The iPod Meme
This was a drive by tagging.
According to the rules I read over at Persistent Illusion, after you read this meme, you have to do it, too.
If your life were a soundtrack, what would the music be?
Here’s how it works:
1. open your library (iTunes, winamp, media player, iPod)
2. put it on shuffle
3. press play
4. for every section, type the song that’s playing
5. next section — press the next button
6. don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool
opening credits: Paul Simon - The Boy in the Bubble
waking up: Snow Patrol - It's Beginning to Get to Me
first day at school: Suzanne Vega - Frank and Ava
falling in love: Switchfoot - Meant to Live
breaking up: Jack Johnson - Banana Pancakes
prom: Reda Darwish - Marhaba (KICK ASS belly dance drum solo try that in a prom dress
life’s okay: Shawn Mullins - Beautiful Wreck
mental breakdown: Pat Monahan - Cab
driving: U2 - Beautiful Day
flashback: Sonia Dada - Old Bones
getting back together: U2 - I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For
wedding: Coldplay - God Put a Smile Upon My Face
birth of child: Edgar Meyer - Old Tyme
final battle: Anna Nalick - Paper Bag
death scene: Angelique Kidjo - Salala
end credits: Indigo Girls - Least Complicated
If you read this, your NEXT!
Monday, December 31, 2007
On to the next project....
Not so fast. I want to bask in the glory of this one for a bit. She's lovely, and every thing I could ask for. I'm speaking about the lovely Lady Oriel of course! Nothing particularly pithy to say today. I'm happy that my investment of time and energy has yielded such lovely results. I have to say that the pattern was accurate and easy to read and sizing was spot on.
I would not recommend this for beginner knitters. It's an easy pattern to learn, but the increase and decreases could be a little daunting for a new knitter.
I substituted a different yarn for the silk ribbon yarn. It's my first substitution which went so well. My means for choosing another yarn was to search for one with a similar weight and yardage. I had a few choices, but only the alpaca and silk of the Elann Peruvian Baby silk was of fibers I knew I could wear close to my skin without itching. Plus the price totally rocked. 36.00 instead of 152.00
I plan to post pictures at Ravelry.
I would not recommend this for beginner knitters. It's an easy pattern to learn, but the increase and decreases could be a little daunting for a new knitter.
I substituted a different yarn for the silk ribbon yarn. It's my first substitution which went so well. My means for choosing another yarn was to search for one with a similar weight and yardage. I had a few choices, but only the alpaca and silk of the Elann Peruvian Baby silk was of fibers I knew I could wear close to my skin without itching. Plus the price totally rocked. 36.00 instead of 152.00
I plan to post pictures at Ravelry.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Wrapping up the year and the Lady Oriel
It's nearly the moment of truth. I placed all of the held stitches onto waste yarn for the front and back of the Lady Oriel and then blocked her, within an inch of her life. Tonight I hope to knit the front and back together and pick up all of the stitches for the neckband.
It's always a dicey proposition when you make an article of clothing. I'm not talking about generica, like hats and scarves. It's one of the reasons I stopped sewing clothes for myself. At the end, with all the work put in, does it really suit you?
As exhibit A I give you a lace jacket I knit several years back. It's gorgeous to look at and to touch. It's soft, slightly fuzzy, and very elaborate. It belongs on someone much more petite than I - the tall, lanky, white girl with the face of an old woman. I've worn it a handful of times and was never comfortable in it. After 4 months of knitting, ripping and finally finishing, it's a thing of beauty that sits in my closet. I hope the Lady Oriel isn't like that.
The entire lace jacket is knit, not a single seam sewn. The lace pattern took me sixty eleven tries to get right (and in some places it's still not right). I had to buy another skein of yarn once I was on my way because the knitting and ripping had felted the hell out of the mohair and silk yarn. I'd never heard of a life line being used in lace knitting so ripping was cause for much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. I just leapt in and began, and learned, and cried in frustration and relief, and purchased more yarn until I finished something that just wasn't right for me.
If that doesn't sound crazy, I don't know what does. Still at this end of the year it seems like a good metaphor for me. Just try your damnedest to complete the thing with honor. Pay attention, give it what it needs and cross the finish line. Sometimes it's the project you finish, sometimes it's the project finishing you.
It's always a dicey proposition when you make an article of clothing. I'm not talking about generica, like hats and scarves. It's one of the reasons I stopped sewing clothes for myself. At the end, with all the work put in, does it really suit you?
As exhibit A I give you a lace jacket I knit several years back. It's gorgeous to look at and to touch. It's soft, slightly fuzzy, and very elaborate. It belongs on someone much more petite than I - the tall, lanky, white girl with the face of an old woman. I've worn it a handful of times and was never comfortable in it. After 4 months of knitting, ripping and finally finishing, it's a thing of beauty that sits in my closet. I hope the Lady Oriel isn't like that.
The entire lace jacket is knit, not a single seam sewn. The lace pattern took me sixty eleven tries to get right (and in some places it's still not right). I had to buy another skein of yarn once I was on my way because the knitting and ripping had felted the hell out of the mohair and silk yarn. I'd never heard of a life line being used in lace knitting so ripping was cause for much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. I just leapt in and began, and learned, and cried in frustration and relief, and purchased more yarn until I finished something that just wasn't right for me.
If that doesn't sound crazy, I don't know what does. Still at this end of the year it seems like a good metaphor for me. Just try your damnedest to complete the thing with honor. Pay attention, give it what it needs and cross the finish line. Sometimes it's the project you finish, sometimes it's the project finishing you.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
The Christmas Song(s)
So I did end up knitting last night, while waiting for the Holiday concert to begin. After drinking a cup of tea late in the afternoon I was awake enough to knit. The concert was one of the best ever. I was far from counting the songs till it was done.
It began with the "Show Choir" that my daughter is part of dressed up like the Whos from Whoville. They sang a few songs from the How the Grinch Stole Christmas soundtrack. Dressed up like Whos, from Whoville.
Next my other daughter sang with her choir, and then back to oldest to sing with the small group that rehearses in the morning. Back to youngest playing in the orchestra and then both of them - one playing violin and one singing. They performed a Requiem for the father of the choir teacher. It was truly lovely. They finished with the Hallelujah chorus from Handel's Messiah.
It made me so happy I wanted to cry. I was too happy to cry so I just smiled real big inside.
The best part of the show came later when Ellie performed her interpretive dance for us in the garage. I'm telling you, she's got some Lucille Ball in her.
It began with the "Show Choir" that my daughter is part of dressed up like the Whos from Whoville. They sang a few songs from the How the Grinch Stole Christmas soundtrack. Dressed up like Whos, from Whoville.
Next my other daughter sang with her choir, and then back to oldest to sing with the small group that rehearses in the morning. Back to youngest playing in the orchestra and then both of them - one playing violin and one singing. They performed a Requiem for the father of the choir teacher. It was truly lovely. They finished with the Hallelujah chorus from Handel's Messiah.
It made me so happy I wanted to cry. I was too happy to cry so I just smiled real big inside.
The best part of the show came later when Ellie performed her interpretive dance for us in the garage. I'm telling you, she's got some Lucille Ball in her.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Lack of sleep will do that to you
I worked hard on the Lady Oriel this past two days. Last night I hit a wall. I baked cookies for our cookie exchange here at work, and then drove out to the airport to pick up my sweetie.
I finally laid my head down at 12:20 am. It wasn't pretty this morning.
The Mister snores alot when he's tired. Which is like saying that hurricanes are windy or the ocean is salty. It's so essentially him. We'd had the presence of mind to set up the bed downstairs for one of us. It's sad when you spend your first night together in a long time in separate beds - and we aren't even mad at each other. But, it exhausts him to worry that he's snoring and waking me, so he wakes himself all night.
It's this torturous, rasping sound that rises to a crescendo and never really falls back to quiet. It's the most noise I've heard anyone make with just their nose. If it wasn't so tiring to hear him laboring away like that I might laugh and enjoy it. Sisyphus himself couldn't be as worn down pushing that damn rock as the work that my sweetie performs in his sleep. Breathe in like a Tyrannosaur, breathe out like a steam engine up an incline hauling 500 fully loaded cars.
You get the idea.
Long story short, I'm tired in a whole new way. Conversation is too much of an effort. I'll just grunt in acknowledgment. I did go to the gym, but I could do that in my sleep. Oh look! I did do it in my sleep. Knitting lace is entirely out of the question. I'd only have to rip back from the abyss and cry alot.
Instead I'll go to the Choir Orchestra concert. Mind you this is High School so it's not the Toot, Whistle, Plunk and Boom of years past. (See the Yarn Harlot's post The Kid with the Viola wasn't too bad) These kids can play, and sing. Most of the time it's lovely. I'll be counting down the moments till I can climb into bed.
I finally laid my head down at 12:20 am. It wasn't pretty this morning.
The Mister snores alot when he's tired. Which is like saying that hurricanes are windy or the ocean is salty. It's so essentially him. We'd had the presence of mind to set up the bed downstairs for one of us. It's sad when you spend your first night together in a long time in separate beds - and we aren't even mad at each other. But, it exhausts him to worry that he's snoring and waking me, so he wakes himself all night.
It's this torturous, rasping sound that rises to a crescendo and never really falls back to quiet. It's the most noise I've heard anyone make with just their nose. If it wasn't so tiring to hear him laboring away like that I might laugh and enjoy it. Sisyphus himself couldn't be as worn down pushing that damn rock as the work that my sweetie performs in his sleep. Breathe in like a Tyrannosaur, breathe out like a steam engine up an incline hauling 500 fully loaded cars.
You get the idea.
Long story short, I'm tired in a whole new way. Conversation is too much of an effort. I'll just grunt in acknowledgment. I did go to the gym, but I could do that in my sleep. Oh look! I did do it in my sleep. Knitting lace is entirely out of the question. I'd only have to rip back from the abyss and cry alot.
Instead I'll go to the Choir Orchestra concert. Mind you this is High School so it's not the Toot, Whistle, Plunk and Boom of years past. (See the Yarn Harlot's post The Kid with the Viola wasn't too bad) These kids can play, and sing. Most of the time it's lovely. I'll be counting down the moments till I can climb into bed.
Monday, December 17, 2007
My Christmas Wishes
Bah Humbug aside, these can be some of my favorite days. There is no pressure to be outside and I can bake and cook to my heart's content and no one thinks the worse of me. Except me, when I eat 3 scones in one day. I know, it's pathetic, but they were sooooo good.
I've finished my shopping and sent off all of the cards I'm going to send. I've done a better job of not feeling guilty about what I have or haven't done this year. My kids are heading to their Dad's for this Christmas, in Hawai'i. That's a tougher nut to crack for me. I don't seem to have what it takes to let that one roll off of my back. Maybe that is why I've been so cranky about all things kids and Christmas. I'm feeling like the Grinch and my heart is three sizes too small.
So my Christmas wishes, aside from world peace and an end to hunger are as follows:
That my children will continue to find their way in the world in such an exemplary fashion as they have so far.
That Marc will find more peace in that belfry he calls a head. He deserves it at least as much if not more that most.
That my parents will continue healthy for a little while longer. I'm just not ready yet.
That I can begin the dig to creativity and unearth the fossilized remains in belly dance, knitting, blogging and in the kitchen.
That I can find employment that pays well while I am enjoying myself and staying busy. I know, Universe, that I've got to be a lot more specific, but right now it's all I got.
OK, ready set - GO!
I've finished my shopping and sent off all of the cards I'm going to send. I've done a better job of not feeling guilty about what I have or haven't done this year. My kids are heading to their Dad's for this Christmas, in Hawai'i. That's a tougher nut to crack for me. I don't seem to have what it takes to let that one roll off of my back. Maybe that is why I've been so cranky about all things kids and Christmas. I'm feeling like the Grinch and my heart is three sizes too small.
So my Christmas wishes, aside from world peace and an end to hunger are as follows:
That my children will continue to find their way in the world in such an exemplary fashion as they have so far.
That Marc will find more peace in that belfry he calls a head. He deserves it at least as much if not more that most.
That my parents will continue healthy for a little while longer. I'm just not ready yet.
That I can begin the dig to creativity and unearth the fossilized remains in belly dance, knitting, blogging and in the kitchen.
That I can find employment that pays well while I am enjoying myself and staying busy. I know, Universe, that I've got to be a lot more specific, but right now it's all I got.
OK, ready set - GO!
Friday, December 14, 2007
The blessed colorfulness of it all
What, you might ask, could I be thinking about in this weather. After the riot of color we had this fall, how could I find anything colorful in this landscape of no leaves or flowers.
Well find it I did, and I need to take a picture of it. The Burning Bushes have their lovely red twigs still, and the berry canes are bare but PURPLE! I am not making this up. They are purple!
I'm knitting a sweater that is deep forest-y, evergreen tree, gray-green. It's lovely yarn and has been since I bought it, but I am jonesin to knit colors together. I spoke yesterday of my design to design a sweater. but my lack of brain power to work out the necessary math for the borders and peeries set my teeth to grinding. I purchased a Fair Isle book by Ann Feitelson and tried to decide which type of sweater I would knit. I took a Fair Isle class. I spent 30 dollars on Jamieson yarn. I swatched funny little borders and patterns without pressure. All in hopes that I would be magically transported to the Island of Fair Isle sweater success.
My math hating, blind spotted brain was NOT fooled. But then along came the Winter 2007 Knits magazine. From Knitting Daily came a quick glimpse of the promised land. I couldn't believe my eyes. Right there in the magazine was knitting Valhalla. Eunny Jang had read my mind and was so kind as to have designed ME a Fair Isle vest to knit.
OK, just to give you some background. I made my beloved a sweater a year or two back. This was not as easy or straighforward as it sounds. His sizing is challenging and he lives, most of the time, across the US. Long torso, short arms, round belly. So I did my best to knit something that resembled a sweater. It was three tries on the sleeves with weeks in between try-ons. Two tries for the neck until it was just right. It made me somewhat crazy and took ages longer than I wanted it to.
I don't have the patience to do that right off the bat with Fair Isle. Knit lace I'll leap into the craziest pattern ever with nary a second thought. But Fair Isle, no.
So I'll knit this lovely sweater using my own color combinations as soon as I finish the lovely Lady Oriel. I need to hustle up before I begin an affair that ends my relationship with the LLO. That would be a shame.
Well find it I did, and I need to take a picture of it. The Burning Bushes have their lovely red twigs still, and the berry canes are bare but PURPLE! I am not making this up. They are purple!
I'm knitting a sweater that is deep forest-y, evergreen tree, gray-green. It's lovely yarn and has been since I bought it, but I am jonesin to knit colors together. I spoke yesterday of my design to design a sweater. but my lack of brain power to work out the necessary math for the borders and peeries set my teeth to grinding. I purchased a Fair Isle book by Ann Feitelson and tried to decide which type of sweater I would knit. I took a Fair Isle class. I spent 30 dollars on Jamieson yarn. I swatched funny little borders and patterns without pressure. All in hopes that I would be magically transported to the Island of Fair Isle sweater success.
My math hating, blind spotted brain was NOT fooled. But then along came the Winter 2007 Knits magazine. From Knitting Daily came a quick glimpse of the promised land. I couldn't believe my eyes. Right there in the magazine was knitting Valhalla. Eunny Jang had read my mind and was so kind as to have designed ME a Fair Isle vest to knit.
OK, just to give you some background. I made my beloved a sweater a year or two back. This was not as easy or straighforward as it sounds. His sizing is challenging and he lives, most of the time, across the US. Long torso, short arms, round belly. So I did my best to knit something that resembled a sweater. It was three tries on the sleeves with weeks in between try-ons. Two tries for the neck until it was just right. It made me somewhat crazy and took ages longer than I wanted it to.
I don't have the patience to do that right off the bat with Fair Isle. Knit lace I'll leap into the craziest pattern ever with nary a second thought. But Fair Isle, no.
So I'll knit this lovely sweater using my own color combinations as soon as I finish the lovely Lady Oriel. I need to hustle up before I begin an affair that ends my relationship with the LLO. That would be a shame.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Knitting news: Where in I admit that I am not cut out to design anything
I'm making my daily pilgrimage through the knitting blogs I hold near and dear. The Yarn Harlot, as usual, is making me nearly hysterical with laughter.
I've been knitting slowly on the Lovely Lady Oriel. It's much easier to knit the back when the front has already been finished. This time I didn't sweat the decreases because I'd already sweat them the first time. Mostly because I didn't know if I should do the yarn over here, this time, or forgo it. There was lots of to-ing and fro-ing on the number of stitches that should have been on the needle when I finished the decreases. I subtracted too many and then added too many back when I discovered that I hadn't really subtracted too many.
This time I missed by one stitch and decided to call it good. I've also decided that there are two kinds of lace knitters. Ones who can do math and therefore design knitting patterns, and those who lose the ability to add 2 + 2 when tired or distracted. Those are my people, and their idea of designing a knitting pattern is to make multicolored stripes in a stockinette scarf. Whoo Hoo! I'm a designing fool.
Same holds true for fair isle knitting. The math and spatial skills required to embody my dream knitting into a real life project escape me in a way that only be called complete and total. Between the number of stitches needed for the proper sizing, and the number of stitches needed to knit a repeating peerie or border I become lost like Hansel and Gretel with no bread crumbs.
It hurts me that I can't wrap my brain around it. It's like a giant mental blind spot. You've tricked yourself into finding your blindspot before right? I just can't hold the two numbers in my brain long enough to have a meaningful relationship develop between the two before the fog comes in. As soon as I've got the total number of cast on stitches in my head, I then try to divide by the number of stitches needed for each repeat. My brain just refuses to go there.
So I'm happily a pattern follower. Same with recipes. Sadly, I feel that makes me a complete washout in the creativity department. I turn out lovely, serviceable and some might say delicious things, but it's somebody else's lovely and delicious. My belly dancing is the same way. It wasn't always like that. I used to be able to improvise and make stuff up from out of my head. I wonder if that person is still in there waaaay down inside. Hiding.
But I'm not giving up. Us non-designer types must number in the millions. I'm betting there are way more of us than there is them.
Happily knitting away on someone else's glory... Till soon.
I've been knitting slowly on the Lovely Lady Oriel. It's much easier to knit the back when the front has already been finished. This time I didn't sweat the decreases because I'd already sweat them the first time. Mostly because I didn't know if I should do the yarn over here, this time, or forgo it. There was lots of to-ing and fro-ing on the number of stitches that should have been on the needle when I finished the decreases. I subtracted too many and then added too many back when I discovered that I hadn't really subtracted too many.
This time I missed by one stitch and decided to call it good. I've also decided that there are two kinds of lace knitters. Ones who can do math and therefore design knitting patterns, and those who lose the ability to add 2 + 2 when tired or distracted. Those are my people, and their idea of designing a knitting pattern is to make multicolored stripes in a stockinette scarf. Whoo Hoo! I'm a designing fool.
Same holds true for fair isle knitting. The math and spatial skills required to embody my dream knitting into a real life project escape me in a way that only be called complete and total. Between the number of stitches needed for the proper sizing, and the number of stitches needed to knit a repeating peerie or border I become lost like Hansel and Gretel with no bread crumbs.
It hurts me that I can't wrap my brain around it. It's like a giant mental blind spot. You've tricked yourself into finding your blindspot before right? I just can't hold the two numbers in my brain long enough to have a meaningful relationship develop between the two before the fog comes in. As soon as I've got the total number of cast on stitches in my head, I then try to divide by the number of stitches needed for each repeat. My brain just refuses to go there.
So I'm happily a pattern follower. Same with recipes. Sadly, I feel that makes me a complete washout in the creativity department. I turn out lovely, serviceable and some might say delicious things, but it's somebody else's lovely and delicious. My belly dancing is the same way. It wasn't always like that. I used to be able to improvise and make stuff up from out of my head. I wonder if that person is still in there waaaay down inside. Hiding.
But I'm not giving up. Us non-designer types must number in the millions. I'm betting there are way more of us than there is them.
Happily knitting away on someone else's glory... Till soon.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
My hair resembles a hot air balloon
While some people would undoubtedly take this title as a free pass to remark that "It's not just your hair that resembles a hot air balloon", I've decided to open with it anyway.
It's tough being 50 sometimes. Those days of rolling out of bed with little more to do than basic hygiene are behind me. Even a good night's sleep can't restore me to some semblance of my younger self. The lines are there on my face no matter what I eat, drink or smear on my face. Although I do have a magic cream which improves things, it's an improvement, not a miracle outright.
For a nature girl like me, it's doubly tough. Were I to begin using makeup at this late date, the results are sure to be more Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane", than baby faced beauty. Coming to grips with this slow downhill slide is daunting and requires all of my menopausal superpowers to cope. I'm guessing this is why God invented chocolate and masturbation. Among other things those indulgences makes you forget, at least for a little while, that we all end up as a heap of lifeless meat and bones in the end.
My sweetie and I had a discussion last night. He's a busy guy, very much in demand for his skills with computer programs used in law offices. He spends much of his time fielding calls and nonsense 24/7/365 from a variety of law office based sources. I'm a single mother of two teenagers. I field calls and nonsense 24/7/365 from a variety of teenage sources. Those demands are built into my schedule at work. There is no argument about who wins in a pitched battle. My kids. Work, almost without exception, takes a back seat.
Sweetie man is childless. And, he's a man. Ask me what defines my success. If I can point to anything it will be the demonstrable ability my kids are showing at negotiating this cluster we call life. Ask my significant other and he will likely point at his musical ability or the kinds of projects he does at work.
Do you see where I'm going with this? Let me set this straight first. It's not that either one is bad, or less than the other. They are just sooooo DIFFERENT. So, when I speak to him about priorities and not spending so much time at work I'm not sure it translates for him to anything sensible or useful. I might as well say, well you can't spend your whole life playing music now can you. When in fact I know he could and he'd love it. Telling him not to spend so much time at work is, in many ways, just as silly. Work feeds him, and tells him he's still got it.
Which brings me back to this tough being 50 thing. How do I still know I've got it? There is no Mom Olympics where I can compete for best parenting. I'm not going to win any beauty contests, even for beautiful old souls. And looking in the mirror is daunting. I don't have THAT anymore. I think I feel like I still have it while I'm still learning. Learning a new technique for knitting, learning Italian, learning to be more compassionate, trying a new recipe, creating something new. I forget to be concerned about my looks or lack of them and I just exist in this happy state I didn't know was possible 10 years ago.
So I'll deflate my hair tonight, and laugh at myself because it's funny to see Hollywood hair on such a Woodstock face. I'll remember that I am 50 and not 20 and I'll act my age, in a manner of speaking. Hopefully, I'll make something with my hands that is useful or delicious. Hopefully I'll forget to look in the mirror and make a face. Hopefully I'll find losing THAT means finding something even more precious
It's tough being 50 sometimes. Those days of rolling out of bed with little more to do than basic hygiene are behind me. Even a good night's sleep can't restore me to some semblance of my younger self. The lines are there on my face no matter what I eat, drink or smear on my face. Although I do have a magic cream which improves things, it's an improvement, not a miracle outright.
For a nature girl like me, it's doubly tough. Were I to begin using makeup at this late date, the results are sure to be more Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane", than baby faced beauty. Coming to grips with this slow downhill slide is daunting and requires all of my menopausal superpowers to cope. I'm guessing this is why God invented chocolate and masturbation. Among other things those indulgences makes you forget, at least for a little while, that we all end up as a heap of lifeless meat and bones in the end.
My sweetie and I had a discussion last night. He's a busy guy, very much in demand for his skills with computer programs used in law offices. He spends much of his time fielding calls and nonsense 24/7/365 from a variety of law office based sources. I'm a single mother of two teenagers. I field calls and nonsense 24/7/365 from a variety of teenage sources. Those demands are built into my schedule at work. There is no argument about who wins in a pitched battle. My kids. Work, almost without exception, takes a back seat.
Sweetie man is childless. And, he's a man. Ask me what defines my success. If I can point to anything it will be the demonstrable ability my kids are showing at negotiating this cluster we call life. Ask my significant other and he will likely point at his musical ability or the kinds of projects he does at work.
Do you see where I'm going with this? Let me set this straight first. It's not that either one is bad, or less than the other. They are just sooooo DIFFERENT. So, when I speak to him about priorities and not spending so much time at work I'm not sure it translates for him to anything sensible or useful. I might as well say, well you can't spend your whole life playing music now can you. When in fact I know he could and he'd love it. Telling him not to spend so much time at work is, in many ways, just as silly. Work feeds him, and tells him he's still got it.
Which brings me back to this tough being 50 thing. How do I still know I've got it? There is no Mom Olympics where I can compete for best parenting. I'm not going to win any beauty contests, even for beautiful old souls. And looking in the mirror is daunting. I don't have THAT anymore. I think I feel like I still have it while I'm still learning. Learning a new technique for knitting, learning Italian, learning to be more compassionate, trying a new recipe, creating something new. I forget to be concerned about my looks or lack of them and I just exist in this happy state I didn't know was possible 10 years ago.
So I'll deflate my hair tonight, and laugh at myself because it's funny to see Hollywood hair on such a Woodstock face. I'll remember that I am 50 and not 20 and I'll act my age, in a manner of speaking. Hopefully, I'll make something with my hands that is useful or delicious. Hopefully I'll forget to look in the mirror and make a face. Hopefully I'll find losing THAT means finding something even more precious
Thursday, December 6, 2007
The End and an Introduction
I'm having a lousy run at work this week. I'd much rather be making like a glamorous travel writer and pestering, um I mean sending you all the latest in my travel writing series "The Glamour Life in Italy" by yours truly.
I have to face facts. The vacation is over and I'm done reliving it through blogging about it. Sigh.
The trip back to the US was loooog. By the time we arrive in Seattle, we have been awake for most of 24 hours. I still have a 3 hour drive ahead of me, if no one decides to drop a load of pipe on I-5. It's here and now I realize that I am sometimes a grownup, and grownups get to call the shots. Except, apparently, in the case of American Leadership where the best we have managed lately is frat boy rule.
I weigh my options and after picking up our rental car I head for the nearest Double Tree Inn. By 10:30 pm we are out like the proverbial little light bulbs. The drive will wait until tomorrow. We wake, enjoy a BIG American Breakfast and waddle our way to the car. There is the obligatory stop in Olympia at Starbucks and then safely home where we struggle to remain upright and coherent for a few days. I'm done, finito, all over. I'll close with an advertising cliche....
Neck pillows for long plane flight - 90 dollars
Sampling every kind of pizza in Italy twice - 400 dollars
Not missing even one souvenir stand in search of the perfect gift - too many dollars
Spending quality time with your kids before they fly the nest - PRICELESS
And without further ado I introduce you to the Royal family du Pillow. Or what happens when you spend quality time with the people you love.
I have to face facts. The vacation is over and I'm done reliving it through blogging about it. Sigh.
The trip back to the US was loooog. By the time we arrive in Seattle, we have been awake for most of 24 hours. I still have a 3 hour drive ahead of me, if no one decides to drop a load of pipe on I-5. It's here and now I realize that I am sometimes a grownup, and grownups get to call the shots. Except, apparently, in the case of American Leadership where the best we have managed lately is frat boy rule.
I weigh my options and after picking up our rental car I head for the nearest Double Tree Inn. By 10:30 pm we are out like the proverbial little light bulbs. The drive will wait until tomorrow. We wake, enjoy a BIG American Breakfast and waddle our way to the car. There is the obligatory stop in Olympia at Starbucks and then safely home where we struggle to remain upright and coherent for a few days. I'm done, finito, all over. I'll close with an advertising cliche....
Neck pillows for long plane flight - 90 dollars
Sampling every kind of pizza in Italy twice - 400 dollars
Not missing even one souvenir stand in search of the perfect gift - too many dollars
Spending quality time with your kids before they fly the nest - PRICELESS
And without further ado I introduce you to the Royal family du Pillow. Or what happens when you spend quality time with the people you love.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Wrapping up and heading home
I ask the man at the train ticket desk in Milan for a ticket on the tilting train to Zurich. The tilting train is fast and sleek. I've had to go to three different lines to get this train ticket because I want to buy it a day or two ahead of time so it won't sell out.
When I finally get through the third line and purchase the ticket I am a happy girl. Until I realize that instead of the sleek, tilting train, I have gotten the "Slow boat to China train". The sheer number of lines I would need to transit in order to rectify this is more than I can bear, and at this moment I am clutching a ticket for 4 to Zurich so we can go home. I shrug my shoulders and think - It's an adventure!
The Milan train station has numerous levels and the only difference between it and Dante's hell is the temperature. It's like a gigantic open barn, only colder and wetter. It's also undergoing a renovation. An idea whose time came right after it was built. There are pigeons galore who must be kicking themselves if they flew in to get out of the cold and wet. I'm not sure even they can find their way out.
While we wait for the train to Zurich, an older couple pulls their luggage up next to us. They are Americans, headed for Venice. The girls and I are watching the departure board for the gate to our train. Italian departure and arrival boards are retro, old school, cool. They make a little flipping noise as the numbers and letters whir around. The girls are fascinated, as am I. The one in Milan comes with a added bonus. Something is wrong with the wiring or software so that the first 3 entries on the left are always misspelled. Bergamo becomes Berfalo. Turino becomes Trhnno. You get the idea.... This takes place in between teasing Sweetie man about his habit of calling Venezia (ve-neht-zia) - Vi-nizt-a.
The woman of the older couple walks away in her bright blue rain jacket, her red hat and red rain boots. I watch her husband get progressively agitated as the time for their train gets closer and she doesn't reappear. He asks me to watch for her as he starts making a sweep through the station. He comes back, still alone. I hand him my cell phone and ask if he wants to call her, but it's an international phone and I can't make it work. We actually have to leave without knowing if they find each other. They make a lasting impression these two. As you can see I am still thinking about them.
At this point I have led our merry band of travelers across a good sized swath of Italy and I am tired. Not cranky tired, deer in the headlights tired. I think my Sweetie senses this and he immediately jumps in to help. He's ridden a fine line for sure because he's usually the take charge guy (no really!) in his world. Because it's my birthday and because it's my "trip I've been planning for years" he's been very accommodating. I'll explain this heroism here shortly.
We ride the train up to Zurich through the Alps. The last time I tried that was on a filthy train that had no heat. You want heat when traveling through the Alps. Trust me on that one. Even though this is not the tilting train, it's still lovely. We roll through towns that would make Helga the Punisher homesick if she were real. I try, very hard, to take a picture of the lakes we pass through the window of the train. The results are uniformly bad.
We arrive in Zurich which again is unknown territory for me. I don't speak German and unlike most of the places we visit, there are precious few English placards to explain what is what. I've counted on the famous Swiss engineering to make everything easy. I'm expecting a big sign with flashing lights and arrows pointing to the Irwin-Frack-Wexler destination HERE.
Add to this Oldest has to pee really, really bad. Mind you she had her chance but didn't want to use the train bathroom. It costs money to use the bathroom here, Swiss Franc money. We only have Euros money.
This is where my Sweetie swoops in for the rescue. He says - I'll go find out what we need to do and I'll come back. Which he does, after a few anxious moments, tickets (and Swiss Francs) in hand and instructions on where we need to go. He has, at this moment, the shiniest armor of any knight I've ever seen. We get on another train out to the Flughof. How can anyone say they are going to the Flughof with a straight face is beyond me. Flughof is German for airport. It's almost as funny as Einfahrt which means arriving or entering. Let me tell you we have plenty of fun with that one at each train station when the announcements are made in German. But I digress....
We arrive at the Flughof and take the hotel shuttle to the Park Inn Zurich. We discover the Park Inn is a McDonald's Hotel. Surprisingly the rooms are excellent. Clean and warm, with beds that raise and lower like a hospital bed. The shower looks like a futuristic transporter. Quite frankly I'm wishing we could go in, get clean and show up back in Portland without the hassle of flying. Sadly it's just not that kind of shower.
Switzerland is expensive, even more than Italy with the bad Euro exchange. We decide to eat at McDonald's because the kid's are really keen to, and the hassle and expense of getting out and about is a damper. When the grand total comes it's roughly 50 dollars for some burgers, fries and one beer. Talk about sticker shock. Shrug your shoulders with me people, "It's an adventure!"
Off to bed with us, tomorrow is a looong day.
When I finally get through the third line and purchase the ticket I am a happy girl. Until I realize that instead of the sleek, tilting train, I have gotten the "Slow boat to China train". The sheer number of lines I would need to transit in order to rectify this is more than I can bear, and at this moment I am clutching a ticket for 4 to Zurich so we can go home. I shrug my shoulders and think - It's an adventure!
The Milan train station has numerous levels and the only difference between it and Dante's hell is the temperature. It's like a gigantic open barn, only colder and wetter. It's also undergoing a renovation. An idea whose time came right after it was built. There are pigeons galore who must be kicking themselves if they flew in to get out of the cold and wet. I'm not sure even they can find their way out.
While we wait for the train to Zurich, an older couple pulls their luggage up next to us. They are Americans, headed for Venice. The girls and I are watching the departure board for the gate to our train. Italian departure and arrival boards are retro, old school, cool. They make a little flipping noise as the numbers and letters whir around. The girls are fascinated, as am I. The one in Milan comes with a added bonus. Something is wrong with the wiring or software so that the first 3 entries on the left are always misspelled. Bergamo becomes Berfalo. Turino becomes Trhnno. You get the idea.... This takes place in between teasing Sweetie man about his habit of calling Venezia (ve-neht-zia) - Vi-nizt-a.
The woman of the older couple walks away in her bright blue rain jacket, her red hat and red rain boots. I watch her husband get progressively agitated as the time for their train gets closer and she doesn't reappear. He asks me to watch for her as he starts making a sweep through the station. He comes back, still alone. I hand him my cell phone and ask if he wants to call her, but it's an international phone and I can't make it work. We actually have to leave without knowing if they find each other. They make a lasting impression these two. As you can see I am still thinking about them.
At this point I have led our merry band of travelers across a good sized swath of Italy and I am tired. Not cranky tired, deer in the headlights tired. I think my Sweetie senses this and he immediately jumps in to help. He's ridden a fine line for sure because he's usually the take charge guy (no really!) in his world. Because it's my birthday and because it's my "trip I've been planning for years" he's been very accommodating. I'll explain this heroism here shortly.
We ride the train up to Zurich through the Alps. The last time I tried that was on a filthy train that had no heat. You want heat when traveling through the Alps. Trust me on that one. Even though this is not the tilting train, it's still lovely. We roll through towns that would make Helga the Punisher homesick if she were real. I try, very hard, to take a picture of the lakes we pass through the window of the train. The results are uniformly bad.
We arrive in Zurich which again is unknown territory for me. I don't speak German and unlike most of the places we visit, there are precious few English placards to explain what is what. I've counted on the famous Swiss engineering to make everything easy. I'm expecting a big sign with flashing lights and arrows pointing to the Irwin-Frack-Wexler destination HERE.
Add to this Oldest has to pee really, really bad. Mind you she had her chance but didn't want to use the train bathroom. It costs money to use the bathroom here, Swiss Franc money. We only have Euros money.
This is where my Sweetie swoops in for the rescue. He says - I'll go find out what we need to do and I'll come back. Which he does, after a few anxious moments, tickets (and Swiss Francs) in hand and instructions on where we need to go. He has, at this moment, the shiniest armor of any knight I've ever seen. We get on another train out to the Flughof. How can anyone say they are going to the Flughof with a straight face is beyond me. Flughof is German for airport. It's almost as funny as Einfahrt which means arriving or entering. Let me tell you we have plenty of fun with that one at each train station when the announcements are made in German. But I digress....
We arrive at the Flughof and take the hotel shuttle to the Park Inn Zurich. We discover the Park Inn is a McDonald's Hotel. Surprisingly the rooms are excellent. Clean and warm, with beds that raise and lower like a hospital bed. The shower looks like a futuristic transporter. Quite frankly I'm wishing we could go in, get clean and show up back in Portland without the hassle of flying. Sadly it's just not that kind of shower.
Switzerland is expensive, even more than Italy with the bad Euro exchange. We decide to eat at McDonald's because the kid's are really keen to, and the hassle and expense of getting out and about is a damper. When the grand total comes it's roughly 50 dollars for some burgers, fries and one beer. Talk about sticker shock. Shrug your shoulders with me people, "It's an adventure!"
Off to bed with us, tomorrow is a looong day.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
A word About Pigeons and the journey to Milan
There are lots of pigeons in St Mark's square in Venice and there are still places where you can purchase feed for said pigeons. And you can pay someone to take a picture of you feeding the pigeons while the pigeons swarm all around you in search of food. Feeding the pigeons is not for the faint of heart, or those with absorbent clothing. If I were to attempt this I'd don a hazmat suit with level 4 bio hazard filters. I do not need a case of bird flu. Or a shoulder full of bird poop.
The screams of the pigeon feeders echoes across the square. There is a woman, dressed in a mini skirt and boots that has pigeons roosting in her hair and all over her expensive looking jacket. The man of our party manages to have a quick conversation with a pigeon who is either shy about feeding frenzies, or is slow in the head and can't figure out where the food is.
Milan is where the trip turns more real. The weather changes to Portland weather, dark, wet and cold. Good for us we have our honorary webbed feet and Goretex. We wander the streets of Milan in comfort. It's a big, big city. Or it seems that way because we have been driving around in the suburbs with my Sweetie's friend C. C apologizes for the rain and I keep explaining that it's just like home, we are used to it. I don't think she believes me that it's really that awful anywhere else.
In the foreign films of my youth there were always shots of itty bitty European cars driving in madcap fashion around the streets of the city. The roads are narrow. The traffic signs a formality only. The heads of the passengers in the cars swaying to and fro as the car darts through traffic. There is always some funny music playing in the background to add to the madcap air.
I can tell you, that it seems a whole lot more madcap on screen than it does in real life. C is not a bad driver, and the car is not small. But there are Oldest, Youngest and me swaying from side to side in the back seat wishing for some funny music to distract us from the idea that death is imminent. But we survive to see the sights.
First, the Milan cathedral, whose gargoyles spit rain water at us. It's also where I almost strangle an Asian couple for trespassing into the "Do Not Enter" area of the sanctuary, and then almost certainly earning a lightning bolt and quick trip to hell by sitting down in the confessional and taking a picture. God is merciful and ignores the trespass. That's why God is God and I'm just me.
Next we visit a castle. A real castle that is in perfect condition. It has turrets and a MOAT. It's too cold for alligators in the moat, but it's the coolest thing anyway. Then we head off to a church that has been in the same place since 349 AD. Yeah, three millenia. It makes my little art history geek heart beat wildly. Milan is new territory for me. I'm as new to it as the others and it's the sort of stuff I love.
We spend Thanksgiving with C. She makes tasty food whose name I can't pronounce or spell. We stop at a supermarket to pick up the makings before hand. I've seen signs for the store in almost every city. I've been calling it Eye-purr-Co-Op (Ipercoop). C pronounces it Eeepercoop like some adorable Italian hiccup. The cheese aisle is mind boggling, the bread aisle even more so. The deli counter is the size of Rhode Island and has at least 4 million kinds of cured meats and olives. Across the top of the counter hang whole cured pork shoulders in case you need to feed half of Italy for a party. Oldest convinces me to buy some of the ricotta cheese which she eats with a spoon straight out of the container. Want ultimate proof that the food in Italy is stellar. I eat sardines, on bread, more than once.
We are sad to say good bye at the end of the evening, but we have a long journey ahead of us, which gets a little bit longer. In Italy you leave your room key with the front desk. When we arrive back at the hotel, the key we dropped off when we left after breakfast has gone missing. There is a front desk printer that has jammed and is merrily beeping away as it tries to print on the roller. A gentleman shows up behind us to check in - but there is no reservation under his name.
To say the least we are worried. I send the girls - who have a key - up to their room. I then begin speaking toddler Italian to the night desk man. I ask him about un'altra chiave (the other key)? He brightens up like I've just told him how to meet the girl of his dreams. He peppers me with questions about where this other key is. I realize I've made a tactical error. Eye-O no-know-o where-o el keyo is. I explain that I can speak some Spanish, and I do. I let him know that we left the key this morning after breakfast and can he please call someone to ask about where a spare might be. The lights go on, the printer beeping mercifully stops. He makes a phone call and pulls out spare keys one and two. We won't be sleeping in the lobby tonight.
The next morning I see the gentleman who had no room. My magic Spanish must have worked for him too. He looks rested and not at all like a man who slept in his car. We have breakfast and speak about Hillary Clinton with the hotel manager. It's a sobering conversation and one I think about over the next few days. That exchange serves to bring us back to reality. People have the same struggles in Italy that we do in the US with jobs, and not enough time to enjoy life and bad leaders. I've known this, but it really sinks in.
Tomorrow it's a train through the Alps to Zurich and then home.
The screams of the pigeon feeders echoes across the square. There is a woman, dressed in a mini skirt and boots that has pigeons roosting in her hair and all over her expensive looking jacket. The man of our party manages to have a quick conversation with a pigeon who is either shy about feeding frenzies, or is slow in the head and can't figure out where the food is.
Milan is where the trip turns more real. The weather changes to Portland weather, dark, wet and cold. Good for us we have our honorary webbed feet and Goretex. We wander the streets of Milan in comfort. It's a big, big city. Or it seems that way because we have been driving around in the suburbs with my Sweetie's friend C. C apologizes for the rain and I keep explaining that it's just like home, we are used to it. I don't think she believes me that it's really that awful anywhere else.
In the foreign films of my youth there were always shots of itty bitty European cars driving in madcap fashion around the streets of the city. The roads are narrow. The traffic signs a formality only. The heads of the passengers in the cars swaying to and fro as the car darts through traffic. There is always some funny music playing in the background to add to the madcap air.
I can tell you, that it seems a whole lot more madcap on screen than it does in real life. C is not a bad driver, and the car is not small. But there are Oldest, Youngest and me swaying from side to side in the back seat wishing for some funny music to distract us from the idea that death is imminent. But we survive to see the sights.
First, the Milan cathedral, whose gargoyles spit rain water at us. It's also where I almost strangle an Asian couple for trespassing into the "Do Not Enter" area of the sanctuary, and then almost certainly earning a lightning bolt and quick trip to hell by sitting down in the confessional and taking a picture. God is merciful and ignores the trespass. That's why God is God and I'm just me.
Next we visit a castle. A real castle that is in perfect condition. It has turrets and a MOAT. It's too cold for alligators in the moat, but it's the coolest thing anyway. Then we head off to a church that has been in the same place since 349 AD. Yeah, three millenia. It makes my little art history geek heart beat wildly. Milan is new territory for me. I'm as new to it as the others and it's the sort of stuff I love.
We spend Thanksgiving with C. She makes tasty food whose name I can't pronounce or spell. We stop at a supermarket to pick up the makings before hand. I've seen signs for the store in almost every city. I've been calling it Eye-purr-Co-Op (Ipercoop). C pronounces it Eeepercoop like some adorable Italian hiccup. The cheese aisle is mind boggling, the bread aisle even more so. The deli counter is the size of Rhode Island and has at least 4 million kinds of cured meats and olives. Across the top of the counter hang whole cured pork shoulders in case you need to feed half of Italy for a party. Oldest convinces me to buy some of the ricotta cheese which she eats with a spoon straight out of the container. Want ultimate proof that the food in Italy is stellar. I eat sardines, on bread, more than once.
We are sad to say good bye at the end of the evening, but we have a long journey ahead of us, which gets a little bit longer. In Italy you leave your room key with the front desk. When we arrive back at the hotel, the key we dropped off when we left after breakfast has gone missing. There is a front desk printer that has jammed and is merrily beeping away as it tries to print on the roller. A gentleman shows up behind us to check in - but there is no reservation under his name.
To say the least we are worried. I send the girls - who have a key - up to their room. I then begin speaking toddler Italian to the night desk man. I ask him about un'altra chiave (the other key)? He brightens up like I've just told him how to meet the girl of his dreams. He peppers me with questions about where this other key is. I realize I've made a tactical error. Eye-O no-know-o where-o el keyo is. I explain that I can speak some Spanish, and I do. I let him know that we left the key this morning after breakfast and can he please call someone to ask about where a spare might be. The lights go on, the printer beeping mercifully stops. He makes a phone call and pulls out spare keys one and two. We won't be sleeping in the lobby tonight.
The next morning I see the gentleman who had no room. My magic Spanish must have worked for him too. He looks rested and not at all like a man who slept in his car. We have breakfast and speak about Hillary Clinton with the hotel manager. It's a sobering conversation and one I think about over the next few days. That exchange serves to bring us back to reality. People have the same struggles in Italy that we do in the US with jobs, and not enough time to enjoy life and bad leaders. I've known this, but it really sinks in.
Tomorrow it's a train through the Alps to Zurich and then home.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Venice Queen of the Waves
Venice is a woman, make no mistake. She is a lovely, regal monarch who has presided over the affairs of Venetians for centuries. many of those years she ruled with an iron fist and was the most powerful of any kingdom, poised as she still is between east and west. She's dressed in the finest of clothes and they leave a lasting impression. Thirty years ago that impression was that some of her wardrobe was showing it's wear. The stylish shoes were run down at the heels, her cuffs were frayed. The edges of her petticoats were worn and a little gray.
I'm happy to report that there has been a makeover. This makeover is accomplished solely by boats and hand carts. No cars are allowed. What a pleasure to wander without looking over your shoulder or waiting for a WALK sign. But it boggles the mind. The garbage is hauled off in hand carts, construction equipment is brought by boats
When we rolled off the train and headed for the vaporetto - a water taxi - I waited to see the reactions of my traveling partners to Venice. I hadn't planned to go to Venice originally five years ago. But my sweetie had not been. Venice is a place that must be seen, and be seen to believed.
She's breathtaking. Blue green waters against ochre and burnt sienna buildings. I have a dim memory of many of the water level floors of buildings flooded with water. In fact one of the biggest threats to our visit is the acqua alta or high water. The travel goddess smiles on us once again and Venice is dry as a bone. The portable walkways sit stacked and dry. These walkways are a part of winter life in Venice as are big rubber Wellington boots. Lucky us! There isn't a need.
The Pensione where I go to pick up our keys to the apartment says Pensione (Hotel) Guerrato Founded 1288 Remodeled 1955. It boggles the mind. The apartment is wonderful. Tucked away between St Mark's and the Rialto bridge it's cozy warm and quiet. It gives us a perfect base to explore both. We wander the streets till long after dark and the most remarkable thing of a trip filled with superlatives transports me. A gondolier glides past in his VSB (very sexy boat). On board he has a lucky couple and .... a guitar player, and he's making like Pavarotti. He makes like Pavarotti until well out of sight, but I can still hear him, echoing off the walls and bridges.
There are precious few things I am a sucker for. My kids, my man, yarn stores and their contents and tenors of any nationality. It's the sweetest sound you could ever hear with few exceptions.
I'm very sorry to leave Venice. The rest of the trip will have the fast forward button firmly pressed down.
I'm happy to report that there has been a makeover. This makeover is accomplished solely by boats and hand carts. No cars are allowed. What a pleasure to wander without looking over your shoulder or waiting for a WALK sign. But it boggles the mind. The garbage is hauled off in hand carts, construction equipment is brought by boats
When we rolled off the train and headed for the vaporetto - a water taxi - I waited to see the reactions of my traveling partners to Venice. I hadn't planned to go to Venice originally five years ago. But my sweetie had not been. Venice is a place that must be seen, and be seen to believed.
She's breathtaking. Blue green waters against ochre and burnt sienna buildings. I have a dim memory of many of the water level floors of buildings flooded with water. In fact one of the biggest threats to our visit is the acqua alta or high water. The travel goddess smiles on us once again and Venice is dry as a bone. The portable walkways sit stacked and dry. These walkways are a part of winter life in Venice as are big rubber Wellington boots. Lucky us! There isn't a need.
The Pensione where I go to pick up our keys to the apartment says Pensione (Hotel) Guerrato Founded 1288 Remodeled 1955. It boggles the mind. The apartment is wonderful. Tucked away between St Mark's and the Rialto bridge it's cozy warm and quiet. It gives us a perfect base to explore both. We wander the streets till long after dark and the most remarkable thing of a trip filled with superlatives transports me. A gondolier glides past in his VSB (very sexy boat). On board he has a lucky couple and .... a guitar player, and he's making like Pavarotti. He makes like Pavarotti until well out of sight, but I can still hear him, echoing off the walls and bridges.
There are precious few things I am a sucker for. My kids, my man, yarn stores and their contents and tenors of any nationality. It's the sweetest sound you could ever hear with few exceptions.
I'm very sorry to leave Venice. The rest of the trip will have the fast forward button firmly pressed down.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Posting about Pisa - Oregon Family pushes Leaning Tower to Vertical
I know I promised Venice..
How is it that I forgot about our trip to Pisa? Well I didn't I just kept thinking I would have downloaded the pictures from the trip by now. I have my pictures which are singularly boring, but the kids took some fun ones of Pisa and I wanted to take them off of their camera. In order for that to happen the camera has to be in the house and have a battery that works. For the last week it's been neither. So you will have to take my word for it.
I love the dork factor of the premise that you will go to Pisa and take a picture from a great angle which actually appears as though you have one hand on a miniaturized tower pushing it back up. We are not the only dorks to have wandered off of Dork Mountain who attempt this. As we wait to ascend the tower there is an International contingent of dorks who are in various combinations and configurations of this same photo. Kudos to the gentleman who is laying on his back using his feet.
While I steer the girls to a nice patch of sidewalk to avoid the "It is not permitted to walk on the grass" signs 40 other people stomp on this forbidden ground in search of the best shot.
I give up trying to prevent my daughters from starting an international incident and let them wander onto the green. No violations are issued.
The area immediately surrounding the tower is amazing. The word verdant had to have been invented for the grass which surrounds the Baptistry, Cathedral and Tower. Surrounding the grass is a medieval fortified wall. Aside from the Crappa Touristica carts and the hundreds of digital cameras, the place is eerily unchanged.
Once up inside the tower the level of craftsmanship is mind boggling, as is the smallness of everything. Danielle seems to pass through the archways standing straight up, the rest of us bend a little at the waist. The treads of each step are worn from the millions of feet that have climbed here. We lean first toward the center of the tower and then away as we spiral up, and up and up. At the top we are rewarded with a view of the Carrara marble fields (yep that Carrara marble) and the snow covered Apennines behind them. The view from the top the same as it was hundreds of years ago.
On the way back to the train station, I have a feeling of deja vu. The area we pass through, a colonnade with shops and restaurants is the site of a lunch almost thirty years ago on my first visit to Pisa. It's one of my sharpest memories of the previous trip, but I'm not sure why.
Next post I promise will be Venice
How is it that I forgot about our trip to Pisa? Well I didn't I just kept thinking I would have downloaded the pictures from the trip by now. I have my pictures which are singularly boring, but the kids took some fun ones of Pisa and I wanted to take them off of their camera. In order for that to happen the camera has to be in the house and have a battery that works. For the last week it's been neither. So you will have to take my word for it.
I love the dork factor of the premise that you will go to Pisa and take a picture from a great angle which actually appears as though you have one hand on a miniaturized tower pushing it back up. We are not the only dorks to have wandered off of Dork Mountain who attempt this. As we wait to ascend the tower there is an International contingent of dorks who are in various combinations and configurations of this same photo. Kudos to the gentleman who is laying on his back using his feet.
While I steer the girls to a nice patch of sidewalk to avoid the "It is not permitted to walk on the grass" signs 40 other people stomp on this forbidden ground in search of the best shot.
I give up trying to prevent my daughters from starting an international incident and let them wander onto the green. No violations are issued.
The area immediately surrounding the tower is amazing. The word verdant had to have been invented for the grass which surrounds the Baptistry, Cathedral and Tower. Surrounding the grass is a medieval fortified wall. Aside from the Crappa Touristica carts and the hundreds of digital cameras, the place is eerily unchanged.
Once up inside the tower the level of craftsmanship is mind boggling, as is the smallness of everything. Danielle seems to pass through the archways standing straight up, the rest of us bend a little at the waist. The treads of each step are worn from the millions of feet that have climbed here. We lean first toward the center of the tower and then away as we spiral up, and up and up. At the top we are rewarded with a view of the Carrara marble fields (yep that Carrara marble) and the snow covered Apennines behind them. The view from the top the same as it was hundreds of years ago.
On the way back to the train station, I have a feeling of deja vu. The area we pass through, a colonnade with shops and restaurants is the site of a lunch almost thirty years ago on my first visit to Pisa. It's one of my sharpest memories of the previous trip, but I'm not sure why.
Next post I promise will be Venice
Saturday, December 1, 2007
How do I love thee Florence, let me count the ways
I think in Verona you can visit Romeo and Juliet's balcony, which is just silly. There aren't any places like that in the Centro Storico of Florence. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of places to acquire Crappa Touristica throughout Italy. It just hasn't been taken to the Disney level we experience in the US. The most heinous and simultaneously, funniest thing I saw was a pair of boxer shorts with THE David's glory parts emblazoned on the front in the colors of the Italian flag. Disney would be proud.
Florence is entirely different from Rome. If Rome is a classic Greek sculpture with a saucy wink and her skirt lifted for a peek, Florence is a Botticelli painting. Radiant, peaceful and full of the promise of life. You wouldn't guess that from the train station which is cold, grey and wildly unattractive, but the world outside is beautiful.
There is no dog poop here. If there is,it's beautiful, Floren-TINE, dog poop and as such it's not a bother. The hotel, again thanks to the internet, is cozy, well situated and just perfect. I'm wondering where the towels are in the bathroom while clutching several blanket sized waffle weave dish rags. That's when I realize those are the towels. I feel grateful not to have called down to the front desk to have towels sent up.
Then there is the small matter of the bidet. To me, it's an idea whose time has come. To teenagers it's a funny piece of plumbing that looks like a toilet and a sink. I've taken to calling it the butt washer. You can take the girl out of grade school but you can't take the grade school out of the girl. Ellie tries it and proclaims it odd, but refreshing.
We tour the sights, settle in, acclimate to the time change and I practice my toddler Italian on all. The Italian Rosetta Stone program has taught me several things and I think it pretty much has us covered. As long as it is a conversation about a horse who either is or is not eating a carrot, or if I will give discourse at great length about blue and yellow plates. For everything else there is sign language and emphatic pointing. One sweet girl begs me to speak English please - while I attempt to explain that my daughter the horse would like to eat some chocolate carrots, on a blue plate....
My other piece of language acquisition is one I plan to use as a talisman to ward off Anti-American feelings. I've learned how to say The Crazy Cowboy if anyone mentions our Fearless Leader George Bush. What we find instead is sympathy. In fact, one gentleman makes a point of telling us, look at some of the bozos we Italians have had as leaders and leaves it at that. It is the same pretty much everywhere we go. I will post the picture of the graffiti we found on the wall of a home. It's a stencil of George with devil horns with the caption below - Give me a banana - in Italian.
Actually there are two phrases I can carry off quite well "Due Cappuccini per favore, or due vini rossi! Those magical commands bring lovely, fatigue erasing, coffee or lovely, fatigue erasing, red wine. Either way we cannot miss!
Next stop Venice.
Florence is entirely different from Rome. If Rome is a classic Greek sculpture with a saucy wink and her skirt lifted for a peek, Florence is a Botticelli painting. Radiant, peaceful and full of the promise of life. You wouldn't guess that from the train station which is cold, grey and wildly unattractive, but the world outside is beautiful.
There is no dog poop here. If there is,it's beautiful, Floren-TINE, dog poop and as such it's not a bother. The hotel, again thanks to the internet, is cozy, well situated and just perfect. I'm wondering where the towels are in the bathroom while clutching several blanket sized waffle weave dish rags. That's when I realize those are the towels. I feel grateful not to have called down to the front desk to have towels sent up.
Then there is the small matter of the bidet. To me, it's an idea whose time has come. To teenagers it's a funny piece of plumbing that looks like a toilet and a sink. I've taken to calling it the butt washer. You can take the girl out of grade school but you can't take the grade school out of the girl. Ellie tries it and proclaims it odd, but refreshing.
We tour the sights, settle in, acclimate to the time change and I practice my toddler Italian on all. The Italian Rosetta Stone program has taught me several things and I think it pretty much has us covered. As long as it is a conversation about a horse who either is or is not eating a carrot, or if I will give discourse at great length about blue and yellow plates. For everything else there is sign language and emphatic pointing. One sweet girl begs me to speak English please - while I attempt to explain that my daughter the horse would like to eat some chocolate carrots, on a blue plate....
My other piece of language acquisition is one I plan to use as a talisman to ward off Anti-American feelings. I've learned how to say The Crazy Cowboy if anyone mentions our Fearless Leader George Bush. What we find instead is sympathy. In fact, one gentleman makes a point of telling us, look at some of the bozos we Italians have had as leaders and leaves it at that. It is the same pretty much everywhere we go. I will post the picture of the graffiti we found on the wall of a home. It's a stencil of George with devil horns with the caption below - Give me a banana - in Italian.
Actually there are two phrases I can carry off quite well "Due Cappuccini per favore, or due vini rossi! Those magical commands bring lovely, fatigue erasing, coffee or lovely, fatigue erasing, red wine. Either way we cannot miss!
Next stop Venice.
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