Easy Exit. Lots Of Hours. Short Post.

We all got up at 4am on Saturday. Our bags were mostly packed the night before. At exactly 4:30, we started walking for the place where the buses are - Piazzale Roma. If you look on a map and trace a walk from Campo Margharita, where we stayed, to Piazzale Roma, you'd think that walk would take half a day. 17 minutes! We were early for the 5am bus, the first bus of the morning.

From then on it was easy. Bus to the Marco Polo Airport. A flight from Venice to Frankfurt. Frankfurt to Newark. Newark to Cincinnati. Not one hassle along the way. But lots and lots of layover time between flights. We're all home.

Today, Sunday, we go back to our normal lives, trying to adjust to the lack of wonderful Italian coffee in the morning and periodically throughout the day. Oh wait, my bad! I have the espresso-making machine and the right coffee beans to closely duplicate that taste. (Sorry for that split infinitive, Dennis.) It's resting on a counter only ten feet away from where I'm sitting to write this. So in a way, I'm always in Italy. The others will have to figure out their own brain triggers to make them think they never left.

PHOTO NOTE: Less expensive than a trip to Italy – an Isomac espresso and latte maker.

Mosquitos Bigger Than Your Head

Here's the trick to traveling in Italy and viewing art. You must end your art tour in Venice at one of the many places here that display modern and contemporary art. The most famous is the Peggy Guggenheim Collection at her home – now a museum – on the Grand Canal. Or try the Palazzo Grassi. Not as famous; just as fabulous.

I'll speak for myself - If I see one more Baby Jesus bouncing on his mother's knee, or one more St. Sebastion punctured by arrows, or one more variation on the Pieta theme, I'll scream. (My apologies, again, to Cincinnati's Mary Hoffman, "Sacred Queen of All Volleyball."

The Guggenheim is truly a modern art Walk of Fame. Even early in their artistic careers, that woman could spot the comers. As one unidentified person in our group said about Peggy, "She just liked to buy shit, but she had a good eye."

After a guide told us about all the patron-artist "relationships" Peggy had had with many of the artists of her time, I began to hear those quotation marks around the word and what she was really saying.

New topic: How to irritate the waiters in an Italian bar or caffe. Go inside, order something and then go to a table, inside or out, and sit down. They hate that here. When you buy inside, stuff costs less and you're expected to consume it standing up. That's the Italian way. Tables are reserved for people who pay a slightly higher price and get waiter service. Once you sit and pay that premium, you "own" that table. Stay all day and nurse an espresso if you want.

Even Newer Topic: I've been thinking about a new watch. Two similar style brands have caught my attention. U-Boat (unfortunate name for a great watch). Bell & Ross. U-Boat watches were available in Florence. Went there, shopped, and decided not to buy that brand. Cost of watch was $2,000. Saved $2,000 by not buying. Found Bell & Ross here in Venice. Cost was $3,000. Again, I didn't buy. Total savings = $5,000. I made money on this trip. My traveling companions say there's a flaw in my reasoning. I say they're jealous because of my huge savings.

Oh yeah, the mosquitos travelers here complain about. This city was built on a watery bog for god's sake. There will be mosquitos bigger than your head.

After almost two weeks of Italian tourist food, it was a pleasure tonight to eat at a Mideastern-Greek restaurant, Frary's on San Polo 2559. Very nice change. But afterwards, that was another story. Venice is the best place on earth to get lost in. Except at 9pm on a really rainy night, and you're lost, and you only have one umbrella for four people. After some wandering around, we did find our way back. Actually, it was an adventure.

At 4:30 tomorrow morning we must walk to the bus piazza in order to get a bus for the airport. We have a 7am flight.

PHOTO NOTE: Left to right - Jack, Robin, Jerry, Wendi before it rained.

Sequins, Safaris, Sirens and Scarves (Revised).

So much to tell you about today. Here’s the general drift. We went from our apartment to Piazza San Marco to see the main church, the bell tower, the huge square and the massive crowds milling about there. Next, using public boat transportation, we went to Isola San Michelle, which is a graveyard island. The whole island - graves. Back on the vaporetto for the island of Murano. Then we backtracked to Campo Giovanni e Paolo for a look at that Campo, a statue there, and the John and Pete Dominican church.

Now for all the connected stuff. It’s interesting how people decide what’s important to them for their travels. For example, Safari Guy. He bought a Safari hat, a Safari vest and Safari shorts. The vest and shorts were loaded with pockets, pouches and secret compartments. Judging from the newness of the ensemble, that man and those clothes will never, ever be on safari in anything other than a fully-developed nation like Italy. Hey, I look just as ridiculous in all my Nike gear. I’m 70 for God’s sake!

My only point is that travelers must make certain clothing and convenience decisions before they hit the road to anywhere. The yellow scarves represent a decision. Those people are on a group tour with a guide and transportation. They don’t want to make any decisions beyond which tours to take, which was its own convenience decision. And that lady with the red straw hat and the sequins at the bottom of her tights; she made a fashion decision. My guess is that she never leaves her hotel without being color coordinated. I understand her. I am a male version of her.

Oh yeah, the guy with the eyebrows. No photo – but on the vaporetto for Piazza San Marco I saw a guy with the bushiest eyebrows I’ve ever seen in my life! I feel certain I saw a quail take off out of them when a dog on board the boat barked.

Isola San Michelle, the Cimitero, is Venice’s fabulous graveyard. Ezra Pound, Igor Stravinsky, the Doppler guy – of special interest to Foley artists, weather reporters and weather watchers – and lots of other very famous people are buried in this quiet, but visually fascinating place. Not many tourists. Photos are forbidden, and that may be reason enough for someone to have bootlegged a video or two onto You Tube. (Note to Barry Ross: When you arrive, shoot some sneak photos here. We did. Who cares? The people are all dead.)

Lots of non-Italians are buried there. And the gravestones indicate that many of those were sailors and officers who died at sea near here. Why so many deaths at sea around Venice. All I can figure is that they were responding to a Siren’s song and crashed on her rocks. Who knew she was working the Adriatic waters?

At lunch, maybe because of our proximity to Ezra Pound's grave and maybe because of the dappled light in the outside garden where our table was, we had a brief discussion about poetry. I mentioned a line from a poem I know that uses the word "dappled." Wendy talked about her affection for the poet William Carlos Williams. Jack offered his favorite line, "Like two dripping grande (sic) hog balls." He couldn't cite the poem or the poet.

We ended up, after another vaporetto ride, at the out-of-the-way Campo dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo. There is a very famous equestrian statue there and the remarkable Santi Giovanni e Paolo Domincan church. Best, for us, was people watching while enjoying coffee and gelato at a table on the square there.

Tomorrow it’ll be modern art, and Venice – surprisingly – is loaded with it. We go to the Guggenheim Museum first thing in the morning.

PHOTO NOTES: All by Robin. Clockwise from top left - Sequins, Safaris, Sirens and Scarves.

FOR EXTRA CREDIT: What do you think the saying at the bottom of the gravestone is trying to tell us about the toes-up guy under the stone?

Urine Analysis

Let's travel together again today. Hang out with us while we work our way to Venice airport to return our rental car. We leave at 10am. We're at breakfast now in our hotel - the Waldorf Palace - in Cattolica. Breakfast is varied and plentiful. Lots of rolls, breads and pastries. Eggs, bacon, sausages. Another area with a variety of sliced cheeses, salami and other meats. Lots of sliced fruit, yogurt, cereals and juices. And, of course, coffee. All of it tasty and fresh.

A minor bit of tension just took place between me and Robin. She's now reading The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest, which I just finished. It is dense, complicated and very compelling. Lots of Swedish last names that start with E. It was hard to keep track of all the players. In talking about the book with Robin, I accidentally revealed a key plot point that she hadn't gotten to yet. Marriages have come apart over far less.

To distract us from this bit of literary frisson, Wendi is reviewing the various ways of getting from the Airport to our rented apartment in Venice. Another bit of tension - we've had no email responses from the lady who is renting us the place. We're to call her when we arrive. But some acknowledgment of our emails would have been nice.

OK. Upstairs to do final packing.

We're packed and waiting for Jack and Wendi, and suddenly an OMG moment. I was reading out loud about some out-of-the way sights to see in Venice. Basically, advice to avoid the tourist hordes on the islands of Murano and Burano in favor of Isola San Michelle. It is a quiet graveyard island with very famous people buried there. One is Ezra Pound. When I read that, Robin said, "Oh yeah, my friend Cathi Schellhous has a relative who was Ezra Pound's mistress. What??? My life is so pitifully simple that this constitutes a brush with fame for me.

It's 10:10. Our hotel bill is paid. We are on the Autostrada for 80 miles towards Bologna. Actually it's not THE Autostrada; it's an Autostrada - A14. The Garmin is now the navigator. No hills here. Sort of flat farmland with a slight roll to it. Relax and enjoy the ride. Close your eyes if you want. If anyone says anything snarky, I'll tell you.

Out of nowhere and unconnected to anything being discussed here in the car, Robin just said, "I think the cat peed in my suitcase." She was referring to our cat at home. That remark begs no discussion.

We missed the exit from A14 to A13, which goes towards Venice. We were caught between big trucks and couldn't get over to the ramp. Caused a minor in-car freakout. Calmly, I said to trust the Garmin lady. With no drama she said, "Recalculating." Then she routed us back to the A13. Easy.

An email did come in from the woman who is renting us the apartment in Venice. So that very slight worry has evaporated.

About 60 miles to go. This is not a direct route, nor is it scenic. It is the fastest. Personal note to our three children: Who wants the Garmin when we die? I think it's more valuable and useful than the Oriental rug that's getting faded by the sun.

We just stopped at one of the very elaborate gas stations/rest stops/coffee bars/stores that dot the Autostradi here. Had espressi and bought candy. Back on the road. Discussion in the car turned to emotional moments in Italy. For me it was my first sight of Venice decades ago. For Wendi it was her first sight of the Duomo in Florence on a previous visit. Jack piped up, "I got emotional when I saw the carbon fiber Colnago bike in Cattolica. Brought tears to my eyes."

Somehow, and unbelievably, that remark led to a question about whether or not we each believe in an afterlife. The question was left unresolved, other than Jack repeating a George Carlin line about all of us coming back to work in a carwash.

Robin can't let it go. We see hills on our left as we approach Venice. One hill we just saw has a castle on top. I said the castles are up high so the royalty can piss down on the peasants when they revolt. Robin said, "Somebody pissed in my luggage."

Now we're seeing signs for the airport. Garmin Lady rules! I considered Lady Gaga my girlfriend until I read a long feature about her in Vanity Fair magazine. I broke up with her. LG out. GL replaces her.

We caught a direct ground bus from the airport to the big station in Venice. Two Euro per ticket. That's nothing for that distance and pleasant a ride. From the station to our place is now all by water. A three-day pass to use the water bus system is 33 Euro. Quite a bit more expensive than 11 Euro for three days unlimited in Rome. But the cost of running a boat system must be a backbreaker.

The apartment is found by walking through a warren of narrow alleys, through a couple of lovely piazzas, called campos here, and down another alley to this old, interesting place. It's spread over three floors. Living area, kitchen and half-bath on the first floor. A private patio-garden outside. One bedroom on the second floor and a third bedroom and bath on the third. The decor combines Christian and Buddhist artifacts, symbols of heraldry, metal sculptures of every kind, Florentine tassels here and there, artificial topiary and Marilyn Monroe refrigerator magnets. Oh yeah, and the faint aroma of urine. Could it be from Robin's luggage? Here's the problem. Once we leave, we will never find the apartment again.

Now we're hungry. It's 4:45. And we've had no lunch.

Sitting at a nearby restaurant for a very early dinner by Italian standards. OK, if we go walking we will find our way back, because I put the address into the Garmin and my new girlfriend will guide us back and forth. Our official address is Dorsoduro 3660, 30123 Venice. (That second number is a zipcode.) But on a map the alley where our apartment is shows as Calle Renier. If you're messing with Google Earth, pull up Campo di S. Margherita, and you'll see the fascinating, wonderfully off-the-beaten track area where we're staying. Our place is 20 steps off the Campo down Renier.

This area is simply wonderful. It's a real-people neighborhood. Sure, there are tourists, but they are few in this area. We could easily spot that we're in a working area. Kids in the Campo on foot-scooters pretending to be Valentino Rossi, others kicking soccer balls. Teen-agers smoking and flirting. Adults walking and sitting everywhere, just enjoying the cool evening. Lovers leaning against walls, kissing. Real world stuff.

In about an hour we'll go out to a nearby outdoor jazz concert. Will the jazz be really creative? Who cares, we're in Venice. There is nothing like it on this earth.

PHOTO NOTES: Both by Jack. Kids play on the Campo. What a Starbucks could only hope to be - a community gathering place.

The Comfort Of Linked Arms

THIS POST WAS WRITTEN BY ROBIN: I have been around Italian women - actually they were sisters - whose fights were as fierce as the gladiators. You never quite saw the fireworks coming; you could never predict how long the radioactive fallout would seep under the door. The feuds would go on for years, until the memory of the transgression that started it all had lost its sting. Along about then a new transgression would take its place. For many years I foolishly tried to reconcile the warring factions, to no avail. Finally I came to understand something that may sound unfair: some aspects of the Italian psyche are just plain nuts.

But none of that was observed on my long walk on the beach this morning. What I saw were good friends, old friends walking arm in arm, deep in conversation. These women weren’t young. If they had ever fought over a boyfriend or told one another’s secrets, that was all in the long ago. They strolled over the sand with the confidence and contentment that comes from not having to suck your belly in any more. They were precious. They are, however, Italian, so they could be sworn enemies as early as next week.

We say goodbye to our sleepy Cattolica tomorrow and make our way to Venice by car. With any luck we’ll get lost for weeks and weeks.

PHOTO NOTE: Taken by Robin.

Every Journey Needs A Focus

Most travelers have some one thing they want from a journey. A particular something they want to do or see.

Ten years ago Jack and I took what brother-in-law Jack called "Ride West 2K." In the summer of the year 2000 we rented motorcycles in Seattle and rode them from Seattle to Big Sur and back to Seattle, hugging the Pacific coastline as much as we could. But there was a centerpiece to our journey - the World Superbike and AMA Superbike races at Laguna Seca near Monterey.

This journey to Italy was to have a focus, too. At least for me, Jack and Wendi. It was the Moto GP races near Rimini over where we are now on the Adriatic coast. It was a world class set of races. Past tense - was - because we got the week wrong. It was last week. We knew that months ago, but it was too late to change all our reservations.

No big deal. We all wanted to see Italy, but for Jack his particular something would be missing.

However, almost as soon as we hit Rome, Jack generated a new focus for himself. In addition to being a skilled motorcycle rider, he's also a serious bicycle rider. In Rome he started asking about bicycle apparel shops. But he didn't push to visit one there. He just asked about them often enough for us all to notice what was on his mind. I'm sure that as three of us gazed at the front of St. John Lateran Basilica, he was scanning the nearby shops for bicycle apparel.

Our next stop after Rome was Florence. That's when he came out of the closet bicycle-wise. He stated clearly that a visit to a bicycle shop was, for him, a must in Florence. He researched the possibilities. Marked the locations on a map. And then he and Wendi carved out time one afternoon to visit one. Two hours later they arrived back at our place, Jack carrying a bag with a beautiful S. Bianchi jersey in it. So that ends his quest and this boring story? Actually not.

Here's the problem with buying gear for any sport. Once you buy the gear, some trigger in your brain (I'll do a seminar on brain triggers another day) forces you to have to do the sport.

So now we are in Cattolica. It's a beautiful coastline with roads loaded with riders. Jack wants to rent a bike. Not some one-gear resort bike for tooling along the boardwalk. He wants a serious road bike that will let him attack the nearby hills. Jack again researched the area bike shops, and there are many in this otherwise small city. We all went with him yesterday to one of the largest of them. The sign on the window said they rented bikes, but not the kind he wants.

Today he tried some more rental places. He struck out. At three different places. There is nothing sadder than seeing a grown man in his brand new Italian jersey and the rest of his cobbled-together bikewear, with no bike to ride.

I've also had a quest, a focus, for this journey, but I've kept mine secret until today. It was a lightweight, colorful scarf. "Was" because I now have one.

My brother Jim would be called a "dresser" by most retailers. He always looks great. About a year ago he showed me an extremely lightweight scarf that he said was just then coming into the U.S. from Europe. He said they are for year 'round wear by men as well as women. He was right. They're for sale here everywhere. And they're being worn everywhere. I see women in beachwear wearing these scarves around their necks in 70+ degree heat. Men wear them instead of ties. After all, what is a tie except a scarf with a better PR department?

In case you care, mine has purple in it. It sold for eight Euros. I bought it for five, and not because I'm a sharp negotiator. It's the end of the resort season and that shopkeeper knows the scarf I now own will be hopelessly out of style by the time his 2011 season rolls around.

PHOTO NOTE: A Wendi-taken photo of Jack. No bicycle to ride.

Far Side Of The Jetty

It’s Robin, taking another turn as contributor to the Galvin blog. If you’re a natural born, full blown depressive, as I am, you probably don’t want to visit a summer resort town when the season’s over. But here we are, in sunny Cattolica on the Adriatic, and the season is most definitely over. The folks who remain seem to be retirees or pre-school children. The demographic between those extremes is largely absent. The beach chairs and umbrellas are being packed up and stored away for another season, tasks that are carried out by really tan and weathered old men. Some hotels are already closed, but most hang on hoping for a few more hot weekends.

Except... it’s not hot. Not that I’m complaining after the scorching we got in Rome, but when that little nip in the air appears in a town such as this, a town that has mostly emptied out, there’s a fleeting feeling of having stayed at the party too long. Except... we just got here.

Our hotel is mostly empty, although we did see a busload of Germans come into the lobby late this afternoon. Until they arrived, I was thinking of the movie “The Shining” more than is healthy. The pool water is still warm despite the cool air and we all enjoyed a day of pure relaxation. The beach here is endless but the swimming areas are protected by jetties so the wave action is non-existent. You can see waves splashing against the jetty on the far side but no swimming is permitted there. It’s exactly where I want to be, on the far side of the jetty.

It’s strange, after days of such ardent and exhausting sight-seeing, to find ourselves talking and reading and laughing and snoozing. There is a mellow sweetness to these days in Cattolica that I’m sure we’ll remember with as much affection as the Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore.

PHOTO NOTE: Taken by Robin

Sit Or Squat

Some of you may be walking along with us during our time in Italy. But today you can drive with us. I am tapping out this posting on my iPhone as we move. Sit, relax and ride along.

At 10am we took a taxi from our perfectly located apartment in central Florence to the airport. But not to fly. To pick up a rental car. A good sized Ford Focus wagon.

Wendi is the hot-shoe driver. Since this is a live feed, you get to hear what I hear, more less as it's said. Jack just said to his wife Wendi, "The people in the back are now gonna find out what our marriage is all about."

He said that because Jack is Wendi's navigator. But we also have a Garmin with Europe maps loaded in it. Jack keeps overruling the Garmin. We now have turned it off. He's trying to get us on the road to Cattolica without going into Florence city streets again. The idea is to take major roads to Cattolica, our destination, but not the Autostrada until later. We shall see. So far, Jack is smarter than the Garmin. He points out that this deal is reminiscent of Bobby Fisher versus the computer. But in this case, Jack is winning.

Holy crap, the Tuscan hills are stunningly beautiful. We are coming up on the town of Sieci, with the River Arno on our right. Turning towards Forli on SS 67.

As we drive towards Forli, we are climbing over the section of the Appenine Mountains (actually very big hills) going sort of northeast in the direction of the Adriatic coast. Climbing and climbing on a tight switch-back road. Loaded with motorcycles. This is stunning in its beauty.

Just now reached the top.  Headed down. Uh oh. Stopped by the carabinieri. They say it's because we don't have our lights on in the day, which is Italian law. The police now have the car rental papers and Wendi's passport and Ohio driver's license. And they've disappeared behind us. The policeman just came back to the window, handed all the papers back to Wendi and asked, "What you think of Italy?" On our way again.

An American Italian joke is that the carabinieri are just a step up from mall cops. But they cut a dashing figure in their uniforms.

1:30 now. On the road since about 11:30  We have stopped at Ristorante Pizzeria La Beconna, Di De Santis Davide ed Eleonora, 0543. We will have lunch here and use the toilets. Oh boy, the toilets are squat toilets! This is a rural area and it's an old building. Jack, who's never seen such a thing before, just went in with his camera to photograph the squatter. Later, we've already decided, it will be the photo illustrating this post.

We're about to branch off this road onto A14, the Autostrada, for Cattolica. Should be another 45 minutes. It's now 3pm. A beautiful drive so far. Through small towns and luxurious, hilly countryside.

3:30pm. We are ten minutes away from the Waldorf Palace door. The Adriatic Sea is to our left as we drive south. Haven't seen it yet.

We arrived. Very nice. Our rooms have sea views and balconies.

We've just walked the beach. There's no way to walk the entire beach, because there is sandy coastline and there are hotels for as far as the eye can see both north and south. Think of it as endless Daytona or endless Virginia Beach. This is not a glamor area. It's basically a place where Europeans come to vacation in a resort setting. Just regular folks. But way too many guys in tiny swim suits; guys way past the age for that skimpy look.

PHOTO NOTE: Notice Jack's feet in the photo. They are not where they belong. Those two sort of rectangular pads are where feet go. Men stand with their backs to the door for one piece of business. They squat facing the door for the other. Women squat facing the door.

Borsas, Bangles & Bones

It's Robin here, forced to do the woman's work of writing about the markets. In the outdoor markets, the smell of leather dominates as women of every possible nationality search for one more perfect purse (borsa). Magenta? Kelly green? Purple with orange trim? No problem in the land of "borsas-r-us." And while you're at it, get a pashmina to go with your new borsa. Scarves of every color, colors not found in nature. But don't expect to bargain. The most the price will be reduced is a few euros. All I could think of was my mother wandering these same stalls in 1973 when she came to Europe with my sister. They came home laden with leather lipstick holders, eyeglass cases and a few borsas to boot. It's all still here.

A few more steps and we were inside the Central Market, think Findlay Market on steroids. Every possible element for the perfect meal is under the huge roof: fish, meats of all kinds, cheese, bread, nuts, olives, produce and flowers for the table. Wendi and I both wished we could cook up a storm, but the kitchen in our apartment is simply too small. There was even a stall for horsemeat, but it was decidedly unbusy. All of the market workers are used to being photographed; only the man selling nuts said "no photos." Why were his baskets of lovely nutmeats off limits? No idea.

And for jewelry lovers, the mother of all markets is on the Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge). The displays of jewelry are so plentiful and so gleaming that it's almost numbing. But if you're looking for a ring with a stone large enough to knock someone's lights out on the first swipe, it's here.

Nowhere has the practice of spray tanning been so enthusiastically embraced as in Italy, and nowhere has the idea of a little subtle color been so thoroughly rejected. I've never had a spray tan, so I'm not that familiar with the process, or with what sort of professional assistance one receives in selecting a shade of tan. But I will suggest to you that the Italian women have universally chosen a shade of tan that, had they acquired it the natural way, would have had them turning from side to side in the Saharan sun for at least six months.

Our other stop so far today was the Medici Chapel, a little structure as high as the sky and the size of a full grown church. it houses the remains of yes, the Medicis. It was good to be a Medici, and this elaborate structure is just one more indication that even in death, they've got the best real estate all sewed up. It also housed a number of relics of many "saints," some of whom I've never heard. The Catholic Church is big on relics. A relic is usually a piece of the skeleton of a saint, sometimes infinitesimal. Nuns and priests who were patients of my father were forever giving him relics of various saints-just the tiniest speck of bone in a fancy gold case. But here at the Medici Chapel, we're talking whole bones displayed in the most elaborate bejeweled gold reliquaries. I keep trying to imagine how Italy reads to someone completely unfamiliar with the Catholic faith. To remove that dimension of the Italian experience would be like taking the basil out of a great pesto. Just wouldn't taste the same.

This evening we'll stroll over to the Uffizi, walk along the Arno, and mentally prepare ourselves to leave this most beautiful city.

PHOTO NOTE: All photos so far were taken by Jack Anzinger. But Robin took this one at the Mercato Centrale.

Flaming Prods

For many tourists the highlight of their visits to Florence is the Duomo. Officially, it’s called Santa Maria del Fiore. The Duomo is right across the street from our quite nice rented apartment at #6 Piazza dei Duomo, if you’re using Google Earth. I don't mean the Duomo’s around the corner. I mean I look out my bedroom window right at its north wall. But the street is wide, so the window frames a substantial view of what is a massive church. It is 86 stone steps up from the doorway of this 200-year-old building to our top floor apartment. No elevator, but we knew that. Later in the day those 86 steps will seem like nothing.

A digression about coffee. Sometimes in busy Italian places – central Florence is wildly busy – there are coffee bars two and three to a block. It’s way more expensive close to the important sights like the Duomo, the Uffizi Gallery and the Pitti Palace. Way less in the neighborhoods. But even at its most expensive it’s less than at Starbucks.

Short seminar: The joke about Starbucks is that it’s a nice place to go to get a little coffee with your milk. That is, Starbucks gives you one crappy, over-roasted shot in a 12-ounce latte. It’s all milk! Go to a real American independent coffee house (Coffee Emporium is a good example) and you’ll get two shots in a 12-ounce latte – for the same price. Both the digression and the seminar are over.

There are 463 ancient stone steps to the top of the Duomo’s dome. 463 steps up in an extremely cramped ever-narrowing stairway. It wasn't an easy climb. But the payoff at the top was worth it. I think the Duomo climb and the view may be found on You Tube.

The massive interior fresco on the dome at the Duomo in Florence features the Last Judgment. (On a previous visit I read the name of the fresco too fast and thought it was the Last Supper with a much larger guest list.) But it is meant to depict the last judgment.

At two points visitors are routed onto circular interior balconies for a really up close and impressive look at the domed ceiling.

At the top of the fresco is heaven; no surprises there. Looks pretty boring to me. The middle layers show royalty, Church hierarchy and rich patrons of the arts from the time. The bottom circle of the fresco shows the artist's idea of that place where Stop, Drop and Roll doesn't put out the fire .... hell.

Among the countless grotesqueries of hell that are shown, there is a sinner in hell getting a ..... Some of my grandkids are reading this so I must go gently here. (I don’t care about your grandkids.)

A softer way of saying what I was about to say: Among the countless grotesqueries that are shown, there is a sinner getting a flaming incendiary device inserted into his nether region, while in the netherworld.

But the real reason for the climb is the take-your-breath-away 360 degree view. Many at the very top, outside, stayed way back from the railings. Everyone looked.

Another digression. Now that I have Internet I can catch up on stuff and tap into the web’s research power. So what did I do first? OK, second. I Googled “New Jersey Housewives,” because I missed the second of the two reunion shows! Tell me, was Danielle's hug with Jacquelyn truly that embarrassingly long?

After the Duomo we decided to visit the Pitti Palace area and go into the Boboli Gardens there. But first, lunch. Here’s a rule of travel worldwide – the more you spend, the more isolated you are from the locals. Food near the touristy areas is usually not very good, rather expensive, and often served with a sneer. So I flogged our small group to walk way past the gardens and into a non-tourist neighborhood, where we found a wonderful restaurant – Cafe Petrarca, #6/r Piazzale di Porta Romana. By 1pm it was jammed with buzzing locals. In fact, we got stares simply because we were obviously tourists. We ate wonderful Italian food at about half of what we’ve been generally paying, and got about twice the atmosphere.

Next was the Boboli Gardens. We worked our way to the top for another spectacular view of Florence and the surrounding hills. At one point, while we sat for a short rest, Robin and Wendi were looking at a beautiful cloud formation and each said what it looked like to her. Then Jack said, “Looks to me like a sinner getting a flaming incendiary device inserted into his nether region, while in the netherworld.”

PHOTO NOTE: Jack shot this from a way-high-up inside the dome balcony. Hell didn't make it into the photo.

Remembering Stuff

Late morning on Thursday. We're on the Eurostar Express out of Rome, headed for Florence. It's about an hour and a half ride on this very nice train. No stops. While we're in Second Class, it's still posh. I forced that word on you just so I can show off and do a short seminar.

When England controlled India, there was constant movement of officials and military back and forth by ship between the two countries. The very best on-ship accommodations were staterooms on the port side going out to India and on the starboard side coming home. That arrangement offered some relief from the afternoon sun. Requests by the higher-ups were shortened to Port Out, Starboard Home. And that's where the word "posh" came from.

I haven't been to Italy since 9-11. So I was caught by surprise Tuesday when I saw long, long - but fast-moving - security lines to enter St. Peter's. You used to be able to just walk up and in with no problem unless you had on short-ass shorts. Not any more. I could see that our bags had to go through scanners and we had to walk through metal detectors before entering the Basilica.

Ah, but this is Italy. Things are loose here. Bags went through fast, because no one looked at the X-rays. People moved through the detectors fast because the detectors weren't turned on. It was all "show." Something similar happened when we arrived from the U.S. A flood of people rushed the customs area to have their bags inspected. It was a real mob. So a custom official sauntered over to a big door, threw it open and waved the whole mob through with no inspections. I just remembered something else. During one of my past visits here a scandal was revealed with huge coverage in the news. It seems the Italian Post office was buried in mail after one of the many postal worker strikes. They couldn't catch up. So they loaded a train - an entire train - with undelivered mail and set it moving around the country. As I remember the story, the train with its cargo of mail was chugging around the country for months before someone blew the whistle, so to speak. The Italians have a unique approach to problem solving.

PHOTO NOTE: See, Galvin is alone. He has no friends. The name of this blog is a lie. So, Fine!

Stop, Drop And Roll.

After visiting St. Peter's this morning, we worked our way over to the Pizza Navona area. We had a nice pizza and salad lunch. Brother-in-law Jack grabbed the check and paid with a card. From there we went to Navona. After that, to the amazing Pantheon. Oh, those crazy Christians. They copped a Roman temple built a quarter century before Christ, stuck some altars and Christian statues in it and turned it into a church. Pretty impressive, but even so, I wish it had had been preserved as built. As a temple. 

Same deal with all the obelisks here. The first crime was the Romans stealing them from the Egyptians. The next crime was the Christians sticking their own religious symbols on top of each and every one! 

I wonder if, as those ancients committed their various robberies and artistic crimes, they knew that "Stop, Drop and Roll" doesn't work where they are - in hell. 

Our last tourist stop of the day was at the St. Maria Maggiore Basilica. Too late. Closed. So we decided to eat dinner nearby, outside, and enjoy the first cool evening since we arrived. 

When it was time to pay, Jack and I agreed to split the check. 

NOT-SO-SECRET TEST. How many of the few of you reading this know what's coming? TEST OVER. 

Jack dug in his wallet and his primary charge card was missing. That's huge. That's scary. We ran through the alternatives. Card left back in the room. Card left at restaurant where we had lunch. Card stolen at restaurant. We ran through solutions. Grab a cab and go to the restaurant. Go back to the room and see if it dropped there. Call Chase Bank and cancel the card. Or, call the restaurant to see if they have the card. 

Not so fast. Jack didn't save the receipt. What was the name of the place? I have been jotting down restaurant names and addresses, but hadn't this time. Wendi thought she remembered the name. She Googled it on her iPhone. There it was, complete with a Google map and phone number! She tapped the number on the screen, the call went through, and they had the card! A cab ride to the restaurant and the day was rescued. 

For the record, we ate dinner this evening at 27 Pizza & Rest, #27 Via Principe Amedeo. 

When I was a student here in Rome way too many decades ago - OK, it was the '60s - I would go visit my Rome relatives. My mother was born not too far north of Rome, so I have many relatives scattered around this part of Italy. In the '60s we American boys here wore gym shoes. Over and over, I'd hear a single word muttered as I'd walk by someone on the way to visit a relative.... "Gymnastica." Mostly the tone was disapproving, because gym shoes were never, ever seen on Italian men, except during sports. And shorts? Never! Men here, young and old, were slaves to the notion of Bella Figura, the Beautiful Figure. That is, they wanted to look really, really good all the time. They wore skin tight shirts and slacks, with soft leather loafers. Suits were slim and form fitting. The Italians stuck with that look long after the rest of Europe abandoned it. It's interesting, at least to me, that the Italian styles from back then are not unlike the narrow look that's taking over in American men's fashions right now.

So what's the men's fashion report from here this year? Blue jeans, cargo pants and gym shoes. And lots of men in shorts. Throughout the developed world now, we are becoming fashion twins. 

Off to Florence in the morning.

PHOTO NOTE: Crime #1 was stealing that obelisk from Egypt. Crime #2 was Christianizing it.

Failure To Respond Implies Permission.

San Clemente Church, near the Coliseum, is a favorite of mine here in Rome. The archeological excavations under the church illustrate the city's history. 

Twelfth century San Clemente is built over a fourth century church, which was built over a first century Christian meeting place, which - get this - was built over a first century BC Mithraic cult chamber. After entering the present church, visitors can walk down through those layers of history. 

I talked about my fascination with San Clemente Church with friend, Corson Hirschfeld. Corson, now a novelist, is a remarkable photographer. Before turning his focus to writing, photography was his career. I'm reprinting below what he wrote me in response to what I wrote him about San Clemente. But before I do, I need to invoke Roman Law. I sent Corson a text two days ago asking his permission to post what he wrote me at this blogsite. He didn't respond with either a Yes or a No. So I visited a nearby Roman library and the law is clear. A Reprint Request must be answered in person, by mail, email or text within two days. Failure to respond implies permission. This has been true since the time of the Ceasars.

"I photographed something similar for Smithsonian magazine in France, a Catholic church built on top of a neolithic burial chamber (c 2000 BC?) that looked like a hill. The question is whether this sort of thing was done because the site was believed to be sacred and the new church wanted to draw on its power or whether the local people believed the place was sacred and the later religion (usually Catholicism, but not always) put their church on top to declare their supremacy or to co-opt the locale (and the worshippers) for their own. They did the same with holy days . . . sure you can still practice Pin the Tail on the Devil day, but now it's called St. Vitus Day.  

The Spanish regularly build cathedrals over the previous cultures' places of worship. I'm guessing that there were probably always one or two previous structures that went even farther back, but were destroyed or buried in the religious layer cake. The people who believe in ley lines would call these "power places," that different cultures over time recognized.

Have a super trip. If you get a chance, chip a little piece off St. Peter's tomb. It would make a great conversation piece for our coffee table, particularly if it had part of an inscription on it."

PHOTO NOTE: This photo has no relationship to the rest of the posting. It just shows the car insanity in Rome. By the way, the front of the front car in this photo was jammed against the car in front of it.

How Far Will It Go?

These are probably the wrong things to wonder about, when you're visiting the seat of the Catholic Church, St. Peter's and the Vatican.

I looked up at the window where the Pope stands and blesses the crowd in St. Peter's square. I wondered about the half life of blessings. Just how far does one Papal blessing travel?  To the far edges of the crowd? Out to the Tiber River? Even covering all of Rome, maybe all of Italy? Can the Pope juice up a blessing with enough oomph to reach Spain, Portugal and maybe my brother Jim in New York City? Altho' the blessing would be much petered out (if you'll pardon the expression) by the time it gets to Jim. 

This is where the Buddhists are ahead of the Catholics. A Buddhist blessing reaches out to all sentient beings, to the entire universe. No half-life calculations needed. 

Another wonderment  Over the entrance to St. Peter's Basilica is a giant statue of Jesus. He holds a cross in one hand. The other is pointed upwards with two fingers extended. I wondered if that could possibly mean, "Hey, two Bud Lights over here, please." (Note to Mary Hoffman: Sorry about that.)

PHOTO NOTE: Only one Bud Light for this guy.

The Ape And The Thumb

I must really love the one or two of you reading these blog reports, because we've had no Internet access. I tap these out on my iPhone. Thank God it was my left thumb stung by a bee on Saturday, the day before we left for Italy. If I were left handed, something I can't even imagine, my swollen thumb would have hit three keys with each tap. 

Today our travels take us (probably thru' rain all day) to St. Peter's (but not the Museum), to Piazza Navona, to the Pantheon, ending at the Gesu, the chief church for the Jesuit Order of priests. I offer this itinerary so you all can use Google maps to walk with us. But you'll be dry. 

Speaking of walking, I'm an everyday volleyball player. Not a good one, but certainly an enthusiastic and active player. Even with my seven-day-a-week exercise, my legs hurt here. It's all the hills and steps, I guess. They demand muscles that the flat courts don't. We are staying near a very convenient Metro subway stop. An 11 Euro three-day pass lets me have unlimited use of the subway system and buses. We haven't used those passes. We have abused them. They are clearly the best travel value in Rome. But you see nothing in the subways. You just get from place to place fast. We have never waited more than four minutes for a train. Amazing efficiency for a pretty relaxed country. 

Even so, once you get to your stop, you will walk. And walk. And walk. And sweat. Like yesterday. The Metro took us to Piazza Barberini. We walked up Via Veneto past the cafes made famous in "La Dolce Vita," past the American Embassy (Don't even think of aiming your camera at those buildings.), through the old wall and over to the Borghese Gallery. After that visit we walked through the Borghese Gardens (think Central Park) and down the steps (many) to Piazza del Popolo. Lunch there. Then we walked to the top of the Spanish Steps, down the steps to the piazza, past the the absurdly expensive shops on Via Condotti, and to a place where we could sit and enjoy water and coffee. 

That's when I really became concerned with my thumb. It was seriously swollen. OK, "so swollen it would hit three letters" was a little dramatic, but plenty swollen, immobilized, and weeping drops of clear fluid from the stinger hole. I could see a pharmacy nearby, but I didn't know the Italian word for bee. A Canadian couple was at the table next to ours, listening to me complain. The guy said, "Ape."
He told us he had been studying the language for two months online. And the word for bee is easily remembered by thinking ape, but pronounced ah-pay. Two months online! This is my seventh visit to Italy, and my first one was actually living here and going to school. If he hadn't stepped in, I'd have been reduced to using buzzing sound effects with the pharmacist. Armed with that word, my stumbling Italian and evidence - my thumb - I had no trouble communicating. The spray-tanned pharmacist sold me a topical cortisone that put me on the road to full thumb recovery. 

What? Just looked out the window. Not raining. Sun peeking through the clouds. Headed out. 

PHOTO NOTE: A nice shot by Jack of a well-known fountain element on Piazza Navona.

Ratios, Twins And Mangos

Today at the wonderful Borghese Gallery I was reminded again that we are all twins. In a broad sense, all men are enough alike to be called twins. Women are twins. In fact, men and women,together, have enough in common to even be called twins. 

The ratio of user-friendliness to artistic significance may be the most optimal in the world at the Borghese. (I stole that line.) But, as far as I know, not one woman artist is represented there. Which brings me back to the subject of the twinship of men. Why do all these guys - at least the ones shown at the Borghese - display women's breasts so often in their paintings and sculptures? Is it that they, themselves, had a "thing" for boobies? Or were they pandering to their patrons, feeding their fixations. Think about this: In addition to royalty and rich merchants, Catholic Church hierarchy were serious patrons of art. Twins, all of 'em. 

And even though I'm delivering this seminar, sad to admit, I must also be a twin. Today I found myself mildly aroused by one of the more breastigious religious paintings. It was a ceiling fresco of the Virgin Mary, for God's sake! That's just wrong.

At the end of our two-hour visit, we went to a separate building to see a special modern art installation by the Bulgarian artist, Nedko Solakov.  Called "The Tunnel," it was two paintings of a light-filled hole. They were placed on easels perhaps 20 feet apart. They represented the tunnels of light that dying people supposedly see. According to the artist we must, at the moment of death, choose one or the other.

On closer inspection, way more was going on than just those choices. Since the paintings were on easels, I could look at the backs of them. Solakov wrote on the non-painted linen that was pulled around and behind the inside frame of the painting. Remember, the paintings are about death. But the writings and some other elements in the installation were whimsical. For example, he wrote, "I'm not significant." Elsewhere on the back he wrote, "I'm significant. There are too many of us." A reference to our twinship?  Maybe. 

Important news from Italy for my mango-loving friends. Mango gelato is fantastic!

Italian people are great. Last night on the street I asked a family in my very best halting Italian if there was a good restaurant nearby. Another woman joined the conversation, she and the family debated. I couldn't follow their conversation. Then the interloper woman said in her best halting English, "Follow me." She walked us considerable distance through dark streets and an alley to a very nice restaurant. Tonight we go the Colosseum. We didn't get there last night. Too many wonderful distractions.

PHOTO NOTE: Photo by Jack. Colosseum at night.

Sleepless In Rome

When you travel to Europe from the US, virtually all flights leave at night. Here's what that means. If your 8-hour flight leaves at 6pm, and there's a 6-hour time difference, you'll get to where you're going at about 8am. But your body will think it's 2am. So, at about 8, the four of us arrived this morning in Rome. We discovered a sunny, inviting day. The City screamed at us, yelling, telling us to seize the day, while our bodies begged for the night's sleep we missed. 

The yelling won. I couldn't stay in the room. So I scoped out the neighborhood where we're staying, near Piazza Re di Roma. Very nice. A true "neighborhood."  Then I visited nearby St. John Lateran church, and went back to round up the others. We all grabbed lunch and then went to the church. It is considered to be the church of Rome. Somehow St. Peter's came in second in the Church of Rome Derby. 

It was easy after that to take the subway to the stop for the Trevi Fountain. I have visited that beautiful place many, many times. I have never, ever seen it so packed with people. 

That was enough for us. We are now back in our rooms resting before dinner. If our stamina returns, we will visit the Coliseum and Forum area tonight after dark. It'll be all lit up. 

PHOTO NOTE: Photo by Jack. Trevi Fountain

The Plan For Our 1st Day In Rome

Jerry Writing. We get into Rome on Monday morning. I've already been warned that I cannot lead the group on a forced march around Rome minutes after arriving. I know the city well, having been a student there in the early 1960s.

Here's the story behind that. I was attending a Jesuit university, Xavier University, in Cincinnati. There was a posting on a bulletin board that Loyola University in Chicago was looking for 100 of the top Jesuit-school scholars in the country to help found a new school in Rome. So I applied and was selected. Imagine! I was one of those top scholars.

Later I learned that if a student had both a heartbeat and $1,100, that student was a top scholar.

So here's the plan for the first day. We arrive Monday in the early morning. We - wife Robin, her brother Jack, his wife Wendi and I - should be in the apartment we rented by about 10am. Some may want to rest after an all-night flight. I'll be too excited. So I'll hit the streets of the neighborhood where our apartment is. Size up the area. Later, when everyone's up for it, we'll go to the grocery and get a few things for the little bit of eating we'll do at the place. In the late afternoon we'll go to the Forum area and explore those ruins. We'll eat somewhere in that section of Rome. The idea is to stay over there as darkness falls since the Forum and the Colliseum are bathed in light at night. Very, very pretty. Late Monday or early Tuesday we'll let you know what really happened on our first day.

Italy Soon

We leave for Italy on Sunday. We're going with Robin's brother, Jack, and his wife, Wendi. We land in Rome, spend three days there, then to Florence for three days, over to the Adriatic Sea for three days, and then to Venice for three days. After Venice, home. If you need any "stuff" while we're gone, our key is always under the mat. Take whatever you want. But do us a favor and make it look like you broke in. Because we're going to tell the insurance company that our crappy stuff was way more expensive than it actually was.

Final Thoughts - Onboard

This will be the last entry on the Baltic and will include some general (and generalizing) observations and thoughts about the now sadly-completed trip.

Not surprisingly, various nationalities found one another onboard, and gently staked claim to their own parts of the ship. The indoor patio area near the children's pool was the spot for blood-sport board games by the many Asians. How lovely it was to observe the multi-generational intensity of their play, only to be occasionally punctuated with great bursts of laughter after a particularly brilliant (or dismal) move. Speaking of games, the longed-for Scrabble playoff between me and Pam never occurred as the several games were consistently signed out when we wanted to play. Next investment: our own travel Scrabble set.

The Spanish speaking families, from a culture of ultra-late dining, (not certain if they were from South America or Spain) were in riotous form in the dining room at 11:00 PM or later. Their children, young teens from various families, sat together and away from the adults, and they had the time of their lives. And that reminds me of the Tango.

Each evening, in an area of the ship called the Piazza, a small dance orchestra played. The repertoire was standard "Titanic" and "Ship of Fools" fare; if you closed your eyes while listening to them, you found yourself waiting for the iceberg's crack. But one evening, I noticed a number of Asian women looking over the railing from Deck 7 down to the dance floor below. They were mesmerized and I soon found out why. A particularly lovely and elegant young Asian couple, the only dancers on the floor, was dancing the tango. Their lessons were not in vain, and the orchestra was in heaven to accompany such expert execution of this tricky dance. I found it all quite touching: the obvious pride of the observers, the grace of the dancers, the joy of the musicians (as they played tango after tango to keep the couple dancing). It was a "moment," that's all I can say. A moment of sheer beauty.

Concurrent with this tangoliciousness, another scene was being played out, as it was every night of the cruise. Tables (a' la street vendors, only they were ship vendors) were set up in the hall on the aforementioned Deck 7, piled high with wares that varied not at all over the ten days at sea. Baltic amber, Russian nesting dolls and lacquered boxes, costume jewelry and various other gimcracky continued to delight the women passengers (who piled up five deep at the tables) as thoroughly on the last night as it had on the first. Why, Pam and I wondered, did the fascination hold, when the merchandise remained virtually unchanged after ten days? It's the fever of the marketplace. It's what vacationers do, and it's goofy. The only item I purchased on the trip was a Russian nesting doll for my friend Cathi whose cat Cassie bears a resemblance to the cat painted on the doll. The painted cat, as inanimate as it is, is more likely to extend a friendly gesture than the real cat, that goes without saying.

One of my favorite scenes, repeated daily, was the sight of my friend Pam on the balcony of our room. She loved to sit out there and read after a day's excursion while we sailed off to the next port. Eventually her eyes would close and while she napped a look of utter contentment remained always on her face. This is one of the scenes that will come to mind when I think of this trip.

Estonia, Who knew?

Robin and Pam's cruise on the Baltic Sea is in its final days. They visited Estonia and the next day they got a little glimpse of Germany. Here's what Robin wrote.

We stopped at Talinn in Estonia right after our grueling two days in Mother Russia. As if divinely prompted to smile on free people, the weather was cool, breezy and sunny for our visit to a country that has only been out from under Communism since 1991. What strides they have made!!!! The people are so hopeful and happy to be free – something we take for granted. While the town was bombed during WW II, (the Russians said the Germans did it, the Germans said the Russians did it, but the townpeople recognized the difference in the sound of the planes and declared that it was the Russians) most of the old town was spared, and it is charming. We were treated to an organ concert at the oldest church. Music is a huge part of the national psyche, and the largest choral music festival maybe in the world is held there every five years in a huge amphitheater. Thirty thousand singers from all over the world convene. The contrast to Russia was overwhelming.

Today we are docked in Warnemunde, a small German port town. Many hearty souls on the ship made the three-hour journey into Berlin, but we decided just to stroll around the village knowing that three hours in means three hours back, and precious little in between except a high level of fatigue. The town of Warnemunde is clean and orderly as you would expect in Germany. Even the gulls in the harbor seem to fly in a more orderly fashion. I found myself wanting to walk up to the sausage seller or the schnitzel vendor and ask this simple question: "Two world wars. Eight million jews. WTF??" But I didn't. Pam and I argued about culpability. She believes that because these people were not alive or too young when that all went down, it's an unfair question to pose, just as those of us alive now in the States are not directly responsible for slavery, she believes. Maybe I don't believe in redemption after all, because to me there is a national stain that can't be erased by the passage of time. I may be wrong. I just don't know.

THEN I got to thinking about the personalities of nations. Does the personality of a nation come from some critical mass of individual personalities within it? I think of Russia's bullyness, and Kruschev pounding his shoe on the table at the UN, and I tell you, I observed similar behaviour from many Russians during my brief stay. So volatile, so quick to get angry. And the Germans...I guess giving the world the Mercedes and the BMW gives your feelings of superiority some credence, but war and extermination?

Then I think of the Swedes. And I wonder if their confidence, their ability to take care of all of their people with social programs, just the smoothness of their whole operation, comes from having a nation of tall beautiful people who don't even have to wear makeup?

And finally I think about our young nation, and the gosh-by-golly attributes shared by so many Americans, and the childlike way we provide aid, and in return want the recipients to play by our rules. We are the children on the world scene. Big powerful children.

It all makes sense in my goofball mind.

Only one sad thing happened on this extraordinary trip, and that is the loss of the fair Aurora. The Aurora, a great ship not quite as large as our behemoth, was our constant companion from port to port until we left Talinn. She followed in our wake. At night we looked out on the black sea and there she was, and she always was berthed right next to us in every port. We became attached. As we left Talinn (it might be Tallinn, I forget), I felt that she wasn't getting moving as she ought. Her ropes were still tied and the usual bustle of pushing off activity was missing. As we moved a few miles out of port, I kept waiting for her to catch up. By dusk I was sitting on the balcony, binoculars in hand, searching the horizon. No Aurora. I got up in the middle of the night and saw only the black, black Baltic. In the morning, I checked first thing. That's when we had to reconcile ourselves to the fact that she had made another turn, the shipping lane not taken. Now, of course, I wonder: Where did she go? Back to home port? To some other Baltic outpost? She's gone and we miss her companionship. Does she miss us?

Tomorrow's the last day. We think we'll stay aboard and savor our last day in the lap of luxury. We've yet to have had our proper Scrabble challenge, something Pam particularly enjoys as she always wins. I'm always so joyful to have gotten a word, ANY word, that I never bother to count points and all that. She counts, she wins.

Don't Drink The Wodka

Robin and her friend Pam are taking a cruise on the Baltic Sea. The ship took them to Russia, where they spent two days touring on land. Here's the first of her reports from there.

I am so doggone tired, I hardly know how I'll remember anything. Saturday and Sunday we were in St. Petersburg, touted as the cultural and aesthetic center of mother Russia. I hardly know where to begin. Saturday morning we boarded a bus for the Hermitage, the second largest collection of paintings next to the Louvre, as the cheerful guide told us at least 200 times. It was not the size that stunned us, nor the paintings, nor the fact that Peter the Great had lived in a place this enormous. (No question why these folks revolted their asses off.) No, what stunned us was the fact that the paintings were subjected to the vagaries of the climate with virtually no controls at all. It was about 95 degrees inside, the windows were flung open, the sun beat in on the paintings, the salty humidity poured in like a vapor, and instead of weeping for our sweaty selves (and our physical misery was ACUTE), we wept for the paintings - thinking of how coddled they are in even second and third tier museums at home. How they have stayed in one piece here through centuries of rough treatment is beyond me, and you can bet if it's this hot in the summer, the winters are equally frigid. We were herded through the place much in the same way one is sent through the Vatican Museum. Paintings of dead fowl and slain fawns seem to have been favored by Russian royalty - the secular version, I guess, of St. Agatha getting her breasts ripped off at the Uffizi.

Three dripping wet hours later, we returned to the ship and passed out prior to the evening's entertainment off-ship: "An Evening at the RUSSIAN BALLET!!!"

I got a weird feeling on the bus on the way to the theater, like a light going off in my head. "Wait a minute," I thought, "this is August. This is NO ONE'S official ballet season: Might this be a performance put on merely to pander to me and my shipmates?" The answer was YES! And the results were hysterical. Before I say anything snarky, the prima ballerina of our ballet (Swan Lake, naturally) was extraordinary, and she danced the role of both female leads. In the company's defense, as we were merely sitting in the 90 degree theater, they were dancing in the heat. How, we do not know. But, as it is summer, it was apparent that many of the usual members of the corps were on holiday, and other girls whose only attribute was their body type, were conscripted to perform. We don't know if they had any advance warning or were just pulled in off the street, but the resulting confusion on stage was both nerve wracking and comical. Then there's this other matter of the happy ending. Does the white swan die? No, no, no, not in the tourist version. Pam, a balletophile, said to me, "I can't believe I remembered that ending wrong." I screamed, "This was the wrong ending!" As we approached our bus, we discreetly asked our guide "WTF????" She told us that when Stalin saw the ballet for the first time, he hated the sad ending and made them change it. Now, apparently, ballet companies may choose which ending they will use. Unbelievable, and oh so funny, were it not for the sweat coursing down my body.

Yesterday took us to Catherine the Great's summer palace, and it was beautiful. Again so hot. We had lunch there while some Russian folk singers entertained us, and tried to sell us their musical instruments. Then we were off to Peterhof, the summer palace of Peter the Great. There are beautiful gardens and fountains there which we greatly enjoyed. However, while we were touring the interior of the palace, a great storm came up quickly, and the power went off. After completing the tour in darkness, we left for the bus under great torrents. We were soon as cold as we'd been hot. The traffic was nightmarish getting back to the ship because, we found out later, so many trees had been blown over and into the streets. Fortunately the ship waited for us as we were quite late getting back.

That's the minutia of Russia. Here's (my) big picture. It's depressing. The people are depressed. Oh, I'm sure in some town somewhere you could have big fun tossing down "wodka" shots with a Russian. But in general, the mood is less than jovial. Much is in disrepair. There's not much of a work ethic, and certainly no experience with philanthropy to help keep the theaters and museums in good repair, which they are not. All of the museum workers slept in their chairs with their heads in their hands in each and every room. I'm glad I saw that little slice of Russia, even for the short time I did. Clarified one whole hell of a lot. About the "wodka": Some folks from the ship apparently imbibed while in St. Petersburg, got sick as dogs, prompting the ship's doctor to put a message in the daily newsletter that essentially said: Please do not drink that Russian shit. It's got an alcohol content you never even heard of.

Tomorrow I'll tell you about TODAY, about Estonia - finally out from under Russian dominance in 1991. Oh, it's a very happy story indeed.

The Ship That Sank

OK, I'll get the sequence right soon. This posting from Robin fits in between the two postings below.

Today was lovely. We arrived in Stockholm at 10:00 and boarded our bus. The first thing we visited was the Vasa Museum. The Vasa is a huge wooden ship built in the 1600's that was going to lead the Swedish ships to Poland, where the king of Sweden was waiting for them to help in his war against the Poles. Well, the woodcarvers got a little carried away in the construction of the ship and made it very top heavy. It sank in the Stockholm harbor within 15 minutes on its maiden voyage. Only within the last 20 years did they bring it up, restore it (along with the skeletons of those drowned) and build a mother of a museum. It arouses an inordinate amount of national pride considering the first puff of wind knocked the damn thing over.

Then we went to old town, and to the armory, where it became apparent that when fully armored, a horse could not possibly walk, nor could its rider move at all. Interesting, but a monument to man's insanity.

The weather was beautiful today, about 80 and sunny. The Swedish archipelago has 30,000 islands, and we are passing nearly 1000 of them on our way out of Stockholm and back into the Baltic, on our way to Helsinki. This is the most beautiful passage imaginable. I have to keep telling myself that while these little islands with their very occasional cottages look so inviting in the summer, the winters are horrid. So I haven't bought any property so far. This is a WONDERFUL experience in a part of the world I never would have come to had it not been for Pam. It's just beautiful.

Before The War Words

Robin Galvin is visiting countries along the Baltic Sea with her Friend Pam. The following words from her came in before the War Words posting below this one. (Note: On the flight over Robin had a nasty reaction to the Ambien she took in order to sleep on the plane.)

Holy crapola, Pam and I woke up at 12:00 noon today. We just had a great workout, but lo and behold, the other passengers are all dolled up for formal night and we look like two drowned rats. We're having a wondeful time. Wish I could have seen more of Copenhagen. Certainly Tivoli garden was so charming. It took two days for the GD Ambien to get out of my system. I was a maniac on the plane - Pam had her hands full, which she endured with humor and good cheer. We've had many a good laugh over it. The ship is HUGE and filled with true diversity in terms of ages and nationalities. No financial downturn for the Asians. Whole families including little children all over the place, and of course they look particularly gorgeous tonight in their fancy garb. Could write for hours but need to shower and get beautiful myself. This day with no ports was just what the doctor ordered. The cabin boy said he had no STDs and I believed him.

War Words From Robin

Robin Galvin is on a cruise on the Baltic sea, visiting countries in that area. She sent the following today.

What I've learned about the history of this region: Way back when, Sweden ruled the Baltic. They had all kinds of territory, including land that is Russia today. Finland was Finland until the Russians decided it was Russia. At some point, Russia decided that land that was Sweden's was Russia's. Germany decided it all was theirs a couple of times. The famous Amber Room in the Catherine Palace was made with amber from land that was Russia's, then Germany's, then Russia's. But it pissed the Germans off to the point that during WW II, feeling ownership of the amber, they dismantled the room stone by stone and hid it all in a castle that got bombed and burned to the ground. So far, what I've gathered is that Poland and Finland had to bend over every time someone got a whim that they wanted the land. It's insane, I swear to God, and no different from the Middle East. Oh yeah, and during WW II, the Finns - remembering that Russia had annexed them 100 years prior - joined with the Nazis in the bombing of St. Petersburg. The FINNS!!!! I think the only reason Finland is Finland now is that folks finally figured out it's not much more than some outcroppings of rock anyway. Isn't it amazing that wherever men have settled, there is war? This is the lesson of travel - Not that mankind is all the same, but that mankind is all nuts.

Today the ship stopped in Helsinki. Because we face two wildly busy days in St. Petersburg tomorrow and the next day, We decided to stay on the ship. The people who went into Helsinki said we missed seeing a church and the parliament building. Instead, we had great workouts, swam in the pool, read our books. What a lovely day....Gotta go.

Tell Them To Shut Up Before They Ruin Our Vacation

There is something tragically wrong with my family.

Actually with the kids. We are driving back from Michigan to Cincinnati and I'm in the back seat thinking about this last week together. Except for the kids, it was a fabulous family vacation.

Reminder: Marshal 16, Mimi 12 and Davis 4. Grand children.

Marshal and Mimi, if they were normal, should be awful on a family vacation. They should be moody, sullen, even angry that they were ripped from their friends, forced to travel ten hours, and then locked in a house with their parents and grand parents. Normal kids would hide in their vacation rooms, spending hours sending texts to their friends that trash the parents and grand parents who dreamed up the stupid idea of a family vacation with all its forced fun.

But these are clever kids. They tricked us by hiding their anger and resentment under a veneer of cheerful good humor, hoping to make us see their pain that way. Here's how they made our adult lives miserable. They talked and laughed with us. They hung around with us. They contributed to the conversations. They were funny. They were appropriately challenging when what the adults said didn't make sense. In other words, they talked. We are worried. This is not how it's supposed to be.

I saw Lisa Googling "Child psychiatrists" + Cincinnati, so I know she will take corrective action on Monday.

For Davis, age 4, it's normal to be talkative and happy. But even with that child there's a problem. We were on the porch one morning reviewing family history. We cried together talking about the family members who used to go on these vacations to Michigan, but who have been taken to heaven by the man in the pink nightgown. Davis came out on the porch, looked at our sad, crestfallen faces and shouted, "Let's play Wiffle ball!" Again, another abnormal child. Clearly an early sign of Asperger's.