Where in the Euro World are we?

Wow. This airport is gorgeous. Bright. Clean. Fun and funky bold graphics on all sides. Best bathrooms. Spotless to the extreeeme. A lady was in the men’s room when I was in there. Feather dusting the already sparkling white tile walls of the stalls. I’ve been in bathrooms in Europe where the bathroom walls would have grabbed ahold of that duster and ripped it out of her hands for trying.

Where ARE we?

Stepping out into the hot late afternoon sun toward a queue of taxis (there is no line) a silver Mercedes slips silently up next to us on the curb. It is in motion but the driver’s door is fully open wide and the instant the car has glided to a noiseless stop, Mr. Driver is out of the car and springing the truck and gracefully opening the doors with a sophisticated florish. Oh, my. For us? The body parts in the door wells, the parts that don’t show when the doors are closed? They sparkle and shine like the rest room walls. I’m telling you it is hot outside. But not in this sweet chariot. The driver is cool to the max as well. Maybe 35, well groomed and like all the drivers we saw, he was dressed in white shirt and tie. And speaking perfect English.

No. Really. Where the heckARE we? The hot weather, the American cars in the photos, the bullfighting poster and British soccer fans there are all red herrings. And I suspect they eat a bit of herring in this place. But we actually shot all these photos in the same European country. Where? Well, any of you that guessed Amsterdam need to go ahead and give yourself one of those gold stars you save for occasions just like this. I know what you are thinking: Who cares? Isn’t this supposed to be about Italy? Well of course, you have a point, but stick with me.

YES, HOLLAND CAN BE A FINE PLACE TO TAKE AN “ITALIAN” VACATION.

We used it as a chaser, a cool down follow up to our time in Umbria. And it is right on our way home. Italy, strangely, was the main reason we were in the Paesi Basi (Olanda) because that was where the Caravaggio Show to end all Caravaggio Shows was this summer. All my Italian friends were mad to go to the show and we did have a lovely Italy trip and then finished it off with the Italian extravaganza in the Rijksmuseum. What a rush. It was technically the Caravaggio and Rembrandt show in honor of Rembrandt’s 400th Birthday. But to me they were just riding on Caravaggio’s coattails and I didn’t care as long as I got to see this once in a lifetime collection of Caravaggio’s work.

We settled into the slightly fuddy duddy but awesomely located Hotel Smit. Hotel Smit To be fair it was under construction and probably by the next time anyone reading this gets to Amsterdam it will be renovated and wonderful. We liked it fine as is for the location. Indonesian restaurant across the street, a very happening bar next to it and just past them not only the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum. People were extremely nice there. When Grayson needed to go to a clinic they said You need a taxi to the ER and one was literally there as they were ending the sentence. Ever grateful.

Holy shoot it is clean there. Yike. But do they think it is weird to be this clean and for every man woman and child to smoke? Did you know that? I did not either. No big deal but just surprised me. About the smoking thing.

Our first night there we had drinks in the nearby park by a long reflecting pool with big red climbable letters stretched across one end of the pool spelling out MADRETSMAI. Which may have made more sense from the other side now that I think about it.

What if the slogan for Sonoma was IOSONOMA? (io sono Sonoma)

And what if it was written just like that, in Italianspeak, on posters and keychains and such everywhere you looked? In California, America. That would be strange wouldn’t it? Well. I think so. But there is the slogan for Amsterdam and it is a strange word game pun in English. The words “I am Amsterdam” contracted to IAMSTERDAM.
As I was saying before that linguistic digression, these big sculptural letters are by a reflecting pool but people were doing more than reflecting, they were cavorting and splashing and having a fine time. This smack in the middle of the longest continuous heat wave in recorded Dutch history. Of course people were in the water. I was in the water too. One tall blonde with her English bulldog was especially notable splashing about. She was so, what can I say? So “Dutch”. I always assumed a certain amount of fair skin and blonde hair. Our family name is Vreeland and it is supposedly quite Dutch. Our pale skinned, blonde daughter Grayson is what we’ve always felt was family’s our token little Dutch girl. And she said it first: If we are Dutch people, we are extremely little Dutch people. The hostess / greeter on our KLM flight from Rome to Amsterdam must have been 6’2” if she was an inch. And tall slinky blondes of both sexes filled that airplane, the airport and the streets and reflecting pools. Our Dutch named ancestors were definitely not in the gene pool the day they handed out height to the other Dutch people. Dad? We are still waiting for that growth spurt so we can look like these Dutch kids.

Amsterdam. What is up with the name? You got an Amstel River. You Dam it up, you got you an AmstelDam. Say that fast for a few hundred years and it comes out Amsterdam. Think that is what the guides were implying. Why did I need to be told that? Very nice town, most of it looks like Mayfair in London to me. But with less street flash, very understated. Rolls Royces and Bentleys are a dime a dozen in London. Here, its all decidedly down scale bikes, buses and boats of every stripe.

Ok, the first thing to do is to get tickets for the show.

Midge and I got adult all year memberships so we could (and did) see Caravaggio every singel day. Grayson was too young for that so we got up early to get in the queue for general admission tickets at Key Tours. Bit of non-linear thinking to go one place to find out you need to go some place else to buy the ticket to go to the show in yet another place, but it keeps things moving at the gallery.
Walking my post ticket buying cappuccino back to the hotel I was struck by the fact that I was in the middle of my first ever bike rush hour. One wrong step and you could literally be struck by the bike rush hour. And by the way, bike rush hour seems to last all day. Bikes rule.

BICYCLE BEAST OF BURDEN

Carts out front. Big carts. Truck sized carts. Kids on mom’s bike front and back. Hippies on bikes, bow tied professors, a waiter in a tux. Was he a waiter or a man about town? Can’t tell here. The pedal pushers pour down the streets. In their own major lanes. They may look like sidewalks. But. Do. Not. Step. Out there. These people live for their bikes and on them. And with out pretension. All the bikes look to be old, single speed clunkers. Rusting or hand painted with a brush. Almost all are Model T black. Not about flash. And trust me no one, repeat no one, is wearing spandex. They wear what they are wearing and get on their bikes to get there. At the ferry terminal there is a four level parking garage. For only bikes. Off into infinity sized garage. They seem to be used across all levels of society. Function over Form. Noting how much a part of the fabric of life bikes are there and then reading at the Anne Frank house how the Nazis made the Dutch Jews turn in their bikes made me think again what a cruel, intentionally brutal, dehumanizing mind set was in play there.

The day after we toured Anne Frank’s home we took a bus boat to Rembrandt’s house / museum. Tons of paintings, etchings. The gallery in New York where our son worked (Salander O’Reilly) loaned a painting to the special exhibit. Next to it was one from the Met, the next one from a castle in Poland, the next from the Uffizi in Florence, Italy. World class collection. And it was a wonderment to see them all in the very house where they were painted. It was sort of an out of body kind of thing, my mind rushing back and forth from the sixteenth century to the 21st.

DUTCH MEDICINE IS A LOT LIKE ITALIAN MEDICINE.

Our little Dutch girl is under the weather. Can you have too much travel fun? Evidently yes. She’s beat from traveling from the top of Maine to Costa Rica to save the sea turtles, back to the top of Maine to report on saving the sea turtles and the rainforest, sideways over to Italy and then part way home in Holland. Kind of a lot for a month. We’re going door to door looking for aspirin. Supposedly socialized medicine but dang hard to find an Apothotik when you need one. But, like in Italy, Dutch hospitals and clinics will take care of foreigners in need. And be good about it. We were ever so grateful for the help we got for Grayson when she got an infection that was beating her up. A long story that was. But with a happy ending. My advice is if you need an ER, get on a plane and head to Holland.

AMSTERDAM FINE PLACE FOR AN ITALIAN ART SHOW

But, let’s talk about something fun: This art show was awesome. We’ve seen some great ones in the last few years. Picasso Matisse, Manet Monet, etc. The Rembrandt Caravaggio one really may have taken the prize. The American judges in our party had the Italian leading 2-1. In my side by side comparison Caravaggio was whupping Rembrandt and had him on the canvas. Grayson backed me up on this, but Midge was slightly leaning toward the Dutchman. Heresy. Or Home Court advantage?

These paintings are no timid little hang’em over the mantle sort of paintings. These are big guys, meant for rich prelates’ palazzos and or their long-suffering churches. Caravaggio just knocked me out with his smooth as silk rendering, smashing reds, deep smoky blacks, and bright slashes of sunlight or the intense, golden glow of a lantern that had just been worked into the composition. Sun light, candle light, lantern light, it is always about the light. Brilliant face-smacking, drowning-in-it kind of light. Or maybe it is unbalanced bowls of fruit teetering on edges of tables (Meal at Emmaus) What confidence the boy had. Wasn’t much for sketching things out, he would just get back from a duel or some street brawling or such and sit down, grab the nearest brush and start masterpiecing. His stuff is still shocking 400 years after the fact.

When you come around one of the many corners they built into this exhibit and come face with one of his blood curling canvases (Judith beheading Holofernes) it about makes you miss a step. Prepare to be baffled when you see one up close. Thinking maybe you could see a brushstroke on that dewy piece of fruit or the bad boy angel’s wings? Think again. I’ve painted. OK, it was art school. In another galaxy, far, far away. But still. No earthly idea how he put the paint on the canvas. And the details in the shadows. I kept leaning closer and closer and seeing more and more. Hands way behind my back, hoping the guards wouldn’t push me away before I drank it all in. But it didn’t help. I got as close as close could be, reading glasses on, and still could not imagine how the deep black shadows on the dark edge of an arm could become warm, tender skin in the highlights of the same arm.

Anyway, next trip to Rome I’m all about doing a Caravaggio pilgrimage. (and will likely see Meal at Emmaus again at the National Gallery in London) We have two architect friends in Panicale who are pazzo for Caravaggio and one has already mapped out a Roman itinerary for us to follow. Non vedo l’ora and can’t wait either. I’m so making a list of places to see and checking it twice. For the complete, complete, almost annoying complete book about Caravaggio read “M the man who would become Caravaggio”. It is by Peter Robb. It wouldn’t be quite so annoying if he didn’t insist on the vanity of always referring to Caravaggio as “M” over and over for way obscure I Know More Than You reasons. And if he is so smart why doesn’t he have more pictures in his book about pictures? He describes every painting Caravaggio did in minute detail and barely shows any of them and then often in just tightly cropped detail. Ma, va le la pena in somma. And the list in the back of the book of exactly where every Caravaggio in the world lives is excellent. That, plus the big catalog from this Dutch show and I’m good to go. And go I will the next time I’m in Rome! Rome was Home to Caravaggio for most of his short and frantic life. That is where the bulk of his paintings live out their lives when they aren’t being loaned to shows like this.


We came, we saw.

Well enough of the Netherlands. But it was very exciting to see all this great Italian art, even if I had to go to Holland to see it.

We are now officially counting the days till touchdown in Italy: 30. Going via London where we plan to hook up with daughter Wiley newly arrived there to start a master’s program at Central St. Martins. And we will meet up with our Panicalese friend Francesco and probably see even more Italian art. And then, the real thing: Italia in person!

See you in Italy,

Stew

Yes, The Wiley Traveler has Landed

Finally! A Vreeland is in residence there in Italy. In our Home Sweet Home away from Home. The Wiley Travel flew into Rome Thursday after a couple fun filled weeks in London. And drove straight to Panicale. All business now! She found our house “almost” ready for company.

PANICALE, Umbria, Italy— Finally! A Vreeland is in residence there in Italy. In our Home Sweet Home away from Home. Wiley Vreeland aka: The Wiley Travel flew into Rome Thursday after a couple fun filled weeks in London. And drove straight to Panicale. All business now! She found our house “almost” ready for company. Said it went something like this: Buckets, mops, cleaning products everywhere. Beds stripped. Rugs airing over balconies. Oh there you are, Anna. I thought you knew I was coming? Well, I only ask because . . . you know how we said we had company coming? When? RRRRRRRRRing. That would be the doorbell.

So, that worked out.

And a friend from California, who has a place down the block, just got off the train from Venice. She and Wiley have catching up to do immediately. So, The Wiley Traveler will be A Busy Traveler, immediately. She has her car organized, cell phone powered up and working. Now she is scurrying around getting email and computer hooked up, and up and down the streets of Panicale she is reconnecting with all our many Italian friends in town, too.

She has many, many new places to see on her list and is looking forward to all of the adventures that entails. She and Paulette are hoping to see a new property in San Casciano dei Bagni right away. Paulette says the town is totally A List, with her. We just reviewed the book A Thousand Days in Tuscany set in that very town. Feel like I have been there already. More news on that as it becomes available.

STILL COUNTING THE DAYS: 33

Our trip to Italy is shaping up well too. Midge and I would be there now, but we need to wait for our other daughter to get back from the jungles of Costa Rica. When she does get back, sea turtles and rain forest canopy both sufficiently protected, we are off like a shot. We are happy just knowing our friends, our Wiley and our home await us there in Italy.

We will let you know how it goes routing a trip to Italy through Holland. Several people we know have made connections to Italy via KLM lately, but we had not done that yet, so this is all new for us.

Wait a minute! Wiley! How DOES our garden grow?

Iowa, Florence, Torino. Slightly ahead of the travel loop on this one?

Swell article called Master Class, about a program for adults that want to get intouch with their inter Renaissance Person, artistically speaking. Sounded like so much fun. I could about half see myself running away from the circus and doing something like that.

I know, I know. Many of you were probably laughing haha at my westwardho adventures. Because going west to the Great Plains means I’m obviously not going East to Umbria. Up to where you saw the part about being backstage with the Rolling Stones and Mom’s Apple Rubarb Pie. But we did something else we often do there. Natural as falling out of bed. We got burgers at Taylor’s Maid Rite in Marshalltown. What? You haven’t BEEN to Taylor’s? Nor Marshalltown?

Don’t tell that to the editors of Travel+Leisure. The latest issue (Travel+Leisure March 06) just came in yesterday’s mail. And what to my wondering eyes did appear, but two, full-page photos of Taylor’s Maid Rite, in glorious color. I did not know we were being trendy to go there. We usually just go when we are hungry.

The article describes Taylor’s with this superlative: ”Taylor’s could be the oddest restaurant in the State. Perhaps the Nation.” Ok. Been there. Done that. Got the Tcup, as you can see. (the other side of it says ”. . . but come back again”) The article went on to say ”Their signature dish, loose meat on a white bun — resembles something created in a VA hospital during a catastrophic budget crunch”. Well. Maybe to someone non Native, like the author. He should be so lucky as to be on the receiving end of the income stream the place has been generating for the Taylor family since 1928. Must be doing something Rite.

But lets talk ambience. Old National Geographic maps on the wall that have been there at least since the 1960s. A single U-shaped, Formica-topped counter, the pattern almost worn off. Plus some close packed chrome and red vinyl stools. Normally a bottom planted firmly on every stool. iIts not unusual, or even noteworthy, to have one, two or three people standing behind each stool. The standees are standing, waiting for the sitters to eat up, get up and get out, already. This is, of course, the opposite of Italy’s laudable Slow Food concept. This is efficiency taken to almost dizzyingly poetic heights. There is not even a menu. The name Maid Rite (the name of the burger) says it all. Want a Maid Rite or not? If you do, sit down. If you don’t, keep moving. No swishy fruit salads or omnipresent French/Freedom Fries, or anything really to distract you from the business at hand. There are Maid Rites, a limited selection of drinks, and pie. Homemade, each and every slice. When I was in there last week it looked like you could have any kind you wanted. As long as it was peach. Decision, decision. Oh, and the efficiency of limited selection extends to your choice of condiments. Mustard. Onion, Pickle. Period. You weren’t really thinking about asking for Ketchup, were you? You’ll never pass for a native that way!

FLORENCE/FIRENZE—Rubbing elbows with Marshalltown and trying to horn in on its cachet in this great issue of Travel+Leisure was that quintessential Tuscan town of Florence/Firenze. Swell article called Master Class, about a program for adults that want to get intouch with their inter Renaissance Person, artistically speaking. Sounded like so much fun. I could about half see myself running away from the circus and doing something like that.

TORINO—And further speaking of Italy. How ’bout those Olympics? Will someone please make the announcers quit saying ”Tur-rin”. It just sounds like something bad. Some of the poor things act all offended. As if the town made up the name Torino just to be cute and/or to mess with them. And that is from people reporting ”live” from Torino where they can see signs and maps and everything. Sigh.

Our dear friend Roberta (one of our Italian daughters) lives in Torino. We love her, we love Torino, been there many times over the years. We even got to see the Shroud of Turin with her. And because of her. It is only out once every 25 years or so, and then only for a few days. Roberta is in tourism and she made sure we went way to the head of the line and then right up to say hi to the Shroud itself. Coming through! But for the Olympics, I opened up a big case of the claustrophobias and in the end talked myself out of going. And I LIKE winter sports. I’ve had a downhill ski racing team for several years, and STILL didn’t sign up for this mega event. After reading Roberta’s note, I was sorry I didn’t go for it. Here is her report straight from downtown Torino, by a lifelong native:

Ciao Stew,
Qui tutto bene, Torino é bellissima piena di vita e di
allegria. Questa sera andrò a vedere una partita di Hockey femminile
Finlandia contro USA, ovviamente farò il tifo per gli USA. É un
peccato che tu non possa essere qui a goderti questo bellissimo
spettacolo, Torino é rinata, tutto é perfetto e poi ci sono tanti
turisti da tutti i Paesi del mondo che portano tanto colore e allegria.

She says: Dear Stew, Everything here is fine, Torino is just beautiful, so full of life and happiness. This evening I am going to the girl’s hockey game, the one between USA and Finland. Obviously I will be rooting for the USA. It is a shame that you are not here to enjoy this beautiful event. Torino is reborn, everything is perfect and there are so many tourists here from everyplace in the world, bringing with them so much color and happiness.

Regrets. I’ve had a few. But then again.

FLYING BACK THROUGH TIME. AND SPACE.

A bit surreal overall but, incredibly, it seems that WAS us backstage, in the same room with the Rolling Stones, eating their lobster ravioli, their long white asparagus with roasted peppers, their polenta, sampling their red wine and dining on and on in a meaningful and mostly Italian way.

IOWA, VIA OMAHA—Several times, this trip felt like flipping through a book from back, to front. When you start by knowing how it ends. And end at the very beginning when you know nothing at all. I am flying west today. Across the country. And, it feels like, across time.

The captain says &ldquo’Well, it is now 9:30 a.m. here in Chicago. You can set your watches back for Central Standard Time if you like”. I wind mine back one hour. And several years. Before Umbria. Before Maine. There was Chicago. I found myself here in graduate school. Found my wife too. And my first job. Good old Chicago.

Next stop, Omaha. Rent a car and follow the signs to Des Moines. Now the video replay screen on my Mental Time Machine is a blur of yearbook pictures, parties, nervous dates and proms. I see the exit signs for Drake, I slow down but don’t stop. I always think I will. But I haven’t yet. Past Des Moines and rewinding faster now. My life flashing before my eyes in reverse chronological order. Am getting younger in the process? Does this kind of time tripping work like that? I know the answer to that one. But, ahead I see there are signs we’re closing in on Conrad. Where we can go far, far back in time. Conrad, full of pioneer ancestors who settled the town. And left their family names on everyone in town and on rows of granite in the cemetery. I know all their names. I recognize their ever-serious, black and white faces looking back at me from frames on aunts’ and uncles’ mantles and bookshelves. High school memories are bubbling up and drowning out college now. There is Kathy’s driveway. The school bus picked her up there every morning, right after I got on. She lives there still, but I would not know her. Not now. I only know the person she was, then. Our farm. Our mailbox, on its post, two miles from Grandpa Stewart’s farm and his mailbox.

Mom and Dad. Coffee in the kitchen. Something baking in the oven. This is the house I was raised in. I’m all the way back now. I’m home. Is that apple rubarb pie for me?

HOW TO EAT LIKE A STONE

OMAHA— Surely some of the rewind and flashback feeling of the trip stems from one of the reasons for the trip: The Stones. The Rolling Stones are playing in the Midwest. Just like they did in 1967. I did not see them in 1967. But I will fix that oversight in 2006. Can the same stones really have played both those dates here?


A bit surreal overall but, incredibly, it seems that WAS us backstage, in the same room with the Rolling Stones, eating their lobster ravioli, their long white asparagus with roasted peppers, their polenta, sampling their red wine and dining on and on in a meaningful and mostly Italian way. The Italian influences in their huge spread of gourmet food far outweighed the occasional British classics like Shepard’s Pie.

Yes, we were in their inter santo santorum the “Rattlesnake Inn”. Just as a serious hanger on. Not any doing of my own. But tickled nonetheless just to be in their hospitality suite with them. No, we did not get to actually touch, talk or even photo. At a certain point, the tables were pushed back, the Stones handlers rushed them in a for a Grip and Grin Official Photo with their opening act, Brooks&Dunn. And then they rolled those Stones right out of the room and onto the stage. Of course, I had my camera with me! And you know I wanted to take pictures. But, I almost got that trusty Olympus taken away with the one spy photo you see here from the Stones sound check. The venue looked empty except for the Stones on their massive stage. I took one shot, no flash and headset-wearing Men in Black rained down on me, commando style. From the rafters? I do not know where they came from. But they came. They stoically re-explained the subtle meaning hidden in the Absolutely NO Cameras Allowed signs posted around the auditorium. Ok, ok, all right, already. I get it. The passes we had, shown here, really parted the waters. Well, right up to the part about the cameras.

Thank you Brother in Law for breaking me into the epicenter, the very heart of rock and roll!

HAS ANYONE SEEN THE REMOTE? WE HAVE.

Must be there when my roses spread their cheerful springtime yellow all over our pergola and brighten that whole corner of Umbria. For now, we are settling for reading about Italy, cooking Italian, emailing friends and neighbors there and day dreaming of our arrival.

LIMESTONE, Maine— Admit it. To anyone, from anyplace OTHER than Maine, the whole state of Maine itself sounds remote. Being “from away” as they say, I know it sounded pretty remote to me before we moved there. But there is Maine, where we live, and then there is Northern Maine. That is where Limestone is. How far North IS it? Seven hours by car from our house in the sissy Southern part of the state. Limestone looks to me to be North of most things. Including Halifax, Nova Scotia, and Montreal just for a start. Past towns with names like Mars Hill and Caribou. The radio announces time of day in EST and Atlantic Time. There IS an Atlantic Time Zone? I did not know that.

So, if anyone asks you how big Maine is just say BIG. That stretch of road up north in Maine that has never ever seen the light of day, from Bangor (bang gah) to Houlton is two hours of the forest primeval. Trees. A four-lane highway at the end of your car hood. And you. Occasionally there are signs for obscure towns that you could possibly exit to, but no sign of the towns themselves. And today the road itself is a long lonesome ribbon of wind blown, snow covered concrete. Needless to say, you need to “go” before you leave home. There really aren’t even any gas stations in sight there. Surely they exist. Somewhere. Out there.

Understanding this cosmic remoteness full well, and being pummeled with tractor trailer blown white outs every few minutes, we gratefully pulled our snow caked car out of the slippery line of traffic and into an oasis of Offical State of Maine Information. We thought we would ask them where to eat before hitting the next stretch of highway. Dysart’s Truck Stop was their answer. Dysart’s Empire would be more apt. But they did not steer us wrong.

Biggest truck stop I’ve been in this side of Great Plains. An industry unto itself. Whole sections of the restaurant dedicated to only truckers. Do not even think of going in there without a billfold on a long silver chain attached to your belt. Banks of phones (cell phones systems start starving for lack of towers, inhabitants up here) showers and signs exhorting you to consider a career in transportation See Chuckie on Second Floor, Excellent Benefits.

You know how I was bragging on the exotic new Japanese restaurant in London? Dysart’s can hold its own even against those fond culinary memories. The chowder (chow dah), fish chowder was a god send in the midst of this wild Maine day. Pieces of haddock as big as your hand were in our big bowls. We were cutting our soup! True fact. The most all inclusive and diverse menu I have ever seen. Whatever you wanted. Steaks, pies, Italian food, breakfast any way any time. What did you wish they had on the menu? Yes, look, its right here on the next page. And biscuits? Only to die for. Home made breads, too. All home made, home baked, comfort food. Some place on the menu they mentioned the bakery and spelled out how much flour they use a week. Want to guess how much? Would you guess over a ton? As in two thousand pounds in a week’s time?

THE LAND THAT CAPPUCCINO FORGOT

I was being a boring esthete when I pointed our car North. Thinking fondly of places we had been recently like Italy, like NYC, like London. Even Southern Maine. Outposts of civilization where you know where your next cappuccino is coming from. And that is one thing I suspect may not be coming to this menu any time soon. But I will tell you I was mighty glad to be there for an hour during the blizzard. It helped pass the time and steel us for the next five hours of road trip to The Forbidding North. And eventually we got to see our baby daughter in the play she was in at The Boarding School At The Top of the World. And, for a couple hours, we got to be the proud parents that we happily are. Grayson went to high school in London for her Freshman year and now here she is at The Maine School of Science and Mathematics, Maine’s only magnet school. A study in diversity in one child. She’s experienced a wide, wide range of education and geography. And why not? It is lovely and exciting in London, but it is grand up in the tippytop of Maine. Even in Winter. Beautiful, vast, wide-open, unpopulated spaces up there, and we are always happy to see her happy there. But we are pretty happy to be heading to the balmy south of Maine the next day, too.

OH. THAT’S WHERE ROGER’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS WENT

Seven hours one way or not, we went up to the top of Maine one day, and right back down the very next. The trip back was much nicer. And sunny. And thirty degrees warmer. When we got back to southern Maine, we had to dig our way into our house as it had snowed over a foot while we were gone. And, unbeknownst to us, as soon as we had headed North, FedEx had dropped two Christmas orders out on the lawn by our back door. They did that just before it started to snow. Two, small, white cartons. Which we found poking up out of a snow bank. A few days after Christmas. Life in Maine.

NEXT STOP, WEST TO OMAHA. AND THEN, EAST TO ITALY.

Like a Rolling Stone. That would be us. We’re going all the way West to the Qwest Center in Omaha to see two legends together: . The Rolling Stones and Brooks & Dunn. I can rationalize this trip West like this: Rationalization No.1) It is near my family in Iowa. Rationalization No.2) It will be a big time, once in a lifetime, party time!

And then, when both the holidays, and this concert, are behind us, we can start pinning down our exact springtime trip back to Umbria. Finally! Must be there when my roses spread their cheerful springtime yellow all over our pergola and brighten that whole corner of Umbria. For now, we are settling for reading about Italy, cooking Italian, emailing friends and neighbors there and day dreaming of our arrival.

Day dreaming, and wondering: Is our home there missing us as much as we miss it? Has time stood still? Has life there in Umbria been on “Pause” vs “Play” while we have been gone? We know better. But irrational flights of fancy often get us through the day.

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THE WHERE THE HECK ARE WE TRAVEL QUIZ. London? Or Limestone, Maine? These pictures were taken the same week in those two exotic locations. Can you parse out which ones are which?

Stay tuned for the next blog featuring Ferraris in the Panicale Piazza. What a collection of classics. Che shock, che piacere.