What in/around my desk is 4 cm long?

The metal end to a key--before you get to the rounded bit at the top.
A small paper clip--not a big one.
The plastic lid to a flash drive.

And...that's about it. I thought I'd be able to find more, but everything else is bigger.
A bottle of white out is 7.5 cm.
The cap to a Sharpie is 5 cm long...so is the big paper clip.

Four centimeters is TINY.
So please excuse the quality of this photo. I've blown it up so that you can MAYBE make out that there is a 4cm-long baby growing in my belly. Hanging out on a hammock--is how Jack describes this fetal pose.



Do you see it above the white "hammock"? It looks like it has a speech bubble coming out of its mouth. I think that's it. It seemed so much clearer when it was on the tv.

Even though I'm only two months along, the doctors thought it was a good idea to get a sonogram (ecografia) before we left for the states. Since it's so tiny, it is not possible to know if it's a boy or a girl. But Jack likes to be surprised anyway...so nobody will know until approximately February 9. The doctor counted limbs, length, heartbeat, and other things I couldn't translate. There were no problems, and the baby seems healthy.

The only bad side so far to being pregnant is that I've developed a horrible aversion to Italian food. ALL Italian food. I can't stand to see it, smell it, think about it. I know technically there's no such thing as "Italian food." There are so many regional differences that you call it Tuscan food or Roman food, etc. My problem, however, seems to be that I can't stand cooked tomatoes, sliced meats, sausage, most cheeses, and oil. If you have any suggestions for what a girl in Rome can eat without those ingredients, I'd love to hear them. Until I go home I'll continue with my rotation of burger, chicken, veal. All with mashed potatoes.

Il Palio in Siena

Forget the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain--that's been taken over by wine-soaked American college boys and drunk Australians getting their kicks Hemmingway-style. Il Palio--probably the shortest horserace in the world--is the real deal.

And it's a bare-backed race.



Held on the 2nd of July and the 16th of August in Siena, Tuscany, Italy, the race and its pageantry looks the same as it must have 400 years ago, when they stated racing in the smallish main piazza called the Piazza del Campo.


The view of the piazza on a normal day.

Before that, in the 1400s, the horses would scamper all through town. When the race moved to the Campo, the small track only had room for 10 of the 17 neighborhoods, or contrade, to race at a time. The confusing arrangement of guaranteed spots and lottery draws keep a different blend of 10 of the 17 racing each time. Actually, it's even more confusing than this sounds: there is room only for 9 horses to line up on the track. The 10th horse lingers behind the lineup and starts the race while running an arc behind the pack. It's very confusing and a nightmare of timing to get all the horses together at the right time. In this race there are no starting gates, just authentic Italian orderly chaos.

The joy of Il Palio is its timelessness. The only souvenirs being hawked are the banners of the 17 contrade. Each contrada has its own banner and its own rival. When all is said and done, one contrada losing is not as painful as that contrada's rival winning it all. Tears flow from the old and the young when this happens.

The morning of each Palio starts with a practice run, followed by the blessing of the horses--in the church. It's considered good luck if the horse poops--in the church.



The contrade are:
Aquila (Eagle), Bruco (Caterpillar), Chiocciola (Snail), Civetta (Owl), Drago (Dragon), Giraffa (Giraffe), Istrice (Porcupine), Leocorno (Unicorn), Lupa (She-Wolf), Nicchio (Shell), Oca (Goose), Onda (Wave), Pantera (Panther), Selva (Forest), Tartuca (Tortoise), Torre (Tower) and Valdimontone (Ram)

And the winner this July 2 was...nope, not yet.

The entire piazza goes berserk when the race starts. The whole race consists of 3 laps around the rim of the piazza and lasts less than a few minutes. A horse can lose it's rider and still win, as long as the horse still has the Contrada insignia on its head when it crosses the finish line. It only ends when the cannons fire, signaling the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place crossings, at which point the berserk factor goes way, way up. The winning horse is taken to a nearby church to have its hooves painted gold. Yep, gold.


The party goes on all night.

Nora, Brandy, my visiting father Patrick, and I braved the crowds and craziness and had an incredible time. We've never been so crowded for so long. Once in the piazza, you pretty much are stuck until after the race. No running to the bathroom, no breathing room for the mildly claustrophobic (Brandy), and no place to sit down (sorry, Dad). You just tough it out and see the most exciting race in the world.

This July, the exciting race was won by Oca, the goose.


See more at:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palio_di_Siena

The Best Souvenir from Italy

This is a very strange way to spread the news, but here it is:




This is Brandy's belly with our baby inside. We're all very excited and Nora is out-of-her-mind with happiness to finally be a big sister. She promises not to torment him-her. He or she will appear sometime around Valentine's Day, 2008, so plan your February trip to Italy.

!!!!!!!


Jack, Brandy, and Nora

father's day at the beach

i thought that hopping on a train and going to the beach sounded like a good idea. and since it was father's day in america and i'm an american father, i got to make the decision. brandy didn't even know where we were going.

i think she was pleasantly surprised.

Portonovo, Le March, Italy




This town is far enough from big cities and is so off the beaten path that most tour books don't mention it. It is not on the way anywhere, so you really have to go out of your way. Those who do are rewarded greatly. The water is crystal clear and the landscape is like the chalky limestone hills of Austin, Texas cut abruptly by the Mediterranean Sea.




The beaches in Italy are a bit different than what we are used to. Most Italians go to be seen and talk with their beach friends--who may be the same friends they talk to every other day or they may be friends they only see at the beach. Either way, the 2 reasons to go to the beach are to talk and to develop an extremely dark tan. The threat of skin cancer doesn't stand a chance compared to the Italian needs to look good and be social.

Here's Brandy looking good and being social.




The food is wonderful. Seafood obviously is the big star. Here is a sequence of Nora trying a snail cooked in a tomato&garlic sauce.

ok, ill try it...


Chewing...hmm, strange texture...


nope, definitely not a winner.



she also had some gnocchi with prawns. it was excellent.




and i had some tagliatelle with clams (vongole) and a grilled sea bass (spigola). they were both excellent and the fish was the freshest i've ever had. here's a picture of the pasta.




Another thing that's different in Italy is the beach itself. Many are pebbly, some are sandy, some are just plain rocky, and others feel like you're walking on Nerds candy--smooth and not painful to walk on (almost massage-like), but definitely not fine enough to be sand. This beach had them all. The main part of the beach is sandy and then pebbly. By scrambling across some rocks and wading through some knee-deep water, you get to a different beach. It had some of the nerds candy sand and some good old fashioned sand. This is where we went.


Here we are crossing the rocks:




Here's Nora wading through the knee-deep water.




And here's the view down the beach.




Ah, what a view...



The water is nearly perfect--a little cold but very pleasant on a warm day and clear as can be. the only thing missing is surfable waves. Well, you can't have everything...

Update on Bush's Visit

After recommendations from the Italian government and Secret Service, Bush decided to cancel his visit to Trastevere. It seems that the narrow, winding alleys of Trastevere were too difficult to secure. (That's a major understatement, by the way. That they ever dreamed they could logistically pull off a visit to our tiny piazza is beyond me.) See the mayhem Bush's visit caused below. This is what I what I was afraid would happen below my house. Unfortunately for our friend Maria it happened below hers instead. Sorry, Maria.




















































We managed to stay completely clear of the whole thing. Nora and I went to the park (Villa Pamphili) and had a wonderful time. If you could see past the police posted every five feet along the path, it was very peaceful and serene.

Dub-ya is starving my family

George W. Bush will be in Rome on Saturday. Just look where the tiny piazza that he's chosen to speak is located!That's Piazza Sant' Egidio. Notice how it's located at the end of Via della Scala---MY STREET!!
Oh help me. We'll be lucky to leave our homes at all on Saturday.

Trip to Lecce, Puglia

Puglia (pronounced Poolia, like Julia) is down in the heel of the Italian boot.


Lecce (pronounced much like the Spanish word for milk--leche) is the beautiful town in the middle with its own style of architecture: lecce boroque.


People in Lecce are short. Even Nora has to duck to get in.
This is the hotel we stayed in. It's in a 16th cenury palazzo and only set us back about 45 euro/night. Highly recommended with a great rooftop view. There are actually 2 in the palazzo: The Centro Storico B&B
and The Azzurretta B&B.
The owners are brothers. The brother we stayed with is named--i kid you not--Toolio.


I am a deadly weapon. You've been warned.


Here's a common mode of transportation. Not really, but it does remind me of the bigwheel I had as a kid.


This blurred view of the Puglia countryside between Bari and Brindisi. It looks like an impressionist painting. You can probably photoshop a Monet painting pretty easily from this.


Nora likes to make her mom nervous. OK, maybe I encourage this behavior.


The happy travelers in Santa Maria di Leuca.


The water is really that color. The limestone filters the water and the light sand reflects the sunlight. It looks clean enough to drink (not recommended).


These next 2 are taken from the very tip of the stilletto heel of the boot. It's the first place in Italy to see the sunrise in the morning.




These people were having a picnic and catching sea urchins, clams, oysters, fish and other stuff that they eat raw in Puglia. Don't cringe; it tastes great.


More beautiful water, if you like that sort of thing. Again, not drinkable. Who knew?


Very trusting people. Who wants a boat?


Crazy kids--horsing around. (Sorry.)


We decided to go different ways. The beach north of Otranto, Puglia.


I'll miss her, though.


United again, surfing the rocks of the Adriatic Sea.


Brandy doesn't like to run around in the sand as much, but she doesn't judge us for our childish behavior.


--------------------------------------------------

Relief and Revelation

Update on our 9months of bills situation: really not so bad. Our total amount for nine months of bills looks like about 3-4 months of bills in Texas. I guess that's the upside of living in a shoebox. An air conditionless shoebox.

That was the relief. Here's the revelation: In the middle of all of this piles-o-bills anxiety, I ran out of hair product. And ever since the ogre at the airport took my new bottle of Bumble and Bumble, I've been bouncing around from mousse to paste to cream...none of them good. Frankly, I don't think the Italians have a clue what to do with curly hair. It looks as though the women here brush their curls...even when dry!! (Ask a woman with curls if you don't know.)

So with the end of each tube or can or bottle, I've had to search for another mediocre replacement. But this time I didn't want to spend another precious Euro on something mediocre--not when I had nine months of bills looming over my head. On the other hand you can't just go around with curly hair and no product whatsoever.

That's when I remembered something a wise stylist once told me: Curls only need moisture--that's all your product needs to do--keep 'em moist.

Olive oil.

Please let our couch cushions reveal lost riches.

One strategy I employ when faced with conflict is the "Just ignore it and maybe it will go away" technique. Not a wise (or very effective) strategy, but one that brings me instant (albeit temporary) gratification. The thing is sometimes it works. In my younger years, I ignored a ticket...and it turned into a warrant. But THEN I ignored the warrant, and it went away. That is not the only instance of effective "wishing away" a problem. I'd say it has had a 10% success rate, which is terrible statistically, but just good enough for me to continue using it with crossed fingers that THIS time is that magical 1 in 10.

We don't receive mail at our apartment. All letters and packages from friends back home are sent to our office address because we have NEVER (save two rare examples) received a thing in our mailbox. Including bills. At first I asked around. "No. Don't worry. It often takes four months to receive your first bill." Bills here only come every two months, and you often miss the first cycle and get hit hard with the big four-month bill.

Nine months later, still no bills. At this point I don't talk about bills; I don't think about bills, because if you talk about the problem or even think about the problem then you are not fully ignoring the problem. I do, however, walk quickly, eyes straight ahead, past our leasing agency, which is located next door to our apartment. I suspect Jack has been doing the same thing because yesterday he said "they caught me." Our landlord would like to meet with us about our lease and to give us our bills.

So let's see that's 9 months of electricity that is reportedly 5 times as high as it is in the states; plus 9 months of gas that is reportedly 3 times as high as it is the states; plus 9 months of phone usage that charges by the minute for all local and long distance calls plus extra for all calls to cell phones for a grand total of...

perhaps a new philosophy on conflict resolution.

Another thing to give thanks for

We all know that trying on bathing suits is a horrific experience that we all dread. An event that brings joy to no one except the makers of miracle creams and machines, the writers of diet fad books of the week, and the creators of Cathy. For without the fear of bathing suits our dear Cathy (and her readers) would be content and happy in their own skin. And happy women don't buy miracle creams, machines, and diet fad books of the week. But I digress. This is not a soap box for me to tell women to love their bodies just the way they are. Clearly I am not above getting a little crazy thinking about my ass. I thought that the women in America should know that they have one more thing to be thankful for.

You have not experienced the pain of trying on bathing suits until you've tried on a bathing suit in Italy.

So far it's been rather challenging to get a shop keeper to help me look for shirts, pants, and shoes. Not so when you're looking for bathing suits. They descend upon you, look you up and down, surmising your Euro-size, and then hurry you into a room with your unfortunately mismatched sizes (bigger than you'd like on the bottom and smaller than you'd like on the top--or perhaps that's just me).

At this point you're in the tiny room with the florescent bulb, which is reminiscent of shops back home but smaller, so you're literally on the mirror. There's no hope of achieving a better reflection via distance or angles. You're exposed. With shadows and dimples you'd never noticed before, now very prominently displayed under the greenish flicker of the florescent light, with your (what you thought were) high-cut panties sticking out like your granny's under the bottoms of the bathing suit that was cut for the impossibly perfect ass, all in a reflection that is a mere 12 inches from your body.

And then the curtain is pulled back. And now you're really exposed. And the shop keeper examines you and assures you that the bottoms are not too small. "This is Italy. You're German, so you don't know, but that's how we wear bathing suits in Italy." At this point you stammer back in your poor Italian that you are NOT German--as if it were that mistake that took your dignity--but the "same-difference" look on her face when you tell her that you're American does not help you regain any shred of dignity.

You yank the curtain back and hastily put on your street clothes. When you walk out you ask how much the cheaply made piece of tiny cloth costs. 65 Euros (that's 90 dollars) so you thank the woman for her time and walk on to the next store under the naiive assumption that this store and this woman were an overbearing exception to the rule.

Three shops and three humiliating experiences later you realize that last year's bathing suit is actually much nicer than you'd remembered it, and you go home.

We found Mexicans!

And more importantly real Mexican food! In Piazza della Repubblica on Sunday evenings, the sidewalks are lined with street vendors selling tamales, pozole, rotisserie chicken, tacos, burritos, sodas, and beer. Plastic containers of salsa and peppers hang from the fence, waiting to douse your meal. Bad music blares from boom boxes, and everyone sits around eating deliciously bad for you food.

(Discovery made on way back from train station after a fabulous weekend in Umbria. Details and pictures to come.... Right, Jack?)

This one might get filed under TMI--Too Much Information

Going to a doctor in a foreign country is always a bit of a challenge. Even if you speak the same language. Jack likes to tell the story of my embarrassing misunderstanding in an Irish hospital.

About 8 hours after Nora was born, a nurse was doing her rounds in my ward. She went from bed to bed asking all of the moms a series of questions. When she got to my bed she asked me "Have you piddled yourself yet?" I had never heard the term "piddle" before, and I was still not used to the way the Irish throw that reflexive pronoun around. (e.g., They might say "Has himself come by today?" Instead of "Has he come by today?")
Anyway...I didn't know what piddle meant, but it was obviously a euphemism for something...something...something that a nurse wouldn't want to say in a room full of people...something embarrassing...or naughty...piddle myself?.. piddle myself? what is something embarrassing or naughty that I do to myself?
?!
Why would the nurse ask about that? I wondered as I whispered and sputtered"n-n-No. No I haven't piddled myself today." To which she replied, "Well you really should try." It was at about this point that my brain registered the second possible (and in retrospect, only sensible) meaning for "piddle."
"Oh right. Pee. Yes, actually I have peed today."

And that was all in English. You can imagine the problems one might have at the doctor's office when one doesn't speak the language at all. Luckily in this country, you can go to the farmacia and tell them what you need, and (for the most part) they'll give it to you without a prescription.
No--I haven't tried asking for any of THOSE medicines. And obviously I wouldn't go in and prescribe myself an antibiotic for symptoms I didn't recognize, but there are some things that you know you have when you have 'em, and you don't need a doctor to tell you that you need antibiotics.

Recently I was able to get a prescription for Augmentin at my local farmacia with no problem. But then...as often happens when I take antibiotics...my body's chemistry got all out of whack, and I had to make another trip to the farmacia. Unfortunately, while prescription items are relatively easy to get, over the counter items are literally behind the counter, and are physically impossible to reach without asking. (Even Band-Aids are kept safe back there.)

This story ends with me peeking out from under my hands saying "ok ok. Ho capito. Ho capito." (I understand. I understand.) As the man behind the counter is demonstrating for me (and the rest of the farmacia) how to operate a vaginal suppository.

Mortifying. When are we coming home?

We're Coming Home

Nora goes to Mexico July 4th with Jack's father.
Jack and I join her on July 26th.
We head to the brown beaches of Texas on August 5th.
We all come to Austin somewhere around the 11th of August.
Nora and I go back to Rome on the 21st of August.
One (or all) of these dates may be a little wrong...but they're close.

The Ladies

There are obvious questions people ask when someone moves to certain locations. Knee jerk responses based on media and stereotypes. Iconography that exists because...it's typically true.
Ireland--Drink any Guiness lately?
Texas--Have you learned to ride a horse?
Chicago--Windy?
New York--Been mugged yet?

"I live in Italy" brings on an onslaught.
How's the pizza? Is the food really good? Are you eating lots of gelato? The appropriate answer to each of these being "duh." Italy is known for its fantastic cuisine and wine, and for good reason. It's every bit as amazing as you might imagine.
The other obligatory questions are Is the fashion great? and Are the people really beautiful? My answer to these is Yes. Irritatingly so. Complex-inducingly so.

The concept of La Bella Figura in Italy powerfully shapes the image of all its people. This concept could not be more foreign to an Austinite. In Austin going to the store with no makeup, bedhead, and jeans and a t-shirt that narrowly passed the sniff test is not only acceptable but might even be regarded by some as confident. A statement that you don't care what other people think of how you look (or smell) because you've got intelligence and character and substance. The image is not important.

I'd now like to call your attention to the policeman at the right. This image was found by googling "la bella figura." The policemen here are all about it. Look at his white cuffs, gloves, and (rumor has it) Armani designed uniform. Traffic cops here stand on a raised platform in the middle of the street and proudly motion their white-gloved hands at the frenetic motorini and Fiats as they whiz by. A noble profession here--to be in the public eye looking good all day long. (The reason that police have nothing to do but sit around looking good all day can also be explained by la bella figura. Committing a crime would make a brutta figura. And we can't have that.)
I enjoy watching the police looking regal on their raised platforms or leaning on cars in the piazza. Just as I'm sure Jack enjoys watching the much more beautiful and manicured Italian women maintaining their La Bella Figuras all over the place.

Polished beautiful women strut in their stilettos down the cobblestone streets. Fancy outfits, fancy shoes, perfect makeup. All. The. Time. Just out to get your morning coffee? Not until you've showered and picked out your perfect Prada for the occasion. And they're truly beautiful...all of them.

Part of the reason I'm posting about this is because someone should, and Jack probably feels like he can't without facing physical retribution. And I don't have the energy right now to be vague and employ double entendre for comedic effect, so forgive my bluntness. I'd just like to know why everyone talks about the Roman Nose--which doesn't really stand out over here--but nobody ever talks about the Italian butts--which stand out quite well.

Seriously...grandmothers in stilettos and skinny jeans with gravity-defying butts. All the brash and offensive things you've ever heard guys say, I THINK THESE THINGS. Not to objectify of course; I'm just awe-inspired. I tried googling Italian Butt, Italian Ass, Italian Rear, etc. to show you what I mean, but apparently nobody else thinks archiving a good ass in jeans a worthy project. (Thongs, yes. Jeans, no.)

So there you have it. What has Italy done for me lately? Given me a complex about my backside. I'm just hoping that the nature vs. nurture debate comes down on the side of nurture in this case, and that by the time I come home, all this Italian food and cobblestone streets will have nurtured my rear into an Italian form, and that the Italian butt is not all in the genes. (pun begrudgingly left due to lack of caffeine and creativity)

Barcelona!

We finally took a big family trip: a long weekend trip to Barcelona. The weather was lovely and the food and drink were divine. Barcelona won some big soccer championship that weekend and Ronaldinho was deified by Barcelona.

The beach was windy (hence the jacket) but that won't stop Nora.


Nora scaling a light post in front of the Arch de Triomf. I think that's how it's spelled in Catalan.


They like bikes in Spain.


Mmmmm...kitty.


Antoni Gaudi's Sagrada Familia church reflected in a pond.


Another, this one has the real one and the reflection.


Such a good traveler:


Munching on tapas, sipping wine and Cola Cao (hot cocoa) for Nora.


Pointing out the million kinds of fish tapas.


One of Gaudi's apartment buildings. He did not like straight lines, since there aren't any in nature.


A Gaudi apartment and office building.


Nora and Jack from the Parc Guel, overlooking the city.


Another view from the top.


The columns aren't even in straight lines.


Brandy's favorite part of the trip: the Labyrinth. It was so cool. The walls were about 12 feet high and it was quite a maze. We were all happy to find the middle and one another. I was dreading having to explain to everyone how we lost Nora.


Yeah, Labyrinth!


Groovy, baby...


Homeward bound.