More soccer pictures. Nice stuff.

Please check back - more entries!

Even though we've returned, I intend to post several more entries in this blog, including some retrospective on our long stay in Italy. Please check back if you're interested, and thanks.

Home to Bend

Sorry, it's been a little hectic.

As scheduled, we traveled home on January 2, 2005. This must have been one of the heaviest travel days of the year (OK, it was only the second day of the year, but you know what I mean). Thanks yet again to Gino, Becky and their boys Nico and Damian, and to Lisa, Nico's friend, we got everything out of our apartment and did the handoff to Liane and Mimmo, our landpersons.

We spent the last night in Italy at Gino and Becky's home, where we spent our first night. It was the end of Christmas-time, everybody was in a nice mellow mood.

Despite our best attempts we still managed to arrive rather late at the Delta counter. Thanks to Loriana Orindi we got shephered through.

The flight to Atlanta was 10+ hours - lousy movies. Susan's decision to cash in umpteen Delta miles for three business class seats was a lifesaver. The baby was calm and happy. She really is a wonderful traveler.

Customs and baggage recheck in Atlanta was crowded. Plus we had a lot of luggage - six large bags, plus two carry-ons apiece, counting MIrella.

But we stayed pretty patient. Our flight to Portland was delayed. We slept intermittently on that last 4 1/2 leg.

Susan's sister Jean met us in Portland. Four of our six bags did not arrive. We had a late night snack at Shari's, slept at an airport motel, then Jean carefully drove us to Bend over the icy Mt. Hood passes.

Home looked like home. The baby took just a few moments to reacquaint herself with the environment, and immediately started playing with some favorite toys.

Doors open out from the building, not in. Light switches are inside the room - I'm not sure Italy doesn't have a point on that one. All U.S. telephones feel enormous in the hand. Bend is very quiet. We're adjusting.

Natale in Italia

Christmas is big here. Like in the states, retailers depend heavily on holiday sales, and change their normally strange hours (e.g., closed every Sunday, Monday morning, plus every day from noon to 2:30, then open from 2:30 to 7).

There are many small markets like this one in Mantova. I'm sure I'm getting using my excellent negotiating skills to get a deep discount on that jar of mostard.

All the best for Christmas from our family to yours! 

A fur piece from here

While fur coats seem very much a 50s thing back home, they're very common in Italy. Here, some Montova shoppers compare notes on a chilly Saturday morning. 

Wherefore art thou, Kinsley?

Denise (a.k.a. Kinsley), my eldest (24, except she couldn't be because do you know how old that would make me?) daughter, spent her junior year of high school in Italy. She lived in Guidizzolo, a small town about half way between Milano and Venice.

She's over here travelling with her main squeeze Jared Grogan and their friend Heidi Plotts. Susan, Mirella and I rented a car (we prefer the VW Passat over either Mercedes, for space, comfort and drivability), and headed over to the pretty town of Mantova, which Susan knows well. Meanwhile, Denise and crew were touring Rome, Florence, and, finally, Pisa (I suggested they check out the bell tower, an outstanding example of 15th, or whatever, century architecture). Denise announced that they would be arriving at Verona, the largest town in the area, at about eight Saturday night. I offered "Oh, fine, I'll just pick you guys up."

Here was my "thinking": Verona is about an hour from Guidizzolo. Somebody in Denise's host family took them to Verona earlier in the week, so I would be saving them two more hours of driving. Further, Susan, Mirella and I were staying in Mantova, which is only about 25 minutes from Vernoa by autostrada. And finally, the train arrived late enough that Susan and the baby would likely be in for the evening in any case.

The part I haven't mentioned yet is that I have never been to Verona in my life. Nor did I have, nor had I looked at, a map of the city. But you see, Italy has very good signage. In every town, even little ones, there is a target-shaped black and white icon for Centro, the Center, and the train station is always near the center, right? Although never exactly in the center, because the oldest part of the town is almost always now a "pedestrian area", where cars, at least most cars, are not allowed. (There are always enough cars to make you a little nervous and a little curious about who does get to drive there).

Traffic was heavy leaving Mantova, I was running a little late, but not bad. The gentleman who took my toll after leaving the autostrada was helpful. "Turn left after the (something or other that sounded to me like) "fairgrounds" (only with a capital "F"), then follow the signs. Ten minutes."

Well, I got to the center all right. On several occasions I saw signs for Statzione. Denise called me a few times and told me she could see a church from the steps. In Italy, this information isn't as helpful as it would be in, say, Novaya Zemlya, off the coast of Russia.

I overcame my healthy male aversion to asking strangers for directions. Several times. Each of the courteous Italians (actually, I think one was an American speaking Italian) said something to me that sounded like "The train station? Turn around, go to the second stop light (semaforo - I love that word!), turn right, then blahbedy blah blah on the right blah blah until blah blah the station." The point, of course, is that my Italian is now officially good enough to be dangerous.

Did I mention that I couldn't find my driver's license and had left my passport with Susan in Mantova? So, I had a strong aversion to attracting the attention of the local police, which can happen if the same car drives around the same several blocks for hours on end.

Verona has an excellently-preserved Roman ampitheater that was built in the first century A.D. This should suggest to you that the streets were not built using the grid system that we might find in Findlay, Ohio, say. Even more depressing was that I never (knowingly) even saw this structure, which I must assume is both large and distinctive.

Did I mention that it was nighttime? In an earlier posting I pointed out that a typical Italian roundabout might have 15 signs for the three or four or five possible exits (not counting the exit that you come in on, which might well be the right one). These are even more challenging at night, flying solo.

At one point, several hundred, I'm not making this up, Harleys and similar bikes, each ridden by a person (or more than one) dressed as Santa, roared and rumbled by. (Come to think of it, they were escorted by the police, which might explain my good luck in that regard.) It was depressing that Denise had not seen nor heard this procession when she next called. While she knew the names of the streets by the station, she couldn't "talk me in" because, like myself, she had no idea where I was either, although I was near a church.

Finally, don't ask me how, I found the large, train station-looking building ("Is it that yellowish color with a lot of big vertical windows?" "Yes!"). We were late for dinner, but Meri Ghisolfi, Denise's host mom, took care of business as she always does.

Lessons learned? Never blah blah blahbedy without first checking if blah blah, Roman ampitheater blah blah, and never, ever blah blah blah.

(And if you're curious, the statzione is in square F2, lower left, of the map. Now I look at a map!)
 

The Why chromosone

Don't ask me why. I don't know why. Why would I think I would know why?

Today, Susan asked me to do something. I asked her "why?"

Our little pumpkin, who will be a year and a half old on Saturday, heard the word "why?" So, for the first 14 times of what are sure to be many more, today we heard the word "why?" from our little one.

#6: Top out the tower on tippy toes

 

#5: Proceed step-by-step

 

#4: Take the time to build a solid foundation

 

#3: Sit down and think for a minute

 

#2: Collect building materials

We save the empty cans. They're solid, noisy, (make excellent drums), and stackable. 

How to build a tower: #1

In Italy, baby formula is sold in one of the many Farmacie. These all have bright green neon crosses. We order Similac Isomil II ("due") from these nice people. For some reason the delivery arrives at 6:45. 

Technical vocabulary

I am not the first (or most sensitive) person to note that traveling with a toddler offers a set of special challenges. Susan handles almost all of them, true, but I have noticed.

But the advantages are much greater! Going down the street with Mirella in Italy is like an instant ticker tape parade. I know, most people assume I'm her nonno, but that just makes it so much sweeter.

I've had the good luck to work in foreign countries a few times. In each case, you tend to learn some technical terminology, even if you hardly know the language at all. So, for example, I can say "watch out for the fork lift!" in several languages, or "gross weight or net weight."

Being here with Baby Girl has given me a rich new technical vocabulary that I would likely have never learned otherwise. A partial list:

- High chair
- Little chair that improbably attaches to a table, reminding one of those California stilt-houses that you know intellectually but never quite believe are safe
- Car seat
- Diaper (example: Italian mother helpfully pointing out that my daughter, in my charge for the moment, has most of hers around her left knee and nowhere else)
- Many flavors of yogurt
- The milk foam used to make cappucinos, which BG loves to eat with a teaspoon
- Teaspoon
- Bib
- Puppy
- Bunny
- Reindeer
- Duckling
- Playground
- Snowman
- Little flap thing you lift up in a pop-up book
- Cap
- Toddler
- Precious
- Slide
- Miniature train
- Token

. . . and

- Proud father (of all my three girls!)

Showdown in Antica Drogheria

Like many shops in the old center of Varese, La Drogheria is a throwback. A small place, it sells a selection of gourmet specialties from all over Italy, has a nice selection of wine and grappa, and, also things like soap and brooms and so on. Dark wood, musty, friendly older staff. Reminds me of Vobbe's back on Cherry Street in the 50s.

A week ago we went with Ezio and Virginia to a restaurant that specializes in food from Valtellina, a valley at the very top of Lake Como. Lots of game, cheese, buckwheat, different than most Italian food we've tried (I don't think there's a single dish with tomato to be seen or tasted). And very good wine from the region.

I turns out Valtellina is producing a lot of Nebbiolo, the grape that is made into Barolo and Barbaresco - the great wines of Piedmont, the next province west of here, across Lago Maggiore. Like the Pinot Noir that is grown in Oregon, Nebbiolo is supposed to be very "difficult", meaning it requires just the right combination of soil, climate and treatment on the vine and while making the wine. There are just a few wineries making it in the U.S., and only 3% of the plantings in Piedmont are Nebbiolo.

I remembered the name of the wine and asked the lady - I think she's the owner - at La Drogheria, and asked her. . .

"Do you have any of the Nino Negri wines from Valtellina."

"Of course, sir."

"Any of the Nebbiolos?"

"Ah, no, sir, Nebbiolo, is exclusively grown in Piedmont. It is the typical grape of Piedmont. Anyone who tells you otherwise is not telling you the truth."

"But, I just had some the other night at a restaurant and I'm quite certain. . ."

"Sir, someone could also tell you that they have Nebbiolo from Napoli, but that doesn't mean it's true." (Turning to other customers). "Nebbiolo from Valtellina!" Then she said the older Italian person equivalent of "As if!"

Now, I'm not so arrogant as to believe I couldn't be confused about certain details about Italian œnoculture. But I checked with Ezio (he was there at dinner, remember), on numerous web sites, and went back to the restaurant with Becky and Gino.

Vindictive? Certainly not! Am I thinking about whether to and how to break the news to the lady who dissed me in public? Absolutely! 

Bomb craters across the street

As I mentioned earlier, our very block here in Varese was bombed by B17s flying from Foggia in Southern Italy, on April 30, 1944. Something about the fighter plane factory down the street.

Our apartment faces a pretty hill, which has a fancy, old-fashioned hotel on the top. One day we discovered to our dismay that many of the large trees, some with trunks a meter in diameter or more, were being chopped down.

We learned from Signore Brunella, the 80-year-old gentleman who was wounded in the bombing, that the trees are locusts (Robinia pseudoacacia, Cal) and that they have a disease. He also told us that the obvious heaving we can see with the trees gone is in fact bomb craters from that day 60 years ago.

By the way, replanting is well under way. 

Notify Interpol immediately!

Just as I suspected! Fortuntely, Susan put one of the little James Bond beepers (did they have GPS in those days?) under the bumper of the bad guys' Maserati. . . 

Carleton counterfeit?

Susan's nephew Justin Redd, an ICI guy, attended Carleton College in Minnesota. Liberal arts, 1,750 students, yes they have athletics, Ultimate Frisbee is their most famous "program."

Italians love to wear these letter sweater-looking jackets, with complicated names on them like East Toronto Rugby Championship League, and so on. So imagine our surprise when we met this nice gentleman along the autostrada in San Remo, sporting his alleged Carleton jacket!