQZgCsM8h6qLz4vCqJb9Jhh4QhwmwuKrRhoffgb9HGHso_9AjlbrfcQemoYcMXX2mJfr4Iq6zqQTjpprgRLjAm_qA347A2pIZwUDQzVHJ_AEtsp2jojodqC2fXDrO/s320/IMG_6039.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lured
into a <i>trattoria</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> on our first afternoon
in Rome by its proximity to our apartment and our hunger, we probably paid more
than we should have but enjoyed a long lunch with two enormous courses. My
second featured an eye staring out blankly. Luckily, the gustatory experience
proved much more interesting than the fish’s expression. The sea bass, cooked
and served whole with roasted potatoes and fresh tomatoes on a bed of lettuce,
qualifies among the better fish I’ve had—so tender, moist, and full of flavor.
Niko is reliable when it comes to food choices at restaurants and Italy is
always ready to give him his favorite dish: </span><i>la pizza margherita</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. With the little guy still sick but on the mend and
generally not favorable to cities we didn’t know how this little trip south
would turn out, but thanks to the full effect of antibiotics finally kicking
in, plenty of delicious pizza and gelato and, most importantly, a much-prized
stroller lent to us by a British friend of Lauren’s in Lucca, when it came time
to return north Niko didn’t want to leave. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7C_j6BaOctfSLiG2976tSvnZQLGcNOLUrE51y_ruGR9R301WARj9gAvnoyurZCPO2zNfaDDkCr9Y7Z9IWZ2GhNMGBDfoK_t44C85CJ_ks5jL3s0v0T8aqqlUulDhdvhAwpgssWtboXCR2/s1600/IMG_6072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7C_j6BaOctfSLiG2976tSvnZQLGcNOLUrE51y_ruGR9R301WARj9gAvnoyurZCPO2zNfaDDkCr9Y7Z9IWZ2GhNMGBDfoK_t44C85CJ_ks5jL3s0v0T8aqqlUulDhdvhAwpgssWtboXCR2/s320/IMG_6072.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Our
home base sat within a block or two of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantheon,_Rome">Pantheon</a> and not too far (a judgment
made possible because of aforementioned stroller) from many other tourist
sites. Besides making sure we got at least one gelato a day (and happening upon
two of the best gelaterias in Rome by pure chance) Ingrid also showed some
interest in these heavily touristed historical buildings, piazzas, obelisks and
monuments—especially the ones with direct bearing on the gods (as with the
Pantheon) in large part due to her reading of Percy Jackson and the Olympians
series by Rick Riordan. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzS7eH4K1NUaBKI-cAGP6Hj5ccbcLawm9Qj8piJeOmi0qJZJc1ttZF1ptxnJ25GS3f6dnGN87n0R0cjRPPMwcP5GZJ4Ysp-hFySMIavbqAuvf28hiADecwFpeguDW0yaCt7LfqP-Mnyer/s1600/IMG_6055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzS7eH4K1NUaBKI-cAGP6Hj5ccbcLawm9Qj8piJeOmi0qJZJc1ttZF1ptxnJ25GS3f6dnGN87n0R0cjRPPMwcP5GZJ4Ysp-hFySMIavbqAuvf28hiADecwFpeguDW0yaCt7LfqP-Mnyer/s320/IMG_6055.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We hadn’t intended to see many of these places given
Niko’s dislike of walking and not being sure how quickly he would be rid of the
worst of his illness, but we lucked out (thank you Zara, goddess of strollers!)
and ended up visiting the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colosseum">Coliseum</a>, Explora
(Rome’s Children’s Museum), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Villa_Borghese_gardens">Villa Borghese</a> (large city park), the Spanish
Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Quirinale neighborhood, the Campo de’ Fiori,
Santa Maria Sopra Minerva and Sant’Ignazio churches, Piazza Venezia and the
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altare_della_Patria">Altare della Patria</a> (or “wedding cake” as some refer to it, a giant monument to
unified Italy’s first king, Victor Emmanuel II), and, as if that wasn’t enough
(it was for Lauren and Niko), Ingrid and I walked to the Vatican and back to
visit <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Peter's_Basilica">St. Peter’s Basilica</a>. <i>Mamma mia, che bella</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujiWgLTa869r0i6hUUNThFiOVuNW1B22GKObc02jPKgtGFTcvvbycqScXngbUzMaFibdxujJ7EaMXySeh30DUunCP9gRLU7_c6SAUhokEosI5d4aR_gj-U4BETfw65HHMNRhVXTIzODUe/s1600/IMG_6113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujiWgLTa869r0i6hUUNThFiOVuNW1B22GKObc02jPKgtGFTcvvbycqScXngbUzMaFibdxujJ7EaMXySeh30DUunCP9gRLU7_c6SAUhokEosI5d4aR_gj-U4BETfw65HHMNRhVXTIzODUe/s320/IMG_6113.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
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On
Sunday we knew our sojourn would be coming to an end and we’d have to be headed
back on the <i>Frecciargento</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in the early
afternoon. I journeyed out mid-morning to find gloriously traffic-free streets.
It so happened to be the morning of the </span><i><a href="http://www.maratonadiroma.it/">Maratona di Roma</a></i><span style="font-style: normal;">, so I positioned myself below the “wedding cake” for
a fine view of the start. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSc5qW4LwPNfawb_6n9hYPFEZ-mkGzV6NnIKgocgJzYQnLoBCSDmzKICcPgYLUKDo4Wp4eKDQacPX9k_B0vya-K9pyVA8tBc2rbAJ8ryt6hddgPqfHetYidMFA6qcKC95ZKD7Q_eRpRjLn/s1600/IMG_6183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSc5qW4LwPNfawb_6n9hYPFEZ-mkGzV6NnIKgocgJzYQnLoBCSDmzKICcPgYLUKDo4Wp4eKDQacPX9k_B0vya-K9pyVA8tBc2rbAJ8ryt6hddgPqfHetYidMFA6qcKC95ZKD7Q_eRpRjLn/s320/IMG_6183.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">The hand-cyclers came roaring around the corner
first, most practically completely on their backs, arms turning in tandem
around and around to propel themselves forward. It was very inspiring to see
these athletes making the best of their situation and racing despite
difficulties that would make many not even consider competition (and oh, those
cobblestones must’ve been rough!). The “able-bodied” marathoners came next,
thousands upon thousands, roughly half of whom were foreigners. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDe_RlvJLZBznARnltDGfRIdW_6bbnn9hICQM6bm5x7bDbLAs6L7WwM1bO5yUAjTxU7tHV9vf9joDcr90-nXkFQG6hNGMYt-4l_5eOrJCK26YX79xnwOpTLkSQvoS73VmWVd_bEOp2MZW/s1600/IMG_6203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDe_RlvJLZBznARnltDGfRIdW_6bbnn9hICQM6bm5x7bDbLAs6L7WwM1bO5yUAjTxU7tHV9vf9joDcr90-nXkFQG6hNGMYt-4l_5eOrJCK26YX79xnwOpTLkSQvoS73VmWVd_bEOp2MZW/s320/IMG_6203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">After they
passed I was about to head back to the apartment but stuck around when I
noticed the organizers hurriedly switching some road blockades and announcing
that runners were coming through again. It turns out a 4k fun run started after
the marathon. People from six to ninety ran and walked past me with the biggest
smiles I’ve seen in a long time, some with their dogs, some with their kids or
grandparents, some alone or in groups of friends. Witnessing nearly 100,000
people between both events out exercising on this beautiful spring day put me
in a great mood and hopeful for city-dwellers everywhere. </span></div>
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After
some more sightseeing and marathon watching that morning we made our way toward
the nearest metro station, some two or three kilometers away. Taxis weren’t
running inside the marathon loops so we counted our blessings once more for the
<i>passeggino</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and also for the wheels on
our suitcase. Sometimes it’s not your day but others the pizza lands right-side
up and thus it was for us when, with time dwindling before our train left the
station and the metro car finally showed up—packed so much noses peeked out,
funhouse-like faces plastered to the windows—and we shoved our stroller and
children into the sweaty mass that when the horn buzzed and the door closed on
the handle to our suitcase (which was still out on the platform) Lauren managed
to maintain her grip while I pried the doors back open and quickly snatched the
</span><i>valigia</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> back in, we made it to
the station in time, and even got an earlier regional train from Firenze back
to Lucca since it was running ten minutes late. If I believed in such things, I
would have to say that in the great balancing act of chance we were due for
such a flip of the pizza. </span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8UuNLM0bBXMTxBhcuDOg0D_NBwAnIOmdxmFaGdeeJ9IqfcLwWGP4BGqHrX96wJYx8tIZ6izayoGxJzfh6NsRjcJIyB4URLTeMXiOi5bZoLekdMuMNexpK-KTq3B66wRxCHUKWVrNbG0rr/s1600/IMG_6168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8UuNLM0bBXMTxBhcuDOg0D_NBwAnIOmdxmFaGdeeJ9IqfcLwWGP4BGqHrX96wJYx8tIZ6izayoGxJzfh6NsRjcJIyB4URLTeMXiOi5bZoLekdMuMNexpK-KTq3B66wRxCHUKWVrNbG0rr/s320/IMG_6168.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Will
Ingrid and Niko remember the Pantheon or all of the obelisks we recorded? Or
even the hand-made, organic gelato? Something tells me that eventually these
memories will fade until they are memories constructed more from photos and
their parents’ <i>n</i><span style="font-style: normal;">th retelling of tales
from the trip. But we had a great time and all left with smiles. Right now
that’s just what we needed. Whatever they remember or don’t is just fine and,
if I had to bet, I’d wager it would be the thousands of men in skirts that ends
up sticking. And I’d double my bet had we personally—visually—found out to be
true what Lauren suspected the Scots’ underlying sartorial choice did </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> include. </span></div>
<br />Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-16300103587576093082012-03-13T12:27:00.000+01:002012-03-28T19:45:11.881+02:00Racing through Oxygen, Roads, Medicine, Time<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNfdvViyA4mmuIDFgX6cOpgV09hWW5svAhWcSRSFwyvtB2FuqpM3SUGx-4qlLLt3bRzUU6tR0cGYZ0uEyKIZAtsqPt6B6DUrCNLrjrUa3WufFivBynsmAZonkYLWUCd46T0AwO7f8xTKP/s1600/IMG_5912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNfdvViyA4mmuIDFgX6cOpgV09hWW5svAhWcSRSFwyvtB2FuqpM3SUGx-4qlLLt3bRzUU6tR0cGYZ0uEyKIZAtsqPt6B6DUrCNLrjrUa3WufFivBynsmAZonkYLWUCd46T0AwO7f8xTKP/s400/IMG_5912.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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When things aren’t going well, it’s
logical to think that they could only get better. The post on last <a href="http://lineinitaly.blogspot.com/2012/03/monday.html">Monday</a>
recognized the day’s difficulty but professed that “tomorrow would be another
day.” And so it was. But that day Niko didn’t get any better either, still had
a fever, and then, Wednesday night, around 11:45pm, alternated the barking
cough of croup with wheezy inhalations, and it wasn’t going away. Tomorrow was
another day, but not exactly in the way we were hoping. He’d had croup before, but this time was much worse than any other and our attempts to calm it at home were not working. Niko wasn’t getting enough air. </div>
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I’ve
become a more aggressive driver over here, but at that time of night there were
few other motorists to challenge my path. Suddenly very focused, we sped to
the hospital in about six minutes when during the day it would take fifteen to
twenty. We rushed right into the ER and the little boy was quickly given an
oxygen mask with adrenaline. Of their six categories of severity he was put on
the next to highest. </div>
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I
don’t want to dwell too long on that night, or on the fact that he has stayed
sick for quite a few days after that, too, or that on the following Friday I
got hit with the flu after a couple of weeks with a sinus infection. We set up
a visit to Rome awhile ago and so it’s been a countdown to see if Niko and I
can get better enough fast enough to make the trip, now two days away. I
continue to be impressed with our pediatrician, who during Niko’s latest
checkup to gauge the progress of his lungs also listened to my own health story
and wrote me a prescription! Che bello! </div>
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More and more tourists are visiting
Lucca these days, the weather is getting sunnier and warmer, magnolias are in
bloom and the pollution seems less oppressive than in the winter. So much to
see and do and our time left is drawing short. We always would say, “oh, we’ve
got plenty of time to do X,Y,Z”
but now, with three months to go, we realize that we can’t do
everything, that our time is limited and choices must be made. In Italy for a
year without visiting Rome? It would be a bit strange. So here we go, to the
capital, possibly to return with plenty of stories and pictures to post. Isn’t
it fascinating, as the sun sets, wondering in what ways “tomorrow will be
another day?” Anything is possible.</div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-33210434071975812802012-03-06T20:14:00.000+01:002012-03-07T18:31:44.552+01:00Monday<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjseemIRTmEo6eMSLygnVnUkKwFbj9wlRBl_scO3k1_nTL8qtYBVGTHkw9bSdt-0NA0zQCGXrCRZrCNUuHB5Om8t_ULFfAi4OAUm7VfqzM7s5u81_4VVLC926i1-w9n0t5OOTQ63hc8VOxM/s1600/IMG_5166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjseemIRTmEo6eMSLygnVnUkKwFbj9wlRBl_scO3k1_nTL8qtYBVGTHkw9bSdt-0NA0zQCGXrCRZrCNUuHB5Om8t_ULFfAi4OAUm7VfqzM7s5u81_4VVLC926i1-w9n0t5OOTQ63hc8VOxM/s400/IMG_5166.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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My dream faded as I became aware of the morning. Had I been punched in the face? Had too much to drink the night before? I risked a quick glance from under my eyelids and saw that the crack of light that usually escaped from our otherwise room-darkening internal wooden shutters wasn’t yet present. A yawn and slight body stretch. No, nothing broken. I turned onto my back. A heavy head, but I then remembered that no, no alcohol was consumed the night before. I reached over to push the button that backlit my watch. Five o’clock. For the next couple of hours I lay there, awake, and aware of the slow start to my Monday.</div>
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If you’ve ever lived in a foreign country, chances are good that at a few points along the way you experienced some resistance to your new culture, some sense of, say. . . exasperation. But even if you haven’t, I would venture a guess that all of us have had those days where, although there are no catastrophes or seriously life-changing events, everything seems to go wrong. Like Monday. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlBaDElMeYbEiNdUd18XG8K3Wwj7T7MgbpsVky7eseahaRzrEqssodG_Y42o12_MREyZhA3AzRv890C8MNTyzFKg7mu8xsGSnWUY6g4_U5j3efitFM0UUYdxSLWH7AP-ZbFY52NIrC4yC/s1600/IMG_5618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlBaDElMeYbEiNdUd18XG8K3Wwj7T7MgbpsVky7eseahaRzrEqssodG_Y42o12_MREyZhA3AzRv890C8MNTyzFKg7mu8xsGSnWUY6g4_U5j3efitFM0UUYdxSLWH7AP-ZbFY52NIrC4yC/s320/IMG_5618.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Nikolai had been home sick for three days with a high fever and we were starting to feel the effects of worrying about our little guy and caring for him. Once more Monday morning the thermometer read 40.2 C, and again he was listless and clingy and didn’t have an appetite. We kept trying to call the doctor but apparently she was going to be on the evening shift. She was our third pediatrician since October and this was something like Nikolai’s eleventh health issue that had kept him home from school. All told he’s missed half of school since mid-September and on Monday it was immediately apparent that another home day it would be. </div>
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At various other times this year I’ve had my moments of perversely enjoying the necessity of waiting in endless lines only to then have to wait in another endless line, realizing in that and other situations such as getting jostled repeatedly in a crowd or getting cut time after time in less formal lines (and what was a line, anyway?) that that’s just how things happen here, that I was experiencing but a couple of the so-called cultural differences and somehow getting a first-hand view into a different way of perceiving and acting in situations which I, as an American, had a different way of perceiving and acting in. It was all quite fascinating. </div>
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On Monday, however, I had no such perspective, and it’s probably a good thing I waited to write this until Tuesday. </div>
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Italy is expensive. Lucca, at least, is no cheap place to live, as we were finding out more and more. I’d learned to avoid translating euros to dollars after a couple months of incredulity, but even in euros our costs looked sky high. Monday morning, after we got back from a trip to the post office to pick up a package and were charged sixty-five euros just to take the package (which bore its own hefty postage from the US), I happened to notice a slip of paper in the entry way with the letterhead of Niko’s school. Another notice of payment due for his lunch, and of course it was in euros but for some reason I quickly reverted to my currency translation ways and calculated that his barely eaten meals had amounted to one-hundred twenty five dollars this month besides the enormous sum we’d already paid for his year at this institution when all of the public schools said they were full back in August. Oh, and we were late to pay again. I found a line in the letter that seemed to refer to us, in bold and underlined, saying that parents need to get in the fee <i>on time</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. </span></div>
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That Monday wasn’t just about Niko being sick, either. I was feeling draggy and hyper at the same time, and directionless, so many plans and projects to work on but unable to start any, my various knee and hip problems bothering me more than usual, the incessant pounding and rumbling of motors from the construction site next door driving me insane. Finally, in mid-afternoon, I decided I needed a break and told Lauren I was going to head for a jaunt on my bike down by the river. </div>
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Before leaving I decided to check my e-mail. I should’ve known better. Another notice from Niko’s school! This time they were also requiring payment, but now above and beyond what I had dreamed of. This time it would be one-hundred fifty dollars because the heating company determined that they went above their allotted amount for the winter and per Article X Number 123 they were passing on the cost to the parents. Another bill I hadn’t looked at peaked out from under the computer. It was our very own energy bill for just over two months. After looking at the figure, I knew that at all costs I had to get out of the house for some exercise. While we don’t keep the house baking hot we admittedly haven’t gone the Italian way of suffering as long as possible before starting to heat the house, of using hot water bottles at night to allow house temperatures in the low 50s F, of wearing three sweaters during the day. So now we would pay for keeping this high-ceilinged house warm enough so we didn’t shiver to the tune of twenty-five hundred dollars. Yes, you read that correctly. </div>
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I had about an hour before the pediatrician would start her office hours at four, when we would bring Niko in to see if he had something more serious than a bout of the flu. Out on the bike, weaving around traffic, I eventually made my way to the Serchio. Go to the right and follow a paved path (which it turns out is actually a very narrow road with no shoulder) or go to the left on the dirt/crushed stone path. Yes, you guessed correctly, I went left. Sure, it was a bit bumpy, but there were <i>no cars</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Although my hip still hurt to turn the pedals, and my knee wasn’t much better, I think I started to feel my forehead relax, started momentarily to forget about Niko being sick, to stop wondering if this time it was something worse than the Scarlet Fever, Strep Throat, several day Diarrhea,Vomiting episodes, or Asthma complications he’s already had here. I was inching—rolling—towards relaxation. But boy, it sure was bumpy, and especially from the rear. After a few more seconds I looked back at the tire. Sure enough, I had a flat. After removing the rear wheel, unseating the tire and removing the tube, I began searching for the puncture and eventually found it, the result of a thorn from a bush that was still sticking through the tire casing. I patched the hole and attempted to inflate the tire once more but my frame pump from twenty years ago just wasn’t cooperating. A man passed on the trail with his little dog, nodding to me and smiling, saying something about getting stranded himself. A couple of kids walking with their grandparents and dog glanced in my direction and headed away. I tried this and that before remembering about Niko and seeing that I would already be late. After forty or so minutes in an operation I normally could take care of in ten I had the wheel back on and the tire pumped up and ready to go. The man with the dog walked back past me and said I should stick to the road, that this path had lots of thorns. I thanked him for the advice, readied to mount my bike, and saw that the tire had become flat again. Out of cement and patches now and without a decent pump, I was stuck. </span></div>
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When I eventually made it home, it turned out that Lauren had gotten in touch with the doctor, who said to come by at 7:30pm. We got Niko in his footy-pajamas, brushed teeth, and headed out. There were several people ahead of us at the Pediatricians, but when we came in our doctor indicated for us to sit right outside her office. Maybe since we’d called we would get to go right in at 7:30pm, going in front of the others who were already waiting? We heard snatches of conversation from inside, several times increasing volume in the way that would make you <i>think</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> they were wrapping things up, here’s the prescription, take the drops two times a day for five days… Finally, when the door did open, the doctor ushered in another family, and so on. One hour later we were finally admitted to her office. </span></div>
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Thankfully on off days there is always the next day to look forward to, and sometimes it’s even possible to admit to oneself that absolutely everything on that off day wasn’t so horrible after all. I couldn’t, for example, close without saying that those grandparents, out for a walk with their grandchildren and dog, had returned from their journey and saw me walking my bike down the nearest road. The grandpa was also a cyclist, he explained, though he said he didn’t do it too much anymore. I explained what had happened, that I’d already patched it once but that apparently the tube had more holes and that my pump was nearly shot. He told me to relax, that he lived just down the road. It would be okay. The eight year old boy and five year old girl were extremely interested in this man who spoke in a funny accent that their grandpa was helping, the girl stealing glances now and then, the boy asking his grandpa about the bike I was wheeling and recounting his own experiences with bikes. When we got to their house and I’d taken off the wheel and extracted the tube again the grandpa offered me one of his own, first checking it for holes in a tub of water. In the ensuing re-mounting and pumping up of the tire he literally pushed me out of the way at times so he could try his own methods. By that point in my turn of fortune, though, I’d recovered enough to recognize it just as his way of action, gestures completely normal that would probably go unnoticed by any Italian. When I profusely thanked him he brushed it off and laughed, saying that of course he would do that, that it was completely normal, that I must be joking to offer him so much thanks. I also couldn’t go without saying that this Pediatrician, this third one, is a great doctor and spends enough time with each of her patients, which does mean longer wait times but much-needed attention once you do get in her office. Niko has seen her a few times now and says, “I like that Doctor!” And, somehow, she has refused payment for her services every time we’ve gone. By the time we got in to see her Niko’s fever had gone down and he was joking around, bouncing on and off my lap. She checked lungs, ears, throat, and concluded it was just a bout of the flu and that he should be better by tomorrow and if not to bring him right back. </div>
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It had been one of those days and I looked forward to resting my head on the pillow and pulling the covers up, looked forward to a solid night of sleep and the dawn of a new day but by that point, I had to admit, things weren’t so bad after all here in Lucca. Bills would eventually get paid, Niko would eventually recover, and we still had three months of new days, each one holding its own set of situations—not ones we always planned or hoped for, but ones from which we would surely continue to learn. </div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-22692745737372721002012-02-25T21:28:00.001+01:002012-03-07T18:32:17.567+01:00Don't Think of a Parade<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">But now that you did, what came to mind? Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade being my only previous experience with parades on a grand scale, memories of a much too early departure for the event (I was in college at the time), chilly extremities, being sardined into the fencing which prevented my friends and me and the thousands of others lining up against it from improper egress into Garfield-the-Very-Very-Big-Cat’s path, shining trumpets and trombones blasting, long legs kicking in sync, and more and more enormous ballooned cartoon figures floating ponderously above all briefly flashed through my mind when I started thinking about Carnevale and the parade we hoped to see in Viareggio.</span></div>
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Carnevale celebrations happen all over the world but this would be my first experienced live—and Italy’s eight-hundred seventy-fifth, or something like that. I will not expound on the history of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carnival">Carnevale</a><b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">other than to say that its culmination in <i>Martedì Grasso</i></span>, “Fat Tuesday”, the last day to let go of inhibitions and to drink and eat with abandon before the forty days of solemnity, abstinence and fasting of Lent, would be our day to see the parade (it also happens the three weekends before and two after) and so, wanting to participate fully, I began stocking up on spirits, greasy victuals and soliciting…okay, okay, truth be told, while I could take a pass on gross inebriation and shattering my marital vows, the fried, sugary <i>Cenci</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>Capricci di Arlequino</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> were too much to withstand, so I bought a few packs. Thinking exclusively of the kids, of course. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mario Monti draining Italy's lifeblood with his 'Draconian' liberalization measures</td></tr>
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Carnevale in Venice has its fancy costumes, masked balls, canals, and visitors from all over the world, but Viareggio is Italy’s other most famous Carnevale, supported by a more local contingent and featuring in prominence the parade we were about to see. As we headed from the train station towards its route a kilometer away the air became salty, unintelligible words crackled through loudspeakers louder and louder, and then, almost predictably, Niko decided he wouldn’t walk any farther.</div>
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Ingrid loves a parade, whether it be her own version traipsing through the house or something more official, and she wasn’t about to miss any of it so, putting aside any past perceived injustices perpetrated by her little brother, she squatted down and had the little monkey jump on her back. “I’ll take you, Niko,” she said, “…at least some of the way.” </div>
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With the wire, wood, metal and papier-mâché floats taking a year to design and build expenses are incurred and local government only helps so much, necessitating moderately pricey entrance fees on five of the six parades dates. But, to allow as many to enjoy it as possible despite any financial hardships, the parade today, on <i>Martedì Grasso</i>, was free. Getting there early helped, too, allowing us to squeeze into the free seats, the bleachers no different than those next to us costing fifteen euros a head and providing enough altitude for even nine-year-olds and five-year-olds to see with unobstructed sightlines a bare-chested Silvio Berlusconi surrounded in his tub by a trio of bare-breasted mermaids fawning over him and his guise of eternal youth. Steadily rolling, his wide grin not faltering a bit, <i>Il Cavaliere</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> made his way towards us. </span></div>
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Maybe that would have been enough to scare you away from the party. Not us. We steeled ourselves to a stare-down match with the ex Italian Premier while hoping to distract the young ones’ attention to the large snarling dog coming up in the float behind him but then had our own attention distracted by Mario Monti and Angela Merkl each straddling their respective canons and wearing nothing but the slightest S&M leather, forgot about distracting Ingrid and Niko and then just sat back to enjoy the show along with thousands upon thousands of others, the minority in the stands, the majority down in the streets all around the floats, intermingling effortlessly, nobody keeping anyone blocked off from anywhere, a mass of humanity, some sporting a mask or a wig to join in the spirit, others shooting silly string and throwing confetti. It was Carnevale.</div>
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went the little fried pastries, and, in Italian all-together-with-the-beat style applause, clap-clap went our hands. It was a parade where we could easily see everything, be above the crowd and with it at the same time, feel the beat rumble through us from each float’s theme song and then walk on the beach afterwards and instantly detox on hyper visual and audio stimulation by staring out to the horizon and sparkling ripples of light while water lapped up on the shore and, already feeling nostalgic and wanting a little more, turn back towards the parade’s route, see Nicholas Sarkozy à la Napoleon in front of the Arc de Triomphe with the Alpi Alpuane mountains as a backdrop, and have a whole new archetype, a greatly expanded repertoire of smells, sounds, sensations, tastes and sights that will come to mind the next time we happen to be thinking about parades (or trying not to). </div>
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</div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-11385988837810013232012-02-20T19:28:00.000+01:002012-02-22T09:37:20.935+01:00Listen to these Rhymes<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Passo Lavaze in the Dolomites in January</td></tr>
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One afternoon not long ago Ingrid had been behind closed doors in our dining room longer than usual, and without making any noise, somewhat of an anomaly for her. Besides using the spot for eating dinner, it serves as her workspace for calculating long division problems, identifying parts of speech, reading about the Sumerians, figuring out metric conversions, and writing that what <i>she</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> would call that picture in the English workbook is pants, not trousers, and that it really is okay to spell color without the ‘u’ (little did we imagine that this year she would also become proficient in a second ‘foreign’ language). Homework is getting easier but there are usually still the calls for someone to “…come help me NOW….PLEASE!”, or the screams of distress “NIKO!!!”AGHHHHH!!! NIKO!!!!” when her brother has infiltrated her office to see in what new way he could get his sister’s goat (current rate of success on all methods is one hundred percent). Of course the room also houses our TV, a mid 1980s German model that amazingly succeeded in communicating with the new decoder box it united with in November when most of Italy finally switched to digital signals. So I was figuring a sure bet was to find my daughter curled up in one of the well-worn orange leather chairs watching the triplets whine about someone’s make-up in Spanish and hearing the mismatched dubbing of the corresponding Italian voices on the teen soap opera broadcast on RAI GULP, television for not quite adolescents. It’s probably a good thing I’ve never been much of a gambler. </span></div>
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The door burst open and Ingrid’s eyes were alight. Now I did another quick calculation and guessed that whatever it was, she probably hadn’t just finished the worksheet instructing her to, thirty times over, figure complex fractions of large numbers <i>quickly</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and in her </span><i>head</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. The odds were in my favor this time. Her mouth was moving, but I didn’t hear any </span><i>quattro, cinque</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> or </span><i>sei</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. </span></div>
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<i>“Sui campi, sulle strade,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> silenziosa e lieve,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> volteggiando, la neve<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> cade…” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The words continued to pour from her mouth after she consulted a sheet of paper, walking speedily toward the kitchen where Lauren was preparing some <i>pollo al limone</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (a lemon and chicken recipe she’d learned back in August). I was right on her heels. </span></div>
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“Mom, I have this poem to learn for tomorrow,” she said excitedly (or was it nervously?), “we have to recite it in front of the class. We have to memorize it.” </div>
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Lauren took a look at the poem. It was called <i>La Nevicata</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> by Ada Nagri. Its theme? A snowfall...and what good timing! The forecast called for some of our own, a rarity in Lucca.“That’s great Ingie, do you want to pr--” she began, but was cut off by Ingrid hopping around the small kitchen, snatching a look at the poem before continuing to recite. Lauren and I later agreed that there’s nothing like a good challenge where a student will be held accountable by her peers to motivate studying and practicing without intervention—demands, ultimatums, cajoling (just kidding… really!)—from her parents. </span></div>
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<i>Danza la falda Bianca,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> nel’ampio ciel scherzosa<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> poi sul terreno si posa, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> stanca.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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It turns out she didn’t get a chance to recite the next day because there were too many kids and not enough time. Some had learned the poem and others hadn’t and the teacher said they could try the next day. But they still couldn't make it through all of the students the next day either. “More time to practice,” I told Ingrid. “Maybe I’ll just have to say it to her at her desk since I’m American,” she said. “Maybe,” I said, wondering if perhaps the teacher wouldn’t even have her recite it at all. I suddenly felt under whelmed by the whole experience.</div>
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<i>In mille immote forme<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> sui tetti e sui camini,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> sui cippi e sui giardini,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> dorme</i></div>
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The next day I picked Ingrid up from school and nothing seemed any different in her reaction as she pointed me out to her teacher and was allowed to go down the stairs and meet me by her bicycle. I didn’t beat around the bush. “Did you say it today?” </div>
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“Say what, Dad?” </div>
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I tried to appear more casual. “The poem, Ingrid, did you say the poem for your teacher?” </div>
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We were not quite out of the school gates yet; maybe her friends were watching. So, rather nonchalantly, she answered, “Oh, the poem, no. Actually I said it in front of the class. We had enough time today.” Then she saddled up and rolled down the sidewalk, leaving me excited for her and with many questions which would have to wait until she’d had lunch and was willing to say more. </div>
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<i>Tutto d’interno è pace;<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> chiuso in oblio profondo,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> indifferente, il mondo <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> tace.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Once Ingrid's go-to sandwich, fresh mozzarella on </span><i>pane casalinga, </i>was safely on its way to her stomach,<span style="font-style: normal;"> she was bubbly and recounted the experience with significantly more animation. “For everyone else they were just like this,” she said, mimicking faces held up by hands propped against a desk, eyes droopy, “but for me they were like this,” and now she was sitting up straight, smiling, slowly nodding her head in approval, “and at the end they clapped for me but not for anyone else.” I didn’t worry for a second about all of this going to her head even though it was happily going to mine. I ate up her retelling, but, a step ahead of what she thought we might say, Ingrid qualified it. “Because for them it’s easy, but I’m an American. They know it was hard for me.” Although the girls in her class don’t lovingly pinch her cheeks or her tummy as much anymore, they are still very aware of her differences from them and they’ve been supportive of her in every way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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So this proud papa thought he’d share not only this story but also the memorized poem itself, recited by memory here (audio only) by the girl of the hour, our daughter, nine year old Ingrid. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I guess next time I better start giving her more credit when she’s shut herself up in a room. (But just for the record, that resolution stops once she’s a teen if she starts having boys over who need “help with their homework.”) <o:p></o:p></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-38898555110195968452012-02-10T14:43:00.001+01:002012-02-10T14:44:12.300+01:00Dancing on Quakes and under Flakes<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Ru_AyjEn2ltnrpMMXYsShlVcD8K4gnSPu3r0zA16pD8cw1lbPihFe1Cc-8POL4eOPdtE_KZm-Idyi3M8PHekY8Y9J1o87J60lXeRKI6UKKfnsmKhQUtbqDMkoiBSXZ_lj4k82hmh-Max/s1600/IMG_4885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Ru_AyjEn2ltnrpMMXYsShlVcD8K4gnSPu3r0zA16pD8cw1lbPihFe1Cc-8POL4eOPdtE_KZm-Idyi3M8PHekY8Y9J1o87J60lXeRKI6UKKfnsmKhQUtbqDMkoiBSXZ_lj4k82hmh-Max/s320/IMG_4885.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The door to my room opened just enough for a nine year old face to quietly peek in. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> “I think I felt an earthquake,” Ingrid’s friend reported softly. They had been dancing across the hall on the side of the house closest to the construction site fifty yards away. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> “Oh, don’t worry about it,” I told her, “those big trucks and earth movers can create a lot of vibration. Sometimes we feel it. Let the dancing continue!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> She didn’t seem convinced. After a second or two, though, Syria slid her stocking feet back across the hallway to the music and fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Fifteen minutes later the telephone rang. It was her mother, checking to make sure we were all right after the. . . <i>terremoto </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and saying she’d be there soon to pick up her daughter. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> I should’ve given the native Italian kid a little more credibility when talking seismic activity. Although apparently it’s occurred in New Hampshire I’ve never felt it myself. I remembered my brother’s story of last year how they’d had a quake outside D.C. in Virginia that lasted long enough for them to grab their two little girls and run outside. In our case—luckily—the shaking hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds and we didn’t have any noticeable aftershocks. Everything seemed fine. Although I still like to blame it on the daily construction nearby, maybe more truthfully it was just my naïveté that prevented panic and any initiation of proper safety procedure. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTm4WEgXXTVRBLeBE1-_yzUHWIcgDMz0LIp3n-uSTGoUJ4Bev8QbUMwrKu3gltRp6ENllksV33fGkCplQB7MeaG1gO9HJhQOjx6d2kB5vLq5HS086Mqd2GQ_lJapYKSCKD8laxr2g8aAh/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTm4WEgXXTVRBLeBE1-_yzUHWIcgDMz0LIp3n-uSTGoUJ4Bev8QbUMwrKu3gltRp6ENllksV33fGkCplQB7MeaG1gO9HJhQOjx6d2kB5vLq5HS086Mqd2GQ_lJapYKSCKD8laxr2g8aAh/s320/Unknown.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> When Syria’s mother arrived the scene she painted was a little different. She’d been working in an elementary school well outside of Lucca and they’d all felt the quake and gone down under their desks initially before evacuating outside, many of the children crying in fear and confusion (I later read that many people here in town also evacuated into the streets from office buildings, restaurants, stores and homes. They got jostled out of their typical late afternoon activities and, when all seemed clear, found those familiar routines a little harder to jump back into). She wondered if the school buildings were safe in Lucca. Could they withstand a slightly stronger quake (undoubtedly the 2002 Molise Earthquake weighed heavily in her worries. An elementary school in San Giuliano di Puglia collapsed, killing half of the school’s student population of 51)? After processing the event with us for an hour or so she and Syria headed for home. That evening we got three calls in a row, two from mothers of Ingrid’s classmates and the last from the <i>commune </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(local county) reporting that there would be no school the next day due to the earthquake.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> The next morning I read that although the event registered fairly high on the Richter scale (5.4, which is considered a moderate earthquake) its origin was so deep (60 kilometers) that major damage would probably not have occurred. Wanting to be sure, however, so technicians could come in and check, schools would be closed. And, as we found out the next morning after biking into town to return some books and a couple of DVDs unsuccessfully to the library, so too would be town buildings and churches. Although these structures have stood for between four hundred and a thousand years any tremor could lead to a crack that could multiply and grow and potentially lead to destruction. Every year Italy experiences numerous earthquakes and while many adults may be familiar with them (though probably not <i>used</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to them) they want to be as careful as they can, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2009_L%27Aquila_earthquake">L’Aquila Earthquake of 2009</a> in the region of Abruzzo (5.8 on the Richter scale but only 7 kilometers deep) a fresh and tragic reminder of their power. I definitely felt thankful that my first experience with an earthquake had come and gone relatively peacefully. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> The same cannot be said for the cold snap that hit much of Europe the beginning of the month and has not yet left. When I arrived in Paris and stepped off OrlyBus at Denfert-Rochereau before walking to my accommodations I noticed the cold but welcomed it, a dry and refreshing energizer after spending the day in busses, a plane and the metro. When I found an Internet connection the night before returning to Lucca I saw that my wife had sent a message along with pictures of the kids and a new member of the family who was rather heavy, very, very white and sported a hairstyle that strongly reminded me of pasta. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxwG4R_gCu2EtLvmZ0tzq2ZQSnsjTEX3l1FyMfR_IzZdE15bULUU-iZ6BVMJ6AWAZ3IAzinDLD__cxUqGQYVqVuVbIyCe0KjBY8pgzKlHfUzxy5UvrmrulUwbbg47Dza_McfSG80Mp6Tnh/s1600/Photo+on+2012-02-01+at+09.38+%25232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxwG4R_gCu2EtLvmZ0tzq2ZQSnsjTEX3l1FyMfR_IzZdE15bULUU-iZ6BVMJ6AWAZ3IAzinDLD__cxUqGQYVqVuVbIyCe0KjBY8pgzKlHfUzxy5UvrmrulUwbbg47Dza_McfSG80Mp6Tnh/s320/Photo+on+2012-02-01+at+09.38+%25232.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">School had been canceled on Wednesday, only five days after the earthquake, due to a snowstorm! She wondered if my flight would be okay while I wondered if enough would stick around for me to break out my skis and slide around the grassy fields just outside the walls (yes, no). Meanwhile, however, other sections of Italy were getting hit hard by the snow. Florence was covered. “Rome in Chaos” one newspaper printed in huge letters of the front page. Directly east of Tuscany lies Umbria and east of Umbria one finds Le Marche. Reporting from Urbino, a small UNESCO university hill town not far from the coast, a tv correspondant relayed that three meters (close to ten feet!) of snow had fallen. Reports of cold schools have been a regular feature in the papers, as has the call to lower the heat at home. While this may seem strange at first glance during a major cold snap, running out of fuel is a major concern for local officials. And, unfortunately, at least fifty people have died in the country as a result of the huge quantity of snow and colder than normal temperatures.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> The weather warmed for a day but now the forecast calls for the weather to get colder again and for snow to return today and tomorrow. Long johns are on and snow chains wait in the back of the car if for some crazy reason I feel a need to test my skill manoevering through a bunch of already aggressive drivers, drivers who have maybe driven once or twice in their lives in snow. The weatherman says central regions like Emilia Romagna and Abruzzo will be hardest hit and that this system will be worse than the last bout of snow and cold. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicseT4GLrwJVMUCMLYr05K91-YXEewJzot4eqconYgGACYQVtzSI6xG_3l_xzN4897-ZKjhOTYgaL-rbgs5r0CkK_RV149LhIqQkidwMfDlFz4K5BuutvzFIIY3lqXpypx4wTQ_kzJ6p_-/s1600/Photo+on+2012-02-01+at+07.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicseT4GLrwJVMUCMLYr05K91-YXEewJzot4eqconYgGACYQVtzSI6xG_3l_xzN4897-ZKjhOTYgaL-rbgs5r0CkK_RV149LhIqQkidwMfDlFz4K5BuutvzFIIY3lqXpypx4wTQ_kzJ6p_-/s320/Photo+on+2012-02-01+at+07.30.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">We don’t have a shovel, but this is Tuscany. It couldn’t snow that much, right? Everyone told us that snow is extremely rare here, that they were all surprised last year and the year before when it snowed <i>once</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Meanwhile back home in New England (and in Minnesota) they’ve been experiencing record low snowfalls for the season, cross-country ski racers relying more and more on artificially made snow to train and compete. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Now if we could just get better at predicting earthquakes, send out those telephone calls to keep everyone home <i>before</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> they happen so we’re ready to head outside when we feel the beginning of the slightest tremor. Or I could try listening better. And that’s one of many lessons I’ve learned here. At least as far as earthquakes go, never brush aside the observations of a nine year old Tuscan girl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-74370959371485338162012-01-26T12:23:00.001+01:002012-02-08T16:24:03.780+01:00A January Check-Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGj9avRtxs-ypcyDtZl7f0DiTYacSTPBoL_covJr8FIQaDOPGjZybnI-FY6tpOYP9mfvWdYLZqfyhVaVdolOG2rh3HP56UnT0PiBP2E7tGkL3sAH8KXg6wNd4XtvjGDayVuorEfBHlcC5/s1600/IMG_4820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGj9avRtxs-ypcyDtZl7f0DiTYacSTPBoL_covJr8FIQaDOPGjZybnI-FY6tpOYP9mfvWdYLZqfyhVaVdolOG2rh3HP56UnT0PiBP2E7tGkL3sAH8KXg6wNd4XtvjGDayVuorEfBHlcC5/s320/IMG_4820.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">For months and months we talked about the upcoming year in Italy. We dreamed about the great food we’d eat, the amazing towns, festivals, and landscapes we’d see. But there were also the questions. Would we get our Visa, allowing us to actually go there for more than three months? Would we then get our <i>Permesso di Soggiorno</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, the Italian version which technically would be the final document necessary allowing us to legally stay for a year? Where would we go? Where would we live? Would we like our new home? Would we adjust to life in Italy? What about schools for the kids? Would the language be easy? What would it be like not having a job?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyW2WL_Y0hwJKjsNcOpDZUwfmeF088sELI2oc5Jw1gI6oMu3SziGJwROTZ4M1lYuk80MoZbW8N_djxmaT3SvVdPL9QdHicABPSXP9hw0_LJr0elWxq0yjJ2duq6stZsasOWWynEPWZqNpy/s1600/IMG_4823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyW2WL_Y0hwJKjsNcOpDZUwfmeF088sELI2oc5Jw1gI6oMu3SziGJwROTZ4M1lYuk80MoZbW8N_djxmaT3SvVdPL9QdHicABPSXP9hw0_LJr0elWxq0yjJ2duq6stZsasOWWynEPWZqNpy/s320/IMG_4823.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> The halfway point of our time abroad has already now passed, though, reminding us that we won’t be here forever, that eventually we’ll be boarding Swiss Air in Rome to head back to New Hampshire, and that the new set of related questions percolating up may deserve some attention. Maybe we’ve started thinking about our return also because it finally seems that we are all healthy and somewhat used to living in Lucca. Absent as much stress or as many health problems to deal with, maybe you are the type of person capable of just “going with the flow” or “enjoying the moment”. I commend you; it must be nice! We’re trying to do that, too, of course, but our propensity to plan ahead—now that immediate issues are currently less urgent—brings scenarios and questions of our return more often to our thoughts.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqt-5hurN5aECiutYRRgbuhXB8SE46a8tmoVWk5ioIEvvppcuOfKu_MhyphenhyphenpScIZjLwr87ELhUkpzp93vV8n_0trkhdMzyLFecIgb3RKSEyswRI9KuUjIKNEgTs3ZRCyY4tl7k0d8pHNme5/s1600/IMG_4330.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqt-5hurN5aECiutYRRgbuhXB8SE46a8tmoVWk5ioIEvvppcuOfKu_MhyphenhyphenpScIZjLwr87ELhUkpzp93vV8n_0trkhdMzyLFecIgb3RKSEyswRI9KuUjIKNEgTs3ZRCyY4tl7k0d8pHNme5/s320/IMG_4330.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> When will we return home? We need to change the return tickets and fix a date soon. What else do we really want to do here before we go home? Where would we like to visit? Will Lauren be able to find a job? Where will Nikolai go to kindergarten? How will we afford a car (we sold our family vehicle before we left) and should we start looking for one already? What work will need to be done on the house after a year’s use by another family? These are but a few of the current questions on our minds and, as you can see, thankfully none are life-threatening. It’s just us looking ahead.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> So, let’s take stock here at just past mid-way point. Call it a January check-up. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Are we glad we came to Italy? Yes. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Is it much different than taking a week or two vacation here would be? Of course, and I expected that; I’ll let you ponder what exactly that means. But again, yes, we’re happy with our choice.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Is our Italian as good as we thought it might be at this point? No. Better than when we arrived? I hope so! Sometimes I wonder, though. Recently when I was getting my hair cut or, another time, talking with a waiter, I got a furrowed brow, a pause, and then “<i>Ma non ho capito niente”</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (“I didn’t understand a thing you just said!”). The kids are faring better. Sometimes when Niko is playing alone at home I’ll find him chattering in Italian. Ingrid usually likes to use English with us but occasionally she’s in the mood for </span><i>la bella lingua</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Yesterday when I picked her up from school we spoke in Italian during our bike ride to the grocery store and while shopping (When the bike key lock broke as we went to head home and were stranded there with both bikes and her backpack locked together and a brother to pick up in a few minutes we did revert to English)! She’s also got a good Italian friend who speaks no English so along with a little sign language when they talk Italian is the only option. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKQgdQ0LqT-hkW-vxAs5K1Ga5bDFQubd1z5cffbVLfBIg8z4XVNU7Khf7GC1B4O1OVS_aW2U1WTI4mI6t34FYET2j9zUx8ZyEwLfBmCuWPu600GXZ71P9nU73YzeoQRQ9soAQfcT392h4/s1600/IMG_4302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKQgdQ0LqT-hkW-vxAs5K1Ga5bDFQubd1z5cffbVLfBIg8z4XVNU7Khf7GC1B4O1OVS_aW2U1WTI4mI6t34FYET2j9zUx8ZyEwLfBmCuWPu600GXZ71P9nU73YzeoQRQ9soAQfcT392h4/s320/IMG_4302.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Are Lauren and I having a weekly date-night while the kids run around the house practicing their Italian with a babysitter? Not yet, but the two times we went out together at night when family was here to baby-sit were a couple of our best evenings so far and much appreciated. Thank you family!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Do I have the power by my words to conjure up misfortune when I repeat that we’re ‘all finally healthy’? You may knock on that wood for me, thanks, but I’ve never quite caught on to the saying. Anyway, now that ‘that’ is true (saying it three times just may put me over the edge into a believer), hopefully we’ll: a) find a babysitter b) call her up and c) have some meals out in peace now and then. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Are we glad we are taking a sabbatical year together? YES! The change has been very challenging overall (I know this may seem crazy to you. Sabbatical? Challenging? Just trust me.). As a former amateur endurance athlete and current teacher, of course, I am a firm believer in challenges making us stronger and wiser. And it has been wonderful to be around Lauren, Niko, and Ingrid much more than usual. I am still so grateful for this opportunity. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> And last, but not least, do we miss home? YES! What I’m most looking forward to is fresh air and the rural location. Friends, too, of course, colleagues and students, but we’ve got a ways to go yet. The earliest we’ll be back is mid-June, perhaps early July. Until then, we hope to take advantage of all of the time we have here and enjoy this special year together. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdscGBjZOyr0pfIjk1ZI7oc37TT_TnRAHjZ0sfk0mTOfstYHAh14068wB18Ljlkdiw-tjLZ6fMwHUn_EHELf6QAJOxNgPyO7vsh2BaEDVHetP512LdK8eM3WxY7p8LIbmTf6-jek80IVus/s1600/IMG_4779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdscGBjZOyr0pfIjk1ZI7oc37TT_TnRAHjZ0sfk0mTOfstYHAh14068wB18Ljlkdiw-tjLZ6fMwHUn_EHELf6QAJOxNgPyO7vsh2BaEDVHetP512LdK8eM3WxY7p8LIbmTf6-jek80IVus/s400/IMG_4779.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-49525889952959761182012-01-19T20:20:00.002+01:002012-01-19T20:32:46.325+01:00Searching for Winter<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvFUMrj3cQfoLZF9eKzOH0pExzhOJpmkwa-5K9k7258_qPa86q_6HS6siHKNjcSjSPBKJlrnb478256EijHXHRE6cVa90eOObHxG5WgtQ3_DqvTzCxZhQJdVAuJyhLLFbevzspQsiGMbE/s1600/IMG_4413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvFUMrj3cQfoLZF9eKzOH0pExzhOJpmkwa-5K9k7258_qPa86q_6HS6siHKNjcSjSPBKJlrnb478256EijHXHRE6cVa90eOObHxG5WgtQ3_DqvTzCxZhQJdVAuJyhLLFbevzspQsiGMbE/s400/IMG_4413.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">On the sixth night, the night before we were to leave for our trip to the Dolomites, Niko did not wake us several times with screams, vomiting, or diarrhea. The decision was made; we would make the trip after all. Good timing, son! This journey will be described minus details of the nausea due to curvy mountain roads, difficulty keeping body parts to one’s own side of the car, endless talking in rhyme, countless bathroom stops or hunger pangs needing to be addressed, our GPS voice saying for the <i>n</i>th time “Recalculating” after we apparently would go off her planned route, and all of the snafus of living together in one room for several days once we got to our hotel. Let’s forget all of that, or, now at a comfortable distance from it, just smile in recognition, happy it isn’t presently occurring, but kind of proud we did share in those temporarily unpleasant experiences familiar to any family who’s driven off for a vacation together. At some point maybe a few of the tough times will be amongst the “remember when…” stories whose annual retelling inflates them until the curvy mountain climb literally went on for <i>hours</i>. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfsGjMiVkga-dCHJn4kt0DbqXJOXsLpQy8zXxEuWhxBJxBQQhDuzOZqbYeWRnBYxYd7yZGKSHZY8_lLp2UrX4yqw3dDLCXi-RmusljUMzvu2c6skg8elWFDUJ2u3nZrXUJQS_v8-9hs37Q/s1600/IMG_4418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfsGjMiVkga-dCHJn4kt0DbqXJOXsLpQy8zXxEuWhxBJxBQQhDuzOZqbYeWRnBYxYd7yZGKSHZY8_lLp2UrX4yqw3dDLCXi-RmusljUMzvu2c6skg8elWFDUJ2u3nZrXUJQS_v8-9hs37Q/s400/IMG_4418.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> The route we took did include some more secondary roads that took us up away from the polluted plains of Lucca and very soon, at one of those first bathroom stops, I noticed a clarity to the air and a quality of light that I hadn’t seen for a long time. We were in a small gorge, it was windy and cold, the sunlight was just starting to hit the rock wall on the opposite side of the road, and it was immediately apparent we had escaped the smog. We reached Abetone, the nearest ski area to Lucca, after about two hours and they indeed did finally have snow and plenty of skiers and snowboarders making use of the mountain. Eventually we entered the Emilia-Romagna region and its beautiful open landscape with huge, gradual hills, and then joined the <i>autostrada</i> near Modena. Having stopped at many AutoGrills (in themselves definitely worth the visit) in past excursions on Italy’s highways, I was surprised at the enormous complex of eating establishments we found at the first gas pull-off. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUOMnUPyhb9fLL-cldF_9CdUOkR0MMfB5KGCR_xBlE-6Ot8vED85jp0_gVezhRuXaqg7v16nbzEUX9JcrWtlH1qBgi2a-ey6WC1TJhkAbjWzWxkZbPP1DyY0p9qT9mil4YnsXP-TNr8n65/s1600/IMG_4426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUOMnUPyhb9fLL-cldF_9CdUOkR0MMfB5KGCR_xBlE-6Ot8vED85jp0_gVezhRuXaqg7v16nbzEUX9JcrWtlH1qBgi2a-ey6WC1TJhkAbjWzWxkZbPP1DyY0p9qT9mil4YnsXP-TNr8n65/s320/IMG_4426.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This enormous white building with windows and skylights galore had Burger King and a few other fast food options but also a huge cafeteria-style open restaurant with dozens of delicious choices staring at you, ready to be taken. But you had to be ready to resist (at least a bit) so steep were the prices (at BK, for example, a Whopper was $11.00). Hundreds of other travelers joined us around 2pm in this huge building. The vast majority seemed to be enjoying their lunch immensely and didn’t seem to mind the prices for they had water, wine, bread, first course, second course, side, sometimes dessert, and, of course, coffee. Nobody seemed in a rush to eat or in any hurry to get back to the <i>autostrada</i>. <i>Il pranzo </i>was being taken very seriously indeed. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZHruQcF_Q4V8pAF0DsirrkR9Qh8qgUqeLOd27a9SEaJj39uUtjMvIsEpDJPYjipr-5mVSeiRiq_1tJAFFZxXIMKQgNHf7Wm2HZy1Pd7U80dBDC1-80Q7dm0wyTx6aP0qdNlYWXLwmxI1/s1600/IMG_4442.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZHruQcF_Q4V8pAF0DsirrkR9Qh8qgUqeLOd27a9SEaJj39uUtjMvIsEpDJPYjipr-5mVSeiRiq_1tJAFFZxXIMKQgNHf7Wm2HZy1Pd7U80dBDC1-80Q7dm0wyTx6aP0qdNlYWXLwmxI1/s400/IMG_4442.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Our first night was spent just outside of Trento in Terlago at <i>Hotel Lilla</i>, difficult to find but worth the drive through one mountain and between two others. When we woke up the next morning we saw the nearby frozen lake and the first rays of sun hitting the summit of the snowy mountain just across the ice. Winter! Back to the <i>autostrada</i> then off it again at Ora<i> </i>as we wound up higher into the mountains and eventually into the <i>Val di Fiemme</i>, site of past Nordic World Championships and indeed also site of the 2013 iteration. Our destination, Tesero, is the town where the championships will be held and where, during our stay, the 2012 Tour de Ski would be stopping by for the final two stages of the race. Yes, I was pretty pumped to be there. Even more so since they finally got snow the week before we arrived. More incredibly narrow streets and a final super steep driveway climb and we made it (and didn’t even need to put on the chains since all roads had been cleared)! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvhF-x9y_WR64tOKgn9WhUku3cuigcinruQIFRnsxLJjC_EiIuP6uFHbIOZ3lsXJ-S-BWiil0ByYEuzUGdoR0CVV35gP0YhV2IyuFW_t-FPqbiwTSYOpQfbU966UAAICfik1jv7yws-fND/s1600/IMG_4459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvhF-x9y_WR64tOKgn9WhUku3cuigcinruQIFRnsxLJjC_EiIuP6uFHbIOZ3lsXJ-S-BWiil0ByYEuzUGdoR0CVV35gP0YhV2IyuFW_t-FPqbiwTSYOpQfbU966UAAICfik1jv7yws-fND/s400/IMG_4459.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i> Agritur Darial</i>, the <i>agriturismo</i> where we would stay for the next three nights before heading back to Lucca, sat above Tesero and afforded a beautiful view of mountains all around and of the valley below. A friendly yellow lab sauntered over to greet us. The kids found the barn of sheep, goats and cows (and eventually the horses, rabbits, chickens, and donkey and mule) and, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjerkxa8FowEFGAJ-hxlFnfb27Ozj9iL9qm_stt_-q9iUUxv9aNC0gGW24k11NUXDKGkEsygnDiYjuZgWInPXwegPJYQU1KNxvvN4X-1ygOHvNKZZF76TAwTFQFUiJmUkepVaqI37PLONw/s1600/IMG_4612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjerkxa8FowEFGAJ-hxlFnfb27Ozj9iL9qm_stt_-q9iUUxv9aNC0gGW24k11NUXDKGkEsygnDiYjuZgWInPXwegPJYQU1KNxvvN4X-1ygOHvNKZZF76TAwTFQFUiJmUkepVaqI37PLONw/s320/IMG_4612.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">when we discovered that this small hotel also had a decked out kids common room with trucks, scooters, bouncy balls, and art supplies we knew it must’ve been created by someone who knew what kids like and that if the kids are happy, so too will be their <i>genitori</i>. On the last morning I met a man who has been bringing his family here every year for the past ten! The homemade breakfasts also made a big difference, as did the delicious multi-course dinners (the only tough part being keeping Niko up waiting that long as <i>la cena</i> didn’t start until 7:30pm). So animals and food figured high up there on the list of our favorite parts of the trip. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_GQGlYeiv4HgnTP42Pfm4IcoPOH5bQCd-LADVoIMaCaQEYyh6fLDfj6w-LciHR-dBV3Mcfe8CX5nALk1jjzFCnfA6F_HlQCjlDWuSrW61JJE9TJX2xPTzRH_5P4REh5wR19VIdQJBwoQ/s1600/IMG_4495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_GQGlYeiv4HgnTP42Pfm4IcoPOH5bQCd-LADVoIMaCaQEYyh6fLDfj6w-LciHR-dBV3Mcfe8CX5nALk1jjzFCnfA6F_HlQCjlDWuSrW61JJE9TJX2xPTzRH_5P4REh5wR19VIdQJBwoQ/s640/IMG_4495.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Snow and skiing also made the favorites list, although not at first. I decided it would be awesome to head right down to Tesero del Lago, where the penultimate stage of the Tour de Ski was about to start. Thousands of people, colder temperatures, and some general confusion made the scene harder to appreciate for the rest of the family after the first hour or so, but once I got them some food and found a warm tent with some beer bands playing and a huge contingent of Norwegian fans singing and waving their flags they felt a little better... but not enough to stay to watch the women’s race. I stopped to wish the US racers luck and then we headed back to the hotel (where thankfully our TV got Eurosport so I caught the entire race anyway!).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> The second part of ‘not at first’ was actually the skiing itself. While part of Niko’s deception after watching professional racers was that he himself would not be able to ski (all trails were being used f) when we finally got on snow the next day at Passo Lavezè (5400 feet) both he and Ingrid made us wonder why we’d gone through the effort to bring them up there and get them geared up such were the screams, refusals, problems, etc. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWMNbV9q2pgm1Oq0BBeK7Pz7B9DcmLl49o0e6_CeljkhQgID213wTp6ww6mf6q20OD083oj1v7KvqHwXCVFCSvO9c5N2_emFIIg05RlPcVG1pwC5v2lmKpdh0OKIENxZpqA7jDF5SsqryU/s1600/IMG_4582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWMNbV9q2pgm1Oq0BBeK7Pz7B9DcmLl49o0e6_CeljkhQgID213wTp6ww6mf6q20OD083oj1v7KvqHwXCVFCSvO9c5N2_emFIIg05RlPcVG1pwC5v2lmKpdh0OKIENxZpqA7jDF5SsqryU/s400/IMG_4582.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Luckily for us that only lasted thirty minutes and from then on it was discovery, growing confidence, smiles, and fun! Thanks to Lauren, while they took a break for lunch I got to ski for the first time since February or March of last year. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6FUWijfIfU18tk9Q6viVTT1d-jXBgyhXnby27jksGNyS30IfAZoDbE8pQJ7czyM5F7TpghVliMXlttf-Y5rrg1Jv5fjwRy26f3jtqVAMy_kEIIqQsCVqDq6mGlnEBhVeKI60TYUoO-N4/s1600/IMG_4590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6FUWijfIfU18tk9Q6viVTT1d-jXBgyhXnby27jksGNyS30IfAZoDbE8pQJ7czyM5F7TpghVliMXlttf-Y5rrg1Jv5fjwRy26f3jtqVAMy_kEIIqQsCVqDq6mGlnEBhVeKI60TYUoO-N4/s640/IMG_4590.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I took their longest loop then open (about 9k) and, despite my pitiful state of endurance, had a great time, stopped to take photos, couldn’t believe I was finally skiing—and in such a gorgeous setting! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZCjwA4IJtuaMzFJTm_DZF8e8p9MOB_cxHcPKc1p_p6cnJ12HHrCMDrg0UgC9EFwIqaUWSnKkn5hZfz_s7KHXrkTD7nGGAC9Xh5dhH1QSo-Bp0dU0MFTM1S5akNRzPyrPKaV6pYtzg6-t/s1600/IMG_4605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZCjwA4IJtuaMzFJTm_DZF8e8p9MOB_cxHcPKc1p_p6cnJ12HHrCMDrg0UgC9EFwIqaUWSnKkn5hZfz_s7KHXrkTD7nGGAC9Xh5dhH1QSo-Bp0dU0MFTM1S5akNRzPyrPKaV6pYtzg6-t/s320/IMG_4605.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Our final full day in the Dolomites saw us taking a cable car up to a section of Latemar (a large alpine ski area) in Predazzo which departed right next to the ski-jumping complex. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Today’s main adventure was the trip up, alpine coaster rides, the subsequent meal in the lodge (where you could slide down to the bathrooms if you didn’t want to use stairs), and trip back down in the gondola. The sun was out and the views were stunning. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FncwWbTCABwvPvqnRQjg5DiGinb_IcpJfv5426fOt8TNtEtE2KhrPMQJsHk-D8vOh5zKQwTDKvUaE28HKzsMy3AMFf98_EvdNOjdRWgjUv17sBNmbI5QkB512ziN2gLqIlnj9O9FlAiD/s1600/IMG_4669.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FncwWbTCABwvPvqnRQjg5DiGinb_IcpJfv5426fOt8TNtEtE2KhrPMQJsHk-D8vOh5zKQwTDKvUaE28HKzsMy3AMFf98_EvdNOjdRWgjUv17sBNmbI5QkB512ziN2gLqIlnj9O9FlAiD/s400/IMG_4669.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> We were hoping to find a skating rink open when we got back down but couldn’t so the rest of the family agreed to me driving them for another hour to see the Pale di San Martino and the town of San Martino di Castrozza. The drive there and the views were worth the numerous twists and turns, and definitely worth celebrating with some hot chocolate. The mountains seemed to shoot straight up right from the village, and their rugged, jagged summits the most “Dolomiti” of the mountains we had seen. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinistyRpPgt7xrY1xOxyIqulFNPQEZUzYVj3Oh1EFJhdtcQJSIw3AMVU3y7GfmmmsIt_Jqq4Q-jjwHbTq2N8xd5fnfP-9VJsqJPR3nD-SjnVT3QocKBEAnm6r09jMm_avsiRrvT2yekYpw/s1600/IMG_4712.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinistyRpPgt7xrY1xOxyIqulFNPQEZUzYVj3Oh1EFJhdtcQJSIw3AMVU3y7GfmmmsIt_Jqq4Q-jjwHbTq2N8xd5fnfP-9VJsqJPR3nD-SjnVT3QocKBEAnm6r09jMm_avsiRrvT2yekYpw/s400/IMG_4712.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> The next morning we bade farewell to Emma of <i>Agritur Darial</i>, the donkey and yellow lab, and set about our final adventure of another full day in the car. Niko’s health had held up the whole trip and it wasn’t until late that night back at home that he vomited again. Now this week he’s had strep throat and possibly scarlet fever (there was a case at his school). While mowing the lawn the other day ( I thought my last mow was in November but it was just getting a little too raggedy and when else would I be able to say I mowed a lawn in January?) I was thinking that I just might have to take Niko up to the snow again. True winter, fresh air, I think that’s a better cure than any medicine. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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</div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-7354738421456635362011-12-31T21:45:00.002+01:002012-01-19T20:18:43.245+01:00Exploring<div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUDH0tOpLL_QcVNix2MHdjK_0tqaFDlS0cFMHJ6IGSp6XxfDZGccEUbuP9gO8b5Xk687J4jFq8OUrzoQ-uCxY6KhlR2QKufJR3H4J0xBHF4-K8amdT9dBbPHHbMa1owZ2gxKv1vWclW7ba/s1600/IMG_3539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUDH0tOpLL_QcVNix2MHdjK_0tqaFDlS0cFMHJ6IGSp6XxfDZGccEUbuP9gO8b5Xk687J4jFq8OUrzoQ-uCxY6KhlR2QKufJR3H4J0xBHF4-K8amdT9dBbPHHbMa1owZ2gxKv1vWclW7ba/s400/IMG_3539.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">It took four trains to get to Nice. Having left a somewhat dreary and rainy day in Lucca my arrival into the station at</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"> <span style="font-style: normal;">Nice-Ville was all the better for the late afternoon sun, warmer temperatures, and, of course, hearing all of the French. I’d felt a similar relaxation, warmth, and good cheer on our trip to Briançon back in July. An academic year in Caen in college and teaching the language ever since perhaps had something to do with it. It was good to be back in France. It felt familiar. When you’re living in a new country for an extended period of time, sometimes that’s just what you need.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUalDos2nICFpnZg_iXI5sfXOgm_7S7jscJMjNc_p-TFIuFyK99tmxHkIzk1SurYq2JOclTKQrzz_a4llaM3NdJj0toBZYo-XEagbdiOozGr6d3Nwh5tBuTEVctwIlyKAITTG9iZ2tND4F/s1600/IMG_3485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUalDos2nICFpnZg_iXI5sfXOgm_7S7jscJMjNc_p-TFIuFyK99tmxHkIzk1SurYq2JOclTKQrzz_a4llaM3NdJj0toBZYo-XEagbdiOozGr6d3Nwh5tBuTEVctwIlyKAITTG9iZ2tND4F/s320/IMG_3485.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Having less than twenty-four hours in the city, I set about exploring as the sun set. The moon rose over <i>Place Masséna</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, an enormous square decked out in giant arrangements of Christmas trees, a large ferris wheel, a maze of trees frosted to look snowy despite temperatures around 50F, an artificially chilled outdoor skating rink, dozens of wooden stands housing vendors selling arts and crafts or specialty foods, lighting displays, statues changing colors on top of tall columns, holiday music playing, quiet trams passing by now and then. The kids would’ve loved it. When I crossed down into the old town it was quickly apparent that business that night (Monday) was very slow as the host of every restaurant I passed tried to stop me and convince me why theirs was the best choice for dinner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpQZhB_fzTEGfJybf1nBA7w90oE0EKR_Hs-endXmAtUWWDZ_FP6wQqVLHPNHaBbMSR_B4OGH3bePybFy04np66rgD6m9wCCTySpjGmEICulv-4IHkP5CvFNUQCB4XQGwmM5rvrYUW0eu6/s1600/IMG_3553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpQZhB_fzTEGfJybf1nBA7w90oE0EKR_Hs-endXmAtUWWDZ_FP6wQqVLHPNHaBbMSR_B4OGH3bePybFy04np66rgD6m9wCCTySpjGmEICulv-4IHkP5CvFNUQCB4XQGwmM5rvrYUW0eu6/s320/IMG_3553.JPG" width="320" /></a> The next morning I headed to the sea and the <i>Promenade des Anglais</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I was rather surprised to see a guy in a speedo and swimcap down by the water, it being December and all. He put hands to his hips to survey the surf and strode confidently in, seconds later beginning a relaxed crawl parallel to the beach, with no shivering or hyperventilating apparent from my vantage point. I decided to take a chance on my bad knee and climb up several staircases to the </span><i>Colline du Château</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to take in the views of sea, city, and, as I found out as the sun just struck them, the snowy mountains in the distance. After heading down (and lucking out with the knee) and buying a fresh pastry and fruit at the </span><i>marché</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> on the </span><i>Cours Saleya </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I began checking out bookstores. This is always a dangerous proposition due to realities of both time and finances.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZ3vcPH0N-7DGffXpj1K6NB0ZadEqp3ABiWflOR_TIybfIe9RmlYTQR2R3q14uQT32KpKUSiM9cjrZHZtRDNvJYD4bNLAK5em0nDhWPCfhdOaz7MPF2OwUYvYkxDYlgw-2RULJrZYLUBi/s1600/IMG_3672.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZ3vcPH0N-7DGffXpj1K6NB0ZadEqp3ABiWflOR_TIybfIe9RmlYTQR2R3q14uQT32KpKUSiM9cjrZHZtRDNvJYD4bNLAK5em0nDhWPCfhdOaz7MPF2OwUYvYkxDYlgw-2RULJrZYLUBi/s320/IMG_3672.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I was late to check out of the motel and late for my appointment to pick up our leased car at the airport and had another sizable debit on the credit card but also a healthy stack of books that would make a great addition to my resources for teaching French. They didn’t have the Peugeot 207 available so they gave us the 207SW at no extra cost, a model just roomier enough to fit my skis! And it came with GPS! I’ve never had GPS but was quite glad for it on that day since the detailed map of southeastern Provence I’d bought for this trip was still sitting on a table back in Lucca. I decided to test out the GPS with a side trip to Monte Carlo, Monaco before making my way through the eighty-some coastal tunnels on the return trip. I walked right into the main Casino past some entry guards but to access the actual gambling hall it looked like I would actually have to spend some serious euros so I instead toured the bathroom (free!) which featured the most high-tech self-cleaning toilets I’d ever seen. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PqDtDCtEQscxAYepxX2_cU39D9Rh_nQWSl4PPlsGDQthJEzGCEe4B5EbG9WZtEZpKedzGUmJ6V0rp4AtwrCmUROMqAIWGRxd0jDcg6pzDdAk6bZdj0rL_nI8Cctl7AcqQbef2DXNnGZk/s1600/IMG_3681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PqDtDCtEQscxAYepxX2_cU39D9Rh_nQWSl4PPlsGDQthJEzGCEe4B5EbG9WZtEZpKedzGUmJ6V0rp4AtwrCmUROMqAIWGRxd0jDcg6pzDdAk6bZdj0rL_nI8Cctl7AcqQbef2DXNnGZk/s320/IMG_3681.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> So now we have wheels, motorized wheels. It changes the dynamic a bit for us. We’d gone five months with no car, felt pretty good about it, but also were feeling a bit limited beyond just inconvenienced. It turns out the Italian love affair for the automobile is just as great as the American’s (only the average vehicle here is quite a bit smaller and more fuel efficient), so maybe our relenting and acquiring a vehicle wasn’t so much our “American-ness” showing through as our becoming more Italian. Maybe. I’ll let you know in six months.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVG3Qe4NIyYgIUvyIhRBM_TWIHRdK3pnbE9ZhrrVJ7ZWZwZq8i_Ctdi0NFXrxbYa8dFwvczmv0-x0m6tk9A0Wb4GW_okIqYYrD7oI53C0713UwLPKsQ7BuT89yLQnK0tciCtP2bVUR4hx/s1600/IMG_4153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVG3Qe4NIyYgIUvyIhRBM_TWIHRdK3pnbE9ZhrrVJ7ZWZwZq8i_Ctdi0NFXrxbYa8dFwvczmv0-x0m6tk9A0Wb4GW_okIqYYrD7oI53C0713UwLPKsQ7BuT89yLQnK0tciCtP2bVUR4hx/s320/IMG_4153.JPG" width="320" /></a> In any event, we now don’t have to buy groceries every day, can buy heavy items, can drive kids to and from school when it’s pouring rain, and can explore. One day Lauren and I drove around south of here for a little while, eventually turning around after the road got quite steep and almost too narrow for even one car and the GPS showed it eventually petering out. There was the birthday party Ingrid attended in Nozzano Castello. Another day we took Niko twenty minutes out of town to a dentist who wasn’t there (another one of those “pre-holiday” days off) but then were able to get him to the emergency room where the dentist available had another twenty minutes before vacation and thus enough time to drill off the top half of the nerve and fill the tooth with cement, removing the agony of Niko’s previous twenty-four hours. And then there was the sunny day Thursday when we just wanted to find some park, some nature preserve, something away from the city and the cars. We found it! Lake Massacucioli, best known for Puccini’s home at Torre del Lago, where a summer festival is held every year. On the opposite side of Torre Del Lago we found a small Nature Preserve with museum (closed), but boardwalks open. We ventured out into the marsh and went into the small wooden structures along the way that hid us as we looked out at the lake and the birds. Very peaceful. And then at the turn around point we heard the inevitable children’s plea “I have to go now, really bad!” The return walk was significantly faster than the first half of our journey.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDtlN5aq_W5-Q_Xwou7euxLqVLX9-FuWEe7lOYPW2kTyk4JGEymdIPxw3kIJj9FXoXWcNOjG8GoU6jnBXWHpX3Vvj_YvnSXFSL9UvpladdEV9Ealg8Wln0uzCe6bS-f8vZfIptzL3kwq7/s1600/IMG_4166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDtlN5aq_W5-Q_Xwou7euxLqVLX9-FuWEe7lOYPW2kTyk4JGEymdIPxw3kIJj9FXoXWcNOjG8GoU6jnBXWHpX3Vvj_YvnSXFSL9UvpladdEV9Ealg8Wln0uzCe6bS-f8vZfIptzL3kwq7/s320/IMG_4166.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> So having a car will be nice. We’re almost to the halfway point of our stay and we’re looking forward to exploring some more areas off the beaten track. Next up, at the end of the children’s vacation, we will head up for a few days to the Dolomites, hopefully getting in some skiing if there is enough snow. Things are getting a little stir crazy around here after so many days without school. Being home is nice, but sometimes the best antidote to too much time together is not being away from each other necessarily but rather a break in the routine. And for us, with the help of our Peugeot, we hope to break up that routine when we can and go exploring. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCy8BwF-tq0idKi-KNEexooq_3zpP3xw5gHZxT9UfUuU6FC4k5lAxSemutu_tK2uF2QOnyhJeohl5ueXB1Bf6Fz9KoSu-2uG8YfZ7Ca2o_Ut353pNEWTwtCemHDICsnLMQbM0fxmDQdNkI/s1600/IMG_4175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCy8BwF-tq0idKi-KNEexooq_3zpP3xw5gHZxT9UfUuU6FC4k5lAxSemutu_tK2uF2QOnyhJeohl5ueXB1Bf6Fz9KoSu-2uG8YfZ7Ca2o_Ut353pNEWTwtCemHDICsnLMQbM0fxmDQdNkI/s400/IMG_4175.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
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</div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-30640552411584989702011-12-26T21:57:00.003+01:002012-01-19T20:23:34.896+01:00A Christmas Walk<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(Many of these blog posts have been a bit long and too time-consuming for many to read during a busy day. So this will be a short post! )</span></i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Crumbs were left, some salt remained, appreciative note for foodstuffs sat near them. <i>Babbo Natale</i> and his reindeer were not fooled by our relocation and the letters to the North Pole had obviously been received. After a long, enjoyable morning at home we finally got dressed and headed out into the sunshine for a walk. So high were his spirits Nikolai actually walked, too, and didn't complain once! Temperatures must have been close to 50F as we walked down a twisty path through a large field of grass still green. </div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Into the walls we went and out the other side before climbing a staircase up onto the path encircling the town.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zjh3gF5Xv2neFwdFTgG1hWgdA-4ThcaSDwAjmoL65ZdofHJ4p0cZ2OCgB-ILaEZUaeBEgois4s4FxlBcdkdmaJ_hLiI9jtXuUaZh58iapcUw6Lz9ErAU2FuDn3ob3Z4Y7fUJT9Yh6pxS/s1600/IMG_4080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zjh3gF5Xv2neFwdFTgG1hWgdA-4ThcaSDwAjmoL65ZdofHJ4p0cZ2OCgB-ILaEZUaeBEgois4s4FxlBcdkdmaJ_hLiI9jtXuUaZh58iapcUw6Lz9ErAU2FuDn3ob3Z4Y7fUJT9Yh6pxS/s320/IMG_4080.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"> From there the mountains showed a fresh coat of snow in the distance </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fEf3ftnAj6FocYuiT92arIMNHuMMhCVmxlNJrYG78U2FozobcDUpiTUmTnOPqY8FiJyN5xTHPt4Xj_7FtcOvsXasRvoYFV6PiFSxRSYLivNFbD6I3FHIoODNhWw2-di1koo0xARqgwXg/s1600/IMG_4070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fEf3ftnAj6FocYuiT92arIMNHuMMhCVmxlNJrYG78U2FozobcDUpiTUmTnOPqY8FiJyN5xTHPt4Xj_7FtcOvsXasRvoYFV6PiFSxRSYLivNFbD6I3FHIoODNhWw2-di1koo0xARqgwXg/s320/IMG_4070.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">and before we joined all of the townsfolk for a <i>passegiata sulle mura </i>we stopped to admire the view, </span> <br />
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the weather,<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz51vll9lb5sgVlgvy_88kYbONBkMiwumA5d4Q9hmmKznNizNIGWA_QCmA_WTmtGYzwG6lLDXbZYd_fMXJR25xF94jW-9v8dympVA3IiDKvs28lmpDCu_7a2YRaX6Akigta8Ch7IvNzp55/s1600/IMG_4077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz51vll9lb5sgVlgvy_88kYbONBkMiwumA5d4Q9hmmKznNizNIGWA_QCmA_WTmtGYzwG6lLDXbZYd_fMXJR25xF94jW-9v8dympVA3IiDKvs28lmpDCu_7a2YRaX6Akigta8Ch7IvNzp55/s320/IMG_4077.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
and just spending time together.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQBW83dG70Ulgb8dF2jRdZ-fSiDyU-73u09xkT6oHtLicn9d_JfpnFrM5hIMzr6R8VkOfosRxH-7V-h4Ux6CyVmAJakRxIXtEZ9KBEE47eUMFWBdDhL3lcA7PjbJtfDoE9uEyKi0TSR1Qy/s1600/IMG_4072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQBW83dG70Ulgb8dF2jRdZ-fSiDyU-73u09xkT6oHtLicn9d_JfpnFrM5hIMzr6R8VkOfosRxH-7V-h4Ux6CyVmAJakRxIXtEZ9KBEE47eUMFWBdDhL3lcA7PjbJtfDoE9uEyKi0TSR1Qy/s320/IMG_4072.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-41649585582938477542011-12-16T12:32:00.001+01:002012-02-08T16:25:08.882+01:00Sounds, Smells and Soapsuds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-xyxodBrVW6lyBSqf-Bsv1WeBuEG9wazlyFztQo3ST6R6yoBWOWGXfc8gPP1QBs4IKhOt_yBsr4oUDwu0tZkTAU5OPx9_iZ-nIsi_SrAg-FQ53Jzr9DlXdL1X-WOIPxPPIdkq023kV-B/s1600/IMG_0797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-xyxodBrVW6lyBSqf-Bsv1WeBuEG9wazlyFztQo3ST6R6yoBWOWGXfc8gPP1QBs4IKhOt_yBsr4oUDwu0tZkTAU5OPx9_iZ-nIsi_SrAg-FQ53Jzr9DlXdL1X-WOIPxPPIdkq023kV-B/s400/IMG_0797.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> When I started this blog I didn’t have a clear idea of its audience. Would it be directed towards family? Family and Friends? Any cyber-surfer who happened upon it? As it took shape I opted for all of the above. I would put in photos of us and details to make it worthwhile for family and friends but also include something in each post that anyone might be able to relate to such as, for instance, what we all encounter at times dealing with our home. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> We found a house with a <i>giardino</i> just outside Lucca’s walls whose rent closely approximated what our tenants would be paying back in New Hampshire. Already we felt lucky since most housing around here is in the form of small apartments and rare is the yard for the kids to play in. Another factor going for this house was its location: close to the walls and historic center but also in a residential neighborhood with a pizzeria, bar/gelateria, bakery, butcher’s and bike shop all within a five minute walk and, in tourist season, safely removed from the crowds. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Built roughly one hundred years ago and, like most dwellings around here constructed primarily of concrete blocks and plastered walls with rounded orange tiles on the roof, the house fits in with the neighboring apartment complexes and houses. From the outside you’ll notice narrow, tall windows with functioning green shutters to close when you’re away, when it’s storming, or in the summer during most of the day to keep the sun from roasting everyone inside. The double wooden doors at each entrance also reach quite high and, when both are open, provide a berth wide enough for even the largest friend or piece of furniture to enter or exit the premises.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6bPiQFqYByLn4RP0Ms3Zeh6QWqUZEEOFKRVEf2nXzmnpIOjvaTUs-d0GkaIrWU2poC1qatQw2WJBL8ID4s7bvP_8bg35xUrKNQQ0yrXyzYMFSH3SMOPLYHq-7BwoN6WnbfKApHKXcq1KI/s1600/IMG_0186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6bPiQFqYByLn4RP0Ms3Zeh6QWqUZEEOFKRVEf2nXzmnpIOjvaTUs-d0GkaIrWU2poC1qatQw2WJBL8ID4s7bvP_8bg35xUrKNQQ0yrXyzYMFSH3SMOPLYHq-7BwoN6WnbfKApHKXcq1KI/s320/IMG_0186.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> The first thing we noticed upon entering the house were the tall ceilings, two of which featured paintings of flowered borders framing an idyllic country girl carrying a bundle of grapes or a literal cornucopia from the harvest. The floors were all tiled or some sort of stone, lending a sonorous reverberation to our speech. There were the enormous bookshelves with glass doors, some antique desks, the tiny kitchen. It was all a bit disorienting coming from a low-ceilinged smaller house made mostly of wood. It seemed very different but also exciting, new, foreign. A home that would surely work splendidly for our family for the year.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> After some time in a place you begin to see its drawbacks though, no matter how great it may appear at first. We heard our every footstep on the hard floors. The reverberations of our voices became loud echoes and, while making the harmonica sound less like a toy and more like an instrument, turned the kids’ fights into World War III. Our location also happened to be one hundred meters from a train track and fifty meters from a busy roundabout connecting the main route to the highway and the city’s periphery road. Getting accustomed to the cars passing and honking took a couple of months while getting used to the daily stream of busses and semis changing their gears, braking, rumbling and shaking the house, that took about four or five. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaMc8czbGPoLDdnE9fP5wAPwlvPgQ7D-TMxRiqaT-N_yzI9viVRTUL4bxDwTiMJY4IbnmHwO1FLadZyDikIBZ_Tx8YXMuxY13yA6f8XV_6Zs9pw_JTZQ6BBMjqNVQuytQKkR60KV2h9-x/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaMc8czbGPoLDdnE9fP5wAPwlvPgQ7D-TMxRiqaT-N_yzI9viVRTUL4bxDwTiMJY4IbnmHwO1FLadZyDikIBZ_Tx8YXMuxY13yA6f8XV_6Zs9pw_JTZQ6BBMjqNVQuytQKkR60KV2h9-x/s200/images.jpeg" width="116" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Then there was the sewer gas. Mainly it came from the upstairs bathroom on the floor where our bedrooms are located. The stench ranged from tolerable as long as you weren’t there too long to nauseating. Its source was hard to pinpoint, but the time it started all of a sudden while I was cleaning up after a workout the answer was clear. The shower drain. Pleads around town for help and advice were mostly answered by, “it’s like that here” or “I have the same problem”. I believed them at first, wondering how they could possibly live like that. Surely Italians had at least as capable an olfactory sense as did I, if not much, much more acute given their acumen and acclaim for gustatory pleasures. I went ahead and bought all of the chemicals they advised me to dump down the drains, dumped diligently and hoped for the best. But no lemon-scented ammonia, no liquid plumber, no <i>WC NET Professional Scarichi Domestici con agenti biologici</i> (mint scented!) would finish off the stench so easily. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> We called the plumber. He took a look and said it would be too hard to fix, that it was simply like that (at least according to my comprehension level of Italian in August). Were we just spoiled Americans to want to be able to breathe freely in our home? Maybe it was just something we’d have to grow accustomed to if we didn’t want to cut our sabbatical short and leave the country. We resigned ourselves to the maliferous odor. The days and weeks went by, we tried not to spend too much time upstairs (besides those rather important hours spent in bed every night), we tried to ignore it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> It became more and more apparent to me, however, as another month or two passed and my frustration level grew that this was not just a simple “bad smell” problem, but that there had to be something fundamentally wrong with the system. This had occurred to me back in July, of course, but after the plumber had said there was no fix and everyone else had admitted that that was just how it was I’d backed off and tried to accept it. After awhile though, that just wasn’t going to be good enough. I had to do something.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBw4PPHyzARRx188PTTanXZbEsNxaaK3TwzI2cWbjlhcz8dBrDIa5eMBzmyOdBadiffung6riRqx9UoENHjzn-rBujgzQZtz_2TrwKRXj6aKwCq_v3uWIhUG-sGa9VciLJJTAGpFcWXmIS/s1600/IMG_2486.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBw4PPHyzARRx188PTTanXZbEsNxaaK3TwzI2cWbjlhcz8dBrDIa5eMBzmyOdBadiffung6riRqx9UoENHjzn-rBujgzQZtz_2TrwKRXj6aKwCq_v3uWIhUG-sGa9VciLJJTAGpFcWXmIS/s320/IMG_2486.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Three months had gone by since his first visit before we finally got the plumber to come back. I showed him some diagrams on how a plumbing system should work. He agreed that that would be the best system, ideally. He and his partner were joined by two others who set up a scaffolding two stories high outside and set about chipping into the wall. Soon they had exposed the piping and drain of the shower, (which, surprise surprise, had no trap). After another jaunt up into the attic the plumbers confirmed that there was in fact no vent stack for the house either. So my suspicions were confirmed: we’d been inhaling noxious gasses for four months. Having said that, it is true that we probably wouldn’t have so appreciated having normal air to breathe in the house had we not had foul air first (okay, perhaps I'm trying a little too hard with that attempt at looking at the bright side...). You’d think that here in Italy, birthplace to the concept and implementation of plumbing, houses would all be equipped with such technical innovations as the vent stack and the ‘S’ bend (trap) in drains. Apparently not. Over the next few days the teams worked together drilling a hole through the ceiling and roof, setting up the vent and installing a trap. The next day—finally! finally!—the stench had been staunched and set free to travel up through the sky, never to return again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Then there were the suds. In a future post I’ll write about the wonder of bicycles here in Lucca but in the meantime I will tell you that after five months we’d finally had it, not so much with having to bike everywhere as with not having a car. It just so happened that on Sunday night I was doing the dishes, thinking about what to pack for my train ride to Nice the next day where I would be leasing a Peugeot for the next 175 days (our plan had been to buy a used car here in Italy but we later found out we don’t have the right to do that as non European Union citizens and as temporary residents here in Italy). The owner of the house stopped by to pick up a few possessions from the basement and my wife took the opportunity to point out where a leak had sprung from the washing machine. The owner took the machine apart and started trying to fix it when I heard the loudest and most terrified screams from our son I’d ever heard before. The kid can be loud when he wants to and we’ve heard uncountable cries and rages in his nearly five years, but I swear, this one topped them all. Oh, and I should probably confess where we’d left him while we were in the basement working on the washing machine leak. Yes parents, you guessed it. The bathtub. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_qxMv3YuYZCiJQ-0A47mTEqKJfNP3blsO4rWSOdAgca7dtGQisvxInGed0RWSq-vSsfl-SfpGTytnVcUk3CZnxac8Gcg5GUVPmO232fzchU9W1EM6itIhSDIQPvGHGdJuj7-mOAWtQrQ/s1600/IMG_3378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_qxMv3YuYZCiJQ-0A47mTEqKJfNP3blsO4rWSOdAgca7dtGQisvxInGed0RWSq-vSsfl-SfpGTytnVcUk3CZnxac8Gcg5GUVPmO232fzchU9W1EM6itIhSDIQPvGHGdJuj7-mOAWtQrQ/s320/IMG_3378.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> The day before Niko had discovered how to make the bubble bath infinitely more bubbly and so much did he revel in his bubbly, soapy world that we didn’t think twice about letting him run the jets to give him his suds. On the night in question, though, after Niko had tired of the jets apparently he ventured to turn them off himself (a button easily reachable from inside the tub). We pieced together later that upon doing so the jets did stop but with a terrible crash, something instantly burst and the water and bubbles rushed immediately out from both somewhere underneath the tub and over the top onto the bathroom floor and out into the hallway, bringing with it a purging of the contents of the drain (not pretty). Niko was terrified and scampered out of the tub and into the hallway, which is where I found him, naked with soap suds all over, screaming for his life, and when I’d wrapped a towel around him and picked him up all he could say amidst his sobs was, “I wanna go back to New Hampshire, let’s go back to New Hampshire, I don’t like it here! Let’s go home!” We later set about opening the tub. The owner called the plumber to come take a look and see if he can fix the tub (he’ll be here after Christmas).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg66tBjuaA5P9At1-dm5QeDioB5sgaNTyLmeYjQETCSxl4E9-67aBOexxoEyoyt2Su1DCNdew0VpLH5uVSANJieWN3_meE8oGAhCRPcmxfG9QK3QNABhou1vnfrLWG4QH25LguOrpAvTh7K/s1600/IMG_0116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg66tBjuaA5P9At1-dm5QeDioB5sgaNTyLmeYjQETCSxl4E9-67aBOexxoEyoyt2Su1DCNdew0VpLH5uVSANJieWN3_meE8oGAhCRPcmxfG9QK3QNABhou1vnfrLWG4QH25LguOrpAvTh7K/s320/IMG_0116.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One minute before leaving home in New Hampshire for home in Lucca</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> We are very fortunate to have this home and it will do just fine for us during our year in Lucca. There’s no denying that we do look forward to the day we’ll be back in New Hampshire in our cozy home near the woods and lake. In many ways, however, life at home in Tuscany really isn’t quite so different as back in New England. No matter where you go, the roof may spring a leak, the lights may go out, but eventually routines settle back in and life goes on. In the meantime, until the plumber comes to save us again, the kids will be taking showers.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-88501074466279119732011-11-30T13:30:00.001+01:002012-02-08T16:26:46.067+01:00Andiamo al Parco Giochi!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkpxGmLrICXZYq6GCf6MBSTE_ea4g6E2HLHB7v1OCFO8zpL7ibuvk1gwHVY814LcyOnqkrW0GNrLCOYofMnE0XP8FjXXXvRjWjrspZHor-g7iHg4MaCnX6a8rs_ksuef3UMrlSyH515hj/s1600/IMG_0202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkpxGmLrICXZYq6GCf6MBSTE_ea4g6E2HLHB7v1OCFO8zpL7ibuvk1gwHVY814LcyOnqkrW0GNrLCOYofMnE0XP8FjXXXvRjWjrspZHor-g7iHg4MaCnX6a8rs_ksuef3UMrlSyH515hj/s320/IMG_0202.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Let’s go to the playground! The kids made this request frequently the first couple of months after we arrived. Ingrid claimed she never saw kids her age around our neighborhood, much less played with any. As far as I could tell, this was pretty accurate. Where were the kids? In August there was a good chance they were off on vacation, spent most of the day at grandma and grandpa’s house, or just stayed inside during daylight hours due to temperatures in the upper nineties. We found the stress and irritability level of the younger set—and, consequently, our own—was proportional to how often we got them out where they could be amongst their own generation and, try as we might (why was it so hard to try to get used to eating dinner at 8:30 or 9:00pm and head into town with the family after?), our late night outings with Ingrid and Niko worked out only perhaps once every week or two. So, when we had a sort of stir-crazy, everyone fighting, out of routine family explosion one hot day in July, we decided to promise at least one trip to the <i>parco giochi</i> per day. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglxtTs7Ab95hK7o6FigN4ideNoMAhA4TZoiFQnmFxrgtH0syLjiYlil3gz9n5HBZOuBEWaKkdiI8eIrEtZ052176cjKuLgR57Wt95p1h4CGkfATCXkeIqUz66fNE4I_Uh4TxKQRONrY9YT/s1600/IMG_2823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglxtTs7Ab95hK7o6FigN4ideNoMAhA4TZoiFQnmFxrgtH0syLjiYlil3gz9n5HBZOuBEWaKkdiI8eIrEtZ052176cjKuLgR57Wt95p1h4CGkfATCXkeIqUz66fNE4I_Uh4TxKQRONrY9YT/s320/IMG_2823.JPG" width="320" /></a> But which one? Part of the fun early on was seeing if we could find a new playground, or, after we found them all, discovering when the ideal time was to visit. The first we saw, located just inside the walls and next to one of the main gates to the historic center, sat across from an elementary school and preschool. Easily accessible and visible, this playground tended to be the busiest. But not when we went. The first couple of times maybe one other kid, usually one or two years old, toddled around the seesaw and the springy horse and motorcycle. Eventually Ingrid had it figured out: little kids in the morning, big kids in the evening. We tried again and sure enough found the place teeming with kids scampering about, parents standing nearby ready with a well-placed boost or reprimand, grandparents sitting on the benches watching it all in amusement. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKx9t2MwxwCkc7GcZJH0upk4HbgEN1Wcj1-xJM5Dwwv1JG9YwZoTp0t_vxP2kEaZ5TiLEMfj-VJAM3Ebglvb3vi0JDmoa_41QgVAAIUZHUhWizz1XmapSa6Xu8w1So7PPlVa1BbuiNasU/s1600/IMG_3131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKx9t2MwxwCkc7GcZJH0upk4HbgEN1Wcj1-xJM5Dwwv1JG9YwZoTp0t_vxP2kEaZ5TiLEMfj-VJAM3Ebglvb3vi0JDmoa_41QgVAAIUZHUhWizz1XmapSa6Xu8w1So7PPlVa1BbuiNasU/s320/IMG_3131.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Another playground we located, much larger and, in addition to a little train, slides, climbing structures and swings, featured...grass! Surrounded by a chain-link fence and open from sunrise to sunset, this playground was located about one hundred meters outside the walls encircling the town. Niko and Ingrid beamed when they saw how big it was and that there was grass to run around on, not just dirt or stones. We’ve only been there maybe five times but we’ve never seen more than two other families. Go figure.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5xwj2JeCXlAQyvTL90ybQ3UgZRE_Hdyc8GKXNy4_GFoy-ppS16Pi1-uCEEKwFoE3IrZm51zr-XOSqPMlk9AE8k130_e8RoKKx1jguw-9FtnT2fImYFuw8FrGWfTRkgHuSmtYsAs50R1cu/s1600/IMG_3181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5xwj2JeCXlAQyvTL90ybQ3UgZRE_Hdyc8GKXNy4_GFoy-ppS16Pi1-uCEEKwFoE3IrZm51zr-XOSqPMlk9AE8k130_e8RoKKx1jguw-9FtnT2fImYFuw8FrGWfTRkgHuSmtYsAs50R1cu/s320/IMG_3181.JPG" width="275" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Then there was the smaller playground hidden in a courtyard, replete with fountains at ground level for running through, trying to block with your foot, sitting down in and beating the heat. Or the playground on the far side of town, just inside the walls, which the kids tended to prefer not, I think, because it was the farthest from our home, but perhaps due to the comfortable morning sunshine (well, I guess that must’ve been us) or the right combination of monkey bars, climbing structures and swings (more likely).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Lauren found these trips to the playground very educational from a linguistic standpoint. Here was real language, kid-directed language, language you need every day as a parent. Yes language students, I’m talking about the Imperative. The Command form. ‘Come here, go up, come down, be careful, stop it,’ and the like. But also, of course, there was the magical world of kidspeak, fascinating enough when you hear young children talking with buddies—or by themselves—in English, doubly so when they’re using a foreign language. Enchanting to my ears, practical for Niko and Ingrid. One of Ingrid’s favorite expressions that a girl taught her on the playground when she saw her hanging upside-down from the monkey bars was ‘<i>fare la pipistrella</i>’ or ‘to do the bat’ (it sounds so much better in Italian). <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxgG-LTv-loXjHXiYP7kxH9sEMd4iB57-z84qt5fkzEqzkxDzUlgiYZwjB2egwTjqwZTMndgGTbdpKOBNsJ8QlALgM74JUSNW1Dkp2R0oLjaZCVQGOg34TnN1_C3rUejfNaQ6Ns6xmYXcj/s1600/IMG_3143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxgG-LTv-loXjHXiYP7kxH9sEMd4iB57-z84qt5fkzEqzkxDzUlgiYZwjB2egwTjqwZTMndgGTbdpKOBNsJ8QlALgM74JUSNW1Dkp2R0oLjaZCVQGOg34TnN1_C3rUejfNaQ6Ns6xmYXcj/s320/IMG_3143.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The kids get plenty of time with other four year olds and nine year olds now that they’re in school. The days are shorter, too, and so our trips to the playground tend to be limited to the weekends. Still, I don’t know where we’d be without these places. They helped us through the summer and are a highlight of every weekend. As any parent of young children knows, we need all of the help we can get. Imagining the plethora of suggestions (demands) my kids might come up with for activities to do when bored I’m always slightly relieved when the question turns out to be not 'Can I take all of the food out and mix it up with dirt and put it in the refrigerator?' or 'I'm going to show you how many ways I can annoy my brother/sister, 'kay?', but instead a simple ‘Can we go to the playground?’ We're tired or have x, y, z to do, sure, but parents, let's nod our heads--it starts there--and with that kids have the answer they're looking for. We don't need to say anything else but, uttered more to convince ourselves, more to get ourselves up for it, not sure where it will lead us this day but some form of adventure guaranteed, we say "Okay, all right. Get your Coats."</span> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jILixAeAn9nX8MsUKkrJAhtu3IWYBH6KFUo9E3FZ2Rrm7CqhXX7Yz5L_1rleytOC8jRLwXmZ5RAy_lGIiASxby7uG94E-ZiDrGvkLDY9pzmVYiIzoyYeT7pIJg1fxgP0XMFxKG3eWMbu/s1600/IMG_3183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jILixAeAn9nX8MsUKkrJAhtu3IWYBH6KFUo9E3FZ2Rrm7CqhXX7Yz5L_1rleytOC8jRLwXmZ5RAy_lGIiASxby7uG94E-ZiDrGvkLDY9pzmVYiIzoyYeT7pIJg1fxgP0XMFxKG3eWMbu/s320/IMG_3183.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8709283105296503504.post-78344827517972316112011-11-26T15:51:00.001+01:002012-02-08T16:28:25.284+01:00A Thanksgiving Communion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7kYlnS7iWm0k_PHrC9VS2UP4uXS8Q4VKNb_Ubm0BOqUAJT-EZoz2K7x9DWmjhhJzqg8r-1A6ReNUZ2Xvk10g9TXEVUiozuWyT3ycTBwncuiTKovknV2Dh9L6PCwvf7SpGhOqaVt-OzAF/s1600/IMG_3090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7kYlnS7iWm0k_PHrC9VS2UP4uXS8Q4VKNb_Ubm0BOqUAJT-EZoz2K7x9DWmjhhJzqg8r-1A6ReNUZ2Xvk10g9TXEVUiozuWyT3ycTBwncuiTKovknV2Dh9L6PCwvf7SpGhOqaVt-OzAF/s400/IMG_3090.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">For sixteen years, starting at age nineteen, I didn’t eat animals. Cheese? Sure. Eggs? Of course. Fish? Nope. Chicken, Beef, Ham? No, definitely not and no way. Did my sophomore summer preparing fries and spending hours soaking up the smell of sizzling ground-beef patties have anything to do with it? Or was it the ethical quandary surrounding the mass slaughtering of animals to produce the millions and billions of hamburgers my employer sold? Perhaps it was a concern for health—cholesterol, arteries and all of that? How about the ecological and humanitarian costs of putting so many resources and energy into this food source when, if they were instead applied toward producing other non-animal foods could provide nutrition for ten times as many people and seemingly solve many food crises? When I didn’t want to make my meal companions too uncomfortable or felt like giving them a little surprise while I got on with my salad or meatless casserole I would answer their queries questioning my vegetarianism with this statement: ‘I just don’t like the taste’. Truth be told, that was a lie, and my reasons did include some of the typical environmental, health and moral reasons many vegetarians give, but it was fun to say and entertaining to see the shock register on the meat-lovers' faces.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1WKJ9vZR5o0tVlBsCr2Zdd7mwU5J36rwMBQi2MfTsZNRTLkeiC9m5XtYM7xVbpkZCPLbwJVZtuwXVSwGF3z4TUF6gRhVclL88Bnrgl_zBki_GUYhdeiQb884DHgNjhsmbiC66Imu_0EE/s1600/IMG_3092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1WKJ9vZR5o0tVlBsCr2Zdd7mwU5J36rwMBQi2MfTsZNRTLkeiC9m5XtYM7xVbpkZCPLbwJVZtuwXVSwGF3z4TUF6gRhVclL88Bnrgl_zBki_GUYhdeiQb884DHgNjhsmbiC66Imu_0EE/s320/IMG_3092.JPG" width="276" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Then one summer in the middle of triathlon season a few years ago I felt like I needed something more in my diet, tried elk stir-fry from a local farmers market, a week later visited a former student on his dairy farm where we received a few pounds of fresh ground meat and then grilled it up back home. My first burger in sixteen years. In theory it shared similar origins with the burgers I’d worked with years earlier, but somehow (the fact that the meat came from one cow and not dozens, one cow whose diet was mostly grass, and one who was not packed in with others all of her life may have had something to do with it) this one was <i>so</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> much better. There was no turning back. And no, I didn’t get sick. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpLGs3yimSW3_cFlOTKe_EZa3E48gACEZsMe73b6zB1IUfVS4ACEBEzfpwanF86LOL3dYvkTZxIAc-TQBHhD27HIAQcF-Qg0DWgl_ffhLRGMSXnGbiN0MifReVZfxpaLEx4Lka2lBK4ZH/s1600/IMG_3097.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpLGs3yimSW3_cFlOTKe_EZa3E48gACEZsMe73b6zB1IUfVS4ACEBEzfpwanF86LOL3dYvkTZxIAc-TQBHhD27HIAQcF-Qg0DWgl_ffhLRGMSXnGbiN0MifReVZfxpaLEx4Lka2lBK4ZH/s320/IMG_3097.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> In Italy the opportunities to eat meat abound. Since I’ve been eating meat for several years now the dietary transition moving over here definitely wasn’t as difficult as it could’ve been (I did come across mention of a society for vegetarians in Italy but don’t think their numbers will threaten to put any meat growers out of business in the next century or two). I can’t believe I’d lived all of those years without prosciutto! And the steak I had the other night, cooked (slightly), sliced in quarter inch strips and topped with fresh-pressed olive oil, arugula and shaved parmesan! So satisfying on a primal level, and pretty darn tasty, too. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6IO6MUZeIWKZEcQKlbQ1aZ_uBIYzhyphenhyphenG0k-Gz7qImQQADjo1MbxxR3-lqAENLbN9J1KATtyC_-gJRGzAMEyfcrEv-HVnxRdStFBlpuws2C5jorm6-6_eexnLcAmU51E0XrfQsH-mklcxk/s1600/IMG_3102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6IO6MUZeIWKZEcQKlbQ1aZ_uBIYzhyphenhyphenG0k-Gz7qImQQADjo1MbxxR3-lqAENLbN9J1KATtyC_-gJRGzAMEyfcrEv-HVnxRdStFBlpuws2C5jorm6-6_eexnLcAmU51E0XrfQsH-mklcxk/s320/IMG_3102.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> I have trouble imagining consuming octopi, organs, veal, heads and eyeballs, although I do admit to eating rabbit. Once. The second time I saw a rabbit here it was missing only its fur and skin. Pink, shiny, and stretched out on its side behind the glass display, this bunny was not hopping anywhere. It was Monday and I’d gone to the local butcher’s shop to look for a bird we’d be needing soon. The rabbit’s eye met mine. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> When I was a vegetarian I used to think that if I were to eat meat ever again I should be prepared to slaughter the animal myself. Were I starving and looking for meat for survival I don’t doubt my capability to do so, but in this first-world corner of the planet I am fortunate enough to inhabit the thought of doing so still slightly sickens me. Nevertheless, even now as a meat eater I think it couldn’t hurt for everyone back in the States who eats meat to, if not slaughter once themselves, at least see the process done, or maybe visit one of the butcher’s shops like those over here where everything is so much more…alive, or recently alive anyway. Where it is obvious what part of the body that chunk of meat is, or which animal it is, that it <i>is</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> an animal. Call it a reality check.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ87igYRcDCBpPLblPTBLl6JmuVdArMcaa5CamfyaiffD4f5uENDWVRj40sqFSA2QvYqudH1XOdPSdn-NTkqxNl4T-4xi2B18NWgEBkbxJ73i08Xnp0wPrDIn57erAgS8c1e9x6gcGAAa0/s1600/IMG_3087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ87igYRcDCBpPLblPTBLl6JmuVdArMcaa5CamfyaiffD4f5uENDWVRj40sqFSA2QvYqudH1XOdPSdn-NTkqxNl4T-4xi2B18NWgEBkbxJ73i08Xnp0wPrDIn57erAgS8c1e9x6gcGAAa0/s320/IMG_3087.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Anyway, I felt reminded that what I was looking for was also an animal, and that it would be killed and prepared for my family and me. They didn’t have it, but after a minute on the phone my butcher said it was all set. Without taking my name or phone number, he simply told me to come back in two or three days. When I returned Thursday he went in the back room while my mind conjured up various versions of what this 6-7 kg bird might look like. Would some feathers still be in? Head (eyes)? Claws? But no, there were no obvious parts left on that we wouldn’t see back home, and in fact its innards had also been handily scooped out for us. Was this because the butcher knew what I, as an American would expect? Or was it just typical for this bird (and I’ve seen little hens—entire little hens—shrink-wrapped on small foam plates at the grocery store)? When he brought our turkey out the lady next to me exclaimed in admiration and smiled, chattering with the butcher about the bird and possible steps to prepare it. I paid and took the heavy and soft bird—thankfully we wouldn’t have to defrost this one—and we set about making our meal. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> Except the oven didn’t work. It soon became clear that I was to do anything possible to remedy the situation ASAP. After frantically calling the owner of our house and then the realtor who sometimes helps out, explaining our situation and trying to understand the waves of Italian rushing at me through the phone, I finally found a switch. The switch. Yes, apparently all of the other times we’d used the oven the switch had been flipped on, unbeknownst to us, and therefore we’d been unaware said switch even existed! So the oven heated, the bird cooked, and Carol and Michael joined us during their visit all the way from Massachusetts for a wonderful Thanksgiving meal. Being so far from home, familiarity and routine made this tradition (which we often share with Carol and Michael and other family at their house) ever more poignant and important. The Italians went about their daily Thursday routine as every other but in our home the American holiday was alive and well. Ingrid and Niko smiled and laughed more, fought less, rallied with us around the common goal of producing and enjoying this special meal and enjoyed lots of playtime with their grandparents on the soccer field, reading a book or putting together and flying a toy jet fighter. For hours the house took on the rich and comforting smell of the meal that was coming together. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfilSMFPxdO-6QwKGwpUt1KRMma9xQyqKHjD6epVra4ZePh5Lyqb_MVdQuYu_I1yS4HDyNobhZj5is0y4ytaSo45rgVjVRD1G2GurhEhYIBziRmKjeoN0oSdhDbnOitU6oOYTiao6IVej1/s1600/IMG_3095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfilSMFPxdO-6QwKGwpUt1KRMma9xQyqKHjD6epVra4ZePh5Lyqb_MVdQuYu_I1yS4HDyNobhZj5is0y4ytaSo45rgVjVRD1G2GurhEhYIBziRmKjeoN0oSdhDbnOitU6oOYTiao6IVej1/s320/IMG_3095.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> I had so much to be thankful for and first and foremost on the list was family. The wars and hate in the world hadn’t gone away but they were still outnumbered by peace and love and on that day the politics, economics and environmental consequences of food production and food choice just didn’t bother me. The world I see every day is multi-hued, filled with contradictions, more free-response than true or false. So when I took a bite of that turkey there was no ex-vegetarian’s remorse, no guilt, and no sense of lost ideals. What I felt was extreme satisfaction in the moment, a profound communion with family and with the cycle of life. An animal had died but nourished all of us. Who knows, maybe I'll return to a non-meat diet in the months or years to come, but for this third Thursday in November, Mr. Turkey, I would like to extend to you my deepest thanks.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FoNDQ8nU6Hfri1cFvq6Iy3A-wkL-19TVifvVmUvmr0BgWl55ivvaE1ep_-qaTvF_hPE06VoD1TrS1dNBJ0ihbYjnsvZY3io20Ev8egDyYExPMkj6OytXEVjk-u_IAeA-usPd9GMR-9mm/s1600/IMG_3098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FoNDQ8nU6Hfri1cFvq6Iy3A-wkL-19TVifvVmUvmr0BgWl55ivvaE1ep_-qaTvF_hPE06VoD1TrS1dNBJ0ihbYjnsvZY3io20Ev8egDyYExPMkj6OytXEVjk-u_IAeA-usPd9GMR-9mm/s320/IMG_3098.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div>Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16390839314912135162noreply@blogger.com0