Nora's School

I hear that this is everyone's favorite thing to read about. Probably not coincidentally, it's one of my favorite things to gripe about. Particularly today.

Gripe Number One:
I am FAR from being a Type A, plan ahead, everything neatly scheduled months in advance on iCal individual, but get me going on the lack of calendars provided by the school, and I certainly start to sound like one.

Next week is Easter--a religious holiday that was never fully given vacation holiday status at the University of Texas. Generally we had to wait until the day of Good Friday for the governor to decide. University employees would sit staring at their email inboxes, awaiting the news. The email would arrive and deliver the announcement: the University is officially closed after 12:00 today. And the offices would cheer and the students would throw their dirty laundry into the car and head for home. I remember some of the out-of-state students complaining that they couldn't make travel arrangements and what a pain it was. Ever the self-centered teenager, I didn't give the governor's midday decree two thoughts. I wasn't flying anywhere; I wouldn't start driving before noon anyway; what did I care?

My point? I am slightly familiar with the holidays being announced at the very last minute, and it didn't bother me. Then. Now, on the other hand, it seems utterly ridiculous that we have to wait until the week before Easter to read a handwritten (by Nora) note in her diario that school will be closed from Wednesday of next week to the following Wednesday. A whole week off for Easter! A whole week of vacation with no mention? I was fine with the one-hour notice of five hours of vacation, but this is different! Right? There is a distinction to be made here, isn't there?

Gripe Number Two:
Along with the handwritten note was a tiny slip of paper announcing that, once again, the teachers would be on strike. And this strike "may or may not affect the school schedule TOMORROW." So in case you found no problem at all with the ambiguity of schedules in Gripe Number One, I challenge you to find a defensible position for Gripe Number Two.

Gripe Number Three:
For the third time this year I received a phone call from Nora's school. As I am the Foreign Mother that does not communicate well in Italian, they simply give the phone to Nora and let her explain. Today's conversation started with "My tummy hurts, and my throat is clogged up." Your throat is clogged up? She must have consulted MadLibs for that one and inserted [body part] before [common complaint]. And apparently that works here in Italy as probable cause for being sent home. No accompanying fever--in fact no temperature taken at all. Just a seven-year-old's complaint of a clogged up throat.

That's all I have to say about Nora's school today.

The ancient port of Baia, near Naples

This is the ancient city of Baia, on the northwest edge of the Bay of Naples. It's home to an amazing bath built into the hillside. It's unlike anything I've ever seen and must have been a big clue to the power of the Roman empire whenever someone sailed in. I met Dar and his archaeology students down there for the weekend.

In the 17th century, this place was a hot spot for British (and others) on the Grand Tour. On the top of the photo is a bit of graffiti from 1776. Damn hoodlums...


Many years ago, an earthquake hit the area and part of the city was sunken under water. In the photo below, we were sailing over what was once the city streets and buildings. You can scuba/snorkle in the bay area and see columns and mosaic floors through the crystal-clear water.


Below is a picture of the castle on the edge of the bay.


We took the boat out to the island Procida, where they filmed some of the movie The Talented Mr. Ripley. It was a gorgeous day and we stopped for a nice lunch. The Castle on the top of the hill is 16th century and now abandoned.


Putting along into the harbour:


The views from the shoreline:




This was the first course of my meal. Sea urchin gnocchi with squid ink and broccoli sauce. The name alone would make any child squirm. It was amazing.


This cracks me up: the sign on the boat says "Wet Paint." Hah!

Italian Road Trips, Part II

Because Brandy can't stand seeing a "Part I" without a "Part II," the unimaginative title continues on. This trip took us to Florence. It really needs no introduction, so I'll stop now and let the pictures do (most of) the talking.



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This is us pretending to hate Florence. C'mon, who hates Florence?


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And here's crazy Nora.


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Nora and Emilia


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And here's Nora pointing out a statue to Emilia

Wenkinz Information Does Not Exist Here

Once upon a time I posted Nora's Webkinz name for folks back home to keep in touch with her. I inadvertently misspelled it-Wenkinz. Every day we get people from all over the world (particularly Canada) coming to our site because they are searching for "Wenkinz" on Google. I don't know what a Wenkinz is, but I have no information on Wenkinz.

Italian Road Trips, Part I

Two weeks back, while Brandy was away in Paris for along weekend with friends, Nora and I decided to get out of town. So we took a little trip to the medieval hilltown Orvieto and Siena. Orvieto is the home of a very famous cathedral (Duomo) and a nice white wine. The vivid colors of the Duomo are stunning, especially given their age (from 1330); the not so vivid color of the wine is straw, and it doesn't age as well as the Duomo, but it's nice and refreshing.

From Orvieto & Siena

the story goes, a Bohemian monk in 1260, doubted that the wine taken at Communion was really the blood of Christ. on a trip through Orvieto he saw some blood-stained cloth and believed it to be a miracle. he took it to the Pope, who thought the bloody cloth warranted building a monser of a church on the spot.

to all the Catholics out there: i don't mean to come down so hard on the Catholic church or Popes--they just did such extraordinarily strange things as recently as--well as recent as WW II. My apologies!

From Orvieto & Siena

below is a photo of the funicular (a sort of a cable car that goes up, up, up a mountain side. it's like a San Francisco trolley that goes up very steep slopes). so, i bought a ticket for me and Nora--being as cute and young as she is--was waved through by the ticket seller. but we had to go through a turnstile. i tried to slide right behind Nora, like a 15 year-old boy would try to sneak behind a friend to keep from paying a subway fare, but didn't quite make it. so i looked at the ticket salesman who waved me off in a way that said, "ah, be blatant--i know you're not sneaking through." that's when i decided to hop over the turnstile, like a pommel-horse leaper.

well, i didn't make it.

you see, the pack on my back was small but quite heavy, and it basically yanked me backwards. and i fell. about 6 feet down, backwards, flat on my back. or to be exact, the back pack made me land not-quite-flat. i sort of bent backwards.

luckily, i didn't hit my head.
unluckily, it knocked the wind out of me.
luckily, i didn't break the wine bottle in the backpack, or the ticket salesman and people nearby would have thought i cracked my head open and bleeding profusely.
unluckily, i hurt my back.
luckily, i travel with an altoids box full of medicines, painkillers included.

the impact crushed the altoids box (but, again, not the bottle of wine. crazy), but it still opened. when i regained my ability to breathe, I popped a pill or two, and Nora and I carefully walked to the funicular, zipped down the mountain, and jumped on to the train to Siena.

Here's the funicular station:

From Orvieto & Siena

On the train to Siena...

From Orvieto & Siena

Siena has, twice each year on July 2 and August 16, a barebacked horserace through its main piazza--Il Campo. It been going on since for over 800 years. Here's what it looks like when it going on:

From Orvieto & Siena

And here's a photo from our trip in almost the same vantage point:

From Orvieto & Siena

Looking over the whole piazza is the 350 foot tower (Torre del Mangia) built in the mid 1300s to thank God for ending the Black Plague that wiped out much of the city. Nora and I climbed up to enjoy the view.

From Orvieto & Siena

Nora was very brave. here's the view from the top of the tower, looking at the Cathedral (Duomo) from the 1100s.

From Orvieto & Siena

Here's the view of the tower from the piazza below.

From Orvieto & Siena

And here's the Cathedral from close up. It's incredible, with Michelangelo and Donatello sculptures, marble inlaid floors, and vivid colors.

From Orvieto & Siena

Looking at Nora through a glass of prosecco.

From Orvieto & Siena

this is the resting place of much of St. Catherine. she lived in the 1300s and helped convince the Pope (who lived in France at that time) to come back to Rome. when she died in Rome, her head and her thumb were brought back to her hometown of Siena. you read that correctly--her head and hear thumb.

the bits and pieces reside in this church.

From Orvieto & Siena

after the long weekend, Nora dutifully does her homework. such a good girl.

From Orvieto & Siena

Q: Who is Italy's prime minister?

A: huh? Prime minister? Is this a trick question? Italy doesn't have a prime minister.

That may have been my answer prior to moving to Italy. I was that ignorant of the political goings on. Today (in the vein of shticky comedies with carefully crafted misunderstandings--Who's on first?) this answer is correct. Who is Italy's prime minister? Nobody.

Normally, there is one. (A president too, but the president is more of a figurehead.) On Wednesday, however, Romano Prodi resigned from his post as prime minister of Italy. Leaving us with no prime minister. Can you imagine the headline: Bush Steps Down ? (Of course you can, and have, many times I'm sure.)

Prodi lasted nine months--three more months than the life expectancy of a prime minister here. Did you get that? The head political leader here typically changes every six months or so.

No wonder the laws and government here seem so discombobulated.

(That is the extent of my political summary. I really still don't have a clue what goes on here in the news. Still don't understand the word on the street....)

Hey Look at That!

That thing over there. ------>
To the right of this post.
(Or on the top right of the page once we update again.)
You can put your email address there, and an email will be sent to you when we update.
Our updates are spotty at best, so that might be a nifty tool.

A Letter to NASA

To Whom It May Concern:

Regarding one of your recent inventions, I’d like to take this moment to say Well Done. I’ve no idea which department to send this letter to. Is there a mattress department at NASA? Or inventions? I’ve also no idea what the National Aeronautic Space Administration is doing inventing mattresses. I would think the conditions in space are optimal for sleeping. Doesn’t the absence of gravity create that “floating on air” or “sleeping on a cloud” experience that most mattress companies claim? It seems that mattresses might be a tad outside the realm of space exploration. Of course, so was Tang, and in the end I’m happy to have both of these NASA-sends in my world.

But NASA, if one day you find that funds are tight, that my tax dollar isn’t funding your random inventions the way it used to, I know a certain continent that hasn’t been pulling its weight in the mattress department. Europe. They’ve got 27 countries working together, and what have they come up with? IKEA. Cardboard beds you have to put together yourself with an Allen wrench. Let the European Space Agency invent a comfortable mattress next time. This continent certainly shows the greatest room for improvement in the mattress area.

I’ve traveled a bit. Not extensively, but cheaply. I’ve slept in my fair share of dingy hostels. There was that place in Honduras—a filthy hole, below which we witnessed a mugging and a hit-and-run (…or a hit-and-try-to-convince-the-pedestrian-to-get-in-his-cab-and-run-with-

him). Or that place in Mexico with the thin foam on particle board. I’ve slept in RVs, back seats, front seats, tents, sleeping bags, hammocks, on cots, dirt, and limestone. All of them were space-like conditions compared to some of the beds I’ve had in Europe.

First of all, the queen-sized beds are always two twin-sized beds pushed together. Not joined on a large frame, just two frames pushed together. I suppose in the Catholic nations we’ve lived in, it’s their answer to birth control. They simply make it impossible for one person to cross over the dividing line without the beds separating and the offending party falling through the crack.

When we lived in Ireland our twin-sized mattresses were filled with straw. Do I really need to say any more about this? Straw! The mattresses could be folded any way you wanted—lengthwise, horizontally, rolled up. If you spilled a drink on them, it would soak right in and carry the fragrance as a constant reminder. If you set them on fire, they would light in seconds. You could lose needles in their filling or feed horses from their bounty. But if you tried to sleep on them…you’d be in a constant state of painful frustration.

I foolishly expected more from an Italian bed. Once again, twin mattresses. This time instead of straw, they’re filled with springs. I’m pretty sure that’s it. Just springs. I was kept up with the poking and recoiling of tens of springs and with the thought that one night some wayward spring would shoot off and take with it my gall bladder.

That was before Jack went home. My days of sleeping on a European mattress are over. Jack came back from the United States bearing gifts: one of them being your Memory Foam Mattress Topper. Not only does it cradle my body and defend it from springs, it joins the two twin-sized beds in a way that no fitted sheet ever could. And one day I may allow Jack to cross the Great Divide, but for now I’m too busy sleeping.

Thank you, dear NASA.

Brandy

P.S. Next time, seriously, it’s Europe’s turn. It’s been a while since you’ve come out with a powdered, fruit-flavored beverage. And nobody does the essence of fruit like the UsofA.

This was the phase I was dreading

And there's one on the bottom that can do the twist. As she says, she doesn't even have to open her mouth to eat gelato anymore. Just sticks that spoon right through.

my favorite pics so far

well, the title says it all. these are faves.


The view down the Via Sacra and the Rome Forum, taken from the Coloseum, Rome

From Christmas 2006

A street in Venice

From Christmas 2006

The Grand Canal in Venice

From Christmas 2006

Parking lot in Venice

From Christmas 2006

Boats in Geneva, Switzerland

From Geneva - Nov ...

Ancient Greek ruins in Paestum

From Italy favorites

Belltower in Perugia

From Italy favorites

Ponte Sisto, the bridge we cross several times each day, Rome

From Italy favorites

San Gennaio Church pews in Naples

From Italy favorites

Nora doing her thing at a gelateria, Rome

From Italy favorites

Galleria Borghese: "the mother of all private collections," Rome

From Italy favorites

Nora, budding archaeologist, at Villa delle Vignacce, Rome

From Italy favorites

Arch of Constantine and Palatine Hill, Rome

From Italy favorites

View from the sea, Amalfi

From Italy favorites

Nora in Herculaneum

From Italy favorites

Sleepy Nora after too much wine, Paestum

From Italy favorites

Nora in Paestum

From Italy favorites

Italian Wars

Don't worry, this post is not about Caesar, empires, or Mussolini. This is about two very different kinds of wars I've experienced while living in Italy. The first I experience daily.

The War of Pleasantries

During most months, the Pleasantry War is barely noticable. When leaving an establishment or saying goodbye to an acquaintance, a few rounds of pleasantries are passed. Ciao. Ciao. Buona Giornata. Buona Giornata a te'. Bye. Bye. Have a good day...and so on. It's not so unusual, I guess. It's on par with the really chipper people in the US. But here, it's not chipperness, it's just good manners. I think I first noticed that the routine differed from ours back home when I heard an Italian saying goodbye on the phone. At first all was normal, the sing song pattern of two word phrases--the telltale sign of "winding down" a conversation, but then as the person went to hang up the phone (and by that I mean moved the thumb to the red button) the two people whispered ciao-ciao ciao-ciao-ciao ciao-ciao at each other. Not unlike the staccato rhythm of a machine gun sound effect.

And then I started to realize that my own rounds of pleasantries were about two exchanges long only because a.) it's what I'm used to/comfortable with and b.) it's all I know how to say. Looking around me I saw more experienced folk, i.e., Italians, who spent more time saying goodbye to the shopkeepers than they spent in the store itself. This became especially evident at Christmas time. And what's more? I got to participate.

During the Christmas season I learned a few standard Holiday Greetings for my daily errands. Buon Natale, Buona Festa, Buon Anno. That's all I needed. Add that to the generic "Have a good day, thank you very much, and bye" and I was able to go back and forth for 20 seconds.

My dad got a kick out of this when he was in town. As we would walk out of the store, we'd stand at the door, take a deep breath, let loose with "GrazieBuonNataleBuonaFestaBuonAnnoBuonaGiornata" and then run out giggling. We'd always lose (it is their language), but it's good fun with manners.

The New Years War

I said this post was not going to be about Caesar or empires, and it's not, but I'd like for a moment to remember some of the more impressive historical advances of the Romans. There was, after all, the Holy Roman Empire, architectural and artistic masterpieces, and running water. Some truly great minds and leaders came out of this place. I think that the modern Roman feels that with all that historical collateral-intelligence why should they bother? My point: they do some really dumb things.

On New Year's Eve we walked out of the restaurant at 11:59. Out of the restaurant and into a war zone. We were met with yells from people on the balconies above and the hissing of firecrackers being thrown down to the street below. The street where we were standing. The firecrackers never hit us. They tended to land at our feet, under the gas tank of a neighboring motorino, exploding with a boom that echoed through the small alleys. We clasped hands, squealing with fear and excitement about all the revelry. I remember all of us exclaiming that "it is a litle scary. Can you imagine if those missiles weren't meant for fun? Can you imagine if you had to walk home on a normal Tuesday like this? Can you imagine if you thought the person throwing the explosives were trying to hit you?" and we continued our heart-stopping, squealing, darting, and ducking walk down the alley.

At about this time Ashley pointed out that one of the apartments was lighting Black Cats inside their apartment. It was at this time that I think we realized that these people were not only not trying to hit us, they weren't trying to not hit anything. They were throwing explosives blindly onto the street and onto their own floor.
So we turned around and took the long, boring, and safe walk home.

A few photos

There's more to tell about Christmas and New Year's, but photo posts are easier, and maybe even more popular, so....

Here's a look at that potted tree. Can you see the popcorn and tangerines? They're just above the explosion of gifts marked "Nora."


This grainy photo is of Nora and me twirling on the cup ride. In the center of Rome, in Piazza Navona, they set up a Christmas festival every year. Toys, a carousel, carnival games, and cotton candy.


Working on the train.
I would send Christmas cards too, but I've never been able to exploit this child's labor as well as her Mimi.


Quite possibly my favorite photo of my dad ever.


My mom standing in an actual alley in Venice.


Gondola in Venice.


Gondola in Venice.