Wild Weather Wild Weather Wild Weather Wild Weather

11/18/00: Sommocolonia, Italy

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.

• Sommocolonia, Italy.

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.

Traveling with Children

11/17/00: Sommocolonia, Italy

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.

• Sommocolonia, Italy.

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.

Trying to Adapt

11/16/00: Sommocolonia, Italy

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.)

• Sommocolonia, Italy.

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.)

A Day in Lucca

11/14/00: Lucca, Italy

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.

• Lucca, Italy.

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.

The Way and the Light

11/11/00: Sommocolonia, Italy

Today, the sun actually shone for one whole day. (It’s otherwise been more like November in Minnesota.)

Sommocolonia’s church dates back to the 1100s. But it’s been around the chopping block a few times since then, including near-destruction on 12/26/44. On that day, in these streets, a Resistance army of many nationalities stopped the Nazis in their tracks. Repairs to the church—including the modern floor—help cement the generations and tell the stories.

Sommocolonia’s church dates back to the 1100s.  But it’s been around the chopping block a few times since then, including near-destruction on 12/26/44.  On that day, in these streets, a Resistance army of many nationalities stopped the Nazis in their tracks.  Repairs to the church—including the modern floor—help cement the generations and tell the stories.