Last night in Como so we took family pictures. Beautiful sunset for a beautiful lake. We are going to be sad to leave this place.

We are still good at the automatic timer. Thanks Dad for all the practice.

In front of the waterfall from the 1500's off our deck.

Buona Sera!

Now that we are leaving Italy, I thought I would talk about a few things I have learned. Everything in Italy is small, except their ruins. The people are small, the ice cubes, the serving portions, and the shops. Styles are limited and so are the quantities. One of our first nights in Roma we wanted to take in the locale sights and do a little shopping. One store in particular that was loaded with clothing caught our eye. Todd always stays outside; first – because he doesn’t like shopping, second – the boys, enough said, and third – I don’t know why other than he really doesn’t like shopping. The girls and I are left to fend for ourselves. Maybe it’s Todd’s way to teach us a lesson for not paying more attention in Family Home Evening to the DVD language lessons.  One word I have learned is tonto, and it’s not even Italian. It’s Spanish; but I don’t think it would be in the list of words in the language lessons because it means stupid. Don’t ask why we know this word either. I hope the Lone Ranger used the word with the Indian translation when he named his partner because I would be offended if I was his sidekick and Spanish. Stupido is the Italian word for stupid. I have also learned that you can get 50% of the Italian words right if you just add an “o” to English. Rapido, momento, but not lettuco. I tried that one.

We only call for Todd if our archaic sign language doesn’t work, even when we say a language they don’t understand really slowly and loud so they are more likely to understand it. Yeah, that always works. For a country that has everything so small, I am baffled as to why all the clothes shops carry “one size fits all.” With this concept, Italians don’t expect you to ever try anything on. If one size fits all, then you see; you buy; you leave. Well, we aren’t Italian and as soon as we said, “Can we try this on?” Giuseppe, the friendly Italian that was so happy we were in his shop grimaced. I also made the mistake of bringing a teenager with me who can’t decide which cereal to eat in the morning let alone buying a souvenir for an once-in-a-lifetime trip. Giuseppe storms off to show me the dressing room, gives me harsh instructions in Italian while I turn around to step inside and clothes the curtain. I don’t know why he even has a dressing room if he doesn’t want anyone to try anything on. They could display three more items of clothing in that space. Their profit margin would go through the roof.

I took in three dresses, all the same style but in different colors. When I come out Giuseppe immediately goes bizzurk, starts rapid fire Italian and circling me in some native dance I am unfamiliar with. It looked more African than Italian but what do I know. Checking to make sure I have the dress on the right way, I feel a forceful tug on my layered t-shirt. I see Giuseppe frantically pulling at my shirt in archaic sign language to take it off. I got that. Translation – I’m most definitely ruining the look with this thing on. I need to remove it promptly or we both will be carted off and thrown in the clinker by the fashion police. He should have known if I left my tennis shoes on with a pretty dress that I would leave my t-shirt on too. I look at Todd with a pleading “help me”. He should be able to see me. He’s a stone’s throw away. Either ignoring me or silently enjoying himself, he is as immobile as The David.

I go back in and come out in the second one. Since I have not removed the t-shirt, he gives it one token tug and gives up on that idea. He can tell I am not thrilled with it for whatever reason. The color is not my color, but he thinks he can fix the frown I have on with a belt. Giuseppe proceeds towards me with this tapered piece of leather, arms stretched, and I wonder if this is the second act of his dance he performed earlier. Before I have time to ask, he has his arms wrapped around my hips and starts threading the belt. In shock, I look down and try to ask Giuseppe in archaic sign language why he is all up in my business. Look down because everything in Italy is little, including Giuseppe. From my vantage point, Giuseppe’s eyes, cheeks, and mustache are moving. I hear sound coming from what I assume is below his mustache. It must be because it is not English. He continues to weave his macramé belt blindly. I feel a pinch here a tug there; and viola, he stands back to admire his work. I just stand back. I don’t try on anymore. I buy the first one that looked horrible with a t-shirt and tennis shoes. Giuseppe throws the belt on the pile; I pay for that too, turn around, and walk out. Checking to see if everyone is accounted for, I see Brittany entering the dressing room. This can’t be worse than the search at Heathrow, right? She comes out, Giuseppe is not happy at all. She bought nothing. I don’t know if it was the clothes or the pat on her butt he gave her after he finished her macramé belt. Either way, we were done at that store and done shopping.

   Kylie’s turn. She is a more discriminating shopper, doesn’t try on much but when she finds something she likes we buy it. Since there are only two or three pieces in each style, the choice on the wall you see may not be available. Kylie saw a shirt she liked in one the last stores. I quickly checked with the sales girl, pointed to the display and indicated that we wanted that one. The color on the mannequin was no longer on the shelf. She took us over to the rack where we had just been to indicate that the one on the wall was available here. We proceeded to point to the wall, sign, and say that was the one we wanted. She understood and then told us “fini”. Fini? That means finished. It’s not fini. I see there on the wall. “No”, she says again, “fini”. We were insistent so she asks her manager. He says fini too. Are they both blind? Are we seeing a mirage? It’s three against two. It’s not fini. We see it on the wall. Not only in the states will they give you the one on the mannequin, but since it is the last one, they also give you a discount. We can’t get them to strip it off her and we know the Romans have no problem with shedding clothes. Take the “fini” one off the wall, sell it to me and then it will really be a final “fini”. No such luck. After this, we decided to stick to the chachski. You don’t have to try it on. One size truly fits all and they have no problem selling you their last one. In fact, they would welcome it.

A side note, as I waited outside for Brittany to be frisked/belted, the owners of the shop didn’t realize that Todd spoke Italian. Giuseppe’s wife was trying to talk in English to another lady, got frustrated, turned to her husband and said in Italian, (per Todd’s translation)”Why does she have to try it on? They always want to try it on. One size fits all. Stupido – I got that – She has too many clothes on anyway. Even if she took them all off, she’s too fat.”

Another observation - You can’t get fat here unless you really try. Everything is served in tiny portions and you either walk, bike, or ride everywhere. We have been walking on average over five miles a day with and without luggage. The main diet consists of carbs and they burn everyone every day.

Personal space and privacy are out too. Every train ride some little old Italian lady and sometimes man wants to talk to you and tell you all their woes. On the train ride back from Pisa, we were all sleeping and Brittany woke first so the little old lady just started prattling off to her.  Brittany just nodded her head and smiled. Then the lady asked a question twice that ended in Italiano and gradually raised her voice. Brittany guessed she was asking her if she spoke Italian to which Brittany responded no with a head shake. The lady kicked her head back and cackled so loud it woke both Kylie and I up. She then went to using hand gestures to tell Brittany that she and Kylie had beautiful smiles and really long legs. Since we have become accomplished in this form of language, not Italian, she knew exactly what she was saying. Hand gestures work with body parts, not food though. I tried describing salad to the little man in the small grocery store and he pulled down a box of rice. I even pretended to chop and eat it. He wondered why I would bother chopping rice. I do tell the kids that the animals and bugs speak Italian and not English. They think that is so funny. I told Todd that the fish even spoke Italian; he was grumpy and said they just spoke fish. Well, I don’t speak either so they could speak Latin and it would still be Greek to me. Since the little old lady was trapped by English speaking girls, she jumped diagonal and carried on a loud conversation with the Italian girl next to me. Loud because we were on the slow train with no A/C so all the windows were down and I don’t think they have oiled the wheels or brakes since Napoleon took over. All the people on the train and waiting at the train stations have their ears covered as we slowly make our approach. I don’t know why this is so amusing to me. In the states, someone would have sued by now for ear damage or emotional distress from excessive noise and won a million dollar lawsuit. Everyone here just covers their ears, watches us go by as we watch them in relative silence and life goes on. Va bene! The Italians would say. To our little old lady, you can’t keep the hens in the hen house quiet for too long. The rest of the ride between the brake bleeps, trains passing, and wind rushing she retold the Italian girl her conversation with Brittany and got another good laugh out of it.

People are generally nice. They are always willing to help with your luggage off and on the train, quick with an “excuse me”, or “sorry” if they bump you, quick to give up their seats on the bus or train to someone in need. Always wanting you to slow down and enjoy yourself, not stress. No one in Italy is in a hurry. Everything can be late, you just spend your time getting another coffee or ice cream and enjoy.

One thing they do lack is privacy. There is none. Todd says there is actually no word in the Italian language for privacy. If you want to use that word, you use the English word for it. For someone with no personal space this isn’t a problem, but I have found that even my boundaries have been pushed. Todd – it has driven him to drink water with gas. Yes, that is what they call fizzy mineral water. It’s always funny when he orders it. Of course we get the look from Mr. Proper World Traveler, but I can’t help it. Tootin’ Sunshine has got to love a drink that comes with gas. Back to privacy, you open your windows and you have a view right into your neighbor’s home. The buildings are meant to encourage neighborly interaction. I think they did this on purpose. You can’t see into every neighbor around you from every window in your house unless you planned it. In Florence, we had to leave all the windows open because they were having a hot spell and our apartment had no air conditioning. Todd had showered and was hiding behind a curtain in the hall when he realized that the neighborhood was watching. I think he waited about ten minutes by the time I saw him hiding. It must have been at least ten minutes because he was a little perturbed by the time I found him. He was waiting for the courtyard to clear or make sure no one was watching before he made a dash to our bedroom. I told him to relax and take the lead from his boys who were are the opposite end of the hallway. Peering out from his perch, he could see the boys in the family room/dining room stark naked in front of the French doors with no curtains airing out after their showers. They had gravitated to the coolest place in the house and were carrying on a conversation while the girls were glued to the electronics on the two coaches. I don’t think they realized where they had ended up or who in the world was watching them. They could just as easily harass each other there in the breeze as anywhere else so why not pick the cool spot.

 No wonder the Romans loved their bath houses; it gave them an excuse to run around naked. Todd keeps saying when in Rome, do as the Romans. Buck up buddy, you are the only Flemish in our bunch. In fact, Brittany was in her bedroom the other night getting ready for bed and Kylie opened the window to cool things down. The family next door looked up from their dinner, while Brittany smiled at them in just her underwear. Awkward. Do you shut the window quickly, or just sit there, or go in the bathroom, maybe turn off the lights. Too many choices for a girl who has a hard time making decisions. What does she do? Sits there and smiles, and smiles, and smiles until they go back to their dinner. That was nothing compared to what they could see standing in the door down the hall. If they were really good at I Spy, they could see our Dad at the other end of the hall still in the corner behind the curtain waiting for everything to clear.  Doesn’t he remember that the town doesn’t slow down until midnight? He will be dried, sweating, and ready for another shower by the time he leaves that corner. Me, I just went to bed.

Air conditioning is more of a luxury here. Most people live without it and do just fine. We actually have not minded when we haven’t had it. The units are not very efficient as they only blow air in a central place and then by your motion or doors open, the cold air circulates around. We had a little problem in Venice. To start, Todd’s thermostat is set on Alaskan weather and always has been, maybe because he wears too many clothes or is too conservative; I don’t know.  The kids and I like it a little warmer and Todd is always turning the thermostat down on us at home. In Venice, the only A/C unit was located in the entry hall. Todd turned the air down in the entry way to freezing in order to cool the rest of the apartment. Another obstacle in the Venice apartment were single stairs that would either go up or down in every room you entered and even an additional one in the entry way, kind of a hopscotch maze that we were not really planning on playing, especially for one of our children who broke her foot just going down one of our stairs at home. We didn’t say anything to Dad about the icicles forming on the entry way light since it was his birthday. We just improvised instead. When you were ready to go somewhere else in the house, you would prepare yourself by dawning your sweatshirt, with a few quick breaths like you were going to go underwater, grab the door jams, propel yourself forward and run like the wind to the next room, avoiding any ice formed on surrounding furniture or walls, and make a slide landing into the next room. In and of itself, this was not a problem. The complication came with the steps, and if you were wearing socks, which all of us were because it was so cold, your situation became worse. Like clockwork, you would hear… Huh, Huh, patter, patter, load bang indicating a miss of a stair you forgot was there, depending on who hit it… you would hear a cry, an almost curse, a scream, and always unsympathetic laugh from everyone else as you careened into the opposite wall, room, or door jamb depending on the trajectory or your launch.

These last bits of info are not things I have necessarily learned but more so confessions of a guilty conscious. When it comes to schedules and plans, we don’t ask questions; we just follow the itinerary and listen to Dad. There are exceptions to this rule. For example, we had half of Tanner’s birthday cake left. I couldn’t leave it, partially because it was chocolate and partially because I was trying to hoard snacks for the kids. Todd doesn’t eat like we do because he is at work every day and only eats three meals. The kids and I are more like cows; we graze. This frustrates our fearless leader so we have tried to eat more like him. I couldn’t and have resorted hiding contraband in the kids backpacks. He told me the night before we left Siena that we could eat the cake for breakfast or just leave it. As he is doing a last minute scan of the room he notices that the cake box is flat and asks if we ate it. I answered as in the future and said yes. Unbenounced to him, I had packed the remainder in a plastic bag Rick Steve said to bring. I had no idea what I would need empty Ziploc bags for and am pretty sure he didn’t intend for it to be used to transport chocolate cake. I did not bring the suggestion of a sewing kit which Todd wished I had since his button popped off his shorts the other day. He only has two pairs because we are packed in a shoebox and he has lost weight with all the walking that they barely stay on anyway. Pretty soon he is going to have to adopt that waddle from the gang bangers to keep his pants on. I guess he can wear mine since somehow I have gained weight walking all over. Whatever.

I carried the backpack, not because I am nice, but to make sure he wouldn’t go through it to reduce weight, emissions, I don’t know what. I kept it close by since I had let it out of my sight before and Todd got a hold of it on another train ride to get something out for the boys and blew a silent gasket when he found two rolls of toilet paper in one of the pockets. I got the silent scream boarding on real scream about why we were carrying toilet paper all over Europe. He thinks we use too much of that too. I will not be caught in an apartment at 8 o’clock at night with no toilet paper and no access to any either. This isn’t the U.S. Stores close by 6 p.m. and Wal-Mart is not right around the corner. If you are out of anything you have to wait until the morning or another day if it is on the weekend because everything is closed on Sunday. Everything. I will wait for food, but I will not wait for toilet paper. I carried that paper from Rome, to Florence, to Siena, and any day trips in between. We finally had need for it in Venice and I was so glad I had it. So sure enough, on the train, half way through the ride, Tanner is starving. You’re in luck buddy. I pulled out the other half of his chocolate cake mashed in the Ziploc bag like Todd said it would be. Did we care? No. We got our extra gelato spoons that I had buried in the backpack and the two of us devoured in silence and secrecy our chocolate cake. No one was the worse off because of it. Todd still doesn’t know I had that cake in my backpack. I guess if he reads this he’ll find out and start inspecting my bag. I will reassure him that I won’t carry chocolate cake and toilet paper in the bomb residue backpack through Heathrow since we have already been flagged once and recorded on their list. But on the TreniItalia, I think I am safe. Like the Italians, just relax and have another ice cream.