Years ago, I sauntered through Viareggio on a dreary fall day. The place was a ghosttown—so deep into its hibernation that the term “life support” came to mind. There was an empty shabbiness that suggested get-outa-here fast!  But also a fading stateliness and Coney-Island patina that evoked (and promised) brighter days.

Mamma mia, what a little sun and heat can do! This time, the hot winds had whisked the ghosts away. And the early summer frenzy became more palpable by the minute. There must be one million beach umbrellas in Viareggio. And based on their bright, perfect symmetry alone, I’m guessing as many warm bodies will be chilling under them by July.

• Beach clubbing

No doubt night clubs happen soon too, but the cool thing to do is check into a beach club, get escorted to your amenities (3 chairs, one little table, one big umbrella for about $35 per day). Our club, The Excelsior, also offered changing rooms, swimming pools, languid lifeguards, and a cheerful bar with chirpy help and surprisingly fine fare.

• I mean, is there any bad food in Italy?

This beach stretches for, oh, about 30 miles. And in Viareggio alone, there must be hundreds of beach clubs—to match the hundreds of hotels.  On Day 1, each club’s lifeguards agreed that a red flag (high seas) and yellow flag (riptides) was in order.

Okay, the surf was up. But after a few dips in the water—in which one must walk for a few futbol fields before it reaches your shoulders—I sensed a conspiracy.  After all, any time a “swimmer” got out to knee depth, the lifeguard would slowly rise from his comfie chair and yell you closer to shore.

Then, they’d go quickly back to their tête-à-tête, fishing-net-fixing, or cigarette rolling. Another thing they didn’t like: If those “riptides” (or frisbee games) moved you to another guard’s beach, he’d call you to his chair, look up from his cigarette, and sternly state, “Your beach is over there!” Perfect English. How did he know?

Anyway, one soon learns to mostly ignore the salvataggio, as they do you. In fact, it became impossible to discern which ones were actually working and which were simply enjoying the day.  If there are job openings, I aim to brush up on my strokes.

• Vendors, vendors, everywhere

Like most of Europe, Italy remains pretty provincial with only a tiny minority population of immigrants. That said, it’s possible that all 4 million of them were on our beach selling sunglasses, imported thingies, cheap jewelry, and various shtuff.

The coconut man had a chant that brought back Caribbean memories, and the umbrella man’s operatic tenor and multi-lingual song would make Pavarotti proud. Otherwise, I played deaf and they left me alone, although I did succumb to the magic fingers of a zenny Asian lady’s foot massage—the best 10-Euro value ever.

So while most were pesty as mosquitoes, a few simply made the setting more sweet. And while beaches from Mexico to Grenada have tried to sweep away random renegade peddlers, Italy doesn’t seem to be much into enforcement of anything  (except, perhaps, Catholic hierarchies).

Moreover, when the merchants would gather under an umbrella (for free), take a break, and laugh in about 55 languages, I couldn’t help wondering if they were snickering at me.

Ha, ha ha! Stoic white boy probably paid more to spend two days here than we make in a year, but in a month, he’ll be back in frigid Minnesota, and we’ll still be on the beach!”

• Good time had by all

If you want to make your kids happy—and not work too hard at it—go to the beach. Our gaggle of 5 ran and splashed, played soccer, built castles, and exhausted themselves to the point of near-coma before sundown. Bellisimo!

This allowed some adults to sneak away to one of Viareggio’s best eateries (as per TripAdvisor) where the tourist-foodie’s best phrase, “Mangia bene, spende poco” was redefined yet again. And when we were the last lingering table, Luca (the ubiquitous chef and proprietor) paid us a visit, refused most of our tip (“You silly Americans!”), and sent us home with a bottle of chilled house Prosecco.

And to think some on TripAdvisor describe him as surly. Twinkle, twinkle, little star; what you say is what you are!

On the other end of the spending spectrum, we splurged on the hotel. When you want a seaside room for four and another for five—near each other, with a view, breakfast and rooftop pool—it is not easy to find.  Unless you follow the stars.  All the way up to *****!  Of course, this kind of indulgence doesn’t happen often for BreakAway families.  Sunny Viareggio may be once in a lifetime.

But ain’t life grand when you chase a complex vision, throw cash to the salty wind, and get more than you bargained for?

My kids are angels. Usually. But being kids, they’re often little devils too. Thus parenthood survival often requires more than patience; it also calls for the occasional manipulating, bribing and hiding—as in, hiding the truth. They’ll find out soon enough, right?

This list is far from complete.  But now that we’ve been here 6 days, here are 11 suggestions on how to sneak your offspring to a foreign place without scaring them away before you even land…

Don’t tell the kids about…

• Time zone changes. We’ll move the clocks ahead 7 hours when we arrive in Italy—and it may take a week (or 2) before your body understands. Your brain never will.
• Flight funk. When you’re a kid, flying is fun. For an hour or two. Then you grow up fast, and the body aches, the stomach churns, and the legs won’t fit (just like your carry-on).
• Language barriers. When we visit Denmark and Sweden, most people can speak English—can; we’ll see if they will.  In Italy? Few do—so you’ll have to learn some Italian. Or do like they do:  speak with your hands.
• Junk food. Sure, they have it here, but with different names. Tell them they won’t like it, or that the label says “Made with boar guts.” Oh and by the way, there are no hot dogs, hamburgers, or Subways. (Not to worry: Pizza is omnipresent.)
• Boars. They’re here. People eat them. And by the way, there are quite a few running around in the woods right below our casa. Hear that grunting noise? That’s not the honeymooners next door.
• Blood sausage. They eat that, too. And you just did! It’s been on every salami sampler plate, and you don’t want to know how it’s made!
• Whole foods. Tiny birds are a delicacy—and served with the head attached. Most fish comes plated whole (you’ll learn to filet); on the coast, they eat whole tiny fish in one bite. And that big roasted head at the rosticceria? Is it a pig? A boar? Or a kid who misbehaved?!
• Dining protocol. Breakfast barely exists. Lunch is late and lasts 2-4 hours. Dinner is way after 8 and can last even longer. And tomorrow morning, we’ll get up and do it all over again.
• TV. Most of our temporary residences have none. And if they do? You won’t underword a stand it says. See: Language barriers.
• Digital sabbatical. That’s right: No texting; we didn’t fly to Europe to stare at 2” screens with 2-syllable communiques. Allowed, maybe: Photos, translation help, music.
• Music mix-up. They play lots of bad American 80s music here, just like home. They also play zippy Italian pop. And lots and lots of opera—O Sole Mio!

To paraphrase our good friend Garrison Keillor, “It’s been a pretty quiet day in Barga, Toscana.”  The sun rose early.  The stalls of the Saturday market were stocked and rigged.  And here and there, in the narrow sidestreets and jagged corners, a little action occurred, though most locals wouldn’t notice it.

• Sabato market

We lived for months on these streets many moons ago, and the loud trucks made Saturday mornings restless, yet exhilarating.  Not much has changed.  The Rosticceria truck still has cranky ladies that make the best porketta ever.  Fresh seafood from Viareggio swims in.  And you can buy bras, shrooms, or socks.  Cheap, yet priceless.

• First day of summer

Schoooooooooool’s out for summer!  Round here that seems to mean one thing mostly:  The water war that began yesterday on the last day of school continued all day today.  In the streets of Barga, NO ONE was safe.  Naturally, my kids got involved, and brought the game home to Sommocolonia. The upshot?  Everyone gets wet!

• Gaggles of teens

God bless ‘em.  Those elder waterwar kids seem to be digitally free mostly, and prefer to hang out in large crowds til the last bus takes them home.  Today, they were noisy, obtrusive, obnoxious, and cute as kids can be.  Some of them took a fancy to my ‘Merrkun offspring.  Which is to say there was no stink-eye, only googlies.

• Cast your cares…

The hot spot in Barga is Scacciaguai, which means “cast your cares to the wind,“ though we preferred to pronounce it Sacajawea, until we went there, and then we were just numb and happy.  Chestnut pasta?  Check.  Salmon in pastry with tomato pesto?  Si.  Tuscan sushi with risotto for rice and 6 kinds of seafood on one platter for 6 Euro?  Perfetto!  TripAdvisor:  Take note!

• The cool pool

Ah, summer.  Barga knows how to make the most of it at their sparkling pool with mountain views, Prosecco on tap, and a staff that asks, “May I help you?” rather than, “Stop running or I call the cops!”  We can dump the kids there—and a soccer field, ping-pong table, and melone con proscuitto await.  (We’ll pick them up next Thursday.)

It’s too easy, sometimes, for those of us who love long-term travel to have our anticipation tempered by memories of concussions, train strikes, and mean-ass border police.  This time?  Piece of cake.  Or should I say dolce.

The Tuscans are still among the sweetest people on earth.  And for a short while, our job is to smile back and eat their cake.

Dorothy Parker’s notorious quote,

I hate writing, but I love having written,” adapts well to, “I hate traveling, but I love being there.”

On this Tuscan travel adventure, the first leg of a lite-gonzo Euro tour, the cast includes our family of four, my wife’s brother and his wife, and three of their kids. That’s five kids, four adults, and enough baggage to sink an aircraft—all traversing for 20+ hours from MSP to deep Tuscany.

The upside includes camaraderie and commiseration through jammed airports, plastic food, and a sleepless night that takes you seven hours into the future. At moments you might ask yourself, “Is this hell?”  No, it’s just modern-day travel.  But landing—at last!—in bella Italia with giddy kids and a glass of vino transforms everything.

In fact, you might now ask, “Is this heaven?” No, It’s Italy! And it’s enough to make you believe again.

• Flights of frenzy

Back in the day (or was it once upon a time?) flying was posh and plush. My first flight as a 6-year-old took me and my older brother, sans adults, from Sioux Falls, SD to California to visit an aunt. Never mind my youth; those flight attendants were gorgeous, and showered us with flirtiness, playing cards and treats.

I fell in love with one; my brother—the other.

I can still see her face, and, uh, the way she fit into her tight little “stewardess” uni.  While maybe not my first true love, she certainly gave me my first wings. And I’ve wanted to fly ever since.  But she’s retired, it appears. And her replacement is underpaid, overworked, and surly—and hip-checks you with her ample carcass when she waddles down the aisle.

Yep, the airlines went bankrupt, got bailed out by the government, slashed their staff’s wages, and now make billions making us uncomfortable.  How did $500 flights become $1,500 flights? That’s how.  And where did the wink and a smile go? Don’t ask; just remember that if you can get past those gnarly gates, a nirvana may await.

• Mission:  La famiglia

My nirvana waits no more: It’s here.  Our first Mission is to simply lounge in Italy with 2 grandparents for whom the vision of an Italian family reunion has finally become a reality.  And once the wine washes away the jet-lag, a little bella Italia and famiglia soothes the soul like fresh pane soothes the stomach.

I’ve had the good fortune of spending months, over four trips, in Italy. But this time, I don’t need guidebooks, Rome, Venice, or to discover latest, best trattoria. No, the goals are much simpler. Unplug—and try to make the kids to the same. Yet let go of the kids—and let them get lost in this mountain village (Sommocolonia), where the Roman road leads to Barge below, and another (better?) way of life.

Soak in the culture, the nature, the warmth and the light. Hang with old friends, and make some new.  Now that there has become here, the goal is just to Be Here. That’s a blessing.  And that’s enough.  Because Italy is even more enchanting than its superlative reputation.  And la dolce vita tastes sweeter every time.

The Literary Committte had bigger topics, and the family blender was on puree.  But the day came down to a cat.  She put up with the transfer like a real gamer, but you could see in her eyes a certain displeasure.  I blame myself.  She knew the that she was moving, but I could have done better explaining.  My bad.

The daughter cried, of course, upon finding an empty house after school.  I keep checking for Ms. Feline around corners, though of course she’s not there, and God knows we’ve had our kerfuffles.  But she’s away.  Now we go too.  And so we’re all crawling around moving stuff from piles into receptacles and none of us is really any the wiser.

That’s why we must go:  Wisdom.  From family, roots, European culture, plants, cats, people, and even Venus crossing the sun.  Daisy will understand.  Maybe we will too.

• DAISY:  Thanks for understanding.  Be a comfort to your temporary owners and enjoy the respite from your ordinary life.
• ITALY:  See you in a few hours. Thanks for the invitation.  Get us out of here before we go cat-sh*t.

Bless their hearts; all our friends, colleagues, and community cronies have a question or 5 about our impending trip.  In fact, they’re usually the same ones over and over—something like this…

All packed up yet?”

• This trite query actually begins months before take-off, and provides a precursor to the most popular (and equally vacuous) question upon return:  “What was your favorite place?”  Both warrant a full-on scream, but a simple “No!” or “Stockholm!” will do.

Are you really going to miss out on…?”

• Sports enthusiast parents especially bark about this, as if to suggest that my young athletes will never play again if they miss this summer’s traveling team, camp, shooting clinic, team picnic, and more, more, more.  Problem?  Not.  But I resist rebutting, “Are you really going to stay hog-tied to sports forever?”  Or, “Doesn’t your future Magic Johnson deserve a break?”

Who’s taking care of…?”

• Good questions, indeed—that serve to soothe little, and amp up stress lots.  Fortunately, an answer always emerges, eventually:  A friend, a neighbor, a landscaper, a house-sitter, a contractor, a lawn-mower, and a whole team of good people.

Why aren’t you going to …?”

• Rome?  Been there, done that.  Paris?  Not even near our path.  Norway?  Too hard to get to the amazing places (with kids who have limited patience); and it’s perhaps the most expensive country in Europe.  Hey, our itinerary makes sense—to us.  As did yours when you went to Rome, Paris, or …

Anything I can do to help?”

• Now THAT one is music to my ears.  While one must actualize ambitious journeys alone, it does take a village to get out of town.  Thanks to all those who help and will help—even if you don’t know it yet.

You’ll be hearing from us soon!

Watching my daughter’s 3^rd grade “Field Day” provided 11 metaphors for the packing, purchasing, and panic that were running through my mind while the children ran events on the playground.

With only five days until take-off, one needs a bucket of aphorisms and upselling self-talk to keep from falling like a tweenie in a gunny-sack race…

• You won’t win every race, so just do your best.
• Others will get in your way, so move around them (or mow them over).
• If you fall down hard and can’t get up, take advantage:  Take a nap.
• If the anticipation of the race makes you sleepless, maybe you’re trying (or thinking) too much.
• Remember:  This is a race (that will end), not life or death; the dust will settle—and we’ll all return to dust someday.
• If dizzy and winded, it’s okay to sit a spell and remember the long haul.
• If parents, teachers, and colleagues disapprove of your trip or tactics, ignore them and move on like you have the rest of your life.
• Since travel unfolds like a long relay race, choose good partners who won’t drop the baton.
• The crowd will get noisy and disruptive, but march (and sprint) to your own drummer.
• If you fall while doing the gunny-sack race, ask yourself: Why am I hopping in a gunny-sack—and what is a “gunny,” anyway?
• To minimize disappointment or dehydration, know how to make lemonade.

You don’t want to think too much about $ when planning a BreakAway for four people. But you can’t ignore it either. And you’re guaranteed to have some snags get into your face. Today’s short list (which might confront any international traveler) features…

• Chips ahoy

I’m told that in much of Europe, and for sure Scandinavia (where we’ll be 3/5 of the time), credit cards have a chip. No swiping. American banks don’t like these chips—there’s a security risk (as usual), so this methodology may not take over here. But some merchants there will refuse your card and be unable to swipe—never mind that they are under obligation to take the card(and enter numbers by hand, if need be). This is classic, small-time Euro scaming: trying to obtain cash and avoid taxes. Cash is still king!

• Cash mash

How many countries use the Euro now, 27? (Soon, maybe less, right Greece?) So how odd, then, that my itinerary has only three countries—but appears to need three currencies (Italy’s Euro, Denmark’s kroner, Sweden’s kroner). What a pain in the butt.  But hey, it’s good for the kids’ math lessons!

• Budget, schmudget

This Family CFO oversees the trip’s budget. That’s like being a sherriff in the wild, wild west. 3 currencies? Unknown transporation needs? Gas prices over there? And best of all, the tip from a friend who just returned from Stockholm (our last destination):

My cousin and I had 2 appetizers and 2 glasses of wine…and the tab was $90.”

So I advise myself as I would any schemer:

Add up the biggies like planes and booked accommodations, then guesstimate a per diem, then add 10%, and hope to come under (but don’t bum out if that’s impossible).”

Then, adapt “It is what it is” into “It’ll cost what it costs” and let the chips (not swipes) fall (like your net worth) as they may.  DO NOT THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU ARE SPENDING (often) once you are living your dream. Dreams are dear.

• But do the math

Yet before you go, yes, see how things add up. Digest those numbers—no matter how many Rolaids it takes. Accept that some Italian restaurants will bring you “la tourista” menu with no prices on it (and walk out). Prepare for the espresso shop that sells you “bottled water” from their tap. Get ready for $20 beers (and just saying no).

When the dollar remains so weak and Europe’s prices can be steeper than Mont Blanc, just pay the man, the woman, and even the gypsy child who will somehow sneak her oily little fingers into your pocket and snatch your cashola.

Not to worry: They got money that comes out of machines over there. If, that is, the machine honors the swipe. And assuming you still have any left in your US bank account.

When the tough want to get going, tough sh*t happens. Murphy’s law? Conspiracy? Or just life? Minor disasters (that could stop your trip and ruin your day) come in many forms. Here are the latest three that impart reminders to take nothing for granted, especially a big trip prep…

• Strike 1…Weather woes. 3+” of rain fell last night, and a few more today. So bring on: Clogged gutters; wet basements; muddy messes; thunder all night that makes the 9-year-old wake everyone up; delayed soccer and baseball games with indeterminate reskeds.  The drought is over! Long live the flood!

• Strike 2… Work loads. The good news is this self-employed household has left the recessionary, debt-laden last three years behind, and income flows (though not floods) again. The bad news? Work = stress, responsibility, and travel that, this week, makes me a solo dad for 2 too-busy kids.  Help! Alice?

• Strike 3…Injury happens. My all-star son got hit with a baseball in the scaphoid (wristbone) two days ago. After pain, ice, and angst, the x-ray revealed only a bad bone bruise—in a place where a fracture often requires surgery. Lucky break, no break! But lady luck first was not fair, not nice, and threatened to blow the entire game plan.

The busy-ness of contemporary survival keeps most of us juggling glass balls too much of the time.  But rarely does it feel as fragile as when you just want to exit with style, grace and a passport.

Of all the challenges that a traveler must face, packing might be the most burdensome. Pack light—and you’ll regret having no heavy coat. Pack heavy—and you’ll schlep countless things you won’t need. In an attempt to avoid last-minute meltdowns, here’s the short list of beasts I’m wrestling with today…

11 Packing Quandaries

• Food. This one’s all about the kids. If they ain’t well-fed, they ain’t happy—and then nobody’s happy. Cram in about 555 granola bars and dried fruit bags. Visit overpriced snack stands often.
• Musical playthings. Beaches, bonfires, BreakAways: There’s no better time and place to play the guitar.  And the mini Martin makes sweet sound and straps on your back. Still, are we crazy? And what about harmonicas, djembes, and pianos.
• Sport. The young man needs to keep his arm in shape for more baseball when we get home. 2 gloves and 2 balls? But he also plans to play basketball in Copenhagen—and she needs a soccer ball and I need a frisbee. Duluth pack, anyone?
• Luggage limitations. Even the airlines can’t agree—no surprise there. So we face different rules and regs, while still have unrepaired damage from the last time the airline orangatuns got hold of our baggage.
• Ponchos. The last one wore out.  Yep, it just started leaking like cotton amid the nonstop storm that hit during last summer’s U2 concert. Can’t find a worthy replacement yet. And a poncho gets used for warmth, picnics, and more.
• Weather variations. Sunny Italy and then northern Denmark (by the sea) in June? Yes. Possibly 95 and scorching and then 45 with wet nor’easters? Yes. Bring layers, I guess.  Prepare to shop. Sweat. And shiver.
• Tech wreck. Just about every dang one of us needs a computer, phone, iPod, and (in a few cases) game device. Each comes with its own baggage, chargers, and risks. Welcome to the electronic age.
• Shoes. Ever since the heel shatter + surgery, my left foot must live on an orthotic insert—and in New Balance tennies. But what about those stylish Italians all around? That ravishing ristorante? The night at the opera, and the day at the beach?
• Cameras. The SLR with the uber-large lens is a must. So might be the little Lumix with the widescreen video recorder. The 4GS takes okay shots, but not always. Each of these requires chargers, batteries, cards. And that’s just my gear!
• Backpack(s). The small daypack for sightseeing has holes and rust. The larger carry-on option remains elusive. You could go nuts trying to find the perfect solution.
• Pillows. Just kidding, but sheesh—those 9-hour plane rides and unpredictable hotel beds make a guy miss his pillow already.

Oh well, you CAN go home again. And home looks pretty good right about now.

There’s no time to enjoy it, though—too much packing to do!