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.