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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.