tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12374621077073309052024-03-14T00:29:03.023-07:00Cold Pasta & Red WineI admit it. I am obsessed with my Italian heritage & with writing about my beloved grandmother & everything & every place Italy. Since I found my grandparents' birthplace—Pettorano sul Gizio—in 2010, Italy continually tugs at my heart & mind. I go "home" as often as I can. Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger256125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-89590598178190181742015-11-23T13:23:00.002-08:002015-11-23T13:23:38.995-08:00Not Banks....<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-seyydQS5Y78/VlN4aNdD8eI/AAAAAAAAG8U/Vm5Lw8VJHWM/s1600/IMG_5523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-seyydQS5Y78/VlN4aNdD8eI/AAAAAAAAG8U/Vm5Lw8VJHWM/s320/IMG_5523.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last cappuccino in Rome.... I LOVE the spoon.</td></tr>
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<b>“A girl should be two things: who and what she wants.”
</b><br /> ―
Coco Chanel<br />
Having just finished a book review for a literary journal, I'm sitting in Starbucks taking a few minutes to relax before I head to another project. While jazz plays on the shop speaker, I watch a guy at the next table playing with his iPhone and a couple at a different table talk about who knows what. At the table four feet from me, three women are talking about Thanksgiving and the approaching Christmas holidays. They're planning a shopping trip for a day they don't all have their kids. A Monday or Tuesday would be fine, advises one of the gals. One of the others cannot do Monday or Tuesday because she has to pick up her kids. Maybe Wednesday, the 9th? They're starting early, so maybe they can have breakfast and lunch out...and they are NOT going to wear boots.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rsGG-Lw-h3U/VlN4u5vrPZI/AAAAAAAAG8k/MRRHGTMo9RU/s1600/IMG_4773.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rsGG-Lw-h3U/VlN4u5vrPZI/AAAAAAAAG8k/MRRHGTMo9RU/s320/IMG_4773.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Va Bene is a coffee shop in LV, but I love the name... It's Good.</td></tr>
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I don't like shopping. I used to enjoy it, but after I opened my store, the magic wore off. I also am not wild about wearing boots. I hated wearing them when I was a child. Remember those things we pulled over our shoes when it snowed? Augh. I used to say I'd wear flipflops in the snow before I'd wear boots. I have two pairs of "fashion" boots now. Since they are comfortable, I'll wear them at times , but only if I don't have to stand or walk a lot. I'm more concerned with comfort than what I'm wearing on my feet....always have been.<br />
<br />
I used to try to fit into these molds that people have. Mostly I did it because my parents would have a fit if I didn't. One of my memoir students (writing about a nun smacking her for misbehaving during class) was shocked at my statement that a nun never hit me. "Didn't you ever get in trouble?" she asked. I shook my head. "Never. If a teacher would have ever called my house, I would have gotten it twice. I was way too afraid of what God and my father would do to me."<br />
<br />
"You must have been an angel," she said.<br />
<br />
"More like a saint," I replied. "Two guys used to call me St. Christine." It's the truth. They teased me unmercifully in grade school for never getting in trouble. I preferred having a brown nose to a black-and-blue one.<br />
<br />
It took me a long time to get over living in the mold my parents wanted
me to live in. My father's death when I was 16 helped me break the
shell. It's a long story not worth repeating in a short blog, but
suffice to say that I didn't become a doctor. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0dS37retQEQ/VlN48iV0MDI/AAAAAAAAG8s/5k18plVEgY0/s1600/DSC_0087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0dS37retQEQ/VlN48iV0MDI/AAAAAAAAG8s/5k18plVEgY0/s320/DSC_0087.JPG" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cafe con crema....espresso topped with a lot of unsweetened whipped cream.</td></tr>
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I used to think my childhood was horrible, but once I started writing and reading nonfiction, I realized that despite my dictatorial father and detestable paternal grandparents, life was okay. It wasn't great, but it wasn't as bad as the childhoods others withstood. I made it through with the help of my mother's side of the family, my friends, and mostly with my husband who had a Norman Rockwell-type childhood. He espouses two theories on life: "Everything happens for a reason," and "Everything will work out." As much as I want to smack him when he says one of them, I think he's mostly right.<br />
<br />
I think, perhaps, that's why listening to negative blabbing (government, politics, etc) bothers me so much. Life is good.<br />
<br />
By the way, one of the ladies is now talking about going to a wedding in Cincinnati. She said she loves marriage and that her mother told her she must because she's been married too many times. "You're rivaling Elizabeth Taylor," her mom recently said. "I'd rather be Angelina," the woman told her friends who have turned back to talking about Thanksgiving dinner. Liz-a-lina is going to make cranberry sauce for her friends.<br />
<br />
You know.... We are all so lucky to live in a world such as this. I love it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-31536827885544164332015-11-13T08:45:00.002-08:002015-11-13T08:48:56.000-08:00Houston, We Have a Problem, Part II<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dLJHiJjJ4kQ/VkYBrLKxBiI/AAAAAAAAG7g/2VwtaFE26iM/s1600/IMG_5361.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dLJHiJjJ4kQ/VkYBrLKxBiI/AAAAAAAAG7g/2VwtaFE26iM/s320/IMG_5361.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vernazza</td></tr>
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<br />
<b> “There is more stupidity than hydrogen in the universe, and it has a longer shelf life.”
</b><br />
―
Frank Zappa<br />
<br />
When last I left you (Sorry to have been absent a few days, but work called.), the three women from Galveston (which is near Houston which is in Texas, you know) had badgered the waiter in to giving them separate checks but were still questioning the <i>coperto</i> charge on their bill.<br />
<br />
While Twyla, Kerri, and Ron defended the coperto charge, the women still insisted it was ridiculous to charge two euro (TWO EURO) for bread and service.<br />
<br />
"But how much would you give as a tip?" Ron asked. That —or the fact that they received their separate checks— quieted them for a few seconds.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vernazza in the rain</td></tr>
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<br />
The waiter came by to get payment and saw the three credit cards. He said nothing, but the way he snatched them spoke volumes. The three women were oblivious.<br />
<br />
Brownie, eyed the few pieces of cheese on her plate. "I think I'll take this cheese with me in case I get hungry later. It should keep." Her friends urged her to take it and the "crappy" bread with her. I rolled my eyes. "Most restaurants do not give doggy bags," I warned her.<br />
<br />
The waiter came back and, and Brownie asked him for a bag or box for her two piece of cheese. "We do not have those, Madam," he replied. <br />
<br />
"Why wouldn't they have bags to take home what I paid for? How am I going to take this with me?" Brownie loudly grumbled. "I just do not understand this country." The waiter, cleaning the table next to us, could hear the entire conversation.<br />
<br />
Twyla told me my green eyes had turned black, and I can believe that because I was holding onto my chair in an attempt to keep from hopping across the table and strangling the stupid woman. "You are in Italy," I said to her, "not America. This is their country, and this is what they do." I kept myself from adding a few choice words. Brownie, too concerned with how she was going to take her cheese with her, ignored me.<br />
<br />
"Wrap it in your napkin," Kerri told her.<br />
<br />
"My napkin is dirty," she said.<br />
<br />
Twyla took the napkin from the bread basket and handed it
to her. "Use this one." The waiter, who'd been listening to the entire
discourse, grabbed a larger napkin from the cabinet and gave it to her.
She didn't even thank him.<br />
Telling us that they were heading back to wherever they were staying, they got up. Brownie threw the napkin-wrapped cheese in her purse, "I'm from New Orleans. I love New Orleans." Why she said that, I had no idea. I was just happy they were leaving.<br />
<br />
"Can you believe that?" Twyla asked us. We discussed them for a few minutes and figured that the person leading their tour was going to have a grand two weeks. As the waiter walked by, we asked for our check.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o4jimS62m9U/VkYCZ3FWdqI/AAAAAAAAG7w/NNAQaqi1YBU/s1600/DSC_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o4jimS62m9U/VkYCZ3FWdqI/AAAAAAAAG7w/NNAQaqi1YBU/s320/DSC_0065.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monterosso</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, he delivered the check to the table. I spoke to him in Italian. "<i>Can you split this into three checks, please?</i> <i>We'll pay with credit cards if you will</i>." He looked at us in horror, and the four of burst into laughter. Realizing we were joking, he also laughed and walked away. When he returned to pick up our payment, I addressed him again. <i>"What is this coperto? Why do we have to pay it?"</i> I picked up the empty bread basket and showed it to the waiter who, once again, looked at us in horror. "<i>We didn't eat your crappy bread."</i> The gullible waiter again realized we were joking and laughed with us and tried to explain that some people were like those women.<br />
<br />
"<i>We're just joking,</i>" I told him. "<i>We're not like them.</i>" I handed him the money, and he thanked us profusely.<br />
<br />
The four of us joked about this incident for the rest of the trip, but it really upset me more than it amused me. I cannot, for the life of me, understand such ignorance. If one wants things to be the same as they are at home, then he/she should stay there. We travel to learn new things, don't we? Apparently not. <br />
<br />
At any rate, we returned to the restaurant two more times, and he never waited on us again. Maybe the jokes didn't translate too well.<br />
<br />
Next time: BanksUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-31677298327808105022015-11-10T07:16:00.001-08:002015-11-10T07:16:26.916-08:00Houston, We Have a Problem, Part I<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FTi8xmGnZIs/VkGDwSnTouI/AAAAAAAAG6s/Px-98aLwCNk/s1600/IMG_5347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FTi8xmGnZIs/VkGDwSnTouI/AAAAAAAAG6s/Px-98aLwCNk/s320/IMG_5347.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grilled mixed seafood</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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“When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not designed to make you comfortable. It is designed to make its own people comfortable.” <i>– Clifton Fadiman</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>(Prologue: Since I don't have photos of the parties involved, I'm using photos of food. They're more interesting, anyway.) </i><br />
<br />
“Where are y’all from?” a lady with short brown hair asked us. The four of us were sharing a large table in Taverna del Capitano, a small restaurant in Vernazza, Italy. We’d just arrived from Bologna, settled in to our rooms (owned as it were by the Taverna owners), and wanted food. Fast. Since it was pouring outside, we couldn’t sit there, and the only available seating inside was at the table the lady and two of her friends had.<br /><br />“Where are y’all from?” Her syrupy voice irritated me immediately.<br />
<br />
<br />
“Las Vegas and Idaho,” one of us replied, and I pointed to Twyla, the only non-Nevadan in our quartet.<br /><br />“What about you?” I asked.<br /><br />“We’re from Galveston,” she answered. “That’s in Texas. Near Houston. You know. NASA’s there.” She pronounced it "Na-Saw."<br /><br />Said irritation was justified. Gosh. We had no idea that Galveston was in Texas. Nor did we know that NASA was there. We all thought we lost Texas in the war with Mexico.<br /><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HQIyiNuBcNw/VkGDw1pNtoI/AAAAAAAAG6w/YDbFjF222oQ/s1600/IMG_5348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HQIyiNuBcNw/VkGDw1pNtoI/AAAAAAAAG6w/YDbFjF222oQ/s320/IMG_5348.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pork and artichoke</td></tr>
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Throughout lunch, the three women talked about this and that with us. They brought up a particular house-flipping program that features a team from Las Vegas.<br /><br />“I don’t watch it anymore,” I said. “{The star} is an idiot.”<br /><br />“Yep,” agreed Kerri, “he’s an idiot.” Brownie didn’t like that comment. “But the Property Brothers are very nice,” Kerri continued.<br />
<br />
"Jonathon's gay," one of them said. "I read it on the internet." I rolled my eyes. <i>Oh, that makes it true</i>, I thought. The nonsense continued for a time, and they were finally ready to leave.<br />
<br />
"We have to catch a train at 3:06," Brownie said.<br />
<br />
"What town are you staying in?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"I don't know. Where are we staying?" she asked the other gals. Like her, they had no idea. "I think it begins with an "S," she continued. There are no towns whose names begin with an "S" in the Cinque Terre. I just smiled and tried to keep my eyes in my head.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o92Ei1r7-J0/VkGD2Ea30zI/AAAAAAAAG68/wcTcpcMFQ1I/s1600/IMG_5035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o92Ei1r7-J0/VkGD2Ea30zI/AAAAAAAAG68/wcTcpcMFQ1I/s320/IMG_5035.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pasta e fagiolini</td></tr>
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<br />
The waiter walked by and placed the check on the table. He delivered something to the table next to us and walked by again. Brownie grabbed him. "Can you separate this check for us?" she asked. Upset, the waiter said, "It is difficult to do that." Brownie replied, "I asked outside, and the lady said you'd separate the check."<br />
<br />
"What lady? Why you didn't ask me when you ordered?" the waiter said as he slinked away.<br />
<br />
"Italian restaurants don't usually separate checks," I told her.<br />
<br />
"I don't care what they usually do," she snapped at me. "We want separate checks." <br />
<br />
The women poured over the check, and the waiter passed by again. Brownie stopped him.<br />
<br />
"What is this 6 euro charge 'coperto?'" Brownie asked. The waiter explained that it was the cover charge and for bread. "I'm not paying this," she told him. Eyes wide, he stared at her for a minute.<br />
<br />
"But, madam," he said, "it is on the menu. Everyone pays coperto."<br />
<br />
"I did not eat your crappy bread," she insisted. The waiter gave up and walked away. <br />
<br />
(For the record, the bread was great.)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bIqzdMNmHMs/VkGD5m53GTI/AAAAAAAAG7Q/RRwjcW6KGok/s1600/IMG_5036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bIqzdMNmHMs/VkGD5m53GTI/AAAAAAAAG7Q/RRwjcW6KGok/s320/IMG_5036.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calzone</td></tr>
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Twyla told me that she could tell by the look on my face that I had "checked out." Truthfully, I was afraid to say something because I wasn't sure what would come out of my mouth. Kerri tried to explain that the coperto covers more than the bread. <br />
<br />
The waiter came by again and dropped the separated checks on the table. The women were silent at that point, and I thought we were out of the danger zone.<br />
<br />
Oh, silly me.<br />
<br />
To be continued....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-36127445950386669322015-11-08T10:36:00.003-08:002015-11-08T11:35:48.374-08:00You Big Poopy Head (Venice Strike #3)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand Canal </td></tr>
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<h1 class="quoteText">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><b>"On the morning of our second day, we were
strolling down the Champs-Elysées when a bird sh*t on his head. ‘Did you
know a bird’s sh*t on your head?’ I asked a block or two later..." </b><i>~ Bill Bryson</i></span></span></h1>
<h1 class="quoteText">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Oh, why should I even beat around the bush? You can probably tell from the title and quote that a pigeon crowned one of us on our second day in Venice. Let me gently guide you to "the incident."</span></span></h1>
When last I left you, I was sicker than anything and quite sure I wasn't going to make it to Venice the second day. We had stopped at the pharmacy in the train station on our way home, and the pharmacist gave me something that really helped. (I'll tell that story some other time.)<br />
<br />
At any rate, I woke up felling a lot better the next morning and headed to Venice.
The fact that the sun was shining probably helped, as did the fact that
there were no screaming kids on the train. We arrived unscathed and
immediately headed for a gondola ride, something I'd never experienced.
Suffice to say I was not sure I could handle it, but I didn't have to
lean over the side, so all was good. That out of the way, we caught the
vaporetto and headed to Murano, a 30-minute boat ride.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mLYFLvVkj58/Vj55GaBoa6I/AAAAAAAAG4g/fC1k6z77-Xw/s1600/IMG_5219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mLYFLvVkj58/Vj55GaBoa6I/AAAAAAAAG4g/fC1k6z77-Xw/s320/IMG_5219.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The gondola</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5itGQCEDhnM/Vj56da2onmI/AAAAAAAAG5I/GOHDbuQlkC4/s1600/IMG_5222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5itGQCEDhnM/Vj56da2onmI/AAAAAAAAG5I/GOHDbuQlkC4/s320/IMG_5222.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our gondolier</td></tr>
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<br />
Venice, as you probably know, is famous for its glass, and Murano is where the glass factories are. At the end of the 13th century, Venetian lawmakers ordered the glassmakers to move their foundries to the island, which sits a little less than a mile from the mainland, as they feared the fires would destroy the city. The glassmakers became well-regarded, and their children were even permitted to marry into the more affluent and powerful families. The downside was that the glassmakers could not leave the republic or take their glass-blowing secrets with them. Should anyone do so, the secret police would hunt him down and either chop off his hands or put him to death.<br />
<br />
Dozens of factories still exist on the island, but the number of glassmakers has decreased at an alarming rate. Why? Believe it or not, 40-50% of Venetian glass now comes from China. Experts can tell the difference, but the general public usually cannot. At any rate, Murano is all about glass, and wandering from store-to-store and factory-to-factory is a lot of fun.<br />
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<br />
After a few hours of glass overload, we headed to Trattoria Di Frati, a canal-side restaurant on the island. The weather was beautiful, so we opted to sit outside. Unfortunately, in addition to the guests at the other tables, pigeons were having a convention at the restaurant.<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RvydaMEhpcI/Vj9ft11d1zI/AAAAAAAAG6I/V3Ei03g521o/s1600/IMG_5280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RvydaMEhpcI/Vj9ft11d1zI/AAAAAAAAG6I/V3Ei03g521o/s320/IMG_5280.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blue Comet and clock tower on Murano</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"Ugh," Kerri said when one jumped onto the empty table next to us to snatch up a few crumbs left by the previous diners.<br />
<br />
"Rats with wings," Twyla said.<br />
<br />
"You know," I added, "I can't believe how many people let the stupid things sit on their arms, shoulders, and heads in St. Mark's Square. Blech."<br />
<br />
"That's disgusting," Kerri said. I stomped my foot to scare one away from me. We continued to talk about pigeons for a few minutes.<br />
<br />
It was, at the very moment that the waitress exited the restaurant with our food, that I heard what sounded like a small fart (Please, please excuse my being blunt), and felt something hit my head and then my arm.<br />
<br />
"Holy crap," I exclaimed. "A pigeon got me." I held my pink-shirt-covered arm straight out and stared at a glob of, well, crap that blemished it. I didn't dare touch my head.<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6y7wqcNluBg/Vj55PQjE8JI/AAAAAAAAG4w/auOzmGvx4S0/s1600/IMG_5287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6y7wqcNluBg/Vj55PQjE8JI/AAAAAAAAG4w/auOzmGvx4S0/s320/IMG_5287.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The infamous restaurant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The waitress arrived, and, presenting crappy arm in her direction, I asked where the rest room was.<br />
<br />
"Oh, no!" she said as she put my soup down and pointed to the restaurant. "<i>Remember, though, when a bird craps on you, it's good luck.</i>" <br />
<br />
"Yeh. Yeh. Great luck, "I snarked. "Please cover my soup and make sure his friends don't deliver more good tidings." <br />
<br />
As my luck would have it, there was a line to get into the women's rest room. The older woman in front of me smiled and looked at my stiff arm as I walked up.<br />
<br />
"A bird got me," I explained showing her my defiled arm.<br />
<br />
"That wasn't very friendly now, was it?" she snorted in her British accent.<br />
<br />
"Not quite." I wasn't amused. The woman who was occupying the women's rest room finally came out, and British Bertha went in. She'd been in there about three minutes when another lady walked up. "Is this the line for the WC?" she asked in broken English. I nodded.<br />
<br />
Bertha must have been taking a shower because she was taking her good old time in the rest room. Thoughts of disgusting germs infesting my head and the threads of my pink t-shirt swirled around my mind, and I finally caved.<br />
<br />
"Oh, for heaven's sake," I huffed and walked into the men's room. I locked the door and started the clean-up process. Luckily the room had soap and paper towels, so I was able to scrub the sleeve of my shirt. Someone pulled at the door. "I'm in here," i hissed. I turned my attention to my hair and the little greenish-grey worm that sat on top. "Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Gag. Gag."<br />
<br />
I tried to pick it off with a paper towel, but it just smeared. I heaved. I wet a paper towel and tried to clean my hair with that. I just made it worse. I double heaved. Someone pulled at the door again. "Occupata!" I kicked the door. "Scusami," some poor dude said. I put soap on a paper towel and tried to wash my hair a bit but the crap just smeared around. I repeated the step a few times but never got the stuff completely out of my hair.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yo6geyFbbuc/Vj9fHALVkUI/AAAAAAAAG6A/6LdvAuVROZI/s1600/poop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yo6geyFbbuc/Vj9fHALVkUI/AAAAAAAAG6A/6LdvAuVROZI/s320/poop.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green marks the spot where the pigeon got me. I had tried to clean my hair, but you can see some crappy remnants.</td></tr>
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<br />
Defeated, I went back to the table. I looked up at the railing above my head before I sat down. I didn't want another rogue pigeon anywhere near me.<br />
<br />
"The waitress scared them off after you left," Twyla told me. <i>Great,</i> I thought.<br />
<br />
Somehow we got through lunch unscathed again and headed to a glass factory. Along the way, pigeons lined the sidewalk laughing at me.<br />
<br />
"Get away, you stupid thing," i said. "Stay away from me!" I waved my arms and stomped my feet. I'm sure the people walking by thought I was nuts for threatening pigeons.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zlW9J-vBYyA/Vj56IdUH6TI/AAAAAAAAG5A/6bHyGWV-ijU/s1600/DSC_0058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zlW9J-vBYyA/Vj56IdUH6TI/AAAAAAAAG5A/6bHyGWV-ijU/s320/DSC_0058.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pigeons laughed at me the rest of the trip.</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
For the rest of the day, I swear that I felt my head burning in the spot where the pigeon left its mark. Germophobe that I am, I wouldn't touch my head at all. As soon as I got back to the apartment, I shampooed my hair five times. FIVE TIMES. The next morning, I washed it another three times. I wasn't taking any chances.<br />
<br />
All of my Bolognese friends told me it was good luck that the stupid pigeon got me. I wasn't having any of it, but maybe I should go play the slots today. I don't want to tempt luck.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-36620033652399372662015-11-07T08:52:00.001-08:002015-11-07T08:52:37.207-08:00Venice: Strike One (& Two)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5v6PBQ7Sq1M/Vj1x6gPaADI/AAAAAAAAG38/cre99ydGfRM/s1600/IMG_5175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="92" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5v6PBQ7Sq1M/Vj1x6gPaADI/AAAAAAAAG38/cre99ydGfRM/s320/IMG_5175.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Mark's Square</td></tr>
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<br />
<b> “Venice was a hallucinatory incubus, the most artificial environment in the world: Disneyland for grown-ups." </b> <i>~ Jonathon Galassi</i><br />
<br />
Venice, as I repeat ad nauseam, is not my favorite city. That said, as I've come to find out, I do like the place. The problem with which I have a problem is the same one that the natives suffer: tourists. Yes. Yes. One could say, technically, that I'm a tourist, but I prefer to think that I'm not. We won't get into that, but suffice to say that i do not push, pull, or stomp on people, nor do I swing stupid selfie sticks all over the place.<br />
<br />
That said, I really do like Venice and would love to have been there before the crowds of pushing, pulling, stomping, swinging people invaded it. I would love the opportunity to walk it without fighting to move five feet forward without fighting some human obstacle. (I like to dream.)<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1G8c0SXwOEU/Vj1xhRE1tlI/AAAAAAAAG3Q/oJCkDhISP64/s1600/IMG_5152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1G8c0SXwOEU/Vj1xhRE1tlI/AAAAAAAAG3Q/oJCkDhISP64/s320/IMG_5152.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gondolier</td></tr>
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I took the group to Venice on two days this trip. On the first day, Sunday, I was starting to feel sick, so I was hoping the day would end well. The train ride over was an experience as it seems that everyone and his brother was heading east from Bologna that morning. Crowded, the train cars echoed with the noise of loud people and louder kids. Two boys sitting a few rows behind us were particularly loud, and they kept throwing toys around. I was not the only adult throwing the stink eye back at the father, but he was oblivious to them.<br />
<br />
"My, GOD," I exclaimed, my head about to burst. "SHUT UP." Nothing. "I'm walking back there." I got up and walked to the carriage door. The two kids were on the floor next to the door, and they continued throwing their metal cars and trucks at the train window, door, and each other. Arms crossed, I leaned against the door frame and glared at them. One of the boys looked at me. I stink-eyed.. He smiled. I stink-eyed. He smiled. I gave up and plopped back into my seat. "Help." I stuck my fingers in my ears and slumped over. My head thumped. Thumped. Thumped.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CDkoL4vv6-U/Vj1xktjaXuI/AAAAAAAAG3Y/m--Lm--q64Q/s1600/IMG_5143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CDkoL4vv6-U/Vj1xktjaXuI/AAAAAAAAG3Y/m--Lm--q64Q/s320/IMG_5143.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Venetian traffic jam</td></tr>
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Luckily for all of us, the train stopped in Padova (Padua), and a good number of people got off there. Since Padova is a huge destination for Catholics (St. Anthony of Padua), they were probably heading there for Sunday services. No matter the reason, when the masses departed the train, the loud kids were among them, and our car quickly quieted down.<br />
<br />
We arrived in Venice and caught the vaporetto to St. Mark's Square. Vaporetti are the water buses in Venice. Used mostly by tourists, they transport people from one location to another easily. They are not the fastest mode of transportation as they're medium-sized boats that can hold 150+ people, many of whom stand. On tourist-heavy days, the vaporetti are packed. Packed. We arrived on a tourist-heavy day. The 30-minute ride is a blur of people continually pushing onto the vaporetto.<br />
<br />
As we passed St. Mark's to get to the vaporetto stop, I noticed that the square was roped off and that it seems as though more people than normal were milling around. We got off and walked toward the first bridge, half of which was roped off, too.<br />
<br />
"I have no idea what's going on," I said. "Let's go the back way." I lead the group away from the crowds and through the back streets of Venice. I won't bore you with all we did, but after lunch, I took them back towards St. Mark's as they had tickets for the Doges Palace. Because the square was roped off, we could barely fight our way through the crowd. I looked over and noticed people running within the roped area. "Holy crap," I sighed. "There's a marathon or something going on.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g9ihrPYQ5rs/Vj1xm8j2VHI/AAAAAAAAG3g/qDD2tJ3WyX8/s1600/IMG_5165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g9ihrPYQ5rs/Vj1xm8j2VHI/AAAAAAAAG3g/qDD2tJ3WyX8/s320/IMG_5165.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Venice Marathon</td></tr>
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"A marathon?" one of the group asked. "In Venice? What do they do? Run in circles?"<br />
<br />
Well, as I found out, Venice does have an annual marathon, and we happened to be there for its 30th year. The race, which starts in Stra (a small town west of Venice), had 10,000 runners who ran through the countryside and into the city center, passing over 14 bridges before ending just past St. Mark's at Riva Seiti Martiri.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0N-3-QTp8b4/Vj1xyNPuBbI/AAAAAAAAG3o/xMubUWG5bUk/s1600/IMG_5169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0N-3-QTp8b4/Vj1xyNPuBbI/AAAAAAAAG3o/xMubUWG5bUk/s320/IMG_5169.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Venice Marathon</td></tr>
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After the group entered the Doges Palace, I tried to walk through St. Mark's in search of a place to sit down. I alternated between shivering and burning, and I just wanted a quiet place. There are a lot of cafes around St. Mark's, and I thought I might find a place to sit and have a pot of tea while I waited for the group. That was not the best idea, for a few reasons. First, the cafes had seating outside. I figured it was best that I didn't sit outside, but I was getting desperate and just wanted to sit. I went from cafe to cafe and looked at the menus. The menus held the second reason it wasn't a good idea to have tea there.<br />
<br />
In case you don't know, the cafes around St. Mark's charge an exorbitant amount of money for everything, especially if the orchestras are playing. For example, a cappuccino can cost 9 euro, and that's before they add a 6 euro cover charge. The few places I looked had tea, and that cost was even worse — 20-to-22 euro for a pot of tea plus cover charge. I retraced my steps to the backstreets of Venice and started looking for a place where I could have tea away from the crowds. <br />
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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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O57VhfRew0c/Vj1xy12YtoI/AAAAAAAAG3s/Y6r4r3DXmxE/s1600/IMG_5170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O57VhfRew0c/Vj1xy12YtoI/AAAAAAAAG3s/Y6r4r3DXmxE/s320/IMG_5170.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Venice Marathon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It took quite some time, but I eventually found a little cafe with
indoor seating somewhere along the back streets. I stumbled in and, without looking at the menu, ordered a pot of black tea. The waiter brought it and a small sweet quickly. I got hot. I took my jacket off. I got cold. I put my jacket on. I got hot. Off. On. Off. On. I'm sure the waiter thought I was nuts. More than an hour later, I was ready to meet the group, so I asked for the check. 12 euro. It was worth it.<br />
<br />
By the time we were able to fight our way onto a vaporetto back to the train station, Venice was dark. We had to stand in a stairwell for most of the 40 minutes, but we made it back with about 10 minutes to get tickets for the next train back to Bologna. Unfortunately, there were about 100 people crowded around five ticket machines. I left everyone in line and went to a customer service rep.<br />
<br />
"Can you get me four tickets on the next train to Bologna?" I probably seemed a bit frantic. <br />
<br />
"It's 2 euro more," she told me.<br />
<br />
"I don't care. Get me home." I was frantic.<br />
<br />
"Don't forget to validate them...." she was saying as I grabbed them and ran.<br />
<br />
We made it on with a few minutes to spare, and we were on our way. I spent most of it with my head in my hands.<br />
<br />
"I hope you don't mind," I said to the group, "but I can't walk back to the apartment tonight. Let's please take a taxi." Everyone was on board with that. . . Everyone but the taxi drivers.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yJ9XHnxz9Ao/Vj1yZchGhDI/AAAAAAAAG4A/WMr2qCeuzdk/s1600/IMG_5208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yJ9XHnxz9Ao/Vj1yZchGhDI/AAAAAAAAG4A/WMr2qCeuzdk/s320/IMG_5208.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Church from the vaporetto</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When we arrived back in Bologna, we stopped quickly in the station pharmacy so Kerri and I could pick up a few things. We headed out to the taxi stand and found about 20 people in line with two taxis available.<br />
<br />
"I can't wait," I almost cried. We started walking back. They decided to stop at a restaurant on the way, and I went on. "I can't. I need to get back." <br />
<br />
I probably walked that 1.5 miles faster that night than any other time in my life in Bologna. I stumbled through the door of my apartment, took one of the pills the pharmacist gave me, called Michael, and fell asleep.<br />
<br />
I was sure there was no way I could go to Venice again the next morning.<br />
<br />
Ha.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-10122570855736644052015-11-06T07:40:00.001-08:002015-11-06T08:40:06.267-08:00Better Late Than Never<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riley Facetiming me while I was in Bologna</td></tr>
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<h4>
All this modern technology just makes people try to do everything at once. <span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>~ Bill Watterson</i></span></h4>
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My latest <strike>victims</strike> group and I are back from Italy, as you may know. You may not know that since it's been some time since I was able to write the blog due, mostly, to the fact that we had internet problems from the time we left Bologna on October 28.</div>
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When Mike and I headed to Europe the first few times in the 90s and 2000s, we took neither cell phones or computers because they wouldn't work there. Internet was too new, slow, and costly. I remember signing up for 30-minute access to internet on a cruise ship in 2007. The cost was $50 for about 30 minutes, and I spent most of the 30 minutes waiting for one or two emails to Jason to send. Even in 2010, we took my iPad to Italy hoping to have internet access and found very little.</div>
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What a difference a year made. In 2011, I had a scholarship to Charles University in Prague, and we hit a few places in Italy before that. Every apartment had internet access. I could use the iPad easily no matter where we were. Unfortunately, our phones still did not work in Europe. You may remember that someone broke into our Prague apartment in the middle of the night, and we had no way to contact the police except for me to walk to the police station at 3:00 am. (Story <a href="http://trailingtheshadows.blogspot.com/2011/07/burglar-and-policeman-walk-into-bar.html">here</a> and <a href="http://trailingtheshadows.blogspot.com/2011/07/burglar-policeman-walk-into-bar-ii.html">here</a>) I swore after that experience that I would not leave home without a phone that worked everywhere. And, I haven't.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkVxfOMEUWY/VjwgarORp1I/AAAAAAAAG20/RT0F3IoPL-Y/s1600/IMG_5350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkVxfOMEUWY/VjwgarORp1I/AAAAAAAAG20/RT0F3IoPL-Y/s320/IMG_5350.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vernazza during the rain</td></tr>
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Remember the America Express commercials that urged, "Don't leave home without it!" These days, I—and probably most of you, too—don't leave home without at least one piece of digital equipment, the cell phone. Most days, the iPad accompanies me, too, since I use it for work. And, should I go out of town, I'm loaded for bear: iPhone, iPod, iPad, MacBook Air, and every stupid cable that I need to charge them up. I'm addicted, I tell you. How did I survive before I had these umbilical cords?<br />
<br />
At any rate, the group and I had all of our "stuff," and while we were in Bologna, the internet worked great. That was a good thing since BLVDS was in proof mode, and I was able to edit while I was there. We left Bologna on 28 October, the day the final proofs were coming through. Our apartments in Vernazza were to have internet, so I wasn't worried. First mistake.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RjeXBHH1bBc/VjwgMBkHCZI/AAAAAAAAG2w/kyquaqHXIDI/s1600/IMG_4849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RjeXBHH1bBc/VjwgMBkHCZI/AAAAAAAAG2w/kyquaqHXIDI/s320/IMG_4849.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BLVDS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"Can you sign on?" Kerri asked me not too long after we had lugged ourselves and our suitcases up 50+ STEEP steps to our Vernazza rooms. She was waiting for a few important emails from work.<br />
<br />
"It shows I'm connected," I yelled back, "but I can't get anything to open." She couldn't, either. At the time, we blamed it on the horrendous downpour going on outside. We were, after all, in the Cinque Terre, an area on the rocky eastern coast of Italy. I asked the owner about the internet, and he told me that they were having problems in the rooms and that we could use the internet in the restaurant. While everyone ate, I edited BLVDS at our table, as did Kerri. After I complained again, the owner gave me a portable hot spot, which Kerri and I shared since it worked in only one room at a time. And, while it worked, it was slowslowslow because we were, after all, in a small town on the coast.<br />
<br />
Rome would be better.<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7X4KkSCySSE/Vjwf3FRpBzI/AAAAAAAAG2o/bmHmjQMKqyQ/s1600/IMG_4838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7X4KkSCySSE/Vjwf3FRpBzI/AAAAAAAAG2o/bmHmjQMKqyQ/s320/IMG_4838.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I needed after dealing with internet problems</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
HA! Our Rome apartment was in the Prati district — a quiet, business/residential area of the city close to the Vatican and Piazza del Popolo. Paolo, the owner, got the internet working for us and showed me what to do if we had problems.... which we did. I won't bore you with all of the details, but suffice to say a lot of the conversation over our three days in Rome went something like this:<br />
<br />
"Are you able to sign on?"<br />
<br />
"No. Are you?"<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
OR, "I'm online, are you?"<br />
<br />
"Yes... No.... Yes.... Wait...."<br />
<br />
OR, "I give up."<br />
<br />
"I gave up last Wednesday."<br />
<br />
Paolo, the owner, wrote me yesterday and apologized. He told me that he's planning to get a new service provider and hopes that that will take care of the problem.<br />
<br />
So, we're home, and the internet is working. Yay!<br />
<br />
Excuse me.... I have a meeting in an hour, so I need to pack up everything and get ready. <br />
<br />
See you back in Venice tomorrow. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-6121708631644822722015-10-29T02:12:00.001-07:002015-10-29T12:51:20.383-07:00Life and Other Adventures<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8TAKxl9jppM/VjJ4tu0t8lI/AAAAAAAAG2I/g_O3bPErwXk/s640/blogger-image--1351884690.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8TAKxl9jppM/VjJ4tu0t8lI/AAAAAAAAG2I/g_O3bPErwXk/s640/blogger-image--1351884690.jpg"></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">“An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.” ~ GK Chesterton</span></div><div><div class="quoteFooter"></div></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I've been a little under the weather for the past few days–well, almost a week. In addition, BLVDS has been in proof stage, and I've been working on that when I could keep my head clear enough to think. (No comments from anyone about that, please.) So, I did want you to know that the spirit was there, but the energy was not. </span></div><div><br></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">That said, I've been accruing stories.... Believe me. I have been accruing stories. True stories. When you travel with me, you have adventures, and there has been no shortage on this trip. Please allow me to give you just a taste until I can get to the real blog in the next few days.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><b>INTERNET</b> is always a problem when we travel, and this trip has not been any different. While Bologna was pretty steady in that department, Vernazza is not, and we are suffering without a good connection. Luckily, I bought an Italian sim card for my iPad, and I can get at least a little internet at times.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><b>VENICE</b>, as you may remember, is not one of my favorite cities for a number of reasons. Well, we can add at least three more to that list, and I'll explain those in detail soon. Let's just say it all comes down to the fact that I'm not wild about crowds of idiots, pidgeons, and cold.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Speaking of cold, we are currently in the Cinque Terre area. Our <b> TRIP & ARRIVAL</b> yesterday in the middle of a cold rain that soon turned to a complete downpour left us soggy and quite a bit put out. It</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">And, speaking of being put out, should I tell you about the <b>BANK</b> incident? Or about how we keep <b>LOSING WAITERS</b>?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">And, there are the <b>THREE WOMEN</b> from Galveston (that's in Texas, you know). If there is a reason Americans have a bad reputation around the world, those three women would be at the top of the list.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PZDMYlyTYcA/VjJ4p4c07KI/AAAAAAAAG2A/soq5KCYlkkI/s640/blogger-image--1544612196.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PZDMYlyTYcA/VjJ4p4c07KI/AAAAAAAAG2A/soq5KCYlkkI/s640/blogger-image--1544612196.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Things always do work out. And if they didn't, I'm not so sure I'd like the adventure.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">See you in Venice soon....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">PHOTOS: Top-Vernazza an hour after our arrival Bottom- Monterosso al Mare today</div><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-13845635406161683372015-10-24T13:07:00.001-07:002015-10-24T13:10:40.550-07:00Religion<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Facade of Milan Cathedral</td></tr>
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<br />
“The world is my church."<br />
― Steve Maraboli<br />
<br />
The last few days in Florence and Milan have been so busy that I've been too tired to write anything. My apologies. I do, however, want to touch on something briefly tonight before I head to bed: religion.<br />
<br />
Italy, as you probably know, is full of Catholic churches. Turn a corner, see a church. My grandmother's village (600+ residents) has five that I know of. Castrovalva, a tiny town of about 20 permanent residents, has three or four. Don't even ask me about a city like Bologna or Milan or Rome. As I said, turn a corner, see a church.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s49MPTMZxbo/VivX1bZ-pBI/AAAAAAAAG1U/Wtf6FgmpIMU/s1600/IMG_5115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s49MPTMZxbo/VivX1bZ-pBI/AAAAAAAAG1U/Wtf6FgmpIMU/s320/IMG_5115.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Side altar</td></tr>
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One of the things that gets me most is the fact that the churches are so huge and so ornate, and you know darn well that the people who built them were the poor people. There was no way a Medici family member was going to get his hands dirty placing marble to make columns.<br />
<br />
But, here's the question that really bothers me: Do we really need the huge basilicas and cathedrals to worship properly? OF COURSE NOT. It's actually pretty disgusting, if you think of it, of how much time and money have gone into these places from their inception to today. Let's look, for example, at the duomo in Milan.<br />
<br />
Built in the Lombard Gothic style, the duomo took 582 years to complete. It is the fifth largest church in the world, second largest church in Italy, and second largest Gothic-style cathedral in the world. It actually sits on the site of older churches that date back to 350 AD.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nNylaDx904Q/VivgEblSS-I/AAAAAAAAG1k/mY2ziUH0wHc/s1600/IMG_5113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nNylaDx904Q/VivgEblSS-I/AAAAAAAAG1k/mY2ziUH0wHc/s320/IMG_5113.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Side of Milan Cathedral</td></tr>
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On the outside, there are 135 spires, and on the inside, there are 52 columns (Each is 24.5 meters high.). Also inside are 3400 statues that date from medieval to modern times. Numerous bishops of the diocese are buried there, and St. Charles Borromeo, former archbishop of Milan and an instrumental figure in getting work on the cathedral completed during his term, sleeps in a crypt under the main altar. There are five (FIVE) wide naves in the cathedral, and I didn't count how many altars. There are a lot, and I assume you know that people of wealth could donate money to have their own altar in churches. Of course, the cathedral has many religious artifacts, and it's said that one of
the nails from the crucifixion is in a vault in the ceiling behind the
altar. <br />
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<br />
What strikes me most about all of this is the waste of money. Let me be fair and say that it's not only the Catholic Church, either. I've been in plenty of large, ornate Protestant and Jewish houses of worship, so I bring this up only because I've been in the Florence and Milan duomos this week.<br />
<br />
Where are our priorities?<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-11881298736238531192015-10-21T13:21:00.002-07:002015-10-21T13:21:24.071-07:00Peas, Please<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jX60rP_Ghxk/ViftnvjgmDI/AAAAAAAAG0Q/v-BDjR2w12c/s1600/getPart-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jX60rP_Ghxk/ViftnvjgmDI/AAAAAAAAG0Q/v-BDjR2w12c/s320/getPart-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>“Peas baffled me. I could not understand why grown-ups would take things
that tasted so good raw, and then put them in tins, and make them
revolting.”</b>
<br /> <i>―
Neil Gaiman</i><br />
<br />
When I was a kid, my Aunt Vera (one of my mom's sisters) used to make spaghetti every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. Many weeks, she also made it on Saturday. On many days that she didnt' serve pasta, she served peas in tomato sauce. I'm sure a lot of you who never had it gagged at the thought, but I have to tell you I loved those peas and sauce.<br />
<br />
The interesting thing was that, of all my mom's sisters, Aunt Vera was the only one who made peas in sauce. I never gave it any thought until tonight when le group and I headed to dinner at La Fontana, a Bolognese restaurant close to the apartments. Smack dab in the entree section of the menu was <i>polpette in sugo con piselli</i>—meatballs in sauce with peas. <br />
<br />
As I was thinking about Aunt Vera and this dish, something hit me. Aunt Vera was married to Joe Villani, and I think I've figured out that Uncle Joe's family originated in the Emilia-Romagna region. First, the Villani name is an old one in the area. Several pastas and other dishes Aunt Vera cooked that her sisters and sisters-in-law did not cook are from this area...including the <i>piselli </i>in sugo. <br />
<br />
<br />
So, I ordered it. I didn't ask, but I'm guessing that everyone thought I
was a little crazy, but it was so good. So good. Of course, I think most things covered with tomato sauce are good.... except maybe donuts. <br />
<br />
Definitely not donuts.....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-57799374051858094722015-10-20T13:54:00.001-07:002015-10-20T14:00:37.654-07:00All You Can Do Is Laugh<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--smNduxWw3U/ViZyJPSKwZI/AAAAAAAAGzI/9v7_wduVQKA/s1600/DSC_0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--smNduxWw3U/ViZyJPSKwZI/AAAAAAAAGzI/9v7_wduVQKA/s320/DSC_0009.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Italian stand-off</td></tr>
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“Announcing your plans is a good way to hear God laugh.”
<br />
―
David Milch<br />
<br />
If I have one purpose in coming to Italy, I think it's to make God laugh. I make plans for my groups to do something, and we usually have the opportunity to experience some grand hiccup in a few of the plans. I figure God is having slow days and needs something to brighten them up.<br />
<br />
Now that Group #3 has been here a few days, we decided to take a short train ride to Faenza, home of the International Museum of Ceramic Art. Before you laugh at that, let me tell you that it is a phenomenal museum and worth the trip to see it. First, however, we had to get there, and to get there we needed to take the bus to the train station and head out on the 10:35 east to Ancona (with stops all over the place).<br />
<br />
We got to the bus stop around 9:50 about two minutes after the #11 passed by. Since #11 buses stop every seven minutes, I wasn't concerned. The next bus was due to come by in five minutes, so, we were safe. The #19 stopped, as did the #14. Even a #23 came by. The seven minutes grew to ten, then twelve.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, we noticed a stand-off blocking traffic down the street from us (Photo above). A woman wanted to park in a space, and a man was guarding it for a car or truck that was not in sight. The woman honked, and the man turned his head. The woman inched forward, and the man just stood there. She honked; he glared. They yelled at each other. She shook her fist. He turned his head. The cars she was blocking honked at her, and she inched forward again. He didn't move.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X931aMQhtI8/ViZyisBez9I/AAAAAAAAGzY/-DPDptuzsmY/s1600/DSC_0013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X931aMQhtI8/ViZyisBez9I/AAAAAAAAGzY/-DPDptuzsmY/s320/DSC_0013.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piazza del Popolo where they hold the weekly market on Tuesdays....until 1:30</td></tr>
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<br />
I was concerned because it was, at this point, 10:07, and that was the last bus we could catch that would get us to the train station in time for the 10:35 train. Cars started going around the woman, snarling traffic now in both directions for a few minutes. Still no bus #11. Two #19s came by within a minute of each other, as did a #14. A woman who had been standing there when we walked up asked me where the bus was. I had no idea, of course. When a second #14 pulled up, she asked the driver, and he shrugged his shoulders and shut the bus door.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the lady driver and the man were still caught in a stand-off over the parking space although the woman finally backed across the street and double-parked. She opened her window and yelled something at the guy who ignored her yet again. Finally a small truck approached, put its blinker on, and the man moved out of the way. The truck started to move to back into the space, and the lady started to pull her car across the street again. The truck won that race handily, and the lady backed up again and roared off as she shook her fist.<br />
<br />
We had, at this point, been standing there more than 30 minutes when a #11 bus finally got through. Unfortunately, it was packed to the rafters with people, and the only way we were going to get on was to ride on the outside of the bus. We decided to walk to the train station to catch the 11:35 train.<br />
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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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6lpZFndXGCg/ViZyTX8l8tI/AAAAAAAAGzQ/KlhLMjcTSFs/s1600/DSC_0017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6lpZFndXGCg/ViZyTX8l8tI/AAAAAAAAGzQ/KlhLMjcTSFs/s320/DSC_0017.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snagglepuss snarled at me while I took his photo.</td></tr>
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<br />
Fast-forward about 10 minutes and six blocks, and we saw a bus #11 heading in our direction. The next bus stop was two blocks in front of us, but the bus was stuck in yet another traffic jam of some sort. We started to power-walk toward the stop. Two perfectly timed red lights and heavy traffic slowed #11 down enough that we actually made it and hopped on the bus. Unfortunately, the bus was quite full, so we were squished in there with two thousand other people, one of whom resembled Anthony Hopkins's character in "Silence of the Lambs." I looked to make sure he didn't have fava beans and chianti on his lap.<br />
<br />
When we reached the stop where we had to get off to walk to the train station, two bus officials decided to start checking everyone's bus tickets. Of course, they stood right in the aisle and blocked the exit. (On Italian buses, one enters either in the front or back and leaves from the middle.) I had to push my way off. Twyla jumped out of the back door, and Ron and Kerri got swallowed up in a mix of young kids, mothers, the ticket checkers, and old ladies who refused to move. I ran to the back door, but people had climbed on, so Ron and Kerri could go neither forward nor backward.<br />
<br />
The exit doors closed as the bus prepared to take off WITH Ron and Kerri still in limbo. Far be it from me to get hysterical (NO LAUGHING!), but I pounded on the doors. The driver didn't open them. Somehow, Kerri made one last push, and the two of them were able to get past the ticket guys and two little old ladies who didn't want to move.<br />
<br />
"I was ready to push that lady over," Ron said.<br />
<br />
"You looked panicked," Kerri said to me.<br />
<br />
"I'm done with buses," Ron added.<br />
<br />
"It was pretty funny," Twyla laughed.<br />
<br />
I started breathing again.<br />
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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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LwrtTxK3LBk/ViZytt0NXgI/AAAAAAAAGzg/ig0F1_bqtX8/s1600/DSC_0019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LwrtTxK3LBk/ViZytt0NXgI/AAAAAAAAGzg/ig0F1_bqtX8/s320/DSC_0019.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A busy street in Faenza</td></tr>
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We made the 11:35 train and got to Faenza by 12:15. The museum is a short walk up the main street, so we were there rather quickly. Being as the morning had traumatized us, we decided to stop for lunch at a small place across from the museum before we hit it. The food was good, and we headed back across the street at 1:25 or so.<br />
<br />
I walked to the ticket counter and asked how much tickets cost.<br />
<br />
"<i>We just closed</i>," the woman rudely told me.<br />
<br />
"<i>Excuse me?</i>"<br />
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"<i>We closed at 1:30 today,</i>" she snapped again.<br />
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"<i>The website said you're open all day,</i>" I pleaded trying not to beat my head on the counter.<br />
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"<i>We closed at 1:30.</i>" She turned to talk to someone else.<br />
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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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3fT6ZcrzkWc/ViZy191ea2I/AAAAAAAAGzo/Q_1pWvteWkM/s1600/DSC_0029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3fT6ZcrzkWc/ViZy191ea2I/AAAAAAAAGzo/Q_1pWvteWkM/s320/DSC_0029.jpg" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twyla reading a great magazine in Piazza del Popolo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I won't bore you with specifics, but we left and walked around town, which was quite pretty. It was also quite deserted as everything—even the little corner bottega—closes at 1:00 or so for afternoon rest. We found one open ceramic shop, and the owner insisted that the museum was, indeed, open all day.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"No, we went there. They told me it closed at 1:30 today,</i>" I advised her.<br />
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"<i>Who told you? It's open all day."</i> She showed me the pamphlet for the museum with hours clearly stating it is open 10:00-17:00.<br />
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<i>"I know what it says,"</i> I told her, <i>"but the rude woman at the desk told me they closed at 1:30 today."</i><br />
<br />
She called the museum and talked to someone for a few minutes. "<i>You're right. They closed at 1:30 today because there was a problem</i>." Of course I was right. The brutish woman basically threw us out. "<i>You must come back tomorrow,</i>" the ceramist continued. "<i>The museum is wonderful</i>."<i> </i><br />
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Fat chance of that happening. Tomorrow we head to Florence. Besides, Faenza is now on my blacklist.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-27766668671434765032015-10-19T12:54:00.001-07:002016-01-26T13:35:16.229-08:00A Little Bit of Cozze On My Plate.... A Little Bit of Rice and Chicken, Too.<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-avpw5VTIF8s/ViU_FLac9tI/AAAAAAAAGyI/0Wv5LSou6M4/s1600/IMG_4927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-avpw5VTIF8s/ViU_FLac9tI/AAAAAAAAGyI/0Wv5LSou6M4/s320/IMG_4927.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cozze</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<b><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-family: "arial";">“If more of us valued food and cheer and </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">song above hoarded gold, it would be a </span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>merrier world."</b> ~ J.R.R. Tolkien</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Cox Cable has been running the most annoying commercial to advertise their fast internet speed; taken from the Broadway musical, Oliver!, the song is "Food, Glorious Food," and what the heck it and 3-D printed food has to do with anything Cox-related is beyond me. I'm just grateful that for the next two weeks, I won't have to listen to the stupid thing as I want to throw my computer through the television every time I hear it starting to play. (And, because I brought it up, I'm going to be singing that stupid song in my head all night.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">At any rate, as much as I despise that commercial, I love food. And as much as I love food, I'm a pretty picky eater in some ways. Unlike my father (who never met anything edible that he didn't like), there are certain things that I just can't swallow—literally. As such, I do tend to miss out on a few things that I just might enjoy eating.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> If you know me or have read this blog for some time, you might know that I won't eat fish. I do eat shellfish (as long as said shellfish is not staring back from the plate), but I usually eat only the shellfish I know—shrimp, crab, lobster (NO FACE), clams (only in soup or sauce), and scallops. As such, I have not had oysters, crayfish, marlin, salmon, tuna, mussels, or the like.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Bx-UF-RjGKI/ViU_JtXq9BI/AAAAAAAAGyY/jV1hj8FBmZE/s1600/IMG_4928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Bx-UF-RjGKI/ViU_JtXq9BI/AAAAAAAAGyY/jV1hj8FBmZE/s320/IMG_4928.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arrancini</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Actually, that all changed the other day. My good friends, Cesar and Lilli, took me to Gardenia, a Sicilian restaurant, for dinner. Cesar ordered <i>cozze</i> and <i>arrancini</i> (top two photos in respective order), two things that I had never eaten. I was a bit nervous when the waitress brought out two bowls of <i>cozze</i> because, quite frankly, I was afraid I'd lose my nerve (or lunch) when I ate one. (<i>Cozze</i> are </span><span class="notranslate"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mediterranean mussels</span><b>.)</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Do you like cozze?" Cesar asked me as he opened one and ate it. I hesitated.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"I've never eaten one," I probably mumbled. Both he and Lilli were shocked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You never ate one?" he exclaimed. I shook my head; they both showed me how to open the shell and slurp it down. I took one, opened it, counted to three in my head, and slurped it down. I not only survived, I liked the <i>cozze</i> and ate a few more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The <i>arrancini,</i> or rice ball, was absolutely phenomenal. Named for the orange (arrancia) because of their size, shape, and color, arrancini are more of a southern Italian dish. They apparently surfaced in Sicily in the 10th century, but lately, they have become a fast food fad all over Italy. If you don't know, arrancini are stuffed rice balls that are coated with breadcrumbs and fried. The filling can contain meat sauce, ground meat, fresh mozzarella, peas, or any combination of them. The one we had was ground beef and peas.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uL-85ch6UJc/ViU_IDIHleI/AAAAAAAAGyQ/FCJhVVs_W80/s1600/IMG_4929.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uL-85ch6UJc/ViU_IDIHleI/AAAAAAAAGyQ/FCJhVVs_W80/s320/IMG_4929.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pollo a la brace with salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The chicken was absolutely delicious, too. <br />
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"Do you think you'll have mussels again?" Mike asked me when I told him I'd enjoyed the ones we had the other night.<br />
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"I might," I informed him, " because they're just big clams, I think. I can tell you, though, that I won't turn down any <i>arrancini</i> that find their way to my plate."<br />
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And I hope some find their way to my plate again pretty soon.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-36443662419386280922015-10-18T12:54:00.002-07:002015-10-18T13:06:21.975-07:00Mortally-dellad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ypi5pfRZL0M/ViPuSp7fldI/AAAAAAAAGxY/Jlju4oUi-8s/s1600/IMG_4910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ypi5pfRZL0M/ViPuSp7fldI/AAAAAAAAGxY/Jlju4oUi-8s/s320/IMG_4910.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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"A kod komse uvek pun frizider svega, Mortadela i Nutela..."</div>
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(And in Komsi, I always have a refrigerator full of Mortadella and Nutella..."</div>
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~ Cigo, the Croation One-man Band</div>
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i mentioned yesterday that there was a wonderful gathering in Piazza Maggiore raising money to plant fields of grain to help ease hunger in Tanzania, but that right around the corner, there was something that was completely different (Not that there's anything wrong with that).<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dg44ELBNXgE/ViPtct8fWDI/AAAAAAAAGww/oNhxdsg_Eg8/s1600/IMG_4868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dg44ELBNXgE/ViPtct8fWDI/AAAAAAAAGww/oNhxdsg_Eg8/s320/IMG_4868.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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You 've probably guessed by the photos that I stumbled upon a festival honoring the humble, pink sausage otherwise known as mortadella.<br />
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Perhaps it is just me, but I found it hilarious that one group was trying to raise money to plant grain for starving African children, while another was handing out pounds and pounds of the precursor to Bolgona (or baloney) just around the corner. Guess which group had more visitors.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nuBEIiuoQQM/ViPtkb0sOcI/AAAAAAAAGw4/TJ_ct0Wq_LY/s1600/IMG_4869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nuBEIiuoQQM/ViPtkb0sOcI/AAAAAAAAGw4/TJ_ct0Wq_LY/s320/IMG_4869.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Mortadella originated over 500 years ago in Bologna. Made of finely ground pork, the sausage is heat-cured. In addition, no less than 15% of the meat must be pork fat for it to be mortadella (Note those huge white chunks in the photo above.) It can include peppercorns, pistachios, or myrtle berries (Roman mortadella contains myrtle berries.).<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yURrjjFORbE/ViPt-EhjODI/AAAAAAAAGxI/73bgIn8JF2E/s1600/IMG_4908.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yURrjjFORbE/ViPt-EhjODI/AAAAAAAAGxI/73bgIn8JF2E/s320/IMG_4908.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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As a side note, mortadella is the ancestor to American bologna (named as such because of the city where mortadella got its start). The taste of American bologna, while similar to mortadella, is a lot more salty and stronger. Mortadella is much more delicate in flavor, and as such, should not sit in the refrigerator too long after you cut it. It should not be too thick. Most Italians cut it paper-thin.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ziCD9QHp2zQ/ViPuGKwjfRI/AAAAAAAAGxU/0yxLe0hYDMg/s1600/IMG_4909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ziCD9QHp2zQ/ViPuGKwjfRI/AAAAAAAAGxU/0yxLe0hYDMg/s320/IMG_4909.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
I'm not a big fan, and I freely admit that I had never tried it until a few months ago. The thought of ingesting globs of fat was somehow unappetizing to me. Someone offered me some while I was a guest of theirs, and I tried it. It tastes, as I mentioned, similar to bologna although it has a very delicate flavor. I cannot, however, get the idea of the fat out of my head, so I still won't eat it unless I'm being nice. Believe me when I say it takes everything in me to swallow the white blobs.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0WSXvZ7xTxo/ViPtz6oVigI/AAAAAAAAGxA/Huat0bqSG3I/s1600/IMG_4913.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0WSXvZ7xTxo/ViPtz6oVigI/AAAAAAAAGxA/Huat0bqSG3I/s320/IMG_4913.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
The other thing that I found absolutely hilarious and more than a little bizarre, was the fact that they offered wine pairings with mortadella (above). I can only imagine the wine descriptions:<br />
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"This chardonnay has a butter flavor and cream-like texture which is reminiscent of a spoonful of mayonnaise." OR... "The massive and opulent taste of this merlot pairs nicely with a sausage of the same, large proportions." OR!! "The unctuous (oily) taste of this famous red is reminiscent of the blobs of fat in the mortadella."<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MiACP14nUAc/ViPuYma6YBI/AAAAAAAAGxg/_A22e_bhTi0/s1600/IMG_4900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MiACP14nUAc/ViPuYma6YBI/AAAAAAAAGxg/_A22e_bhTi0/s320/IMG_4900.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
If you want to hear Cigo Man sing about mortadella and Nutella in the refrigerator, click <a href="http://lybio.net/tag/read-the-croatian-cigo-man-band-amazing-one-man-band-news/">here</a>. He's actually very entertaining....and he likes Nutella. I won't hold the mortadella thing against him.<br />
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Domani: I try cozze and arrancini for the first time.....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-4950762170019823262015-10-17T14:03:00.000-07:002015-10-17T14:03:01.674-07:00Fields of Grain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"...is there anywhere in the world as full of beauty as Italy?”
<br /> ―
Natalia Sanmartín Fenollera</div>
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<br />
If you follow or know me at all, you know that there are very few places that I'd rather be than Italy. I love it to a fault, and that will never change, I'm afraid. It makes me so happy to be here and to be able to share its beauty and wonder with others.<br />
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After I arrived the other day, I said hello to Lilli at the bar, walked to the mercato to grab a few items, and lay down to rest a few minutes. I woke up about four hours later (7:30 pm), took my medicine, and went back to bed. Somewhere around 11:30 yesterday morning, I finally got out of bed. After I got ready, I had my cappucino with Lilli and then walked around town for a few hours. I was thrilled to see the Due Torre were still in the same place, but I figured since they've been there for hundreds of years, that wasn't going to change any time soon.<br />
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This morning, I couldn't sleep, so I got up very early and went back to Piazza Maggiore, the main piazza in town. I noticed that people were lining hundreds of ceramic plates on the piazza (above and below). I watched for some time and then headed to the Saturday mercato in another piazza close by. It's pretty chilly here (66-degree high today), so I needed to buy a few pairs of socks so I don't freeze over the next two weeks.<br />
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I walked back through the piazza and noticed that all of the plates were laid out and upside down (below). The whole thing intrigued me, and I figured it had something to do with hunger since I saw people wearing jackets that had sayings about fighting hunger.<br />
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As I rounded the top of the piazza, I noticed boxes (below) that asked, "Where will you be October 17? World Day of Power.... Fight Hunger in Kilolo with Us." The sign goes on to urge people to choose a plate and plant a field of grain fighting against hunger in Africa.<br />
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Kilolo, as I found out once I got home and googled it, is a town in Tanzania. From what I could tell, it is a dichotomy—a resort for the rich and famous, yet a neglected area for those in need. Hunger is rampant among its natives. <br />
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I walked back later in the afternoon and noticed that many of the plates were now right-side up, and balloons held down by seed packets adorned them. As I watched, more and more people (and their children) turned over a plate and put balloons and seed packets on them. (Plant a field of grain....Get it?) At the same time, a guy with a mic kept thanking everyone for fighting hunger in Africa.<br />
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By the last time I passed through the piazza (around 5), there were dancing balloons all over the place (below).<br />
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You are, perhaps, wondering why I'm making any kind of deal about this since there are drives like this in the US all the time. I know it's nothing unusual, but the thing I found interesting was what was going on just around the corner at the exact same time. (If you look at the fourth photo, I'm talking about what is just behind me about 50 yards away.) I'll tell you about it tomorrow, but suffice to say that it is the kind of crazy thing that happens here that makes me so comfortable.<br />
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By the way, the word for hunger in Italian is "fame" (fah-may). It's Latin root is the same as famished in English. (I'm geeking out on you here...) <br />
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A domani.....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-66468055398220269302015-10-16T12:14:00.003-07:002015-10-16T12:14:21.586-07:00Adventure Times Something<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZUImHuzQE2M/ViE2gUt92II/AAAAAAAAGtI/aAHbaFjB0Sk/s1600/IMG_4838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZUImHuzQE2M/ViE2gUt92II/AAAAAAAAGtI/aAHbaFjB0Sk/s320/IMG_4838.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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“Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.” </div>
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~ JK Rowling</div>
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Let me be honest from the onset: I love to travel (I bet you didn't know that.), and a lot of my whining is just getting the little agitations off my chest. To tell the truth, life would be quite boring if everything were perfect, wouldn't it?<br />
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As you might remember, this week, Aer Lingus upgraded me to business class for the overseas portion of the trip. It didn't come without cost, but the cost was minimal, and I was more than willing to pay it since my body is still recovering from my fall last week. All I could think of was the fact that I could stretch out and lie flat during the overseas portion of the flight.<br />
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Mike was a bit more concerned with what I was going to eat.
In addition to the new 7:10 AM departure time, I also am still having a
problem chewing. Mike packed me a few mini donuts that I could gum,
but he was worried that I wouldn't find anything during the stopover in
Chicago.<br />
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Well, enter the perks of business class with Aer Lingus! Included was the business class lounge (for several airlines) and a "help yourself to anything you want" allowance. Included were a bar full of breakfast items (that included hot soup) and coffee, cappuccino, latte, and espresso; two refrigerators stocked with drinks (soft, white wine, and beer), sandwiches, salads, yogurt, pudding, cheeses; a bar stocked with about 20 liquors, wine, ice, cheese, crackers, peanuts, and more; and magazines and newspapers from around the globe. Wifi was free, too, and the seats were comfortable. <br />
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My layover was about three hours—a little more than two by the time I traveled from Terminal 1 to Terminal 5. While there's a tram, one still has to walk a distance to get to it. If I had used my head and brought my wheeled-backpack instead of what I had to carry, it would have been a lot easier. BUT! Was I thinking? No. I thought I should have as much space as possible.<br />
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(Note to myself for the next trip anywhere: Use the wheeled backpack and save your shoulders, arms, back, and neck.)<br />
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At any rate, being in the lounge was great for several reasons, not the least of which was people watching. If you look at the photo below, you'll see an older woman on the left, and a gal in blue shirt getting something out of the cabinet. They're both concierges in the lounge, and I swear that if someone took one pack of cookies or peanuts from a bowl, they immediately replaced it. There was another person who stocked the refrigerators, and when someone took a beer or sandwich, he immediately put another one in its place. When a passenger put dirty cups or dishes in the bin, one of the concierges grabbed them and took them away within two or three minutes.<br />
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If you look at the photo above again you'll see navy blue and tan luggage at the table next to mine. They belong to a lady and man from Texas who were sitting there. The entire time they were there, the woman was on her cell phone talking to someone in Texas. Simultaneously, she was eating a sandwich (salami), drinking wine, and talking to her husband who was eating a turkey sandwich, eat Doritos, drinking wine, and snorting replies to her. <br />
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The seats alone (with the Bailey's, of course) made the
whole thing worth it for me. Apparently, Chicago O'Hare hasn't figured
out that their long-haul overseas flights are pretty booked, and there
are not many seats at the gate. When the people in the lounge announced
that our flight was boarding, we walked to the gate and found about 100
other passengers sitting on the floor or standing against the wall since
there weren't enough seats for them to sit on.<br />
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The business class seats on Aer Lingus are a little different than on British Airways, the only other plane on which I've flown business. My pod (above) had a side table (You can see my computer and other crap on it.), a storage compartment, a pull-down table, a TV screen (See photo below of seats across from me.), and a seat that not only reclines fully but also has massage capability. The blanket that they give you is actually a comforter, and the pillow is larger than the normal airline pillow.<br />
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As soon as we boarded, the flight attendants took our jackets, hung them up, and brought us champagne, dinner menu, and a wifi code. After we took off, they did bar service—anything we wanted, so I took more champagne—and gave us sushi which I didn't want. Aer Lingus touts its business class dining saying that its chefs are world-reknown and the great food comes to us on trays covered with linen and on "real china." The three entree choices that we had were beef stew braised in Irish whiskey with peppers and potatoes, cider-braised chicken with rice and peas, and salmon with something or other. Gumming chicken is easier than gumming beef, and fish doesn't pass my lips, so chicken it was.<br />
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Looks tasty, doesn't it? (See photo below.) No offense, but when the flight attendant put it in front of me, I thought Riley had been in the Aer Lingus kitchen and given them what he'd had for supper the night before. The stew, which the guy across from me had, looked like a huge hunk of molten dark chocolate on chunks of something (You thought I was going to say something else, didn't you? Admit it.). I think I got the better deal. I closed my eyes and took a bite of mine, and it wasn't as bad as it looked. I probably enjoyed the rice and peas the most since I couldn't eat the salad.<br />
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If there is one thing I can complain about, it's Aer Lingus's lack of video offerings. I think that, in total, they had about 40 movies (all pretty old ones) and some TV stuff. Air Emirates, which I flew in May and July, has more than 2000 selections in coach. During dinner, I watched the <i>Bourne Supremacy</i> for, as Mike laughed, the 100th time, and then went to sleep.<br />
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The flight over the Atlantic was only about seven hours, and I'm not sure how much I really slept, but when I woke up, it was already close to 3:30 AM in Ireland. They gave us a breakfast snack and coffee (again on real china and linen), and as they cleared service, the coast of Ireland came into view (below).<br />
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Dublin Airport is a charming little place (compared to Las Vegas, Chicago, JFK, Heathrow), and the connection and all were easy. What amazed me was the fact that every restaurant and shop that I passed on my way from one terminal to the next was open. Open at 4:30 in the morning.<br />
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<strong> I stopped in one little shop for Coke Zero, and as I was leaving, an American guy said to me, "Don't forget your passport." He pointed to an American passport and boarding pass that were on the counter.</strong><br />
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<strong>"They're not mine," I assured him.</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>"Are you sure? They're right where you are," he continued. </strong><br />
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<strong>I stink-eyed him, opened the zipper on my purse, and flashed my passport at him. "I'm quite sure," I said and softened. "Thanks for your concern."</strong><br />
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<strong>As I walked to my gate (305A), I noticed an older woman following me. She was quite confused. There are three gates at 305—the main one, and gates A and B. The main one is upstairs, and A and B are down two flights of stairs. The little lady hauled her baggage down the steps and into the A waiting room after me.</strong><br />
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<strong>"Is this the gate for Naples?" she (American) asked me and the other woman (Irish) in there.</strong><br />
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<strong>"No," we both said. "Milan."</strong><br />
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<strong>"Are you sure?" the lady asked. "I'm sure my gate is 305A. That's what the sign said."</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>"This is the gate for Milan," the Irish lady said. </strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>"I'm sure it said Naples was here," the American woman said as she started to open her purse.</strong><br />
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<strong>"I think you read the wrong line," I said. "Milan was just above Naples. If you want to go upstairs and check, I'll watch your luggage." American woman was pulling everything out of her purse at this point.</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>"Oh, my GOD," she screamed. "I lost my passport and boarding pass." She was frantic.</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>"Did you go into a little store down the main hall?" I asked her. She nodded while she tore through her now-empty purse. "It's still there on the counter," I told her.</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>She stuffed everything in her purse haphazardly and hurried back up the stairs, dragging the luggage up a stair at a time while she swore loudly. The Irish lady shook her head. I shrugged my shoulders.</strong><br />
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<strong>And I silently thanked heaven that I was awake enough to not have done the same thing.</strong><br />
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<strong>Tomorrow: Back in Italy </strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong><br /></strong>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-31317393799839924272015-09-13T21:43:00.004-07:002015-09-13T21:43:54.888-07:00In Memory of Mom—1921-2005<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tsHiuXQu0sw/VfY1bkwwN0I/AAAAAAAAGoc/hwfs7Gi5bno/s1600/vera-mary.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tsHiuXQu0sw/VfY1bkwwN0I/AAAAAAAAGoc/hwfs7Gi5bno/s320/vera-mary.jpeg" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Vera (L) at 3 and Mom (R) at 18 mos.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><b>"The hardest part is not talking to someone you used to talk everyday."</b> <i>~ Sum Nan</i></span></span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Some day in the ext two days is the 10th anniversary of my mother's passing. I really do not know the exact date Every once in a long while, I'll look up the date on the internet, but I promptly forget it again. I am trying in someway to protect myself from acknowledging the day. It's too painful.</span></span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Mom was the eighth of eleven children, the youngest girl, and the weakest child. Prior to Mom's birth in 1921, my grandparents lost three of their young children to scarlet fever, TB, the flu. My grandfather, like all unskilled laborers, worked twelve-hour shifts in horrible conditions to earn less than $2 per day — barely enough to feed and house his growing family. The deaths of his three young children, increased debt, long hours working under miserable conditions and a still-growing family stressed my grandfather, and he started spending some of his meager pay on liquor. Grams, however, was more concerned with the welfare of her children, and she met my grandfather at the mill gate on paydays in order to get at least some money before he spent it all on booze. She also baked and sold bread to neighbors in order to have money to buy necessities for the children.</span></span></h1>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom, age 12, with cousin Joe</td></tr>
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Growing up under those conditions was not easy, and my mother, who was a sickly and sensitive child, was especially affected. She suffered several bouts of pneumonia and bronchitis as a baby and child, and ended up graduating from high school a little late due to her health problems. She was engaged two or three times before she met my father. Her first boyfriend died during World War II. The next guy broke off their engagement because Mom was always babysitting or playing with her older sisters’ children. The third guy was electrocuted on the job. The man she eventually married, my father, was an abusive drunk. <br />
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The difficult childhood. The broken engagements. The lost boyfriends. The rotten husband. Her sensitive nature. They all contributed to her chronic depression.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom with Uncle Joe (Aunt Vera's husband) and someone</td></tr>
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I'll tell you a secret: My mother drove me absolutely bat crazy. It took me years to realize how all of those conditions combined to form the woman who was my mother. For years I was angry that she didn’t have the strength to leave my father; to protect my brother and me from his wrath; to be happy when his death loosened the noose he was around our collective neck. I became more understanding and sympathetic over time, but a bit of anger still bubbled beneath the surface every time she complained or grumbled—which she did a lot. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Marge (L) at 28 and Mom (R) at 17</td></tr>
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I don't want to go into our relationship here because it is far too complicated to cover in this short blog. Suffice to say that I eventually realized how my father had so squashed Mom's self-confidence and identity that she was unable to recover and became a bitter, sad, and scared woman. Knowing how emotionally fragile she was, I fought to keep my emotions in check when talking to her on the phone or when she was visiting us. In private, I took my frustrations out on pillows and mattresses. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom on her wedding day with Betty (my cousin)</td></tr>
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One September evening in 2005, the phone started ringing just as I walked through our house door. I knew it was my mother because we usually talked at the same time every evening. Tired from having worked almost 12 hours that day, I considered letting it go to voicemail. On the last ring, I picked up the phone and talked to my mother for ten or twelve minutes. She sounded exhausted, and she told me she still had that horrible pain in the back of her head. "Did you tell the doctor yesterday?" I asked her. She didn't directly answer the question but assured me he had doubled the amount of Paxil she was taking. After we hung up, I stomped around the house and said some not-so-nice things about that doctor.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom with Mike (18 mos) and me (age 4)</td></tr>
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Mom, on the other hand, walked her dog, Oscar, after our conversation. Her neighbors watched her bend down and pet him just before they walked back up the driveway to her house. She sat down to watch television and while reading a magazine, fell asleep. With her head resting in an unnatural position on her shoulder, she passed quietly and gently from this world sometime during the night. <br />
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Mike broke the news to me over the phone as I started my workday. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Chris, your mother passed away.” He told me that the neighbors found her early that morning, a frantic Oscar keeping guard at her feet . . . that my brother tried to call me for over two hours . . . that my cell phone had been off . . . that everything was going to be okay. <br />
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My husband's words plunged me into a sadness the depths of which I never
knew existed. I felt guilty that I didn’t want to listen to her. I
felt grateful that I answered that phone that last night. I felt
selfish for my gratitude. I felt anger that she dared to die so
suddenly, that she gave me no warning. I felt guilty for being angry.
I grieved for more time with her. I felt lost and orphaned. I ran
wildly in circles enveloped by a haze of shock and fear, anger and grief. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jason with Mom (1985)</td></tr>
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<br />My cousin, Loree, talked to me for a long time after we buried Mom. Aunt Ann, Loree's mother and one of my mom's older sisters, had passed away 18 months before. Loree has always had the ability to calm me at times.<br />
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"I know it's hard," she said that afternoon, "but I like to think that they're all together again with Grandma, and they're young and beautiful and playing together." It's a wonderful image to consider.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FKcpgFJ0gGc/VfY1kugZkjI/AAAAAAAAGok/-Bgpqg0I4oc/s1600/goofy%2526mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FKcpgFJ0gGc/VfY1kugZkjI/AAAAAAAAGok/-Bgpqg0I4oc/s320/goofy%2526mom.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Goofy.... Our favorite photo because she's smiling</td></tr>
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It's been ten years, and I still miss talking to her on the phone. There
are still times that I think, "Oh, I have to call Mom and tell her
XXXXX." When I realize I can't call her, I look up and think, "You
already know it though, don't you?" It's been ten years, and I still
miss her greatly even though she drove me bat crazy. It's been ten
years, and I still feel guilty that she didn't know how much I loved
her. <br />
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I hope she knows now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-26274640277894139162015-08-09T22:02:00.001-07:002015-08-09T22:02:05.094-07:00I Love This Bar, Part IV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sweet little guy visited the bar one morning.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> “The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>ability to love as unconditionally as a dog.”</b></div>
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―<i>MK Clinton</i></div>
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The world's worst kept secret is that I love dogs. Love. Dogs. I can barely remember the short time that I didn't have a dog of my own. What I do remember from that time is that my Aunt Ann and Uncle Frank had a standard dachshund, Nero, so named because they were Italian, and he was a black dog: <i>Nero</i> is the Italian word for <b><i>black</i></b>. I finally got my own dog when I was in first grade, and not many days have gone by when one has not shared the house with me.<br />
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My friend, Kathy G (who was a member of the second group), said I am a dog magnet (below). Tré true, although it might be better said that the little pookies are magnets for me. I can approach anyone who has a dog and start a conversation with him/her because I know we have at least one thing in common.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moi being a magnet with a cute beagle whose name I don't remember.</td></tr>
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"What is your dog's name?" I usually ask. They tell me, and I continue. "I miss my dog, Riley, who is at home in the United States."<br />
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"You should bring him with you," many of the people tell me.<br />
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"It's too difficult," I always have to tell them, and it is. Don't think I haven't tried to figure out a way to bring him with me. I make do, though, loving on the dogs around me. (Don't tell Riles. He is quite the jealous little baby.) Meet some of my Bolognese quadruped friends.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welsh Terriers rock! Liam in front of Bar Santo Stefano.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: blue;"><b>Liam</b></span><br />
Liam (above) is a little Welsh Terrier whose owners frequent Bar Santo Stefano daily. Like another Welsh Terrier who shall remain nameless, Liam is more interested in food than people.<br />
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"What do ya have in your hand for me?" he'd ask. I'd show him my empty paw, and he'd turn his attention elsewhere.<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><b>Zina</b></span> <br />
Zina (above the two photos below) is the resident dog at Vittoria's dress shop next to Bar Santo Stefano. Zina and Vittoria open the shop every morning after they arrive on their scooter. Vittoria wears a helmet, but Zina doesn't like things on her head. <br />
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Zina is about nine years old, so she likes to take it easy most of the day. She'll sleep on her chair (below), and she'll follow Vittoria around. Over the last two summers, she's gotten to know me and will come to the door if I walk by. She's also started bringing me her toy so I can play. I'm sure she doesn't want me to be bored while I'm around her. :-)<br />
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<b> “I think dogs are the most amazing creatures; </b></div>
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<b>they give unconditional love. For me, they are the role </b></div>
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<b>model for being alive.”</b> —<i>Gilda Radner</i> </div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><b><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="it"><span class="hps">Ulisse</span></span> </b></span><br />
Ulisse (Ulysses) walked by the bar one morning when Mike and I were sitting outside.<br />
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"<i>What kind of dog is that?</i>" I called to the owner.<br />
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<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="it"><span class="hps">"<i>Cane corso</i>," he told me. A cane corso is an ancient Italian breed, an Italian mastiff, if you will. </span></span>You can probably tell by the size of his head that Ulisse is a HUGE dog. I can verify that he is not only big (He sat on my foot.) but also a docile soul. He's more likely to lick you to death than bite you. While we were talking to him and his owner, a lady at the table next to us ran into the bar as she was terrified of Ulisse.<br />
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"<i>He loves everyone,</i>" the owner told me.<br />
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<i>"Some people are just afraid of dogs,</i>" I told him. He shrugged.<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><b>Oliver</b></span>If I remember correctly, this Bernese Mountain Dog puppy's name was Oliver. We saw him and his owner in a piazza one afternoon while the owner was trying to teach Oliver to 'STAY.' Having the attention span of a gnat, Oliver was having nothing to do with it. <br />
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<b> "If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when </b></div>
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<b>I die I want to go where they went." </b>—<i>Will Rogers </i></div>
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<b><span style="color: blue;">Fox</span></b><br />
Fox (pronounced 'fauxxx) is one of my terrier buddies. I met him and his owner, Giansomething (Sorry, I forget), last year, and I see them a lot since they live around the corner from my apartment. Fox, like Riley, is six years old. He's also very food-motivated which should come as no surprise to anyone.<br />
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One morning last month, Mike and I were walking down Strada Maggiore, the main street in town, and we heard a dog barking. Because of how the buildings line the street and how the porticoes enhance sounds, the barking reverberated all over the place. Suddenly, I saw Giansomething riding his bike with a barking Fox in the basket. Giansomething pulled over to the side of the street to calm down Fox.<br />
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"<i>Fox</i>!" I greeted them. "<i>How's it going, Pooky</i>?" Giansomething picked Fox up and set him on the sidewalk so we could talk.<br />
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"<i>He never barks when we walk</i>," Giansomething said, "b<i>ut put him on the bike., and he becomes a loudmouth."</i><br />
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Sure enough, as soon as Giansomething put Fox back in the basket, Fox started barking again. We could hear him for five minutes as we walked in the opposite direction.<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><b>Artoo</b></span><br />
Artoo is another of my old friends. Mike and I met him when we came to Bologna the first time. An older dog, he's very food=motivated, and he loves to play frisbee. At age 14, he has sight and hearing problems, but he can somehow find the frisbee when someone throws it for him. He's also not lost his sense of smell and knows when food is in the general neighborhood.<br />
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<b><span style="color: blue;">???</span></b><br />
This poochie is 19 years old, and her owner joins the morning ladies some days. I can't remember the dog's name because they aren't there a lot of the times I am. (Sorry, Pooky!) Except for being a little sight-impaired, she's in relatively good health. She, like Zina, follows her owner everywhere.<br />
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Next time: A few observations....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-21441743919728903112015-08-08T20:37:00.002-07:002015-08-08T20:37:30.834-07:00I Love This Bar, Part III<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>"A <span class="st">rose is arose is a rose is a rose</span>." </b></div>
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<i>~ Gertrude Stein</i></div>
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And a bar is a bar is a bar is a bar. Supposedly. Some may make a cappuccino more to your liking than others, and some may serve a better prosecco or frullato or brioche. Some may have more comfortable seating or lighting. Others may have hours or a location The big difference comes in the people who run and work the bar and the people who frequent it. Think about it... How often did you wish you had a bar like Cheers that you could frequent?<br />
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As I mentioned previously, when Cesar and Lilli closed the bar for a few days last year, I went to the other bars in the area. The big difference in the bars was the atmosphere created by the people who owned them. Let me introduce you to the people who make Bar Santo Stefano a warm and welcoming spot in Bologna. </div>
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Cesar</b></span></div>
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As I mentioned a few days ago, Cesar is a native of Barcelona. He
originally was working for his father and lived in a number of places
including China (where he met Lilli). He eventually moved to Piacenza,
Italy, and worked in a bar there before he and Lilli decided to buy
their own bar. Cesar speaks Spanish, Catalan, Italian, English, French, and some Chinese, so he's probably got you covered if you go into the bar and can't speak Italian. </div>
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Last summer, I relied a little too much on my Spanish when talking with Cesar. At one point, one of my Italian instructors told me I should change bars and find someone who spoke only Italian. Almost the exact same day, Cesar told me he was going to talk only in Italian to me.</div>
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b> Lilli</b></span></div>
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A native of China, Lilli has lived in Italy for 20+ years. Her parents spend six months in Piacenza and six months in China, but they visit Bologna at times. Lilli speaks Chinese and Italian, of course, and she's learning English.</div>
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One thing I'll tell you about my two good friends is that they work long and hard hours. Cesar opens between 6:30 and 7:00, and Lilli joins him mid-morning. After the rush, he goes home to rest and comes back later in the afternoon. They close between 7 and 9 pm, and after they lock the door, they clean everything.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Giovanni</span></b></div>
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After Cesar and Lilli, Giovanni was one of the first people I met in Bologna last year. He owns a farm a short distance from town, but his home there was destroyed in the earthquake in 2012. Currently, he lives in Bologna and travels to the farm to check on things. Giovanni has a heart of gold, and this year he gave Mike and me a list of towns we should visit near Bologna. Because of him, we discovered Faenza and the ceramic museum and Reggio Emilia.</div>
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Last summer, Giovanni bought me wine one evening. My Italian was pretty choppy last year, and my part of the conversation was a series of lurching words. Bless him, but he stood and talked to me without grimacing at my mistakes. I was happy I could actually communicate better this year. (PS Giovanni gave me the white rose in my hair in honor of our leaving.)</div>
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Vittoria</b></span></div>
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Vittoria owns the dress shop that is next to Bar Santo Stefano. She is another friend from last summer, and I enjoy talking to her. She is, like me, a dog lover. If you look closely, you can see Zina, her little dog, on the chair behind us.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Le Donne</span></b><br />
Gianna, Rosanna, Patrizia, Lea, and Carla are a group of women who meet at the bar most mornings. Some of them are there every morning, and others come and go. They always ask me about my day, what I've done, what I'm going to do, etc. I just love these ladies.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Gianlucca</span></b><br />
Gianlucca is the brother of one of the morning gals, and like them, I just met him this year. He is extremely nice, and we've had a number of good conversations. Like the others, he helps me with the Italian. Believe it or not, he's a black belt in the martial arts and has taught and competed in them. The morning before Mike and I left Bologna, Gianlucca and I had a long talk about politics (below).<br />
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<br />These are only some of the people I've come to love in Bologna. Tomorrow I'll introduce you to some of the others (below) who also make my days...<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-30712690650047330492015-08-06T21:47:00.003-07:002015-08-06T21:47:27.459-07:00I Love This Bar, Part II<br />
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<b>" I love this bar</b></div>
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<b>It's my kind of place</b></div>
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<b>Just walkin' through the front door</b></div>
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<b>Puts a big smile on my face</b></div>
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<b>It ain't too far, come as you are</b></div>
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<b>I love this bar..." </b><i> ~ Toby Keith & Steve Emerick</i></div>
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I mentioned yesterday that Bar Santo Stefano is a 15-second walk from the apartment I rent when I'm in Bologna. In all honesty, there are four bars that are all within a 30-second walk from the apartment, and even more within a two-minute walk. Walk five minutes in any direction, and you'll find more bars. They are all over the place. I've not seen two right next to each other, but I have seen them across the street and a few doors away from each other.<br />
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At any rate, not long after I arrived in Bologna last year, Cesar and Lilli closed Bar SS for a few days so that they could clean, paint, and refresh the place. During that time, I visited most of the bars in the Santo Stefano area. While one can get some food at Italian bars, they are not restaurants,. As I mentioned yesterday, they are not really coffee shops, nor are they bars in the sense of American bars. They are a hybrid combining the best of both worlds—a place to go for liquid refreshment of any kind.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bar Santo Stefano's espresso machine & coffee grinder (on the right)</td></tr>
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The centerpiece of the bar is the espresso machine (above). You won't find coffee pots in the bars as caffe in Italy is different from coffee as we know it. Caffe in Italy is espresso (below), and Italians joke that caffe americano is "dirty water." Adding a "little" sugar to espresso is okay, but cream? Wimpy.<br />
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(Side note: I have to admit that I have a problem drinking coffee for a few weeks after I return to the States from time in Italy. I miss the strong, smooth espressos.)<br />
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By the way, cappuccino at one bar is not the same as cappuccino at another bar. The coffee makes a difference, and I'll admit that most of it is pretty good no matter where you go, but the way the barista makes the cappuccino makes a big difference. I've had some that contained so much milk that there was little foam and the espresso was too weak. I prefer a good amount of foam and a little milk so that the taste of the espresso comes through.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Italian coffee = espresso</td></tr>
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By the way, decaf coffee is not an option in Italy. If you need decaffeinated coffee, you order "caffe d'orzo."<br />
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"<i>What,</i>" I asked Cesar last month, "<i>is orzo</i>?" I had heard a few people order it, and while it looked like coffee to me, he used a different machine to make it (below).<br />
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"<i>It's made with a grain,</i>" he told me. A coffee-like beverage made from barley, orzo has a long history in Italy. Originally made by peasants who could not afford coffee, it has grown in popularity among people who cannot tolerate caffeine. I've never tried it, but I understand that the taste is smooth and a bit bitter, and it takes some getting used to. Since I have no problem with caffeine (unless I *don't* have it early in the day), I won't be trying orzo anytime soon.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-020THsmfbmY/VcKjJ4gpphI/AAAAAAAAGa8/pQjg_GT7Vjg/s1600/IMG_3919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-020THsmfbmY/VcKjJ4gpphI/AAAAAAAAGa8/pQjg_GT7Vjg/s320/IMG_3919.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Instant orzo machine</td></tr>
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I think I may have mentioned this before, but Italians don't drink cappuccino after 10 am because, according to what I've read, it's hard to digest warm milk. I don't know if I believe that, and when I'm home, I make a cappuccino every afternoon. When I'm in Italy, I tend to stick to the cultural norm and drink espresso after 10.<br />
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One afternoon when the heat and humidity had the best of us, Mike decided to try a <i>frullato</i>—a fruit and/or vegetable drink. <i>Frullati</i> are similar to smoothies except that they usually don't contain milk or yogurt products and use natural juice and ice cubes as the base. Cesar and Lilli keep all sorts of fresh fruit and vegetables (below), and instead of having a limited number of <i>frullati</i> on their menu, they allow customers to choose what they want in their drinks. Mike chose cherries, strawberries, oranges, and pineapple. It was so good that I tried one the next evening—pineapple, lime, cherries, apricots, and oranges.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cantaloupe, lemons, apples, oranges, pomegranates, bananas, pineapples, limes, kiwi, cherries, apricots, pears, strawberries, and more</td></tr>
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In the time that we've been home, I've tried to make <i>frullati</i> using frozen and fresh fruit. Unfortunately, the frozen fruit makes the drink too thick. I don't quite mind that, but Mike prefers it to be more liquid, so I've defrosted his fruit before I make his. When I go back to Bologna, I'll have to have Lilli and Cesar show me how much fruit they use so I can make mine a little better.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moi with a cherry, apricot, pineapple, and orange <i>frullato</i></td></tr>
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While most Italians use bars as a place to get a quick beverage, some us the more comfortable ones as a gathering place where they meet friends to talk politics, sports, or life. Such is the day at Bar Santo Stefano. Every morning, friends meet to have their cappuccino or espresso and spend time with each other. <br />
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Tomorrow (or Saturday), I'll introduce you to the men and women of Bar SS.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning at Bar Santo Stefano</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-85038067569298315612015-08-04T21:28:00.001-07:002015-08-04T21:28:19.262-07:00I Love This Bar, Part I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bar Santo Stefano</td></tr>
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<b> “All true friendliness begins with fire and food and drink..."</b> ―
G.K. Chesterton</div>
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Last year at this time, I was just starting my first week in Bologna. After I finally woke up the morning after I arrived, I went in search of cappuccino. As luck would have it, Bar Santo Stefano was a 15-second walk from my apartment. I stumbled in the door and ordered a cap and apricot brioche from the guy behind the bar. As I stood and had my breakfast, we talked.<br />
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His name was Cesar, and he and his significant other, Lilli, had just bought the bar. That morning, August 1, 2014, was their first day as owners of the bar. Originally from Barcelona, Cesar had met Lilli when he was working in China. They worked together in Piacenza and decided to open their own bar in Bologna. I was one of their first customers.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cesar</td></tr>
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I had gone in the bar in search of coffee but also to see if I could connect with someone in Bologna. Since I was there alone, I wanted to have friends who would know to keep an eye out for me. They became friends, and I enjoyed talking to them on my daily visits. I had cappuccini and got to practice my Italian...except when I lapsed into Spanish with Cesar. <br />
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Bars in Italy are not quite what bars in the US are. Italian bars offer offer everything from espresso and brioche in the morning to panini and soda in the afternoon to appetizers and drinks in the evening. Bar Santo Stefano is no different. Cesar usually opens the bar between 6:30 and 7:00 to serve people on their way to work or school. Lilli joins him around 9:00 or so, and late in the morning, he goes home
to rest. After he returns, they work together until they close,
sometimes as late as 8:00 or 9:00 pm.<br />
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Cesar is a great cook. When I asked him if they could provide aperitifs for my two tour groups this year, he made a number of different things that included a Spanish tortilla (eggs and potato omelette), something with tuna, something with peppers, and a few other things. I don't remember what everything was, but they were all great. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilli</td></tr>
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If you were to ask everyone in my groups what they thought about Bar Santo Stefano, I think they would all tell you the same thing: Cesar and Lilli are wonderful people. The bar is a friendly and comfortable oasis on a busy street.<br /><br />
Last year, Mike didn't have the chance to get to know Cesar and Lilli since he was only in Bologna one night. I'm glad he got the opportunity to meet them this year.<br />
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"Thanks for watching out for Chris," Mike told Cesar after he arrived this year. "I appreciate it."<br />
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"I am like her little brother," Cesar replied. He most certainly is.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Lilli and Cesar this year...</td></tr>
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Tomorrow: More of what makes Bar Santo Stefano #1 in Bologna<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-38410096815433281022015-07-26T20:09:00.001-07:002015-07-26T20:09:19.657-07:00Planes, Trains, Autobuses; Part B of Part VI<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Some "... people are so mind-bogglingly aggravating that it's impossible to overreact to them, even if that means killing yourself.”
―
Maija Haavisto<br />
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I sometimes think about how I come off to those of you who really don't know me when you read about some of my adventures. Let me assure you that I am not as impatient, grumpy, or snarky as I probably sound in these posts. I usually let it go on the surface and seethe on the inside until I can unload on Mike (and/or the blog). <br />
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Part of the problem is that I have no idea *how* to tell someone that I need some alone time on the plane. Don't get me wrong. I don't mind talking some, but I really like to read, write, listen to music, watch movies, and even sleep if I'm on a long plane ride. The thing that bothered me the most about Blabbing Betty was that she kept interrupting me when it was obvious that I was doing something.<br />
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It's one thing if you have to use the restroom. When you gotta go, you gotta go.<br />
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"I have to pee," the husband announced to BB, and he started to climb over her. I got up immediately so he didn't try to climb over me. "Thank you, Honey," he said to me as he got into the aisle. "You're a real sweetheart."<br />
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I sat down to wait for him to come back, and BB tapped me on the arm. "I should probably go tinkle," she whispered to me. I got up again. "You don't have to get up," she told me. "I can climb over you."<br />
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"I'd rather stand," I answered. Yikes.<br />
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We played the musical chairs game each of the five or six times they used the rest room during the flight. He'd decide to go, and we'd let him out. We'd sit back down, and she'd decide to go. The last few times I just stood in the aisle and stretched because I knew she was going to get up again.<br />
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After lunch, I took out my computer and started editing something for a client. I was listening to my iPod and was in the middle of one of my favorite Springsteen albums when BB tapped me on the arm again. I sighed as I pulled my earphones out of my ears and looked at her.<br />
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"Can I ask you something?" she asked. I nodded because I had no other answer. "Why do you spend so much time in Italy?"<br />
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Now, excuse me again for being a little snarky, but why the hell did she need to bother me to ask me that when I was working peacefully. I sighed again and told her a brief version of the story.<br />
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"How can you live there if you're American?" she wanted to know. I started to explain about renting apartments, but she stopped me. "No. I mean how can you understand them if they don't speak American? Did you learn Italian?" You would all be proud that I didn't pull every hair out of my head at those two questions. Instead, I told her I spoke Spanish, had taken Italian classes, and was getting to be pretty proficient in the language.<br />
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"I can understand about 65-75% of what they say," I added.<br />
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"I don't speak anything else," she told me. "I didn't have to take a language."<br />
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Languages are a hot button with me because I think with the globalization of the world, we need to make sure our kids can compete. While <strike>American</strike> English is widely spoken all over the world, we really need to be teaching kids to communicate in other languages. I told her that.<br />
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"I think that most people like to talk their own language," she told me.<br />
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"Well, of course they do," I replied. "They're more comfortable speaking their own language in social situations and such. However, in business settings and in business-related social settings, it's a big benefit to speak one or two other languages so we can communicate with people in their own language."<br />
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"I don't know," she said. "I think they like to speak in their own language about things like politics and religion."<br />
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"That's what I just said," I retorted. I'll spare you the rest of the conversation—most notably the portion when she wanted to tell me about the "JW" convention from which they were returning. "I don't talk religion," I told her.<br />
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"I should let you get back to your work," she replied.<br />
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Amen, Betty. Amen.<br />
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I thought she got the hint at that point, but as is often the case, I was wrong. After another of their restroom runs, she started talking to me before I could reopen my computer: She felt like a sardine. She was hungry. She was thirsty. She was so tired. She didn't bring up religion again, though.<br />
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"I smell pizza," she said to me. She was right. It was time for our late snack. Everyone had the same meal this time, so it was easy for the flight attendants to hand out the rectangular boxes filled with a rectangular vegetarian pizza. It smelled pretty good.<br />
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The good smell did nothing for the horrible taste. The crust was too hard and tasted like the proverbial cardboard. The toppings, tomatoes and peppers, were all salt and no taste. The cheese was a tasteless rubber chew. Mike and I took two bites each and put most of the "pizza" back in the box. <br />
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"This is awful," BB said to no one in particular.<br />
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"I'm not eating it," I said as the flight attendants arrived at our row with the beverage cart.<br />
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"I know you aren't in charge of choosing the food," Mike said to one of the gals, "but this pizza was horrible."<br /><br />"You didn't like it?" the flight attendant asked.<br />
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"No one liked it," Mike replied. "Ask anyone around here."<br />
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"We didn't like it," BB agreed. <br />
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"I don't really have anything to do with the choices," the flight attendant said.<br />
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"We know that," Mike snapped, "but you can pass along that the pizza was a big loser."<br />
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"I'll do that," the gal said.<br />
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I started laughing. "My husband takes no prisoners," I said.<br />
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"That man's your husband?" BB asked me. I nodded. "I wondered why you were holding his hand at take-off," she continued. I rolled my eyes so she couldn't see me.<br />
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When we finally arrived at JFK, we were a bit late getting to the gate because a different plane was still parked there. Mike and I jumped up as soon as we could as we had a connecting flight to catch once we got through customs. As I pulled my case from the overhead bin, hubby said to me, "Thank you for being such a sweetheart and letting us go to the restroom all day." I said the only thing I could have said.<br />
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"You're welcome, Honey."<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-45755673135006082252015-07-25T08:29:00.001-07:002015-07-25T08:29:08.372-07:00Planes, Trains, & Autobuses, Part A of Part VI<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5ki8Ioqu-nw/VbJOeLAmvKI/AAAAAAAAGPc/CHqrboq2qx0/s1600/DSC_0206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5ki8Ioqu-nw/VbJOeLAmvKI/AAAAAAAAGPc/CHqrboq2qx0/s320/DSC_0206.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike photobombs the Milan Cathedral</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>"They somehow managed to get every creep and freak in the universe onto
this one plane..... And
then somehow managed to stick us right smack in the middle."</b> ~ From Con Air<br />
<br />
I think God somehow gave man the idea for economy class on long-haul flights as punishment for all of our peccadillos. Seat a couple hundred people together in a space large enough to make only half of them comfortable. Feed them mystery meals and free wine so they won't care what they're eating. Add in a bunch of screaming, kicking kids. Throw in a bevy of wacky adults. Lock them in a huge tube that hurtles through the air at 35,000 feet. See how many can survive the nine-hour flight with their sanity intact.<br />
<br />
I question my sanity constantly during flights.<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7PZ6RbMnsw0/VbJOrUKYnKI/AAAAAAAAGPk/VPB7SG5i0wU/s1600/DSC_0221.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7PZ6RbMnsw0/VbJOrUKYnKI/AAAAAAAAGPk/VPB7SG5i0wU/s320/DSC_0221.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Milan Cathedral stained glass</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mike and I flew Air Emirates for the first time this year, and I'll admit that the seats were not so bad. There seemed to be more legroom than we'd had on other planes. We sat across the aisle from each other because the economy cabin configuration is 3-4-3, and neither of us wanted to get stuck in the middle. Mike sat in the center section, and I was on the right side of the plane.<br />
<br />
The plane was almost full when I noticed a portly man and woman stumbling toward me. They were not inebriated, but they wobbled up the narrow aisle while juggling their carry-on items. I stood up before they tried to climb over me. The man lifted his case into overhead bin as his wife tripped over her own feet.<br />
<br />
"Hurry up," he snapped at his wife. "Give me your bag."<br />
<br />
"Is this where we're sitting?" she asked him.<br />
<br />
"Give me your bag. Give me your bag. Hurry up." He fumbled with her bag and finally got it into the bin. She asked him to put her large straw hat in the bin, too. He shoved it on top of her case, smashing it in the process.<br />
<br />
"You're ruining my hat," she whined.<br />
<br />
"Get in your seat, for crying out loud," he growled as he climbed over to the window seat. "You're holding everyone up." She looked at me.<br />
<br />
"Are you sitting here, too?" she asked me. I nodded. "Oh, goody."<br />
<br />
<i>Holy crap,</i> I thought.<br />
<br />
I should have run for the door before the flight attendant locked it.<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sBcUdXNDIdQ/VbJOvyCyiBI/AAAAAAAAGPs/gll7VaDbj1w/s1600/DSC_0236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sBcUdXNDIdQ/VbJOvyCyiBI/AAAAAAAAGPs/gll7VaDbj1w/s320/DSC_0236.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Galleria in Milan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We introduced ourselves, and the woman started talking ... She told me her name (Betty), why they were in Europe (a church conference), where her father's family was from (near Bologna), what her maiden name was (Balucci), how long her son had been married (four years), how many grandkids she had (three), how many times she'd been to Europe (two), how many times her husband had been to Europe (one), etc. My head was spinning, and we hadn't left the gate area yet.<br />
<br />
Once we took off, I put on my headphones and began to watch a movie. I also worked a little on the computer while I watched <i>The Second Exotic Marigold Hotel</i>. About 30 minutes into the movie, Blabbering Betty (BB) tapped me on my arm. I paused the movie.<br />
<br />
"Can I ask you a question?" she wanted to know. I took off the headphones and looked at her.<br />
<br />
"What do you need?" I asked her.<br />
<br />
She pointed to her iPad and showed me a photo of a headstone . Carved into the granite was, Anna Balucci, ved Monaco. "What does this mean?" she asked. "Is Balucci her last name, or is Monaco?" I explained that Balucci was the woman's last name, and that she was the widow—vedova (ved.) of someone with the last name of Monaco. She started chattering and asking me more questions. I tried to answer them politely although I guess I kept glancing at my TV screen because she finally noticed.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I guess you want to watch the movie," she noted. The fact that I had on the headphone and was watching the screen was probably a good indication of that. "Is it good? I've wanted to watch it but never have. I like Richard Gere. I try to watch all of his movies."<br />
<br />
"It's good," I told her. "I would like to finish watching it."<br />
<br />
"There are just so many good movies on this system," she continued. <br />
<br />
"There are," I agreed as I turned on my movie again. <br />
<br />
I was about 20 minutes in when BB tapped me on the arm again. "Yes?" I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice.<br />
<br />
"How did you find that movie?" she asked me. Emirates has an entertainment system that they call ICE. Each
passenger has his/her own screen and can choose from a plethora of
movies, TV shows, music channels, games, news, and more to take up time during
the long flight. The eight-year old kid behind me could figure out his screen, but the 68-year old woman next to me could not. I showed her where to find the movie and turned back to mine.<br />
<br />
The thing I found interesting about these little incidents is the fact that she interrupted me and not her husband who was watching his own movie. The thing I found irritating is that she interrupted me instead of her husband.<br />
<br />
As I tried to enjoy the rest of my movie, I noticed that she kept fidgeting with her iPad and movie. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that she paused her movie. The faces of Richard Gere and Dev Patel filled her screen.<br />
<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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bnY-xQWomqA/VbJOzckBBRI/AAAAAAAAGP0/m6q8cveO8QQ/s1600/DSC_0238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bnY-xQWomqA/VbJOzckBBRI/AAAAAAAAGP0/m6q8cveO8QQ/s320/DSC_0238.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No animals allowed in a Milan bar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
About an hour after we took off, the flight attendants started to serve lunch. Because I had ordered a bland meal, I was one of the first served. The flight attendant brought two special meals to our row.<br />
<br />
"Did you order the diabetic meal?" she asked BB's husband.<br />
<br />
"No," he told her. The flight attendant looked at the label attached to the meal and checked the row. <br />
<br />
"Are you sure? I have a diabetic meal for you," the young woman said.<br />
<br />
"I didn't order a diabetic meal," he said. The flight attendant once again looked at the tag.<br />
<br />
BB, who was watching the entire thing finally said, "I ordered it for him. He's diabetic." As the flight attendant handed the meal over, I rolled my eyes. She smiled and handed me the bland meal. I'd ordered it because the Emirates website said that the bland meals contained grilled or boiled meats and vegetables that contained no spices or sauces. <br />
<br />
I lifted the foil and found boiled fish. "I can't eat fish," I announced. The flight attendant gave me a look. I'm sure she thought our row was possessed.<br />
<br />
"If I bring you anything else," she told me, "it won't be medically bland."<br />
<br />
"I can't eat the fish," I repeated. "Just bring me the chicken from the regular menu."<br />
<br />
"I have fish, too," BB's husband interjected. "I can eat it, though." I'm sure the flight attendant was happy about that. She weft to find chicken for me.<br />
<br />
"Are you allergic to fish?" BB asked me. "I know people who are allergic to seafood."<br />
<br />
"No," I assured her, "I'm not allergic to fish or seafood. I don't like fish. I especially don't like boiled fish, and I really don't like boiled fish if it's salmon."<br />
<br />
"Fish is good for you," she told me. "It's healthy. You should try it." I could feel the muscles in my shoulders tense.<br />
<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UFn8PyxJM10/VbJPX-HFSCI/AAAAAAAAGP8/Fg-L3P9Bq9o/s1600/DSC_0233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UFn8PyxJM10/VbJPX-HFSCI/AAAAAAAAGP8/Fg-L3P9Bq9o/s320/DSC_0233.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cool dining venue in Milan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you are my mother, you have the God-given right to tell me to try to eat fish. If you are my husband, you have earned the right through marriage to tell me to try to eat fish. If you are my doctor, you automatically have the right to tell me to try to eat fish for my health. If you are a stranger sitting next to me on a plane, you have no right to tell me what I should or should not, can or cannot eat.<br />
<br />
I looked at her. "I don't like fish. I'm not going to try it. I'm healthy enough." I turned back to the movie as the flight attendant brought me chicken. "I'm sorry for the trouble," I said to the flight attendant. "Thank you so much for switching."<br />
<br />
BB apparently realized that she had tried my patience because she let me finish my meal, bland except for the chicken, and movie in peace. I thought that she might leave me alone from that point on.<br />
<br />
My mistake. My BIG mistake.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-21521673189625632642015-07-23T20:26:00.001-07:002015-07-23T20:26:39.192-07:00Planes, Trains, & Autobuses, Part V<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8z2nBG2dJRw/VbGbyG-U40I/AAAAAAAAGOA/K1AjPXKquSQ/s1600/IMG_4213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8z2nBG2dJRw/VbGbyG-U40I/AAAAAAAAGOA/K1AjPXKquSQ/s320/IMG_4213.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street in Faenza</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<strong> "My favorite motion sickness cure is a can of Diet Coke. I just get someone to whack me firmly on the back of the head with it." ~ Unknown</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
When last I left you, Mike and I had arrived at Roma Tiburtina in time to catch our train to Milan. Even though the bus was a bit late, we still had two hours to spare, so we headed to get cappuccino. As is usually the case when I have a travel day coming up, I hadn't slept well the night before, so the lack of sleep combined with my <strike>bus</strike> carsickness gave me one royal headache. I was hoping the caffeine would help. It didn't.<br />
<br />
Luckily, when I booked the tickets, I chose seats that didn't face anyone else. The first part of the three-hour trip was relatively quiet. I pulled the tray table down and put my head down. I must have fallen asleep because I didn't realize we had stopped in Florence until the woman who got on there sat behind me and kicked my seat....accidentally, of course.<br />
<br />
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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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a2Ug6PrFJ5g/VbGcO6q6o9I/AAAAAAAAGOQ/ze8g4swI6ow/s1600/DSC_0150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a2Ug6PrFJ5g/VbGcO6q6o9I/AAAAAAAAGOQ/ze8g4swI6ow/s320/DSC_0150.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pasture from Campo di Giove</td></tr>
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The fast train from Rome-to-Milan has only two stops—Florence and Bologna. Bologna, as I may have mentioned, is only a 25-30-minute train ride from Florence. As we neared Bologna Centrale, I stared out of the window at the familiar scenery.<br />
<br />
"I think I'll get off of the train when it stops," I told Mike. He rolled his eyes. "I mean it. I'm going to stay here." <br />
<br />
"Yep," he answered and went back to listening to his podcast. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q0IUTemduKE/VbGckWMRTRI/AAAAAAAAGOg/IhODoE5lpWk/s1600/IMG_4312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q0IUTemduKE/VbGckWMRTRI/AAAAAAAAGOg/IhODoE5lpWk/s320/IMG_4312.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The aqueduct in Sulmona</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Not long after we left Bologna, a cell phone rang. The lady in the seat behind me answered it.<br />
<br />
"PRONTO," she said LOUDLY, and so began her conversation...her long conversation...her long, LOUD conversation.<br />
<br />
Let me step out of this short story for a minute to make a comment: If the airlines ever permit cell phone usage while in flight, I may shoot myself. People just don't have a clue how to courteously use cell phones in public. I cannot understand how some people are so oblivious to the fact that their loud, long phone conversations are irritating, intrusive, and rude.<br />
<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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XQrCCZ2un30/VbGdwlGHLBI/AAAAAAAAGO0/-nPCYS8F2Rs/s1600/DSC_0227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XQrCCZ2un30/VbGdwlGHLBI/AAAAAAAAGO0/-nPCYS8F2Rs/s320/DSC_0227.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santo Stefano di Sessiano</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At any rate, the woman behind me spent a good 40 minutes talking and laughing loudly. After a bit, I started repeating what she said. LOUDLY.<br />
<br />
"<i>What did you say?"</i> <i><span style="color: blue;">What did you say?</span></i><br />
<br />
"<i>We should go to dinner.</i>" <i><span style="color: blue;">We should go to dinner</span>.</i><br />
<br />
"<i>It's so hot today.</i>" <i><span style="color: blue;">It's so hot today.</span></i><br />
<br />
And so on and on. She probably never heard <i>me</i> because she was talking too much.<br />
<br />
As we got off the train in Milan, she was still talking.<br />
<br />
All things considered, except for my headache and the big mouth, the train trip wasn't so bad. We arrived in Milan on time, which was the important thing. Since we had a day until we flew home, we went in search of the famous cathedral in the historic center, had lunch, repacked for the umpteenth time, and went to bed. <br />
<br />
The next day was going to be long...long...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-31870024798025505472015-07-22T07:39:00.004-07:002015-07-22T07:39:51.189-07:00Planes, Trains, & Autobuses— Part IV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gwohrjgkMdE/Va8DaNg4lVI/AAAAAAAAGNU/VZ_drJCR7Cs/s1600/IMG_3769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gwohrjgkMdE/Va8DaNg4lVI/AAAAAAAAGNU/VZ_drJCR7Cs/s320/IMG_3769.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike on a local bus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> "<span class="firstword">It</span> was a nightmare. The band had to tour Greenland by bus."</b> ~<i> Fred Schneider</i></div>
<br />
<br />
As I mentioned a few days ago, we were supposed to pick up a rental car in Rome so we'd be able to drive to and from Sulmona. Because someone whom we won't name forgot his international drivers license, we ended up not able to rent a car. It wasn't a big deal, really, except that we had to take that horrible regional train to Sulmona, and we'd have to take one back since we had tickets on a train from Rome-to-Milan.<br />
<br />
Novelia had told me previously that I should look into taking the bus back to Rome. I don't know what it is exactly, but as much as I love train travel, I
dislike bus travel. I tend to blame my bus discomfort on two
things—years spent traveling to and from school on crowded, yellow tubes
that were always too hot and a summer spent crossing Mexico via a
crowded, hot, stagnant bus. I can take short jaunt bus travel, but, for
me, the longer trips leave me disoriented and uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
At any rate, because our tickets from Rome-to-Milan had a 10:30 departure, we had to leave Sulmona early to make sure we'd make the Milan trip in time. The train, if there were no delays, would get us there with a little time to spare. The "IF" was what bothered me, so I checked the bus schedule. The bus would give us a two-hour window in Rome, so we decided the bus was the way to go.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rm3g2D4nEyY/Va8BqxHdQbI/AAAAAAAAGMs/slGkBm7cW-U/s1600/IMG_3650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rm3g2D4nEyY/Va8BqxHdQbI/AAAAAAAAGMs/slGkBm7cW-U/s320/IMG_3650.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tour bus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We boarded the ARPA bus at 6:30 and set off. I tried to sleep a little, but the seats were too scratchy and uncomfortable, so I spent most of the trip looking at the scenery as we rushed by. There was little traffic until we hit the outskirts of Rome. The closer we got, the busier the traffic on the three-lane highway became. The driver slowed the bus down to mach-1 speed so we didn't fall behind. I continued to look out of the window.<br />
<br />
"Holy crap," I exclaimed. "He's weaving back and forth." Our driver, apparently intent on getting us to the train station on time, was changing lanes almost constantly.<br />
<br />
"It'll be fine," Mike answered. "How much farther do we have to go?" <br />
<br />
"I just saw a sign for Tiburtina, so we must be close." We were heading to the Tiburtina Train Station.<br />
<br />
The bus coasted to a stop in the middle lane. I looked out of the window as a gal on a Vespa shot between the bus and the car in the left lane. A second Vespa zipped by, as did a third, fourth, and fifth. Had the window been open, I could have pulled their helmets off.<br />
<br />
"So much for staying in lanes," I said to Mike. <br />
<br />
"They're in a hurry," he replied as another line of people on scooters (24 by my count) zoomed by. <br />
<br />
The bus edged to the right as we approached the exit. I looked out of the window to see that a car had slid next to us. Actually, there were cars the entire length of the bus, and they were so close, I could have jumped out of the window and danced on their roofs.<br />
<br />
"Oh, my," I gasped. "Look at how close the cars are now."<br />
<br />
"I'm glad I'm not driving," Mike told me. I was, too. My husband is not a patient driver, and he would have probably tried to drive down the one-inch space between the bus and the cars.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rj6mYwdm_lA/Va-bw2h_f1I/AAAAAAAAGNs/4CN35xs6aNE/s1600/Traffic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rj6mYwdm_lA/Va-bw2h_f1I/AAAAAAAAGNs/4CN35xs6aNE/s320/Traffic.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rome traffic (from an image on the web)</td></tr>
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<br />
As we neared the exit, the bus driver could not move completely into the exit lane, so he was driving between lanes. Suddenly, he hit the horn. Once. Twice. Three times. He finally maneuvered the bus in front of a Mercedes, and we were in the exit lane with about 40,000 other cars. We edged forward slowly. <br />
<br />
"We're 15-minutes late," I told Mike. "This is the reason we took the early bus. If we were trying to catch a train at 9:25, I'd be stressing." I'm sure he rolled his eyes because I stress over everything.<br />
<br />
The driver hit the horn as we finally rounded the corner. We were again stuck in a long line of Rome traffic. A few of the other riders got out of their seats and stood in the aisle.<br />
<br />
(Side note: I have no idea why it is this way, but 10-minutes before a train or bus is about to arrive at its stop, the Italians get up and stand by the door. It's amazing to watch. I've even been on trains where they get up as soon as we've left the stop before theirs. It's like they're afraid the train will only slow down and not stop at the station.)<br />
<br />
I'm not going to give you a blow-by-blow account of the 20 minutes it took to drive the one mile to the train station. Suffice to say that the driver, obviously aggravated by the traffic and by the fact that we were running late, honked the horn and ran the bus over the sidewalk to move us forward. I closed my eyes.<br />
<br />
We finally made it to the station, and the driver flew through the lot to get to the stop. He honked the horn most likely in warning that he was going to get to that stop no matter what.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Ladies and gentlemen, we have finally arrived at Tiburtina Station</i>," he announced as he hit the brake. We were about 40-minutes late. He opened the luggage compartments and the bus door and bounced off of the bus before any of the standing passengers could get out. As we exited the bus, I saw him, cigarette in hand and eyes closed, leaning against a light post. Passengers who had stowed luggage below were on their own to climb into the bus's stomach to retrieve the pieces that had shifted to the far side. He was done.<br />
<br />
So were we.<br />
<br />
"You want to get coffee?" Mike asked me.<br />
<br />
"Only if they have nothing stronger." I was joking but serious. We had a little over an hour before the train left....<br />
<br />
Let the fun continue. <br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-748841292849450102015-07-19T12:11:00.002-07:002015-07-19T12:11:31.953-07:00Planes, Trains, & Autobuses, Part III<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DeyzVkTf6AE/VasReTl7QKI/AAAAAAAAGJ4/Q5GqWLyDX94/s1600/DSC_0657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DeyzVkTf6AE/VasReTl7QKI/AAAAAAAAGJ4/Q5GqWLyDX94/s320/DSC_0657.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike on a regional train</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b> “...what thrills me about trains is not their size or their equipment
but the fact that they are moving, that they embody a connection between
unseen places.”</b>
―
Marianne Wiggins<br />
<br />
Before I continue with the story about our <strike>crappy</strike> pleasant second train ride last Friday, allow me to explain the Italian train system a little better so that all of this makes sense. There are different levels of train service, as I noted before. The fast trains—Frecciarossa, Frecciargento, and Frecciabianco—are also the long-distance trains and always include seat reservations. They are all air-conditioned and have a cafe and attendants who come through the coaches offering refreshments at affordable costs. They travel at 185 mph, 155 mph, and 125 mph respectively and travel between major cities.<br />
<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NpR_PjUCD24/VavzMDTqq9I/AAAAAAAAGL0/ed2zAvyD31w/s1600/DSC_0570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NpR_PjUCD24/VavzMDTqq9I/AAAAAAAAGL0/ed2zAvyD31w/s320/DSC_0570.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frecciargento fast train</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The intercity (IC) trains, which travel from 100-120 mph, a step down from the fast trains, and they stop in big cities. Seat assignments are mandatory, and the coaches are air-conditioned. The Regional Veloce (RV) and Regional (R) trains operate within a region (Emilia-Romagna, Veneto, etc.) or between adjacent regions. The RV trains stop in main stations along the lines while the R trains stop in <b>every</b> station along the local lines. The tickets do not include seat assignments, and the trains may or may not be air-conditioned.<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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZX-6sM1lsE/VasS29u3auI/AAAAAAAAGKc/boeJzh-z_2s/s1600/IMG_4042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZX-6sM1lsE/VasS29u3auI/AAAAAAAAGKc/boeJzh-z_2s/s320/IMG_4042.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Regional train</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Friday, Part II</b><br />
<br />
Once we arrived at Tiburtina station, Mike sat with the luggage while I ran to the ticket machine to buy our tickets to Sulmona. Because Sulmona is neither a major nor a big city, we would have to take a regional (RV or R) to get there. The next train left a little over an hour after we got to Rome, and it was scheduled to take over three hours to get there. That little fact is interesting because the 190-mile trip from Bologna-to-Rome took just under two hours. The 90-mile trip from Rome-to-Sulmona would take 33% longer.<br />
<br />
We headed to the platform about 30 minutes before we were due to leave and found the train already there. Since it was a regional train, it looked old, dirty, and tired. I sighed because I knew we had a long ride ahead of us and I was afraid that we might not have air during the trip. A week prior, we had been stuck on a regional train that didn't have air. L et me just say that it was not pleasant in the Italian heat and humidity.<br />
<br />
As we walked down the platform, we saw that the windows on the first couple of cars were open. Not a good sign. Mike headed for the first open door.<br />
<br />
"It looks like the windows on the fourth car are closed," I said to Mike. "Let's go down there and check for air." We hauled the suitcases down the platform, up the train steps, and opened the door to the coach. Sweet cool air. We put our luggage on the seats next to us and sat down. There were only a few others in the coach. "Thank heaven," I sighed. "I couldn't take three hours on this thing without air."<br />
<br />
As we waited, more people came into the car. We noticed that a few people climbed into the coach in front of ours, sat down, and quickly stood up and headed in search of cooler air. As more and more riders found seats in our coach, the temperature rose. A couple with a screaming toddler in tow headed down the platform.<br />
<br />
"No. No." I frantically whispered to no one. "The other coach. Go in the other coach." They hauled the stroller up the stairs, looked through the door to our coach, and turned to go in the coach in front of ours. "Thank you, Jesus," I whispered as they got the stroller secured and sat down.<br />
<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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4f3Dl0CXCDA/VasXQUi4HuI/AAAAAAAAGKs/4k51mAnIgX0/s1600/DSC_0424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4f3Dl0CXCDA/VasXQUi4HuI/AAAAAAAAGKs/4k51mAnIgX0/s320/DSC_0424.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barb, Jerry, Ed, & Kathy seated in the fast train. Note the table.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I gave thanks a little too early. After sitting no more than three minutes in the other coach, they headed to our coach. "Crap," I said to Mike. "How close are they sitting to us?" He assured me that they'd chosen seats at the other end of the coach. "How many more seats are there?" I was sure everyone in Rome was going to board our train, come into our coach, and suck out what little cool air was left.<br />
<br />
"There are a lot of empty seats," Mike told me. "It's time to leave, so we'll be okay." He is so optimistic.<br />
<br />
As the train pulled out of the station, a guy who'd been sitting in the coach in front of ours jumped up and transferred to our coach. He looked at the seat next to me (DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, I mentally chanted.), the rest of the coach, and plopped down in a seat across the aisle. The gal who was sitting there had parked her two pieces of luggage on the floor, so his sitting there forced her to move both pieces in front of her. She had no leg room, and his was less than it should have been.<br />
<br />
In all honesty, she should have put her luggage on the rack above her head, so her lack of legroom was partially her fault. On the other hand, the dude had the choice of at least 20 other seats, so his lack of space was entirely his fault. <br />
<br />
As I said before, our 90-mile journey took over three hours because we had 13 stops before reaching Sulmona. Luckily, the screaming toddler quieted down not long after we took off, and no one else came into our coach. I took out my iPod and my iPad and settled in.<br />
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<br />
The dude across the aisle started fidgeting. He stretched his legs across the aisle. He pulled them back. He shifted in his seat to look out of the window. He shifted to look at me. He straightened up and looked forward. He turned in his seat and looked back at the rest of the car. He stared at the ceiling. He stared at the lady sharing his space. He stared at Mike. He stared at me.<br />
<br />
Head down so I could read my iPad, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I stared back at him, and he shifted to look out of the window again. For over an hour, he constantly moved. Stretch. Shift. Stare. Stretch. Shift. Stare. I couldn't concentrate on my reading, so I gave up. <br />
<br />
After a few people behind us got off at a stop in some little town, Shifty got up and sat in one of their now-empty seats behind Mike. At the next stop, the gal with whom he'd shared his first seat left. He stood up and slid back into the seat he'd first occupied. He stood up and slid into the seat facing his first seat. He stared out of the window. He grabbed his backpack and pulled a large cellophane bag out of it. He opened the bag and pulled a little packet of some food out of it. He tore the packet open, sniffed it, and pulled out what looked like a lacy piece of dry, grey I-don't-know-what. He crunched it down quickly.<br />
<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ciVvYP8pZIE/VavzKcH1k2I/AAAAAAAAGLs/omwLU6nCqGc/s1600/DSC_0569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ciVvYP8pZIE/VavzKcH1k2I/AAAAAAAAGLs/omwLU6nCqGc/s320/DSC_0569.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Italo has only fast trains.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After a few minutes, he shifted in his seat, pulled another packet out of the bag, opened and sniffed it, and stuffed it into the trash container for his seat. By this time, the train was at a standstill at a little station in the middle of nowhere, and for 20-30 minutes or so, we waited while something went on. Trenitalia personnel never told us why we sat there for so long. Since there was little we could do, I tried to read. Shifty, however, had food on his mind. For the entire time we delayed wherever and for the last hour of our journey, he kept trying to find a comfortable position and food that wasn't spoiled. Shift. Sniff. Stuff. Snack. Shift. Sniff. Snack. Stuff. (Let me just say that whether the stuff smelled good or not—and there was no way I could tell—it looked horrible, and you couldn't have paid me to eat it. Then again, he didn't offer any up, so all that was a moot point.)<br />
<br />
I'll be the first to admit that this trip wasn't the worst we'd had. By no means was it as bad as the earlier fast train with the armrest hog. That said, it wasn't the most comfortable, either. More than three hours in a slightly air-conditioned coach was not fun, but it was better than having to ride in a coach that had no air at all. The worst thing for me was Shifty. His constant fidgeting drove me crazy, and because there are some not-so-normal people in the world today, I just could not relax wondering what he was doing.<br />
<br />
We arrived safely in Sulmona, as you've probably guessed, and spent a nice weekend with Novelia and Peppe. Novelia has told me more than once that we should consider taking the Arpa Bus from Rome to Sulmona and vice versa because it is faster. After the delays and such on this particular day, I decided that I'd look into taking it back to Rome on Tuesday.<br />
<br />
<br />I did, and we did, and that bus trip was, well, I'll tell you about *it* tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237462107707330905.post-30662035382785052752015-07-18T06:22:00.001-07:002015-07-18T07:53:33.851-07:00Planes, Trains, & Autobuses, Part II<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e2wHuCnHojc/VahcJw-BOsI/AAAAAAAAGHs/qSNYW4JhRIU/s1600/IMG_4295.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e2wHuCnHojc/VahcJw-BOsI/AAAAAAAAGHs/qSNYW4JhRIU/s320/IMG_4295.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunflower fields in Emilia-Romagna</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><br /></b>
<b> "I woke up early and took the first train to take me away from the city.
The noise and all its people. I was alone on the train and had no idea
where I was going..."</b>
<i>―
Charlotte Eriksson</i><br />
<br />
The problem with using public transportation of any kind is that there are so many things that are out of your control—on-time departures/arrivals, fellow passengers, noise level, temperature, delays, and so much more. While I like to travel by plane or train (or even bus or subway), I also hate to travel those same ways because of the wayward things that can happen. <br />
<br />
"You are too Type-A," a pilot friend once told me. "The reason all that bothers you is that you can't be in control." Exactly. Once we pay for the ticket and put our butts in the seats, we are at the mercy of the public transportation gods, and they most certainly do like to play with us at times...like last Friday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Let's start from the beginning.....<br />
<br />
FRIDAY, PART I<br />
<br />
Since we were traveling from Bologna to Sulmona, I'd booked a fast train from Bologna-to-Rome where we were supposed to pick up a rental car for our drive to Sulmona. It's another story, but we ended up not being able to rent, so we had to transfer in Rome to a regional train (aka slowwww train) bound for Sulmona. As I've mentioned before, everyone has a seat assignment on the fast trains, and they're overly more comfortable. (NOTE: Train seats are configured so that four seats face each other. Seats 1 A and B face seats 2 A and B, and across the aisle, seats 1 C and D face seats 2 C and D. On the high-speed trains, there is a small table between the facing seats.)<br />
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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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pNB1yN6oLdo/VamfAKfTDCI/AAAAAAAAGJU/79UoDIsqX6g/s1600/DSC_0277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pNB1yN6oLdo/VamfAKfTDCI/AAAAAAAAGJU/79UoDIsqX6g/s320/DSC_0277.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the train window</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Mike and I had seats in Coach 11, and we yanked our luggage down the aisle to seats 9D and 10D only to find someone already sitting in 10D, my seat. Pietro Antonio (Guess how I know his name.) had his head glued to the window and was jamming to the music on his iPhone.<br />
<br />
"<i>Excuse me</i>," I said to him, "<i>but you're in my seat.</i>" Nothing. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked at me. "<i>That's my seat.</i>" I pointed to the seat, to myself, and to my ticket. He shook his head, took out his own ticket, and examined it. He looked at the seat number pasted above his head and looed at his ticket again. Oops. He should have been in the aisle seat.<br />
<br />
Huffing, he slid across the two seats, stood in the aisle—barely giving me enough room to slide past him—and waited while I struggled to sit as the train started to move. I'd barely gotten into place when he slammed his body into the aisle seat, claimed the middle armrest, and sighed. Oh, joy. As evidenced by his breath, he'd had a highly spiced breakfast.<br />
<br />
Once the train took off, Pietro Antonio dialed a number on his phone.<br />
<br />
"Ciao," he said it loud enough that everyone between France and Greece could hear him. "<i>It's Pietro Antonio Balboni. I'm on my way to Rome</i>." He went on to explain that he was arriving at Roma Termini at 10:35 and that he would pick up a rental car and make his way to wherever he was going to meet the person on the other end. The conversation continued for about 5 minutes, and he ended it with, "Ciao. Ciao. Ciao, ciao, ciao, ciao."<br />
<br />
(Side note: Italians answer the phone by saying, "Pronto," and they usually end with, "Ciao. Ciao. Ciao, ciao, ciao." If they only get two of the "ciaos" out, they are not finished with the conversation. I've heard conversations go on five minutes after the first set of "Ciao. Ciaos." Another story for another day.)<br />
<br />
Pietro Antonio shifted in his seat and again took over the armrest. He plugged in his earphones and watched me "paint" on my iPad. He shifted again, and his leg moved over to my space. I shifted and roughly moved my leg. He got the message and moved his back into his own territory. I shut the iPad and stared out of the window, my left arm in my lap since he had control of the armrest we "shared."<br />
<br />
"PRONTO." Someone had obviously called him. The conversation was much the same as the first—loud and animated—although it ended more quickly. He dialed another number.<br />
<br />
"Ciao. <i>It's Pietro Antonio Balboni. I'm in Firenze on my way to Rome</i>." The train's only stop between Bologna and Rome was Florence, so he was updating the other person as to the status of the train. He again explained that he was arriving at Roma Termini, but that he was going to be late since the train was five minutes behind schedule. He again talked about getting the rental car, but apparently the person on the other end thought he should take the Metro. They discussed the benefits of the Metro vs. a rental car. During the entire 10-minute conversation, he moved in his seat, shuffled his feet and kept his arm on our shared armrest. Believe it or not, he had yet a third conversation with someone about his arrival in Rome, the rental car, and the Metro.<br />
<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0bEZQ-tg71o/VamfSgmueHI/AAAAAAAAGJc/Y2HwQIWK4Ys/s1600/DSC_0526.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0bEZQ-tg71o/VamfSgmueHI/AAAAAAAAGJc/Y2HwQIWK4Ys/s320/DSC_0526.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the train window</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
He got up to go to the restroom, and I claimed the armrest. I hoped that he perhaps locked himself in the restroom when he didn't return for more than 10 minutes, but suddenly the coach door popped open, and he trounced down the aisle. Oh, joy.<br />
<br />
He slammed into the seat, sighed again (Garlic breath did not become him.), and tried to claim the armrest. I held my breath and kept my arm firmly in place. He pushed. I didn't budge. He pushed more. I didn't budge. He shifted and pushed, and I finally moved a "little" bit so that we could share. He did one more shift and, because I had given in to be polite, shoved my elbow from the armrest and claimed it.<br />
<br />
As we arrived at Rome Tiburtina (one of two major stations in Rome), I said, "<i>Excuse me. This is my stop."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"You're getting off *now*?</i>" he sighed.<br />
<i><br /></i>
"No, I said this was my station just for the hell of it," I thought. I rolled my eyes at him so he'd see my irritation and answered, "<i>Yes, this is my stop</i>." He stood up but instead of moving out of the way, he stood in front of where my bag was and where I was heading. "SCUUUUSAAAA MIIII." I was loud and aggravated at that point. Instead of sitting back in his seat, he moved to the side so I had to climb over him to leave. I'd had it.<br />
<br />
As I tripped over him to get up the aisle, I <i>accidentally</i> <strike>stomped</strike> stepped on his foot and whacked him in the back with carry-on. Game. Set. Match.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tomorrow: Friday fun continues with a ride on the regional train...a LONG ride.....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0