25 years and counting

As most of you know, Sue and I celebrated our 25th anniversary on December 28th. There are a lot of things we feel blessed for, but it starts with our two exceptional kids, Chris and Miles. I'm sure some of you are tiring of our recent good fortune, but to be able to spend your 25th anniversary in Rome with the love of your life and your two grown children is more than we could hope for.  

During the day, we toured the Coliseum and Roman Forum, and had a pint at a Irish pub. We all then dressed up (relatively speaking), and went to a wonderful dinner in a restaurant that was built into the ruins of Teatro Pompeii. This also happened to be the place where Julius Caesar was assassinated - not bad. We capped off the evening at two separate wine bars - Sue and I ending the night reminiscing about how lucky our lives together have been. 

We are frequently told how hard we must have had it in the early days. Now, I wouldn't advise parenthood to most 20 year olds, but it never felt like a burden. We enjoyed every minute of our time with each other and with the kids. There are many paths through life, but we can't imagine a better way to spend 25 years than building a life and a family with your best friend. That, we would recommend to everyone. 

Chris and Miles gave us an incredible gift that brought us both to tears. They found five pictures that represented various stages of our life together and had an artist sketch each of them in an incredible "Ray and Sue" portfolio. Erica added to the emotional evening by giving us a wonderful photo of the five of us along with a beautifully personal letter. 

Day 1 of the next phase of our life together started with the same excitement as December 28, 1984. We don't know where we'll be in the future or what we'll be doing, but we do know "Sue and Ray" will continue to tackle the world together. 

Thank you for everyone's support and help in the last quarter century. 

Walk like an Italian

We don't know if this is Rome-specific or just the way any big city behaves, but we can't believe how rude people are in the everyday function of sharing a sidewalk. First off, they don't make eye contact... ever. I've grown a nice pair of sideburns and that isn't even enough to draw attention. But more upsetting is that they don't seem to surrender any part of the sidewalk to oncoming traffic. Three Italians could be walking arm-in-arm spanning the entire sidewalk and they would barely budge to let a sole pedestrian squeeze by without driving them into a wall.

After spending 3 months being the nice Canadians, with our overuse of the phrase "Scusi", and stepping into traffic rather than fight with oncoming Italedestrians (Italian pedestrians), we'd had enough. So this afternoon we set out for a walk with one rule - don't move an inch!

Miles would be proud of the shoulder checks I threw on men and women alike. Oh, I forgot to mention that Sue has found there is no chivalry in Italy. An oncoming woman gets even poorer treatment than her testosterone-filled counterpart.

So there we were, walking like Italians, bumping into everything we could. Sue's giggling almost gave us away but we succeeded in getting to our destinations without giving up any sidewalk. I admit that we changed the rules on the fly when the hefty nun approached, but other than that - bang, pow, kaboom!

When we returned home, we assessed the physical damage and agreed that we were lucky there were no nude spas in our future. Although... the bruised arms and shoulders might have distracted away from other parts of our anatomy.

Putting the ahh in Spa

On our way back from Strasbourg, France, we had a late flight out of a small German airport. The town, Baden-Baden, is known for its spas, so we decided to spend the afternoon at one of the more famous ones. This spa is nothing like anything I've seen in Canada. It had indoor and outdoor pools, jacuzzis, steam rooms, saunas, cold pools, loungers, etc. There was, however a catch; much of the spa was in a "clothes-free" section.

I know what you're thinking guys - I had the exact same concern that is running through your mind. What if "Raymond Jr" (RJ) doesn't cooperate and makes a spectacle out of me? Well, RJ and I talked it over and we agreed that since I couldn't wear my glasses , the risks were low, so we lowered our heart rate and entered the spa.

Armed with nothing more than a bright blue towel, we headed for a dimly lit sauna. The sauna was about half full with six people scattered around. It appeared that modesty lessens with age as the three 20-something women kept their towels wrapped around them, while the three 50 year olds, men and women, were giving every inch of their bodies the full sauna treatment.

As the afternoon progressed, I was getting used to seeing nude, fuzzy blobs, trying hard not to squint to bring them into focus.  Much nearer to 50 than I am to 20, I found I was getting pretty open about dropping my towel for some heat or a dip in the cold pool. Perhaps getting tired of the fuzzy blobs, RJ decided to retreat into his shell and give me a new problem to worry about.

On our last visit to one of the saunas, I heard a couple whisper to each other in English. It was the first English I had heard and my friendly instinct was to blurt out a "where are you guys from?". Fortunately I bit my tongue and decided not to engage the naked couple in some chit chat. We (RJ and I), knew we weren't putting our best foot forward.

Maybe it's because we're too old to go skinny dipping down at the old pond. Or maybe we're just old enough to appreciate the freedom of it all.  But I must say, Sue and I had a wonderfully relaxing afternoon. Sue embraced the whole environment and wasn't the least bit inhibited or distracted by her spa-mates  It must be her German heritage. It's a shame we'll have to leave the continent to do it again. 

At the end of the day, I was proud of how RJ behaved and I think he was proud of me.

(sorry, no pictures of this one :) )

Best meal in Italy

We just came back from our best meal yet in Italy. It started with wonderful service, where you feel like that they aren't happy until you're happy - not a very common feeling in Rome. The sauce on our meal was the most flavourful we have had. While we both ordered a different dish, each of us was raving about the meal and couldn't think of a comparable dinner we had anywhere else. The bread was wonderfully flavoured with garlic and we used it to sop up every last drop of the sauce. The waiter had a genuine interest in our Canadian roots and we promised we'd be back again.

Did I mention it was an Indian restaurant? 

Where's the Pope?

Almost 3 months in Rome and we finally made it to a Sunday appearance by the Pope at St. Peter's square. The place was packed with people, balloons, signs, flags and cameras. I lost count but there were literally thousands of people there. The formation was a little odd with the bulk of the crowd standing off to the side not facing St. Peter's Basilica at all. Counting on the wisdom of the masses we funneled into our spot looking onto a non-descript building. I scanned the crowd and strained to read the signs and large banners. They all just proudly stated the parish they were from. Some came with balloons or logo'ed umbrellas to be noticed. I didn't see any protestors or signs of dissent. I schemed aloud, much to Sue's embarrassment, that we should fill a dozen condoms with helium and float them above the crowd. I was brought back in line and continued staring toward the building waiting for the stroke of noon, when the Pope would appear. The crowd started to stir when a dark dressed man appeared at a simple window and hung a velvety pennant out the window. Ten minutes till showtime.

Finally, someone dressed all in white appeared at the window. While no one in the square was close enough to confirm it was the Pope, we all played along. We watched the white blur wave at us and we all waved back in excitement. I was surprised to hear the Pope actually address the audience. I was quite satisfied with the wave, but he spoke for 15 minutes, mainly in Italian and didn't appear to say anything controversial. There would be no revisions of doctrine today.
As the thousands turned to leave, we realized that there were only a handful of exits in this massive square. Again, a little too loud for Sue's liking, I pronounced, "It is easier for a camel to walk through the eye of a needle, than for a man to leave St. Peter's square."

(enlarged by CSI team)

Di Paolo pilgrimage

Yesterday, I decided to brave the 5 1/2 hour journey each way to visit our ancestral roots in San Vito, a small village on the east coast of Italy. I convinced Sue that this pilgrimage was only mandatory for "blood" and set off on my own.
Being my first solo journey in Italy, the anticipation was equal to the fear that I would wind up on the wrong coast or even the wrong country. I've become somewhat... ok, heavily reliant on Sue's broken Italian and smile that got us out of other jams.
Starting at 7:30am and with only a couple of periods of anxiety centered around the fact that San Vito goes by at least three names, I arrived in the town of my forefathers around 1pm - yes, everyone has forefathers. My parents warned me that it was "up a hill" but hills seem bigger in Italy... and old people seem smaller. It took a full hour of climbing, walking at a brisk North American pace, and asking my one well rehearsed phrase, "Dove cimitero?" - where's the cemetary.
It seems obvious now that memorizing a two word phrase isn't the hard part of communication. Understanding the Italian response was the important and impossible task. I settled on just understanding the first direction provided knowing I would ask another small old person for the next step. I felt like a baseball player asking the coach at each base how to get to the next base, never knowing whether you'd find home plate (a completely inappropriate analogy since our family has never successfully hit a baseball).

The cemetery was small but beautiful with large family mausoleums and single person marble tombs. It seemed far more personal compared with the vast cemeteries I'm used to.
After only five minutes of searching I came upon the Di Paolo mausoleum. There was about six Di Paolo's resting there with a small picture of each. I can't say any of the pictures reminded me of my Dad's photos of our great grandparents, but I've been in Italy a long time and there's always something a little familiar about older Italians.
I took some pictures and spent some time bonding with previous generations before moving on to peruse the rest of the cemetery.

D'Allesandro, Mancini, Bianchi, Di Paolo, Rossi, ... Wait a minute, another Di Paolo mausoleum!
With more trepidation than at the first one, I peered into the vault. The pictures resonated as much or as little as the first Di Paolo discovery. Now, do I go through the same routine as I did on Di Paolo 'A'? What if Di Paolo 'B' was the real thing and Di Paolo A was an imposter? Not wanting to piss off the dead, I took my pictures and reconnected with Di Paolo B.

Having both bases covered, I felt good about myself and moved on. But right you are, there are three bases in my ill conceived baseball analogy.
As I entered Di Paolo C, all old Italians started to look alike. I made a mental note to ask for some first names before going on an Alex Haley-like journey again. I did an abbreviated ritual at Di Paolo C before retreating, a little shaken up.

On the way out of the cemetery, I noticed there were public washrooms. If I paid any attention to my bowels back home, and I sure as hell did, I was now completely obsessed with emptying my system every chance I got. In Italy, you never know how long you have to wait for your next usable toilette. There was also something profound about squatting over the same seatless toilet as my relatives surely had, as you fish old kleenex out of your pockets.
On my walk back to the train station, I came across a little church that I'm sure was frequented by generations of Di Paolo's. I can only imagine the penances that were handed down to Di Paolo children at this confessional, especially to little Michel Di Paolo who was a handful.

I also found proof that the Di Paolo clan still has a tremendous impact on the village of San Vito. Without my namesakes in town, it would be virtually impossible for the villagers to acquire high end Italian footware. Di Paolo Calzature was closed for the day otherwise I might have come home with some new Mephisto's.

On the way back to the train, I walked along the San Vito Marina with waves crashing onto the sandy beach. I did a pathetic attempt to skip stones like I'm sure my young ancestors did. All of a sudden the Burlington beachstrip didn't feel that far away.
After an uneventful journey home, I was back in Rome by 10pm feeling more connected to my Italian heritage and confident that the ghosts of three Di Paolo families were having an animated debate about who I was really related to.

Buon appetito

What's that Sue, you have something to say?

Andrea and Ray

One of our objectives on this trip is to enhance our culinary abilities.  Ray is already quite adept with cooking but as my family will attest to, I could do with some more training.  Without spending a week in an old farmhouse in Tuscany and living with a group of 8 in the chef's home, it was very difficult to find cooking classes for tourists (ie. not training to be a "real" chef).  I finally found Andrea offering lessons in a little restaurant in our favourite neighborhood of Trastevere.  When I contacted Andrea for information, I was envisioning a cute blond girl from North America giving cooking lessons in Italy.  As it turns out, Andrea is a gorgeous young Roman man (see picture of Andrea and Ray).  His girlfriend, however, is a cute blond from US who works with him.  Andrea portrayed the exact image I have a young Italian man.  He has long dark hair, he has been in the "family" restaurant business his entire life, he went off to university and got a degree in business and tried the finance industry and then at the young age of 30, decided that this was not what he loved and came back to the restaurant.  He has found his passion in being a chef and a teacher.  Further more, he speaks with such passion and his voice gradually gets louder the more passionate he gets on a subject - don't ask him why he doesn't use more garlic!  He is a gentle soul yet he shouted at an 80 year old couple who had parked their car "incorrectly" and he couldn't get his scooter out.  Don't mess with Italians on the road. 

We have returned to Andrea's class twice now and we are meeting him and his girlfriend at a wine bar (likely at around 2:00am one night when he gets off work).  We have learned many little tips that will ease our, or should I say 'my', cooking stresses.  Did you know that it is the easily removed "heart" of garlic that gives you indigestion?

Roberto and Ray

We also attended another cooking class when we were in Florence but nowhere near as fun and personal as Andrea's class, even though our Chef, Roberto, was a gorgeous dark haired passionate Tuscan (see picture of Roberto and Ray).  We now know the qualifications to become a chef in Italy.

Buon appetito,
Sue

The sun showing off

I'll let the picture do the talking.
A sunset over the river in Florence (click to enlarge).

Sue and I captured this photo and many more like it on our way to a cooking class in Florence. When we got to the class and met the chef, I mentioned the phenomenal sunset we just saw over the river.  As I instinctively went for my camera to show him, he said in a very patient voice, "I've seen it".
I guess you can get used to anything.

People-watching in Tuscany

While spending almost a week in the internet-deprived yet still beautiful region of Tuscany, we sat in an outdoor wine bar/cafe in the main piazza in Siena. If you've never been, it's a huge square that transforms into a horserace twice a year. While there were no horses to watch, observing the locals was nearly as fun.

• We watched groups of older men, wearing Rat Pack hats, passionately talking about something. I'm not sure I see men huddled in Canada without drawing suspicion.
• Women appear to have skipped their 30's. Lots of pretty 20-somethings, then it appears that life and the sun have beaten them and their skin into their 50's. I haven't given the same scrutiny to men, but it's probably the same.
• Men walking arm-in-arm. It's actually quite touching and sad that such forms of male bonding would only garner stares in North America. I was one of the few staring in Italy.
• Shiny, puffy coats are in. I hope they remain a European phenomenon.
• My god, they smoke a lot. I haven't seen so many people rolling their own cigarettes since me and Mike got paid a nickel a cigarette in the 70's.
• Bleached blond italians can legally be used as a flotation device. Their botoxed lips alone have been known to save many a drowning man. Actually, we are physically startled each time we see such a creature.
• Pleasantries become arguments which become shouting matches which become warm embraces, and that's all in the time it takes to sample and reject the tasteless crusty bread.
• With more determination than I know, an old Italian man shuffles across the piazza one inch at a time. 
• Three kids play with a soccer ball and frankly I'm not impressed with their ball control.

Several times throughout our people-watching, loud explosions that sounded like canons went off in the square. Loud enough to shake our table and to startle Sue... and scare me. The locals didn't even react. When we asked the waitress what the sound was, she simply said, "I don't know, it hasn't happened before".  Whatever it was, it wasn't sufficient to stop the Italians from being Italian.

You say ecstasy, I say potato

The photo is of a beautiful Bernini sculture called "The Ecstasy of St. Theresa". Bernini was to Michelangelo what Jacqueline Smith was to Farah Fawcett. Both exceptional, but we only talk about Farah now.

In case you thought the church was somehow anti-sex, here is St. Theresa's own description of her "ecstasy" that Bernini captured in his statue:

I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it. It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I am lying.

I don't need to add anything, do I?

Now that I understand the bar for sainthood, I would like to nominate Danielle Steele for beatification.

Bravo St. Theresa, bravo.

9 1/2 weeks

No, this isn't about the Oscar-worthy performance of Kim Basinger. Our Roman Adventure is now 9 1/2 weeks old. But I am happy to talk about Kim anytime, off-the-record.

While sipping yet another glass of wine overlooking a little village waterfall, we jotted down some of the things we miss back home and some of the things we know we'll miss when we leave Rome. Here's a sampling..

Things we miss from home:

• Family and friends - Whew, got that one out of the way. 
• Space - There are obvious things like our big shower (although I've now mastered the semi-erotic art of showering without a shower curtain). But we also miss space on the sidewalk when you're walking, or the difference between driving alone in a car and fighting for elbow room in a packed bus. Being 3 inches from a guy who doesn't believe in deodorant will help you define your own limits on personal space. And there aren't enough beautiful women (Sue excepted) riding public transport to tip the balance against space. 
• A big cup of coffee - Unlike everything else here which is laid back, drinking "cafe" or espresso is more like the ritual of taking your vitamins - 30 seconds done standing up.  We really miss sitting at the Heuther Cafe nursing a Large Hazelnut free-trade coffee for 45 minutes.
• A daily sense of accomplishment - Maybe you retirees can relate. We miss looking back on a day impressed with what we accomplished. There are some days when showering was the toughest thing I tackled (see previous comment about no shower curtains).
• A sense of belonging - I'm not talking cosmically, just not always feeling like a tourist. You can almost see their eyes glaze over when Italians realize you're not a local. We miss being locals. 
• International foods - We can probably walk to 500 restaurants, but 490 of them serve the same menu. I'm sure true Romans know the difference between Luigi's Penne Carbonara and Mama Enzo's Carbonara, but would it kill you to let a Thai restaurant into the neighbourhood! You wouldn't believe how excited we were to find a pita place, complete with baklava. 
• Peace and quiet - When we do our little day trips to the Italian villages, we are struck by how quiet it is. We miss sitting on our deck with just the wind and the birds... and those damn dogs next door (Serenity Now, Serenity Now).

Things we'll miss about Rome:

• Pedestrian lifestyle - We love walking everywhere. And once you don't have a car as a crutch, a 45 minute jaunt feels normal, rather than the "exercise" it feels like at home.
• The language. This is where Sue and I differ (along with her love of our 4 flights of stairs), but she will definitely miss hearing and speaking Italian. It just shows what a positive attitude will do. I'm happy to wait it out. 
• The flow of wine. It's not that wine is more accessible in Rome, but it just feels right. It's like eating hummus in Israel or Tim Hortons in Canada. 
• Meeting new people. We'll miss going to Irish pubs and meeting other English tourists. Or going to Ireland and meeting friendly locals. Everyone has an interesting story to tell. We've been going to the Duke of Wellington in Waterloo for years and I don't think we've had one meaningful conversation with a stranger - it's just not done... but maybe we'll try next time.
• Ease of travel. You can catch a $50 flight to half a dozen different cultures. Taking off to another country for the weekend is easily done here. 
• Living simply. While this one is completely in our control, something tells me we'll quickly fall back into our 2 car, 3 baths, 3 TV, PVR existence. 

Our next deep conversation over wine will tackle what we can do to keep the good of Rome when we return home. In the meantime, we'll keep skyping friends and family and eating pasta. No... we're not complaining.

Italian dogs

Those who know me well were expecting this post eventually. Dogs also bark in Italy.

We were having a great city experience, getting used to sounds of cars, scooters, maintenance workers, pigeons, and angry Italians. And then it started. The deep woofing sound of a large dog. It would start in the morning and continue throughout the day. The odd midnight barking session was also thrown in. You might be surprised to know that I'm not concerned about my own sanity - I've matured. But I read a very interesting article on the impact of pets on the environment - http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg20427311.600-how-green-is-your-pet.html. Apparently they rank up there with SUVs as the big sinners against Al Gore's earth. Every time I heard a woof, a tear welled up for the poor polar bear. With every howl, another island in the south Pacific sunk. It's not that I hate dogs, it's that I love David Suzuki more.

I am sure the dog next door would have a lesser impact on the environment if it moves a couple of kilometers down the road.

Our Irish pilgrimage

Ireland, where do I start? From the moment we got in the cab and checked into the hotel, we were greeted by the friendliest people you can imagine. Our first night in Dublin was spent at a "traditional Irish house party". Of course, it was a tourist's version, but stlll a lot of fun. For those who have seen the movie "Once" that we've been evangelizing for a couple of years, they have a house party scene where friends gather and everyone is expected to sing, dance or otherwise entertain the group. We simulated this pretty well. I shocked Sue by volunteering for the Irish dancing portion of the night. Sue shocked me back by not volunteering along with me. Two members of the audience also got up and sang solo for the group which was very authentic.

We did the mandatory Guinness brewery and Jameson distillery tours in Dublin and of course hit a good sampling of pubs with Irish music. Although after they mixed in two Simon Garfunkel songs and a John Denver song, we realized that the musicians were likely tired of singing Molly Malone ("Alive, alive oh!") and other classics. There wasn't a Danny Boy in sight. Unlike Rome where they would sell out their Nona for a buck, the Irish were more discerning in what they played.

As great as Dublin was, we set off for the authentic part of our Irish trip. We rented a Mini, complete with manual transmission and headed 3 hours across country to Galway Bay. When offered an automatic car for 10 Euro more, Sue was quick to point out that stickshifting with your left hand was part of the adventure. I agreed and didn't regret it until the first roundabout only a few hundred meters into the journey. Actually, we did great driving. As always, it was the tension around navigating and missing exits that caused the volume inside the car to rise. We were quite smug in our ability to drive a standard on the "wrong" side of the road.

Checking into a B&B in Galway was the first indication we were about to experience authentic Ireland. As we sat in our first pub, Tig Coulis, and listened to traditional Irish music, Sue made a smiling comment to the 60 year old local sitting next to us at the bar. Well, he lit up like a molotov cocktail and starting telling us his life story. Ok, he wasn't exactly making eye contact with me, but in case I haven't mentioned it before, Sue is big with the over 60 crowd. It's always fun to hear an interesting memoir over a free Guinness courtesy of the local and Sue's smile.

The next day we headed out for a driving tour of the countryside (Connemara). We were met immediately by a rugged beauty dotted with sheep. The countryside is rocky the way Saskatchewan is flat. Clearly no fruit or vegetable would grow on this land, but for some reason, blue and red sheep roamed quite free. Ok, they weren't actually blue sheep, but they were all spray painted with colourful spots. We were told later that the colour let the farmer spot his sheep in the midst of a rocky countryside. Add sheep farmer to the list of jobs off limits to the colour blind.

The country is also where the driving got more interesting. The roads were very narrow, even for a Mini, and it was fairly common to hear Sue scream as the brush rubbed up against the left side of the car while I veered away from the center line. And yes, when Sue took over the driving, I screamed at a slightly higher pitch than she had.

Nearing the end of our 5 hour countryside tour, we decided to cap off our Sunday drive with a stop at a small village pub for a pint of Guinness with the locals. When we entered, we found a couple of dozen 22 year olds on day three of a Stag for one of boys. They had been drinking since Friday evening but couldn't have been friendlier. Instead of keeping to themselves, they starting chatting with us, asking about our story. It turned out two of the guys were heading to Toronto in December to look for work. I've never heard Toronto called "brilliant" so many times. The recession has really hit Ireland hard, and I couldn't help but think we were reliving a bygone era of emigration in Ireland.

The groom-to-be was dressed in this superhero costume and was a real character. The outfit allowed him to stick memorabilia down his shirt and he wasn't shy about collecting items from their pub tour. We watched as he added to the collection by pouring a dish full of sugar and salt packets down his shirt... followed by the dish and salt shaker. He insisted on giving Sue a gift and fished out a light bulb. We couldn't accept.

We'll miss the people, the Guinness, the fish and chips, the Irish stew and the music. Ireland is brilliant.

Slainte!

Tu parli Italiano?

Sue here taking over the keyboard for the first time. I have now graduated from my two week intensive Italian course.  I am quite sad that it is over as the experience with the language and the other students from different countries was far greater than I ever expected.  Our teacher was fun and energetic and never learning our names, we became known by our nationality in Italian.  There were the Tedescians from Germay, Giapponese from Japan, and I was Canadese.  Other students were from the Czech Republic, a few from Brazil, Holland, New Zealand, and Poland.  Not one American in the bunch.  Stereotypes do not lie as after spending 5 minutes with each of them and seeing their appearance and mannerisms, you knew exactly where they were from.  I was the only one in the whole group that didn't know at least two languages.  Most of the students knew at least 3 and some knew 4 not including Italian.  North American is so tightly bound by a huge bubble.  

Likely due to my German roots, I immediately became friends with two German guys who were just older than Chris and Miles.  They helped me immensely with exercises and always made sure that when my turn came to announce the answer, that I was correct.  They were at the school for "tax reasons" as the German government  not only dictates that employees take 5 weeks mandatory vacation, if they choose to pursue additional education, they not only get it paid for, but they also get the time off to pursue this new learning (up to 2 weeks)!

The other students progressed much faster than I did and I have countless excuses as to why - they have already learned multiple languages, the other languages they do know are very similar to Italian and therefore translation is similar, and most were under the age 30.  The last time I took a language course was 30 years ago!  Those are my excuses and I'm sticking to them.  I am also proud to say that I wasn't the weakest in the class. Giapponese only appeared to master the Italian phrase for "I don't know". That being said, I am quite able to understand a fair bit and I'm starting to feel more comfortable communicating.

Dove si trova la toilette e devo portare Kleenex?

(Where is the toilet and do I have to bring Kleenex?)

On top of St. Peter's

After being here 7 weeks, we finally made it into St. Peter's Basilica. We had felt quite snobbish going down to St. Peter's square, sizing up the lineup and saying, "Nah, not today. Poor tourists."

But eventually we decided to spend 20 minutes in line and make our way into the church. We went to the Basilica the last time we came to Rome and fell in love with Michelangelo's Pieta statue and were in awe of the sheer size of the place. This time when we entered, it was no less impressive but the shock factor was gone. So we decided we needed to see or do something we hadn't done before. Since the church follows all blogs, I wasn't invited into the Vatican museum to see all their secrets, so we were left with the option of going up, way up.

It takes 550 steps to get to the top of the dome. For 2 Euros you can cut the steps by 200 and take an elevator part way up. But 4 Euros between us gets a drinkable bottle of wine so we decided to walk. Our four flights of stairs at our apartment was perfect training for the trek and except for a few claustrophobic moments when the stairs were about 18" wide and the arc of the dome forced you to bend to the side while you walk, we made it to the top.

So there we were with a hundred other people fighting for space on the railing that overlooks St. Peter's square. Now I'm not one to judge... ok, sure I am.  But I don't care how much you pretend that you're having a religious moment standing at the railing, you're supposed to have a look, take a few pictures then back away to let the next layer have a crack at the rail. Darn nuns.

My vertigo kicked in (makes it sound like a medical condition as opposed to just fear), so Sue was responsible for taking pictures. We eventually decided to descend to a lower deck below the dome and actually on the roof the Basilica. Although we had great rear views of the statues that adorn the roof top of St. Peter's, it was the souvenir shop that caught my eye. I can imagine the Pope and Cardinals discussing what was needed to get the young back to the church. I believe it was the hip cardinal from Chicago that suggested a rooftop patio, but they settled on the souvenir shop. I was lamenting the possibility of drinking a Corona on top of St. Peter's.

Given that Michelangelo designed the dome, it was a worthwhile adventure and I'm glad we conquered the Catholic Everest.

Where are all the penises?

Trust me, this post is about art. Ok, including the word penis in my blog is sure to increase traffic, but that's only a side benefit.

Given that there are literally thousands of statues and paintings of nude men in Rome, you'd be hard pressed to find a penis on any of them. But that's not how it has always been. Romans were proud of their appendages and carved them in a realistic, although not always flattering proportion. It was during one of the Catholic churches many bouts of paranoia that the male genitalia become too "distracting" to have protruding from statues. Apparently the housework was falling behind.

So there were a couple of approaches taken to cleanse art from such troubling sights. For many of the old Greek statues, the penis was simply chiseled off. I don't know about you, but the site of a fully intact scrotum with nothing but a stub of rough broken stone is far more disturbing than an anatomically correct rendition. Did the young Roman boys just think this was what would happened when they hit puberty? I'm pretty sure their ancient talks about the "body changing" during puberty were as cryptic as our household. It just made sense that my thingy would just fall off after a while. I wonder if there's a museum somewhere with thousands of stone penises.

The second approach to cleansing was used for more valued works of art and involved putting a stone fig-leaf over the groin on a statue or painting a strategic handkerchief where required. I'm surprised there isn't a line of fig-leaf shaped thongs for men - The Roman Thong. The pope even asked a painter to cover up Michelangelo's nude men on the front wall of the Sistine Chapel. Now that's sacrilegious. If Michelangelo wanted me to see Adam's private bits, then that's what I should see.

Meanwhile, I will keep up my search for stone penises and report back if I stumble into one.
By the way, if you want to comment on this or any of our blogs, we'd love to hear from you. Just click on the word "comments" below the post and let us know what's on your mind. Well of course, I know what's on your mind right now.

My Way

After hearing dozens of street musicians and been serenaded late at night by musicians in the piazza below our apartment, we have figured out Italy's national song and it was written by a Canadian. We've heard My Way played on a saxophone, a violin and of course, an accordion. Are Italians so proud of Frank that they pay homage to him on an hourly basis? Or is it Paul Anka's heritage that they are celebrating. I'm betting that the 60+ crowd hands over more euros than anyone so they are simply playing to their audience. There's not a lot of teens tossing coins in the hat of the musicians playing U2 on the accordion. But maybe there just isn't an accomplished enough accordionist out there to give it a try. I knew I should have kept up my lessons.

The other popular song is the theme from The Godfather. I'm not sure you would hear the theme from Schindler's List in Munich but, again, it puts a smile on the faces of the old folks with the new purses.

One night we were serenaded outside our window by a woman with a cello playing beautiful classical music. She hasn't been back knowing it's tough to compete with ole blue eye

The Birds

Unless Hitchcock was Italian, there's nothing Roman about what we saw tonight. Just as the sun started to set, tens of thousands of small birds swarmed in the cloudless sky.
We saw it from the ground and then rushed up to our terrace to get a better look. The birds put on a 20 minute show swarming in multiple clouds of thousands of birds each. Each cluster moving in synchronicity but independent of the other clouds. In the distance they appeared as puffs of smoke blowing in the wind (no relation I'm sure to my previous post). Up close, a hitchcockian (look it up) swarm of birds made me want to hide under the bed.

Click on the pictures to get a bigger image. Just in time for halloween.

Blowin' in the wind

We spent an hour in a very old church that was just filled with beautiful art. Most religious art depicts some moment from the new testament or focuses on the namesake of the church. All very beautiful, but I hesitate to say that it rarely moves me (sorry Mum). Maybe it's message overload or maybe any simplicity in the message is lost in gold, multi-coloured marble or papal coat of arms. Or maybe it's just me.

As we exited the church, there was some graffiti on a nearby wall that stopped me in my tracks.

"How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man?"

This famous line, written by Bob Dylan when he was a mere 21 years old, made me think more than any of the papal tombs, frescos, and stained glass in Rome. I know there are inspirational religious messages and poets - I hear there's even a best selling book of the stuff. Maybe I should pull out Gideon and look for them. Or maybe I can just be satisfied that something as simple as graffiti made me stop and ponder humanity.

Or maybe, it's just the wine talking.

Italian soccer from a distance

Spoiler alert. For those of you that have taped the Lazio-Sampdoria soccer game, don't read on because I end up telling you the score.
On Chris' suggestion, I read the famous Hunter S. Thompson article about his trip to the Kentucky Derby. The crux of the article was that to truly experience an event, you can't be a spectator - you have to become part of the event. It's the journalist's equivalent to "a watched pot never boils". As you may have figured out from my other posts, this is in stark contrast to my "safety first" attitude.
On Sunday afternoon, we attended our first ever professional soccer/football/calgio game. With soccer hooligans in mind, I purchased mid-priced tickets figuring if you were there to brawl, you'd go for the cheap seats. Hunter would have been disappointed in me.

After an easy bus ride to Stadio Olimpico, my safety-first decision was reinforced by the dozens of Carabinieri (Italian military) trucks and swat teams. We bought a home team scarf and settled into our comfortable center line seats. The first thing we spotted was an isolated group of fans across the stadium. Surrounded by security, this was the visiting team's section. They started singing an hour before the game started and didn't stop until we were on the bus on the way home. They even unrolled a 75 foot flag with the picture of some 50 year old guy. That is my new goal when I turn 50.
Behind the goal and about 100 meters from us was a packed section of crazy home team fans. Knowing where the "cheap seats" were, I rested easy. A little too easy. Our seats reminded me a lot of the Leafs games. A comfortable, respectable section but not a lot of fun. No banners, no flags, no singing, no shivs.

At the half, we decided to try to get closer to the action - the fans, not the game. We couldn't quite make it into the mayhem, but got within 25m and enjoyed people watching for the second half. The game included 2 red cards and I'm pretty sure there is now a "hit" out on the referee - so lots to cheer and jeer about.
While we didn't understand what they were yelling and singing, they didn't seem more emotional than a rabid hockey fan but they had a much more colourful way of showing it. Italians are very dramatic at minor things like missing the bus, so you can imagine the performances when they miss the net.
The game ended in an enjoyable 1-1 draw which mirrored our feelings about the experience. Enjoyable, but I couldn't help but wonder that had we gone for the win, we would have had a lot more fun - win or lose. That, my literary friends, is a metaphor.
We might try another game and lower the ticket price to become part of the event, rather than watching at a safe distance. Then again, the swat teams were there for a reason...

Surprise pub crawl

We headed out to our local blues bar again. I'm sure we will soon be regulars at Big Mamma's. The attraction this time was an acoustic guitarist named Pino Forastiere. Calling him a guitarist is like calling Moses a good Jew. He was an exceptional Jew. If you're interested, here's a clip I stole from youtube.


As good as Pino was, he wasn't the highlight of the night. The club is very small so we had to share a table with another couple. We lucked out and the couple spoke English - always a welcome find. He was from Australia and she was from Ireland. In hindsight it was obvious that we were at a table that knew how to drink. Before I was finished my first beer he was up buying us another round. Very nice people but I started to worry about the pace. Between music sets we find out that they live in Saudi Arabia and are out for a quick 5 day vacation. This was their first crack at real beer and drinks since the stuff they get in Saudi is homebrew beer or moonshine. We were definitely in for a long night.
We were relieved to see Big Mamma's closing down at midnight thinking we were out of the "alcohol woods". But our Aussie friend insisted he buy us another beer. So we closed down one bar only to move to another... and then another. We were home at 3:30am and I'm proud to say Sue and I didn't disappoint Canada - a bronze medal in pub crawling is nothing to be ashamed of.  Our Irish friend gave us lots of places to see while in Ireland (we're going to make a sidetrip to Galway, which we only know from a line in a Pogues song) and we ended the evening as best friends never to see each other again.

Turkish bath? Is that legal?

Sue put on her adventurous hat again and we went to a "hamman". I can't imagine what we'd do if I were in charge of entertainment. As far as I can tell a hamman is what is left over when you take all the illegal activities out of a turkish bath. Stay with me, it was actually quite nice without all the worries of disease and burning in hell.
This gem of a place was in the middle of Rome's Jewish ghetto. They really need a PR campaign because everyone calls it a ghetto.  At reception, they send us in opposite directions to change into our swimsuit (on Wed and Fri, it is women only and bathing suits are optional - who said Rome is ruled by men). I have trouble understanding the signs and end up walking in the back door to the women's changeroom. (Un)Fortunately Sue is there alone and I only get a bonus look at her.
We both make our way downstairs to a beautiful marble bath area with arched brick ceilings, hot misty air and warmed marble benches. We lie on the marble benches and an attendant pours warm water over us. I'm already worrying about what on earth to tip such a person. Sue and I get the hang of things and starting pouring water on each other - I am accused of dumping more than pouring but in my defense, it was my first such experience since Mike and I stopped bathing together.

We then rubbed some Moroccan olive soap over ourselves working up a lather that smelled like Mum's kitchen during the first wonderful stage of Italian sauce making.
Instead of rinsing, we then went into a very hot steam room to sweat out the demons that live just under the skin (my interpretation). When we started to feel faint from the heat we went out and rinsed ourselves by pouring water on each other.
Repeat 2 or 3 times....
On our last time, instead of rinsing, the attendant has us lie on the marble bench and proceeds to scrub us with a rough glove. Even the most confident among us can't handle a strange woman rubbing vigorously on your stomach. As tight as I made those muscles, the jiggle felt out of control. I never made eye contact and we both knew the tip had to go up.
We then showered and relaxed in a cold-warm pool to bring your body temperature down. Throw in a cup of tea and some spa music and you've got yourself a hamman.
I have to admit, it was very relaxing and it cleared my nasals and loosened my very sore neck. I'm not sure what went on in these baths in the past, but having a fully clothed female attendant massage the extra pounds on my belly was risque enough for me.

Searching for George Clooney

For anyone hooked on Entertainment Tonight, you already know that George Clooney has a house on Lake Como in Italy. We set out to find the elusive star from Facts of Life in his natural habitat.
After taking 2 trains, 2 buses and an airplane we arrived at Varenna on Lake Como. We choose the highest hotel in the village to ensure we had good views for a George-sighting. To get to our stakeout point for the next couple of nights, we needed to walk 10 minutes up a hill, take 2 funiculars, and then an elevator to the top. That reminds me, gentleman have yourself checked regularly for funicular cancer.

From our top floor terrance we could see the town of Varenna as well as the surrounding lake and mountains... no immediate sign of George.

The whole time, Sue remained ready and in fine form for the eventual sighting. You only get one chance to impress Georgie-boy.
We heard a rumor that Clooney might be hiding out in Santa Maria church on the mountain opposite our hotel. Build when people believed "getting closer to God" was meant literally, it would prove a challenging hike to the nippled Batman's hideout.
After an hour hike to the church, we found it locked and no signs of the silver fox. Sure we had spectacular views but that's not what we were there for.
This adventure reminds me a little like the time we went Goldie-hunting in the Muskoka's. Imagine Ontario cottage country with mountain backdrops and instead of rich exclusive cottages were quaint villages filled with restaurants and wine bars.
Goldie got the better of us back then and George eluded us this time.  Not willing to let it go completely, Sue is strongly suggesting that I get a Clooney haircut. I'm not sure mimicking his hair will suffice.

Scooters and other fine cars

I'm sure most of you know that the scooter is the national bird of Italy. They are literally everywhere and driven by all walks of life (mental note: update the phrase "walks" of life). They view the spaces between cars, pedestrians and curbs as their own personal hiway and will weave their way through traffic. We met someone who said it takes her 40 minutes to get to work by scooter but it would take her an hour and half to do it by car. You see, cars have to stop; Scooters find a way to keep moving. I'm not sure who's in the wrong if a scooter hits a pedestrian. I wouldn't bet against the scooter.
If you look close, you'll see that this driver has his suitcase between his knees. We have also watched someone drive off with a full 10 foot ladder over their shoulder. I have to give them credit for persevering. Hat head is enough to keep me off a scooter.
As cool as the scooter is, I've found my favorite car and they are also everywhere and remind me of a simpler time. It is the Fiat 500. It's the car the Germans would have made if they hired lazy Italians to design the VW Beatle and a Scotsman to manage the budget.

To their credit, there are a lot of beautiful Italian Alfa Romeo cars as well. Instead of driven by cool people like Emilio Iovio, most are driven by chauffeurs of the Italian government.

The other sight that is fairly common is a Smart car parked perpendicular to the other cars. Apparently they are as long as most cars are wide.
You do see big 6 and 8 cylinder cars here, but I'm going to guess that the average cylinders on the road is under 3. While that has to be good for the environment, we feel sick every time we throw our used wine bottles into the common trash. Rome has absolutely no recycling program. A local blamed the mafia, much the way we blame John Ferguson or Brian Burke for the Leaf woes.

Pompeii

We found Pompeii. Apparently it has been lost since it was destroyed in 79AD by a volcano. While a lot of the ruins reminded us of the Roman ruins back in Rome, there was something very different here. It was like a snapshot of living in a large village in the first century. Everything was exactly as it was left (minus the destruction and volcanic ash) almost 2000 years ago. There were streets with shops and bars and of course brothels. There was 25 brothels serving the city of 20,000 people. If you discount the women and children, that's a pretty high ratio. The time of Christ was a pretty interesting time. 

As you can see from one of the photos, the people of Pompeii were shocked by the volcano's eruption and were essentially killed instantly doing whatever they happened to be doing. There are several preserved bodies coated in "plaster" from the ash.
I will leave it to you to dig deeper into Pompeii (pun definitely intended).

Aquaducts

Time for a very short history lesson that is mostly factual. In the second century AD, the Romans built a 56 mile "pipeline" to bring fresh water into Rome. They are known as the Aquaducts. If you're like me, you've heard of them, but they fall into the same class of knowledge as what happened to Jesus between the manger and the wedding with the cash bar. It's interesting but just not worth looking into.
The first picture is of a still functioning aquaduct, while the second picture shows ruins of a second duct. It is also a bonus lesson on perspective since I am actually not as big as the aquaducts.
I continue to be impressed with what the Romans were able to build with little more than (slave) labour and a good understanding of math.