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.