Our Headdquarters in Italy is the stunning mountain village of Sommocolonia, which was sunny this one Sunday.
There’s not much to do here—no bar, bakery, or shop of any kind. Meanwhile, the population has dropped from 97 to 65 in the ten years we’ve been visiting. Nonetheless, for a dose of “la dolce far niente,” Sommocolonia can be just about perfect.
We adore fresh herbs, and were thrilled when U.S. supermarkets finally began offering them some years back.
Of course, those herbs come in plastic packages holding a fraction of an ounce, and cost about two bucks for those five leaves. Here, herbs grow like bushes, if not trees. And when the rosticceria man says the chicken is stuffed with rosemary, he means a small shrub’s worth. The distinction produces not only tastier food, but a lifestyle that asserts that the time it takes to tend gardens, prepare meals, and serve others is not only time well spent, it’s priceless.
We adore fresh herbs, and were thrilled when U.S. supermarkets finally began offering them some years back.
Of course, those herbs come in plastic packages holding a fraction of an ounce, and cost about two bucks for those five leaves. Here, herbs grow like bushes, if not trees. And when the rosticceria man says the chicken is stuffed with rosemary, he means a small shrub’s worth. The distinction produces not only tastier food, but a lifestyle that asserts that the time it takes to tend gardens, prepare meals, and serve others is not only time well spent, it’s priceless.
We don’t mean to sound so Minnesotan—where people relentlessly talk about the weather—but here we go again.
The weather here has been amazing (we mean that in a bad way) and it’s brought out the Paul Douglas in everyone. They’re calling it “the storm of the century” from Scotland to Spain to Austria to Italy. They’re discussing global warming and cow flatulation. After 26 days in Europe, we’ve seen two days with sun. Rain has fallen by the foot, not inch. And destruction lurks anywhere and everywhere: Landslides, washed-out roads, fallen trees and homes (and people), and more. Such gloomy conditions certainly compromised our visions and pictures. But it also produced a few sights of its own.
We don’t mean to sound so Minnesotan—where people relentlessly talk about the weather—but here we go again.
The weather here has been amazing (we mean that in a bad way) and it’s brought out the Paul Douglas in everyone. They’re calling it “the storm of the century” from Scotland to Spain to Austria to Italy. They’re discussing global warming and cow flatulation. After 26 days in Europe, we’ve seen two days with sun. Rain has fallen by the foot, not inch. And destruction lurks anywhere and everywhere: Landslides, washed-out roads, fallen trees and homes (and people), and more. Such gloomy conditions certainly compromised our visions and pictures. But it also produced a few sights of its own.
So here we are, going around the world in some fantasy temporary retirement. There’s only one (for now) thing distorted with this picture: We’re toting a 3 1/2 year old.
He’s been a great sport so far—sleeping better than us on planes and trains, and oblivious to time changes. He may not “get it,” though, and sometimes asks about a faraway sandbox, or when we’re going home. He misses his playmates. He carries his baseball glove around as if he yearns for Italy to suddenly embrace that sport and, then, himself. But that prop here elicits more stares than smiles.
He’s hard work. And some of us aren’t used to 24/7 parenting (he’d likely say the same thing). Yet he spots lizards and slugs where we see only a sculpture, and he’s picking up Italian like the rest of us do—through food, friends, and faking it.
He may not remember much of this trip; certainly my remaining images from being three are more formed by family photos and stories than actual recollection. I felt downright guilty when, in Lucca, he began to chase after other children on the sidewalks. They just don’t do that kind of thing in Italy, although the children (and mothers) were quite understanding. It had been days since the sun had shined—or he’d played with little people—and they could see it in his eyes.
Yet when I think back to his first trip to the ocean, to Ixtapa, Mexico, on his first birthday, travelling with children seems right again. He could barely walk, never mind that he was strong (willed) as a bull. And he loved that ocean. Something awakened. He attacked the water like a salmon swimming upstream; salt and sand in his face only strengthened his resolve. And as for waves, well, he had no fear of drowning and saw them as mere rides on a playground.
He’s a good inspiration that way, since the waves are everywhere. I do wish he had a better idea of where we’re going, and why. But then I’d want him to explain it to me. And at this point, perhaps the point is not knowing.
So here we are, going around the world in some fantasy temporary retirement. There’s only one (for now) thing distorted with this picture: We’re toting a 3 1/2 year old.
He’s been a great sport so far—sleeping better than us on planes and trains, and oblivious to time changes. He may not “get it,” though, and sometimes asks about a faraway sandbox, or when we’re going home. He misses his playmates. He carries his baseball glove around as if he yearns for Italy to suddenly embrace that sport and, then, himself. But that prop here elicits more stares than smiles
He’s hard work. And some of us aren’t used to 24/7 parenting (he’d likely say the same thing). Yet he spots lizards and slugs where we see only a sculpture, and he’s picking up Italian like the rest of us do—through food, friends, and faking it.
He may not remember much of this trip; certainly my remaining images from being three are more formed by family photos and stories than actual recollection. I felt downright guilty when, in Lucca, he began to chase after other children on the sidewalks. They just don’t do that kind of thing in Italy, although the children (and mothers) were quite understanding. It had been days since the sun had shined—or he’d played with little people—and they could see it in his eyes.
Yet when I think back to his first trip to the ocean, to Ixtapa, Mexico, on his first birthday, travelling with children seems right again. He could barely walk, never mind that he was strong (willed) as a bull. And he loved that ocean. Something awakened. He attacked the water like a salmon swimming upstream; salt and sand in his face only strengthened his resolve. And as for waves, well, he had no fear of drowning and saw them as mere rides on a playground.
He’s a good inspiration that way, since the waves are everywhere. I do wish he had a better idea of where we’re going, and why. But then I’d want him to explain it to me. And at this point, perhaps the point is not knowing.
We could go on and on about the challenges of international technology and connectivity—and we have before.
But for now, check out this sculpture of adaptors. And consider that mastering them was nothing compared to getting e-mail hooked up. (Which was nothing compared to the fact a lightning bolt that shook our stone house blew out phone service for more than week.)
We could go on and on about the challenges of international technology and connectivity—and we have before.
But for now, check out this sculpture of adaptors. And consider that mastering them was nothing compared to getting e-mail hooked up. (Which was nothing compared to the fact a lightning bolt that shook our stone house blew out phone service for more than week.)
Lucca is this area’s sparkling center, packed with wealth and style inside its mammoth walls, and showing fewer small-town overtones than most of the many villages in the Garfagnana.
We spent a few days there—taking a break from watching the clouds. The rain falls there too, but one’s spirits are brightened considerably by the city’s many inviting diversions and timeless sights.
1 kid, 5 islands, 69 days
Here's my son’s blog from an '08/09 BreakAway in the Caribbean.
1 planet, countless cultures, 120 days
In 00/01, when the internet was a pup, I went RTW and posted these words and pics en route.
