First Test

The first test of my new resolve has come in the form of conquering a possible job loss. What's new in the world, right? Well, how does one practice stilling the soul upon return to such turmoil? I'm not sure but here's my plan:

My pattern over the past three years would have been to shake my fist to the heavens and blame Mike. But now that my new way is all about action, I am taking the Bull by the Horns.

1. Renegotiate school loans --payments start the end of December!
2. Update online job applications with various search engines
3. Breath
4. Count blessings: health, wisdom, family, friends, sunshine, future, everything changes
5. Ask for help: part-time, full-time, whatever will work

So at present I could work for room and board in Italy by picking olives, till about the middle of February. The only trouble is I don't think my loan companies will accept olive oil as payment.

Do I have any higher bidders? All offers are being considered.

This is who I was.....This is who I will be.....

Billy Holiday's "Stormy Weather" is playing as I write this, which is perfectly appropriate for the weather we've been having.



This is who I was....

Phrases you will not hear from me any time soon (if ever again):
1. I’m exhausted.
2. I’m 33 going on 83.
3. I need a vacation.
4. My body aches.
5. I’d like to but I can’t; I’m in law school.

Coming home with a very clean slate, an uncluttered mind and soul, the new trick will be how to maintain this new body and mind while not in vacation mode. For example, part of my new routine this past week has become reading the NYTimes for 2 hours in bed with coffee. Probably not one of the new routines I can keep and get away with, unless I can convince my boss to make it a job requirement to read the daily news (that would be a test of my negotiation skills!) But maybe I treat myself to just 3 articles over coffee everyday and give myself the two hour treat on Sunday.

I think the more difficult part will be creating a routine that involves others. I have just had a wonderful taste of what it feels like to do what ever I want, whenever I want. This is a slight exaggeration because you definitely have to plan your trips to the market around here, because when you run out of cream for your coffee, your trip revolves around their hours. The closest market, about 3 Km, is open in the morning on Mondays and Tuesdays, but not Wednesdays (found that out the hard way), and then evenings on Thursdays and Fridays, but usually by then it is too dark to ride the bike and still be seen by the Mario Andrettis of this neighborhood.

I’ve grown accustomed to this great freedom of availability that I think is almost impossible to maintain in our overly scheduled world. But I have new energy for the challenge. I used to love the spontaneity that Mike and I had in our life together and I realize now that a lot of that came from his being unattached to anything – job, material goods, home, etc. I know that he enjoyed this freedom as a coping mechanism to balance his fear of life ending too soon, and that aspect of the spontaneity was not fun, for either of us. I think I can have this sense of freedom without the fear, and that is what I will strive for on my return.

I know some of you are thinking, “Good goal Becca; good luck with that.” Don’t worry, a side of me is saying the same thing, which is why I am going to ask for your help! Yup, I know, nervy huh? (“For Christ’s sake, you come back from a 3 month Sabbatical and ask ME for help?! That’s rich.”)

Here’s my request for assistance:
1. test my ability to be spontaneous, last minute invitations (to work or play) will be greatly appreciated
2. test my ability to say, “no thank you;” and don’t take offense when I practice on you. I have discovered the more I say, “no, thank you,” the more available I am to say, “yes.”
3. test my ability to not acquire STUFF. I have gotten by with very little in Italy; I would like to keep my life this way. There’s a lot of uncluttering I need to do with my home so that it matches my uncluttered self; please help remind me of this when I contemplate purchasing or acquiring something. Whatever you do, please do not purchase for me! (I do need to get a new cellphone service when I return but this is the only exception –and honestly I could do without it if my boss didn’t need to reach me.)

Thank you.

This is who I will be.....with your help.

Stilling the Typing

It’s not always comical when the universe forces a stilling on your soul, but when you have the leisure time to accept the carpel tunnel that creeps up on you when you’re trying to write, you can laugh about it and take a week off to recover.

This would never be allowed if I had someone depending on my project. This was the mindset I had when the shooting pains in my wrists started to creep up on me (a bi-product of taking the Bar Exam this summer –I am positive.) In my old life I would have bitched and bemoaned my body for giving up on me, and I would have worked through the pain, determined to have my way. I have developed a completely different mind while in Tuscany.

After half a day of fighting my old mindset, I up and left for a long bike ride through the changing vineyards. Renewed and refreshed, with a new sense of awe, I turned my attention to reading and biking and cooking, till my eyes and leg muscles burned like my wrists. Here are the photos I took along the way.

Action-Adventures in Living

The significance of this "trip": vacation, sabbatical, working holiday, etc. But the most important reason has become: not just reminding myself of my capabilities to adventure, but to actually show myself I still can. Action. A critical element to a widow’s recovery. Here is one giant I have undertaken recently.

I am typing my 2005-2008 journals into my computer and then I am going to ceremoniously burn the hard copies in an attempt to unclutter my life, both figuratively and physically. Why don’t I just skip the preserving into the computer and go straight to the burning? Yes, that would definitely be the more Buddhist way of unattaching, but I am a practicing Buddhist; I haven’t got it right yet. It has been an unbelievably transformative experience looking back at the past three years, on a day to day basis.

Here’s what I've learned:

In the early throws of loss-any loss- partner, job, identity, expectations, taking action is almost impossible. Actions are happening all around you, and the best you can do is go with the flow, be flexible, try to be present.

The next step is to take some small actions, nothing big, nothing too important that you might regret it later, but some actions none the less. Progressively these actions take on a little more risk, leaving you a little more vulnerable every time, but, presumably, you are a little stronger at this point, and falling down will not hurt quite so much.

To fully make your way back into the world, you must then take some leaps of faith! Such as a 3 month sabbatical, with your tens of thousands of dollars worth of debt, as the US economy crashes.

As my Buddhist Offering book says on my birthday: “Have the courage to throw yourself into life, take risks, weather blows. Knowing before you begin that you will be exposed to a series of opposites; success and failure, happiness and unhappiness, praise and blame.”

Writing in Camucia

I know it’s been awhile and I apologize for that. Here’s my excuse: I’ve been writing. And crying, and laughing, and writing some more. This week has been my first great work week, writing about 4-8 pages a day. I have a great working outline, and a lot of notes I have taken from interviews with family and friends. Before writing, I took a lot of time creating a timeline which helped me visualize the chapters in our life together and what stories needed to be told. I also reread a lot of material about Huntington’s that I had not read in years, stuff like, Alice Wexler’s “Mapping Fate,” and all of Nancy Wexler’s scientific writings about testing for the gene and the psychology behind being at-risk. [The Wexler family created the Hereditary Disease Foundation www.hdfoundation.org] This was the easy part.

Now I wake up, make my coffee, and pick a topic. Sometimes the topic picks me (I like to believe that Mike picks the topic when this happens.) I write till I have nothing left and then I go for a bike ride through the vineyards and the olive groves. By the time I get back I’m fairly wasted- physically and mentally.

The rest of the day is left to menial tasks—creating dinner, washing dishes, or putting Mike’s written journals into the computer, which can be more of a heady task than I realize, till I’m doing it. The last few days I have felt a little more ambitious, and at night I have added watching Mike’s video from the mountain to my writing preparation list. I was afraid of doing this, and at the same time felt a compulsion to be engrossed in my subject matter.

It has been easy to write about meeting Mike, and his family, and the adventures we’ve had together; I am laughing out loud most of the time as I fully feel Mike choosing the words for me. (“Don’t use the word ‘partner,’ I’ll sound gay.”) There’s this strange, quiet conversation going on around me; it doesn’t always contain words, sometimes sensations that come as I am writing. One example was the cigar smoke as I wrote about our trip to Havana. It has been less easy to think about the ending, which is a little crazy because that part is already written. In a nut shell, I write a “chapter” or topic, and then I try to add Mike’s writing/version at the end of that chapter. Needless to say, there has already been a lot written about the ending.

I have no idea if this will amount to anything for anyone else. I’ve outlined my process for you but I have no idea if that’s the way it’s supposed to be done. When I told my mom that I had sent a first draft to Lizzi and it was forty-some pages, she asked, “how many are you striving for?” I don’t know. How many is it supposed to have? I guess as many as it takes or until I run out, or until this “trip” is over! Three more weeks. Totally doable.

PS- I’m making dinner for the lovely CA couple who live above me in this beautiful place and I am making chocolate mousse for dessert. I am whipping the whole thing, whipped cream included, by hand. This is a true exercise in stilling the soul and becoming a hunchback. I can hear Cortona’s church bells in the background, and the roosters next door.

The Day After the Election –Final Reflections

I thought you might be interested in what some Italians said to me (REPEATEDLY in different fashions) in the streets and the pub just before, during, and immediately after our election:

“It’s really great that Obama will be your president; we all need him; we all need change.”

“You know it says a lot that you elect him, not about him, but about Americans.”

“I don’t know how you voted for Bush a second time; you can’t make the mistake a 3^rd time!?!????” –This last one was said with pleading eyes, searching for agreement, and unfortunately I could give him no reassurance as I was losing my hope as the election results trickled in. You see, I’m Irish, or at least half (the better half as my mother likes to say,) and although we are dreamers and believers, when the time comes, we pray for the best while expecting the worst.

I was in Florence, in a B&B that had no TV and no internet connection. So at midnight I wandered over to the Irish pub with my laptop (they had Wi-Fi) and watched their CNN with a bunch of university students from all over the world. My Microsoft cousin and I were pinging back and forth till 2am, she was watching NBC, I was getting results from CNN, CBS, and Fox (I know but I had to –the Irishside wanted to see the worst case scenario.) So at 2am they closed the pub and I had no news except McCain had won KY and WV and Obama VT. VT!!!!!??????? That was hardly going to do it. So I went to bed and hoped for the best but expected the worst.

When I awoke the sun was shining; it hadn’t shown for 6 days but rather had been cold and wet, reminding me of home. Home seemed so far away at that moment; all the world knew and I knew nothing. The election had gone on without me. With my face to the sun, the Irish-me said, “Oh please, dear God, shining the sun will not be enough to soften the blow.” I wandered over to the pub and shocked the bartender, who must have thought I needed a straight jacket, as I stood in front of the TV staring, mesmerized, laughing, and then crying. Strange American Girl.

I had a professor in college who said my generation would never amount to anything because we had not had a great national tragedy in our lives to respond to like he had with Vietnam. Out of his Vietnam tragedy came great poets, musicians, and artists; because it takes great tragedy to bring about new movements, at least this was his theory. Well, September 11 was my generation’s great tragedy or so I had thought. But out of that single event came many more tragedies rather than a great new movement. Pick your tragedy: war in Afghanistan, war in Iraq, reputation around the world, economy, class warfare, the war on civil rights, etc—any one of these could have started a new movement. But they didn’t, it took the collection of them, not any one event or tipping point to start this new movement, and like a dear friend of mine has reminded me, the election is just one step in the movement of my generation. It will take a collection of events to make this a movement worthy of great poetry, music, and art.

In tribute to my professor’s theory, I have included the lyrics and the link to a song by Scottish musician, Sandi Thom, from her album “Smile…It Confuses People” (and it really does-I do it all the time!) She’s no Bob Dylan but we’re young, the best is yet to come!

“I wish I were a Punk Rocker”

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
In seventy-seven and sixty-nine revolution was in the air
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

When the head of state didn't play guitar
Not everybody drove a car
When music really mattered and when radio was king
When accountants didn't have control
And the media couldn't buy your soul
And computers were still scary and we didn't know everything

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
In seventy-seven and sixty-nine revolution was in the air
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

When pop stars still remained a myth
And ignorance could still be bliss
And when god saved the queen she turned a whiter shade of pale
My mom and dad were in their teens
And anarchy was still a dream
And the only way to stay in touch was a letter in the mail

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
In seventy-seven and sixty-nine revolution was in the air
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

When record shops were still on top
And vinyl was all that they stocked
And the super info highway was still drifting out in space
Kids were wearing hand me downs
And playing games meant kick arounds
And footballers still had long hair and dirt across their face

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
In seventy-seven and sixty-nine revolution was in the air
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

If I had children today

I just watched Obama take his daughters to the voting booth and I thought about how significant this day is for them. Their dad’s name is on the ballot; how cool is that?! Yet, they will never know exactly how monumental today is to the rest of the world.

I don’t have children to share the importance of what today means but if I had daughters right now I would tell them this:

Today is a once in a lifetime day for me, but I hope the beginning of many “once and a lifetime” events for you and future generations. Today we elect a president who’s a mediator. A mediator is someone who brings parties together, not to compromise, but to collaborate; a mediator gives hope to parties who believe a solution is impossible; and a mediator reminds us that we can respectfully disagree and still work together. Today we elect a strong, intelligent and peaceful, young man who strongly believes in our nation’s constitution and rule of law. Today we elect a leader who believes in transparency, tolerance, and hope, three elements crucial to being a leader and a fair human being. Today, in choosing this “first family,” we show the world our diversity, respect, and admiration for all humanity that our country has finally evolved to.

Today we put a great deal of faith in a man who has reminded us that we, as individuals, must participate in our own success. And we do this because he has promised to lead in a manner that will put our collective resources to their greatest use. This is what an effective leader does. After the September 11 attacks and the Afghani War that followed, many Americans (and other countries) had a collective desire to help rebuild America, but we were never given a direction and there was no leadership. Many groups tried to do it on their own, but government and leadership are crucial to making such work successful. This is the hope and expectation I have for the Obama administration and the commitment I will make to my country in my own life’s work.

Americans are not afraid of hard work and with the right leadership and encouragement, Americans can do great things. It is my greatest hope for you and me and all mankind that an Obama administration will live up to its promises of making this country not the red or the blue states, democrats or republicans, but rather the United States of America. Today I elected Obama for me, you, America, and the whole wide world.

Elections Overseas

It is the Big Day and I am in an Irish Pub called the Lion's Fountain, 200 meters from my hotel in Florence. It is 10am and nothing is happening in the US but we're getting ready for the vote here with newspapers and buzz at the pub about whether it will be crowded tonight. The Swedish bartender is trying to understand how 52% of the US voted for Bush and how they might now vote for McCain-Palin. Needless to say, I don't have a sufficient answer for him and he complains, "But he's soooo old! And she seems soooo stupid!" I asked him if he votes in his Swedish elections and he replies, "usually, though this last time I didn't because I didn't care." "Well my Swedish friend, that is exactly what Obama supporters are worried about, youngsters that don't care."

My friend Lyn sent me the funniest thing from Moveon.org. It's a video you can send to your friends about how YOU (actually fill-in the blank with your friend's name) ruined the election by not voting. It is the funniest thing, so if you have any young voters in your life (ie: anyone under the age of 35) feel free to pressure them with it. Here's my video below (don't worry I voted!)

http://www.cnnbcvideo.com/index.html?nid=4zVhnauBBJq6c2LhiWjmnDI3Njc2OQ--&referred_by=6190027-7Pm_AIx

I can't tell you how good it feels to be in Florence for this election. This is a very college town with something like 26 US colleges with programs here. I wouldn't say I am lonely for home but after spending a weekend trying to figure out Milan with the parents and a month of trying to figure out Toscana and Umbria, I am relieved to be a place I "know." This is my 3rd time in Florence and I know where to get my panni and I know where to get my caffe and I know both the local and the touriste markets. Adventure is exciting and exhausting, familiarity is quiet and comforting. Of course, one needs both.

Enjoy your election.

Mom's Italian "Home"

Italy is incredibly beautiful - at least where we've 
traveled throughout Tuscany and Umbria, the hilltop towns are backdrops to vineyards and olive groves (which luckily for us are being harvested as we speak.)  The skies are bluer than blue and we've enjoyed brilliant sun everyday.  The flowers still in bloom this late in October are brilliant in doorways and balconies, and the caregivers tidying their yards are evident as we drive through the small towns.  

Children seem absent unless we manage to be where they are as the afternoon break occurs.  One day a large group descended upon our "castle" for the afternoon and managed to leave us with a teen-age fix for two weeks.  Other than that our "children" appear with their parents for overnights and weekends and generally are smaller than school-age.  There's a chestnut tree threatening to bop us on the bean pretty regularly

 and one group of kids entertained themselves unceasingly by collecting the nuts and carrying them to the picnic table and arranging them.  One morning we found that in the night, one of them had fashioned their name, "ANTONIA" and a

 smiley face out of the nuts.  

No one seems to speak any English, so we settle for "Buon giorno, Buona sera, Buona notte, tutto bene, and Grazie."  It is so weird that we are the strangers; in my life I've never felt so much like the outsider.

At Mass on Sunday, in a positively gorgeous cathedral in Orvieto (which had taken 300 years to build), we were completely excluded by our lack

 of Italian.  Not an announcement; not an inkling of the reading's meaning; no "Welcome to non-Italian speaking worshipers;"  So we were satisfied with the fact that the Allies chose to spare this church from their bombings and that the faithful chose to visit by the busloads.  Pretty heady stuff.  

Dad's Notes

Keys in Every Door

I see keys in doors everywhere: keys in dresser drawers; keys in armoire doors; keys in storage doors. Sometimes the keys take the place of a doorknob.  In Montepulicano, I even see keys in shop doors, closed for siesta.

I asked Signorina Sabina, our wine tour guide, about this practice.  She said, “it depends where you are.  Si, in the small hill towns of Tuscany, but not in Napoli, where the Sicilian Mafia have a stronghold.”

The Mystical 15

What’s with this 15 minute time limit? For the toilette, it is 50 cents for 15 minutes. To park our car, it’s 25 cents for 15 minutes. In the sauna, an hourglass reads 15 minutes.  We are in a gourmet café in Firenze and four men in suits with attaché cases in hand with a woman who orders for them “lunch”: 4 finger pannis, 2 martinis, and 2 red wines. While still standing with their free hand, they inhaled their sandwiches, downed the martinis and wine, and leave, time 15 minutes!

I suppose the optimum time for Italians to do anything is 15 minutes, even amore.

Chewing the Fat

Chewing the fat is never so good as when in Italy.  I discovered this when I ordered my first bistecca, steak.

The Tuscan cut of beef, 3-5 centimeters thick, leaves the fat with the lean on the T-bone.  No salt, it makes it too tough, no olive oil, the fat is on the meat. They cook the meat on 3 sides; the lean is seared like ahi tuna, with a warm pink center.  The fat becomes like grizzle, capturing the flavor of the meet.  So when in Italy, never throw the dog the bone.

Beauty and the “S” curve

The Italian men have picked up on Botticelli’s fantasy with the “S” curve, translate, beautiful women.  Like bobble heads they turn to look at every woman passes by.  It was most evident when Becca and I were walking up the Via Roma (every town must have one) in Siena.

Down comes a man in the arms of his wife or girlfriend, and turns to look at Becca.  I half expected the woman to bop him on the head, but no, she turns also and looks at what Becca is wearing.  They both continue on, happy at what they saw.

Dad's Version of our Trip to the Lavaggio

Trip to the Lavaggio (Laundromat)

We have been in Tuscany for two weeks now and our clothes are beginning to stand up. They smell like the farms below us where prosciutto comes from. I tell Becca I saw a laundermat to the north of us; she thinks it’s south.

She acquiesces to me and heads north. No such luck. She then takes control and we head south. Sighting a Euro Spin, she triumphantly pulls in. Nope, just a grocery store.

We have passed on this trip a view auto lavaggios and even debated if it was possible to do our laundry in a car wash: 4 quarters for a soapy-spray, 4 quarters for a rinse, what about drying? Debate ended.

Maura finally takes charge and says try the big “I”, translation Toursite Informatione. So I walk in and ask the young lady, “aqua lavaggio?” and pull on my sleeve. She says, “Si,” and circles a place on the map. We drive there only to find a dry-cleaners, closed for siesta. We now look at the map and find ads along the boarder; one shows a launderette with its address. We drive there and find it’s called Lava Piu, translation “Wash Peeu.” BINGO!

The day was not a total loss, we find a truckers’ restaurante (Becca is up in arms with my description –“It was not a truck stop Daaaaddddd, it was a nice restaurant that happened to have 6 large semi-trucks in the parking lot.”) We have since adopted it as our place for great food, cheap prices, and awesome tiramisu. So much for the macho, Italian, truck drivers –tiramisu?

Dad's End Time in Firenze

The End Time in Firenze

Our final day in Florence was divided between Jean’s “Walking Tour A”: The Baptistery and the Duomo and “Walking Tour C”: the Bargello (Museo Nazionale) which housed many of the sculpted works of Donatello, Verrocchio, Michelangelo, and four different David’s. Standing on the steps of the Duomo between the 3-D sculpted bronze paneled doors of the Baptistery and the huge white-green-pink marble façade of the cathedral gives one the sense of the majesty and mystery of the medieval man’s god and the courage and confidence the Florentine’s had in themselves, more about this later.

Becca and I decided to see the cathedral from above, climbing to the top of the dome, some 464 steps, 330 feet high. The first half of the climb took us up to a circular landing inside the church, which is the base for both the inner and outer dome. Looking down at the apse (those of you who do crossword puzzles should recognize that word) with the alter in the center we see teeny-tiny people, like they had just fallen through the rabbit hole. Looking up on the inside of the inner dome we see painted the dualistic belief in Heaven above with a radiant Christ in judgment and Hell below with Satan torturing and devouring the damned.

Looking at these images one would want to correct any corruption in one’s soul quickly. A death bed conversation may not cut it.

We continue our climb on top of the inner dome and at its center spiral up and out on to the dome itself. What an AWE-FILLED view, looking across the roof tops past the many church and piazzas out into the hilly countryside with row upon row of vineyards and olive groves.

San Lorenzo Market-The Italian merchants like you to try whatever you want before you buy. You can actually make a lunch out of all the free tasting. We stopped to taste balsamic vinegar, aged 12 years that you could die for, so tart and sweet you could top off your ice cream with it. I asked, “Quanto costa??” And hearing the price, I decided to live another day instead.

As we leave Florence, I am amazed at the men and women of the Renaissance, their confidence and courage to do great things. They start a cathedral without the knowledge, nor technology to finish it, leaving a 140 foot hole in the church for the better part of a century until someone could do the math to hold the scaffolding to complete the dome.

Let me finish this on a political note: all that we saw in Florence was just not done by the Pope and the church, the D’Medici’s and the nobility, but also by Joe the Stone Carver, Joe the Mason, Joe the Weaver, and Joe the Potterer. They did so by forming guilds, translate, unionizing, and in solidarity they created a middle class, sharing in the wealth and the power and the glory. I could never understand the concept or desire for small government; they can only give us small steps for mankind. It’s a larger government that enables us to create a renaissance; this is what our taxes pay for. I believe by paying my taxes I am able to still change the world. Judge Oliver Wendell Holmes is quoted as saying, “I like paying taxes. With them, I buy civilization.”

Dad's Day 2 in Florence

Day 2 in Florence (Jean’s Walking Guide A-the Uffizi Museo)

Our itinerary for the day set, I ventured out before Maura and Rebecca for a run up Giotto’s bell tower next to the Duomo. It was a trial run for next day’s climb to the lantern that rests atop the Dome of the Duomo (463 steps high); the bell tower being 50 steps less.

The tourists had not awakened yet so the few of us walked right in and started to climb. I decided to make this a morning exercise, and took two steps at a time, only to wear myself out half-way up.

Once on top of the tower you have a grand view of the roof-tops of Florence, more beautiful than Cherburg and a really close up view of Brunelleschi’s dome. I focus next on a young woman on the opposite corner of the tower, bent over with her butt in the air, and her nose at the white marble stone. Bond beam (that’s a swimming pool term) or at the railing, with a Scripto pen, she begins to tag “Kilro, I’m here.” In what language could I or should I yell, “NO!” ? She then takes her camera and photos her “artwork.” I decided to abhor this foolishness and forgive the fool.

Picking-up Maura and Rebecca, We are off to the Uffizi
But first, we stopped for our morning cappucino at Rivoire Cafe in the Piazza Signoria (Jean’s recommendation because the view is better) for a little people watching, and to kill some time till the tourists lines dissipate from the mueso’s line. Know that when you order uno caffe and you hold up your index finger, you get duo caffes. The Italian’s finger count, begins with the thumb; thumbs up in Italian means “one of everything,” not “its okay!”

Jean’s guide laid out the floor plan of the museum, numbering each room with the art and the artist. We chose 10 and 14 for Botticelli; room 16 and 15 for da Vince, 25-28 for Raphael, and room 46 for Toilettes; we called it, “Racing the Uffizi.” I picked Botticelli for his fascination with the female form; I have to agree with him that the “S” curve is more attractive than the straight line (see = man). In his painting, “Allegory of Spring” you see the outline of the women’s bodies underneath their clothes a better fantasy than the full, plastic image of an airbrushed centerfold. Da Vinci’s “Annunciation” showed Mary facing the Angel, pointing to her pregnancy, pushing her hand palm up, as if to say, “Why me Lord?” Once can understand this reticence, since being pregnant without a husband meant, stoning to the death. I have always believed that Joseph’s act of faith was as great as Mary’s: “It’s a virgin birth, Joe.” We ended with Raphael, whose death ended the Renaissance in Florence. Now, up to the top of the Uffizi for a view of the Ponte Vecchio Bridge over the Arno; a break for water and Snicker’s Bar, and a free toilet.

It is now evening, of The Second Day. And we are off for a truly, authentic, Florentinian Meal. If you arrive before 8:30-9pm, no reservation is necessary. No Italian starts to eat before this time. We have agreed to split: the antipasta, the primo, and the secondro, which will be bistecca alla fiorentina, a 3-5 cm thick T-Bone steak. The menu outside Pallottino (thank Jean), reads 38 E for 1 kilo of bistecca. The closest I came to understand a kilo, was smoking pot and listening to the Jefferson Airplanes, in Golden Gate Park, in the 60’s. So we ask the owner for “how much steak for tres?” He said, “800 grams.” We still didn’t understand how much steak we were going to get. In the end it was just right.

Next to us sat a Chinese couple; the man spoke broken English, and Maura got to speak English now without using sign language. I really have not understood the Asian affinity to photograph everything. As their meal arrive, his bistecca and her pollo, they bowed to the food as if in prayer, and then the woman took out her camera and photographed their meal. We ended ours with less than a prayer, never mind a camera shot, with tiramisu.

Mom's Blog from Day 1 forward

Our Beginnings

Kindness Simply

Deplaning after nine hours in flight from Chicago, we climbed off down a flight of stairs like burros heaped with luggage.

Holding to the railing and carrying the duffle bag I must have a) been slowing the line following, or b) looked as terrible as I felt, when an absolutely gorgeous young man asked (without words) if he could take my bag…

Later, in Bologna, we left luggage in the trunk and made our way by bus to the Piazza Neptune. Again, we were met with kindness from a bus driver and her passenger who encouraged us (again almost no English) to use the Euro machine and made sure we got off at the correct stop.

Our second day, the merchants in the market place were generous and kind to us with samples of meat and cheese.

Kindness is spilling over me without the need for words or even response.

Montepulciano
Bella- hills and churches and simple kindness: the “take my arm” gesture by “older” woman on steps of St. Augustino. Then, later, being asked by Americans if I knew the Church’s name. Who me? Are you talking to me? But of course: “Saint Augustino.” How kind of you to ask—in English.



Florence
One week after our arrival by plane we took the local train to Florence; like the train from Crystal Lake to Chicago, it lasted 1 ½ hours and gave us a great look at the countryside, small towns, and a great listen to Italian as spoken in the early am.

The Hotel Maxim in Florence reminded me of something I’d seen in a movie: one minute I’m standing on a crowded shop-filled street and the next I’m entering a “hidden” door –(golden)- to the upper chambers. The lobby -3rd floor- was very comfortably old world and the attendant spoke English beautifully. Our room--#23—was about as big as our kitchen at home with a miniscule bathroom whose shower easily washed across the floor. The door was a fold-out and mildly noisy in the night. Once again this spoiled American showed herself so.

The city of Florence is echoing in my bones: from the Sinsinawa Dominicans of 50-plus years ago. The nuns long-ago shared slides about the Duomo, David, and Dante, so well they are not easily forgotten.

The opera Tosca was beautifully presented. The opera house was gorgeous and the patrons definitely well mannered, genteel and not too elegantly dressed. The players were great and the words in Italian above the stage were unintelligible, as were all around us. Almost all of us stayed awake and enjoyed the performance.

Becca had been artfully preparing zucchini, potatoes, eggplant, pasta, chicken, sausage, cheese, etc., for us all week, and so to celebrate the passing of the Bar, we treated ourselves to an Italian dinner out (an antipasta, a primo, a secondo, etc…) before leaving Florence. Roger did the planning from his guide books,( Jean specifically), and we found our way on foot from our hotel. We shared steak Florentine, bruschetta with mushrooms, salade Caprese, wine, and skipped the world famous gelato next door in exchange for tirmusi. We were seated next to a couple from Taiwan who told us they “try everything different” when they’re away from home. They also told me the difference between Chinese and Taiwanese which I had learned from Sister Gilbert at Rosary nearly 50 years ago. Matt had emailed the question, “how’s the food?” now, we have one really excellent recommendation for him a short walk away in Florence, Trattoria Pallottino.

Washateria
Coming back from Florence, we decided it was time to find a washateria (not to be confused with a Euro Spin which turned out to be a grocery store). After many unsuccessful attempts at locating one, Becca told Roger the English speaking Information Office (for tourists) would tell him where to go. Loaded with words like “levalage auto” (car wash), he asked, “How will I know what the answer is?” Becca drily said, “Daaaaaadddddd, these info people speak English.” Aha, within minutes he leapt out of the car only to find a closed dry cleaner. But since the universe rides with Becca, there –on the map Roger was given by the information people- was an ad for the exact “Lava Piu” we were searching for most of the morning. Becca had guessed earlier that it would be near the campgrounds but I queried, “What makes you think that campers care about clean underwear?” Her years of camping with Michael must have taught her something, because she was correct.

What an adventure laundry day was! Place was empty-no people; multiple machines; change machines; soap was included in machine cycle; and lots of directions in English! Best of all, we had 43 minutes for lunch! Becca had spied a spot off the road trafficked by truckers, called Bruno’s Tavern.

We’re not sure if Bruno is the chef-owner-maitre’d-but his place is excellent and full of satisfied suits and trucker shirts. The meats were grilled on an indoor roasting grill so the smoky aroma filled the place. (Note bene: Roger remembers that Bruno was responsible for the final product, seasoning, etc, off the grill and it was excellante.)

Home
The Lago castle. Our castle, farm, spa, stay is huge. The very size and comfort offered was found by Rebecca online. The view of the countryside is beauteous and Lago del Trasimeno spreads before us as we drive away from the castle. The use of the spa includes: both indoor and outdoor pool, sauna, steam room, wellness services, and exercise equipment. Both Roger and Rebecca have been the best of friends accompanying me and helping me in and out of the pool, no railing (scuzi!)


Assisi
Short walks and many, many steps characterized our visit to Assisi. Becca had been there previously so she had planned the parking, times for Mass, etc.

Ingresso Libero

What do you think that means? “Ingresso Libero.” Come on, give it a try.

Okay for those of you who took Latin either voluntarily or against your will, you probably guessed it off the bat and are feeling mighty superior. For those of us with a public education and high school French taught by a teacher from Wisconsin, it might look (and sound) very foreign.

Either with the universe as my translator –or dumb luck—I recognized it right away to mean FREE ENTRY! (or literal translation Admission Free!) Since everything in Italy costs something (every hill town’s Etruscan Museo costs at least 6 E or $9 and the Uffizi cost $30!) my eyes are drawn to this purse friendly phrase.

It’s not that I’m cheap; my mother will be the first to tell you I have Champagne tastes on a Beer budget (the gene she is sure I inherited from my father and if you saw his “art” and “electronic toy” collection, you might agree).

I’ve discovered in my travels and life that sometimes the best things in life ARE free. Brunello wine at $50 a bottle is not one of these things, but the Cortona Alvarez Guitar Quartet tonight was.

It was by fluke that my parents and I ended up at this lovely concert in Teatro Luca Signorelli (the theater my first apartment looked out over.) Dad and I were at the grocery store when I spied the poster on the way out.

“Dad what day is today?” (a common problem when on vacation for over a month.)

“The 17^th.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then after church in Assisi, we will have lunch, nap, and then go to this concert.”

“Really?” We all doubt each other for some reason these days. “Really.”

Four men of varying ages, playing classical guitar with modern twists-it was wonderful and a small crowd of locals, also varying in ages, gathered to delight in this Sunday evening treat.

Sometimes the best things in life are free and never planned for.

P.S. In the lobby of the theater, I tried my first Campari and soda with orange slice—not a huge fan but I’d give it another try to make sure.

First 2 ½ Day Trip to Firenze, translate Florence

Our trip was to begin on Tuesday, October 14. We had already purchased e-tickets for that evening’s opera, Tosca. It was the closest event to Maura’s missed soap operas, “tempesto amores”. There was intrigue; unfaithfulness, torture; suicide and murders, yes more than one murder. I could never get into the soaps in college, life was hard enough not to be hit in the face with dysfunctional families that went on for generations; I needed something more uplifting. I could get into the opera because it had a finite ending to its tragedies and I could go onto something more uplifting such as…….

But I digress, let me start at the beginning….

The train from Terentola was uneventful; the same as taking the metro from Crystal Lake to Chicago, an hour and a half. We are starting in the country with just a few seats taken, with each town stop the train becomes fuller, till there was no seats or standing room left. I tried to give up my seat twice, to little old Italian ladies, but I think they thought it was condescending; they were truly equal to men, either young or old. They told me, “keep your damn seat.”

Becca had booked online the Hotel Maxim for 2 nights. To our surprise it was on the main street Via Calzaioli; half-way between the Duomo Cathedral (that’s redundant) and the Uffizi, two of the top attractions. The room was small, but had 3 full beds, another good surprise. The bathroom, less then small, but typically European: sink, toilet, bidet, shower; all in a 2x4 foot space. With one foot in the bidet and one foot in the shower, one could soap, shower, and shave.

The décor was 21^st Century IKEA; we would have to wait for the Renaissance. Since Becca got us here, she now informed me I was in charge of outlining our day’s events. Sights to see, cafes for espresso or vino, trattorias for lunch, stops for gelato, and ristorantes for dinner, I thought I had it covered. Before we left for Tuscany, I had purchased “Florence Walking Guide,” by Jean. It separated the city into 4 quadrants: Walk A, a marathon of top attractions; Walk B, a ½ marathon of top attractions; Walk C & D, a 10 and 5K. What I proceeded to do next did me in. Instead of taking a rifle shot aiming at 1 or 2 attractions a day, I proceeded to shot gun the walks, trying to get in all of Florence in 2 ½ days. How frantic was that; it was a Firenze!? Being overwhelmed, everything came to a stop.

Figlia narrowed my focus on the first ½ day, and we settled on the Academia where stands Michelangelo’s “David,” ready for a shower. The world’s most famous sculpture, awesome at 14 ft. tall, 19 tonnes. I was surprised to see he was not anatomically correct: big right hand, big head, and small penis. We were informed he was designed to be seen up high on the cathedral, so then his head and hand would appear perfect and his penis would disappear??? More acceptable to the medieval clergy?

Day 2 & 3 to follow.

buona sera, abba

Arguments

My mother’s eyebrows raise and she looks panicked as she over hears our neighbors’ “conversation” through the thick estate’s brick walls in our “apartment.” “It’s okay mom, it’s just Italian,” meaning: their common speak sounds like a bloody argument. I’m not learning the Italian language so these thoughts are those of a completely arrogant and ignorant American. With this warning, I have concluded that the Italian language is not fluid like the French or lyrical like the Irish and the sentences and words all end with punctuation that sounds like a dare. It doesn’t help that the head is usually thrown back and the chin jutting forward as if to say, “and what do you say to that!” Even in the market where I like to watch little old women order their produce, both the buyer and the seller wear faces that look very picky, if not angry. I know they are not angry, because once the exchange takes place, they are both wearing a pleasant face and they wish each other a good day and “I’ll see you next week.” I am positive it is just their negotiation faces, but to an outside eye, they look like they’re at war over apples.

My parents and I went to see Tosca in Florence, a very bloody Shakespearean “Comedy of Errors,” where the Soprano thinks the tenor is cheating on her so they have a fight and he convinces her otherwise, she thinks she has saved his life from the death squad by pretending to love the Commodore whom she then murders, only to discover that her lover is already dead so she leaps off the wall. Even at the opera, even the loving, wooing moments, the passion is so intense that it almost feels dangerous. On another note, the sets were unbelievably ornate, like all of Renaissance Florence; the music was beautiful; and Spumanti in the gallery to celebrate passing the bar was deliciously sweet and the bubbles tickled my nose.

Yes, that’s correct, I was able to go to Florence with the knowledge that I could call myself a lawyer and that mom could stop saying, “My daughter just graduated from law school and is a lawyer, well, not quite yet, she still needs to pass the Bar.” And thinking back to the panic I felt days before the results came out I realize what a terribly beaten ego I must have. I want to blame my lack of self-esteem on the grief process; strange, I know, but that’s the only thing I can pinpoint.

I remember having such a bad sense of judgment and not being able to trust myself after Mike died, and that was just when I had to choose a toothbrush at the grocery store! I remember my second year of law school, sitting down with my internship supervisor to evaluate my 4 month performance; she looked at me like I had three heads when I handed her my self-evaluation full of 2’s and 3’s. “Rebecca, I’m confused, you are clearly a 9-10 in this area.” I remember receiving grants, accolades, and compliments and wondering who they were talking about. Even as I prepared for this trip, friends were amazed that I was nervous.

I’d like to say that passing the Bar is the final justification that now launches me into believing I am capable, and maybe that will come, but at the moment passing the Bar feels like a fluke. I don’t want to minimize the work it takes to pass the Bar, but it is not important work; it’s “how do you beat the game” work. It’s just one more hurdle to join the “club.” The real work is more about what one chooses to do within this “club.” And luckily, I don’t have to start doing that important work quite yet.

Test Results

Today is the day I should receive my test results. Results which will not affect my health and wellbeing or even my financial future in any significant way and yet my stomach is in knots. For 3 months I have been able to live in denial and now, slowly, that protective defense is disintegrating, at the same time I am rereading Alice Wexler’s “Mapping Fate- A Memoir of Family, Risk, and Genetic Research.”

Appropriately, I am at the point in the book where the geneticists have found the G-8 Marker and are now able to test pre-symptomatic individuals who have a 50% chance of developing the fatal Huntington’s Disease. With no cure or therapy in sight, why would anyone want to know? The O’Brien family, 7 At-Risk siblings, is like a microcosm of how at-risk individuals across the world answered this question. Some said yes right away because the uncertainty was eating them alive; others were cognizant of the fact that once the information was known you could never again live in denial; and others wanted to believe in hope and the power of prayer. When I started writing Mike’s story I was sure what I would do if I were placed in the same predicament: I would want to know, absolutely, because I would make different plans for my life based on the information. But as Nancy Wexler, Alice’s sister/gene hunting pioneer/genetic counselor to many at-risk/and At-risk individual herself, has so wisely counseled, “why don’t you just choose to live your life that way, regardless?”

My test results for the bar are of such slight consequence compared to the decision that Mike faced to get tested that I am almost embarrassed to be worried about it. Nothing will really change in my life, one result or the other. Taking the test again probably will not kill me. I found these pieces of art in Orvieto and they reminded me of the pressure my head felt under while studying and taking the bar. Unfortunately the pressure will not be relieved if I have to take the test again in February but Lord knows I have the power to do something about my results and they are far from a death sentence. All things in perspective my friends.

Abba's Blog Entry - Arrivo di Mama & Papa

We left the USA Monday Oct. 6 with the world drowning in debt, what better way to experience the beginnings of our world as we know it than to travel back to the 12^th and 13^th century of Europe? We understand capitalism as we know it is coming to an end and bartering will be the new economy; we will be better prepared. Our flight of 9 hours was not without unexpected events. At ORD International, we were surprised to see the pastor of St. Thomas church of Crystal Lake with a goodly number of his parishioners flying to Tuscany with us; small world. The travel agencies soon discovered they could increase their tour numbers by enlisting the ministry to bring their parishioners. Lets hope he has done his homework so as to earn his free ride and proves to be a worthy tag-along.

The flight was not crowded, so many flyers decided to upgrade their seating for free by angling for the better seats on the plane. The 4 abreast were at a premium; the second choice was the emergency exit row seating (too bad! they were then bumped by the pilots for their naps). The stewardesses hung the canopy of blankets so the precious pilots could sleep in private. Before takeoff, an elderly Italian, who I assume was flying home, looked at Maura and me and said, “Americans,” and then began to talk very rapidly at us in Italian; we assumed it was not good. How did we know that without knowing the language? The 4 fingers under the chin was translation enough. He must think we are responsible for the Crash Felt Around the World.

Arriving in Milan, we moved quickly through customs and baggage, and were pleasantly surprised by Rebecca, holding up the “Stodola” sign. She most often is where she says she will be, and that relieved whatever anxiety was left. Our journey was not yet over as we were to drive from Milan to Trasimeno del Lago, which seemed as long as the flight. We stopped in Bologna for lunch at Mariposa. Yes, in Italian, it means butterfly. My Mexican friends tell me it means “fly in the butter;” not as inspiring.

We wanted to taste where bologna was created. They leave the fat with the lean, which gives it a richer taste than the flat bologna we grew up with for school lunches. The ragu and lasagna hit the spot with the house vino. We did do a quick stop for the Piazza de Neptune (Fontana di Nettuno) with its fountain in the center and four mermaids positioned at each of the compass points with knockers up and shooting water in all directions. No Puritanism here; welcome to Italy!

First Day in Umbria

Castliglione del Lago- loading up on the groceries at the local market. Met our first butcher and wife, who recognized Rebecca from Cortona, but we didn’t know how to describe our family relationships so ended up saying: pointing to me, pointing to Maura, saying “Mama, Papa, other.” Come to find out later the word for daughter is “figlet;” like Piglet only a fig. Ended up buying more Proscuitto then we needed, spending too much money on the local farmers, this we discovered when we went to the local grocery store to complete our list and spent far less. We assume there will be a special place in heaven for us for supporting the local farmers.

Day 2- After finding our hours were upside down, night & day vs. day & night, and missing our MSNBC Oberman Countdown and Maddow to let us know it is time to go to bed, we slept for about 14 hours. Our first morning we awoke to fresh coffee and biscotti, and the WiFi news of the US Economy crash continuing, we drank up and decided to enjoy the Toscana sun in Cortona: graveyards, chaises, WC’s, and gelato.

WC-for real drama try one of the WC Pubblicas. The one in local park was a “pay to play”. 50 cent Euro gave you 15 min. in an elevator like box. 15 min. seemed a little excessive, but with meals lasting over three hours and a bottle of wine between each course, maybe, the timing was right? The door slid open and let the morning light in, but as it slammed shut everything became black, the florescent light had burned out! I had memorized that the toilet was on the right and the sink was on the left; reaching down for the toilet, I noticed the seat was gone. This is true of most WC Pubblica toilets in Cortona and I imagine everywhere else. Toilet seats must be at a premium, like copper in the United States, so they are a choice item for thieves. I looked up to see my 15 minutes counting down and I began to panic, “what if the door doesn’t open, or more important what if it opens too soon?!” Luckily Becca was outside standing guard with an extra 50 cent Euro, just incase. I felt along the walls, because I couldn’t stand it for another minute, and I found a rubber button and pushed on it. The toilet flushed, the door opened, and I scurried out like a chipmunk looking for cover. Voila! Or in Italian, Grazie a Dio!

Buongiorno Abba

The Parents are Coming!

The Parents are coming; oh, the parents are here. A 5 hour, 3 AM drive from Cortona to Milan to pickup the parents made for a lively Tuesday morning. I know, there had to have been a better way, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. One of my other options was to go up the day before, by train, stay in Florence for the night, take the train really early in the morning (the parents’ flight was getting in at 8:30 AM) to Milan, plus a bus from Milan center to the airport, in hopes of finding them when they walked out (which was a huge worry of mom’s) and then repeat it with the two jet-lagged, senior parents. Not a great option. Of course they could have stayed in Milan for the night and we could have done it all a day later, after they had some wits about them. Rather than sacrifice their sanity, which would have sacrificed my own in the end, I decided to cut out the middle man, keeping their sanity intact while sacrificing my own.

It was just me and the early morning truckers and thank God it was dark; did anyone know there were mountains between Florence and Milan? I didn’t until I was coming back with the parents and realized how truly insane it was for me to have made the trip in the dark, with the trucks, and little sleep. The fall colors on the way back were stunning! I tried to take a picture, but on the switchbacks, going 120 km/per hr.; best not. But I did take a picture of the parents sleeping through the best part of the drive.

We stopped half-way to take some pics and lunch in Bologna. This fountain of Neptune may make the Christmas card; is it okay that the women have water streaming out of their breasts? A fantastic lunch of bologna and cheese, lasagna like you’ve never had before (think béchamel sauce), pumpkin tortellini with sage butter sauce, and tagliatelle with ragu or bolonese sauce. Bologna was a great kick-off.