Before I got my passport and well before I made my lengthy What Am I Forgetting?! list, I tried to learn Italian. I probably clocked in about 16 hours of various audio books. So I learned a little bit of the basics. But even more importantly, I learned that 16 hours is the equivalent of one-sixteenth of a nanosecond in time. It's nothing. It's enough to be dangerously, misleadingly, stupidly cocky. I don't even feel all that confident ordering food in SPANISH. I don't know what made me think I could attempt stepping up to an Italian truck stop cash register attendee and ordering a panino (That's one sandwich. Panini is actually more than one sandwich) with mozzarella and basil, like some kind of local. WORSE YET! I thought I could translate for OTHER PEOPLE. Go ahead laugh. I can't hear you from hear.

In this process, I also learned that Italians don't hand you your change. They put it on il banco (the counter). It only took me eight days to get used to this system. Until then, I continually held out my hand like a modern-day Oliver. I think I got used to it by the time we were at Heathrow airport. Of course by then, the Brits humored me.

I learned that people are people. There are saints, sinners, angels, and assholes all the world over. There are generous people who extend pieces of their soul because they want you to know and love their country. And then there are miscreants who will see you struggling to say something and impatiently walk away. 

I learned that I do not have a religious bone in my body. If I worship anything at all, it's art and history and the magnificent human beings that protect them, serve them, and pay them forward. I learned that religion is so beautiful BECAUSE of the art and the history that tries to represent them to satisfaction.

I've always known that my daughter is a responsible person. And I had every intention of testing her... because that's what I do. But I learned that she can probably be dropped anywhere on this planet and land on her feet. She and another boy were the youngest in the group and, outside of the chaperons, she didn't know a single person on the tour. I ache with pride at her ability to withhold complaints, try some squid salad, give the tour guides her full attention complete with eye contact and everything, make new friends, and find her way across the various cities we visited without me babysitting her every move. I will always remember Italy as the trip wherein I got to witness my first and oldest babygirl grow up and become a young lady. Oy.... but it hurts RIGHT.... HERE.... 

I learned that lots of people sit on the Spanish Steps of Rome as though anticipating a parade. But no parade ever comes, to my knowledge. :(

I learned that nuns look like nuns in Italy, not like retired substitute teachers as they often do in the states, and they can be spotted eating gelato on almost any alley-street in the major cities of Italy.

I learned that anchovies are salty and toilets can be tricky. I learned the meaning of jet lag and that a smile and confidence gets you through customs quicker than anything.

I learned that it was a wise decision to walk through the Ufizzi Gallery with my art teacher brother-in-law. And not a wise decision to let Jeannette order an Americana. I learned that I should have had the lovely Cynthia with me every time I made a street vendor purchase. And Gina to show me the way to the Florentine tattoo artists.

I learned that Grisel and Emily can handle emergencies with grace. And Chabetito is the guy you want to be with on your next trip anywhere. 

I learned that there really are guys named Guido. Italian boys really are romantics. And one really does have to take a picture of themselves propping up the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

I learned that I'll probably be talking about this trip to friends and family and random strangers at the grocery store for the rest of my life. I will become one of those people that annoys everyone, telling them that they haven't truly lived until they've heard the water splashing around the edges of a gondola, until they've been approached on a busy piazza by an honest-to-God gypsy with a long dirty skirt and slippers, that they will never know true happiness until they've stood in a place that's so old and rich with the history of the world that it brings spontaneous tears to even the most sociopathic of eyes.

Again, thank you, Liz. I promise you that you couldn't have given this trip to a more appreciative chaperon than me.

You realize I'm never going to be done talking about Italy. I'm no Elizabeth Gilbert or Michele Guittari. But as I read my last post I realized that I still had so much to unload on you all. And talking with some of my travel mates, I know that I'm not alone in this. We are HAUNTED. So this post goes out to my sisters and my brother-in-law, to my daughter, our tour guide, and all the awesome peeps that made our bus smell so damn good.

I last talked about the things I would miss about Italy. I next want to hit on the things that blew my mind. It will be a long time before I get over seeing a boy approximately my son's age sitting at an outdoor cafe and eating artichoke leaves while sipping on a glass of wine. We wanted so badly to take a picture of him in all his uber-culturedness. But then I imagined a foreigner coming here and snapping a picture of my son sinking his teeth into a taco while sipping Red Bull and felt queasy at the prospect. Speaking of boys, they weren't afraid to touch one another. We saw hoards of schoolchildren, walking the streets of Florence, arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand, tweenish in age, but also teenish. "Are they gay?" I heard one of our kids ask another. No, my child. They are Italiano. Don't let the skinny jeans fool you. They are telling one another that our ragazze are molto belle. And they were!

Speaking of our ragazze, I'm blown over at how well-behaved they all were. God, we were lucky. They stuck together, watched out for one another, followed instruction, budgeted their money,used their library voices for the most part, and stayed away from the gypsies... they were freaking ANGELS who deserve "I'm a big kid now" awards. It was a thing to behold. Kids, I hope your parents know how completely awesome you are.

I was blown over at the idea that a country can function without the equivalent of a penny. I mean, rounding things off... what a concept!

THE VATICAN... I knew it was going to be opulent. But I had no idea how deeply it would affect me when our guide said it would take a person TWELVE YEARS to see their entire collection of STUFF. I just can't believe it... my eyes are kind of forever seared by the IDEA of that. Really?? Twelve YEARS?? And, by the way, Vatican, I'm blown over that I couldn't take pictures of The Sistine Chapel because of CHINA, of all things. But ohhhhhhhh..... I hope my daughter tells her daughter who tells her daughter who tells her daughter that she rested her eyes upon the tear-inducing beauty of Michelangelo. *heart wrenches just remembering*

And have I mentioned how our hotel room in Florence was haunted? I've tried to put down the events that occurred, but in writing it sounds contrived and lame. You'll just have to believe me, friends. We had a poltergeist who we feel sure was trying to impress Toni with dresser drawer acrobatics. It really blew me over.

That's all for now, folks.

At first I was going to post this pic because is there anything more precious than a little girl wearing a dress and snow boots walking in the snow with a cute mutt? But then I found it more compelling that it's been approximately one week since a snow event and my road still looks like a snowmobile trail on a mountain pass.

One of my New Year's resolutions is to take more of these pictures. And indulge in their many stories.

I felt completely justified in putting off DAY 1. For the love of God, several inches of snow were blowing sideways, backwards, AND diagonally. So I drank coffee and read. I played Words With Friends. I attempted to wake up my daughter via text message. I fell in love with products that I don't need. I ignored my dirty kitchen. 

FOUR MORE hours have passed since then. In that time I've seen two runners blazing a trail along the bank of the river. And then to add insult to injury, this guy shows up as if to say, "Get your lazy ass out here, you good-for-nothing writer."

THIS IS SO NOT MY IDEA OF A GOOD TIME. But I'm strapping it on (the running shoes of course) and going for it. Because fuck the coat closet.