Trip to Italy, part 1

March has come in like a lion around here in Southern California. It has been chilly and rainy; granted, it's not nearly as cold as the rest of the country, but it's not the temperate weather people around here are used to. 

Life around the Cook household has been in an uproar also. Our trip to Rome was the central focus of events, of course, but in between packing, going, and returning, much has taken place. Here is the wrap-up of the month of February and the first week of March in reverse:

The last week has been consumed by finances (taxes, financial aid applications), course planning and grading. A term ended at the Navy base and began at the Christian university, so course management has been on my mind. I am questioning whether my teaching this term for my military hybrid class was lacking or my students were just lazy - 3 of 10 failed the class. Not a good percentage.

Since we've returned two weeks ago, we've had two weekends with company in town. They all stayed at hotels because they weren't really here to see us (a wedding and family vacation brought them here). One night we hosted my sons' friends on their way to the wedding, but other than that, it was easy hosting and a delight to catch up with old friends. 

Unfortunately, this past weekend, our entertaining style was crimped by the youngest daughter's bout with an intestinal bug.  We were quarantined for five days, which should have been a welcome relief, since I wasn't technically sick, but I was feeling the effects of jet lag, or perhaps it was late nights with interrupted sleep, and so we spent a lot of time on the couch or in bed reading.  The biggest challenge was that we were supposed to host these friends for dinner and brunch, and we had to cancel that. I felt guilty about the whole thing because I had encouraged them to visit San Diego, and they came on the rainiest, coldest weekend of the year, and we were homebound. We did meet up at the park, without my sicky, but I'm not sure their vacation was what they envisioned.

I also planned a trip to our oldest's son's first college graduation (he is doing a fifth year next year, but we just decided to go this year to see him graduate with his classmates instead of going next year). I also completed some financial documents, but others are weighing on my mind - just a few weeks left to complete. 

One night I went to school for the Writers Symposium by the Sea to hear Christian Wiman speak - that was a joy. And we snuck in a date to a German restaurant thanks to a gift card from my sister-in-law. We also were able to have a little Mardi Gras evening with some friends - not a party, but an impromptu wine and snacks evening after we had all been to a challenging presentation by Covenant Eyes about dealing with kids and online pornography. A depressing topic, but an enlightening talk. 

Our own vacation was what I envisioned, and better and worse. Ready for the travelogue?  I'll need this written record in the future to remember what we did and where we stayed.

The Background:

Our oldest son is in Rome for the year studying architecture. My husband did the same program in 1993-94.  I visited him in Europe over Christmas break that year. We did the Eurorail thing where you jump a train for a different city every day or two, so we met up in Munich, and then went to Bruges, Paris, Milan, Venice, Florence, Assisi, and Rome. I may be missing a destination or two in that list. Then in 2003 we returned to Rome for Mother Teresa's beatification, Pope JP II's twenty-fifth anniversary, and a consistory of cardinals. There was a lot going on over a short period of time, and we stayed in Rome the whole time. So this was our third trip to Italy. 

This time we flew from LAX, a two hour drive away, because the tickets were $385 each. That part of the trip was uneventful, except for a scare at the Air France counter because the check-in attendant weighed our carry-on bags and told us we were 100 lbs over weight.  Everyone had a school-sized backpack and either a small rolling bag or a backpacking backpack. Size-wise they were legal, but the kids were toting their school books, and I had also overpacked clothes and reading material.  My husband gave a sob story about how we were following Delta's rules since we booked with them, and because of his persistence, a manager finally came over and checked some of our bags for free and shooed as away. (The kids wanted to hide during this episode, and it made me hesitant the rest of the trip to buy anything, probably a good fear.)

And we're off! Hello, LAX!

Let's fly!

Welcome to Paris!

Only one other snafu on the travel side - our connecting flight from Paris to Rome had to be rebooked in Paris because it had been canceled for some reason. My husband suspected the agent in LA of canceling it out of spite, but I hope it was just an accident. At any rate, Air France in Paris was very helpful, and they got everything straightened out.  We didn't have any hold-ups in customs in Paris or Rome, despite not holding boarding passes. 

Shuttel to our next flight

Buona serra, Roma!

I splurged on a private car to pick us up at Termini in Rome to take us to our first apartment instead of dealing with a bus or train. This was a nice convenience since we had a big group and we were tired after many hours on the road - I think we had been up for 24 hours by then, but my time calculations are still fuzzy. The apartment was decent - not luxurious, but spacious with super comfy beds and two bathrooms, great for our family of six.  

After dropping our bags, our first destination was to find our college son to celebrate his twenty-first birthday with him and some friends - we arrived on the special day!  We were a little further from his school campus than I had hoped, but we got our first glimpse of some icons of Rome - the colosseum and St. John Lateran. 

Ben's choice for dinner was the restaurant where Dan used to hang out with his friends when he was a college student. He invited five of his friends to join us for the party, and the owner of the restaurant helped make it a celebration by bringing out generous plates of bruschetta and antipasta, plenty of carafes of wine, heaping plates of pasta, sparkling frangolina, oranges for a palate cleanser, then an ice cream bombe type dessert. We ate as if we hadn't seen food in days. This evening is one all the kids said was their favorite part of the whole trip. 

Brother's desk

The birthday party at Miscellanea

The birthday boy - Mickey teased us that he was there every night drinking beer, never did his homework, chased girls, and never prayed for his mama and grandma

Daddy's class photo is still on the wall!

Mickey still welcomes college students from around the world

Monument to Vittore Emmanuel

The Colosseum at night - on our way back from the restaurant

We all slept well that night, although waking up was hard to do, but we wanted to get a decent start on our second day. We were a bit flexible on our itinerary, but we planned to work our way to Ben's school for lunchtime, when he finished his classes for the day.

Our first stop was Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, which was near our apartment. We hadn't visited this church before, because it doesn't show up on art and architecture highlights lists, but we're so glad we went this time. It is a pilgrimage stop - and that was the theme of Thursday. Relics from Jerusalem - wood from the true cross, thorns from the crown of thorns, doubting Thomas's finger, rocks from the sepulcher, dirt from around the cross, and a replica of the Shroud of Turin, make this church a stations of the cross re-enactment.  No pictures were allowed in the chapel with the relics, but there was another little chapel with relics from a young girl who died in the 40s, who is now a candidate for sainthood.  I can't access my phone photos on this format, however, so here are some from my husband's device.

The first of many cappucinos

Ancient gate near our apartment

Buongiorno, Roma! San Giovanni Laterano

Flowers for Valentine's Day

Our next stops were the Scala Sancta and San Giovanni Laterno.  The real holy stairs were being restored, so we went up the exit stairs on our knees with other pilgrims. The kids were very reverent, even the four year old, who was rewarded with a little bracelet with a medal. This meant we had to stop in the gift shop of many churches to get medals as souvenirs.

Ready to visit some saints' relics

These are actually the exit stairs, because the real stairs are being preserved. 

Dan and one of his professors, Fr. Bullene, who helped concelebrate our wedding and who is now teaching in Rome

By the time we finished admiring San Giovanni, and praying before the relics of Peter and Paul, it was time to head to the Notre Dame campus. They have two buildings - a classroom building where the architecture studio is located, and a dorm they call a Villa. It is a beautiful newer building - the prettiest in the neighborhood, and beautiful inside, as well, but Ben refused to show us his living quarters, an apartment he shares with six guys. He claimed the other guys would be too embarrassed, but I'm wondering what kind of mess it is in.

Yay, we found Bubby! He had morning class, but spent the rest of the day with us.

View from ND's villa

Villa Celio - Notre Dame's housing in Rome

Off to explore

First gelato brings smiles!

Hey, we're outside the Colosseum! We never did pay to go in

We tried twice to visit San Clemente to see the excavations, but both times it was closed - once for lunch and siesta, and once for a party for seminarians. We missed the slim window of opportunity to explore the ancient churches built on top of each other by minutes.

Touching antiquities

Scenic shortcut

The other churches we visited were notable for their art and architecture --- as well as their holy relics: Santa Maria Maggiore, San Pietro in Vincoli, Santa Maria della Vittoria, and Santa Cecilia in Trastevere.

Relics of the manger at Sta Maria Maggiore

Sta Maria Maggiore, one of the four major basilicas

Statuary for sale - almost as much fun as the real thing

Inside St. Peter in Chains - I think...

St. Peter's Chains from prison, unlocked by an angel

Michaelangelo's Moses

Bernini's Sta Teresa in Ecstasy, a favorite, in Sta Maria della Vittoria. There was a large group of people taking pictures of this statue. I wondered how many were there because of the story of St. Teresa's vision and mystical experience, and how many to check a box - one of Bernini's greatest works. The chapel itself is unique with its black marble drapery and side reliefs of the patrons looking on at Sta Teresa's private experience, but the saddest thing to me about this trip was the crowds everywhere with phones lifted taking picture after picture. We, too, were guilty of the desire to capture all of our experiences on film, but it is definitely a more crowded Rome than it was in the past. How much does the tourist industry need to thank social media for the increase on travelers (combined with cheap flights and plenty of tour guides)?

Sta Cecilia in Trastevere, another favorite church. 

Santa Cecilia has extensive excavations, also. I'm running out of time and having trouble accessing photos, so no photos of that today. 

Yum! More pasta at Carlo Mentis - best priced dinner in Trastevera - 5e plates!

Fun in the piazza at night. But for us, we were ready for bed after a lot of walking, praying, site seeing, and eating. 

More reading in review

In addition to the memoirs of former nun Monica Baldwin, which I wrote about in the last post, I have finished a few other books of note.  Can I add Frommer's and Rick Steves' guides to Rome, Florence, and Italy to my book count for the year?  Admittedly, I haven't read them completely, just sections pertinent to our trip. I also skimmed A Literary Pilgrimage to Rome, which is part guide book, part anthology of quotes by famous writers about their impressions of Rome. It is organized by walks through various neighborhoods so that you could arrange your peregrinations through Rome according to the places mentioned by the writers included in this book - including the Romantic poets and Nathanial Hawthorne, but also including some lesser known contemporary writers.  We won't be using that guide for our trip, although I'll point out the house where Keats died to the kids, who will likely be unimpressed because they don't know Keats (note to self - make them read "Ode on a Grecian Urn" before we go), and perhaps we'll grab a coffee at Caffe Greco.

Note to interested readers: I overcame most of my Executive Decision Disorder to reserve apartments each night of our stay. Opted for a place around the corner from the Pantheon that looks tiny and uncomfortable in exchange for a great location at a good price, instead of staying at a place for the same price with more comfortable looking beds further away from the city center. I had instant regrets after I reserved this nonrefundable apartment, but was comforted by my husband who said if we hate it after the first night, we'll just find someplace else to stay and chalk up the loss of funds to an education in trip planning.

I meant to read more fiction about Rome, but only got around to finishing Anthony Doerr's Four Seasons in Rome, which is a memoir of his year on a fellowship to write while living in a little apartment on the Janiculum Hill.  He and his wife and twin infant sons arrive in Rome in the early fall, when the babies are only a few months old. Much of the first half of the book describes the fatigue and inability to navigate small spaces with two babies.  I found myself wondering if I felt that tired and inexperienced with our first babies? Surely I was, and perhaps more so, because I had no energy to write about it. Initially, I wondered why Doerr and his wife weren't more adventurous about exploring Rome with their infants. I felt sorry for his wife cooped up with the babies while he was in his studio daydreaming (and writing a worldwide bestseller, All the Light We Cannot See, so I guess the time paid off) or exploring Rome. He went to observe the crowds when John Paul II was dying, but it doesn't seem his wife witnessed any of it. Then again, we don't get his wife's perspective on this year in Rome, and the impression he gives is that at first she rarely leaves the apartment with the babies, except to go to the little park near it most of the first two seasons they are there. Eventually, a few months into their stay, they hire a Filipina grandma to watch the twins occasionally, so they can visit sites and eat out ever once in a while.  His description of their discovery of St. Ivo alla Sapienza is moving. By time the twins are mobile in the spring, she comes at least once a week so they can explore the countryside around Rome.  While the beginning of the book gives the impression that they were too intimidated to explore, by the end they are getting around the city and conversing in Italian.  The book is obviously a carefully crafted memoir, not just a diary of a year, so large chunks of the year are omitted. Doerr is a good enough writer that I wished he had shared more.  And as I read, I found myself wishing I had written more about those days when our children were infants. What a wonderful record of life.

A book I enjoyed more than I thought I would was another book I happened to pull down off the shelf because I had seen it on the internet: My Badass Book of Saints by Maria Morera Johnson. The title is off-putting to me, but I liked the book more than I thought I would. I thought it might be one of those books that is self-consciously trying to be intentionally hip to appeal to an uninterested youthful readership, but it was much more readable. Johnson combines reflections on certain virtues like perseverance and courage with biographical sketches of some lesser known contemporary figures to examine along with little and well-known saints and blesseds. For example, she writes about Edel Quinn, Mary Wake, Irene Sendler, Audrey Hepburn, Mother Antonia Brenner, Flannery O'Connor, and Dorothea Lange, fascinating women, along with Blessed Rosalie Rendu, St Catherine of Sienna, St. Christina the Astonishing, and St. Bibiana. These women's lives model generosity, friendship, interior beauty, compassion, advocacy, and charity, among other virtues, and Johnson connects their examples to moments in her own life.  I might buy a copy, or check it out again, to make my high school daughter read it during Lent.

If I had to pick again, I would have recommended that book over the one I read for book club this month, Benjamin Wiker's Saints and Scoundrels, although again I thought it might be a good book to pass on to the high school kids. In it, Wiker imagines historical figures like St. Augustine and Jean-Jacques Rousseau meeting up in his living room to discuss their ideologies - sacred vs. secular visions of the meaning of life. Flannery O'Connor shows up again in a match up against Ayn Rand - that was perhaps my favorite chapter.  St. Francis debates Machiavelli. Edith Stein confronts Friedrich Nietzsche. St Thomas More and Henry VIII meet again. It's a fun concept and easy to read, but I'm afraid I wasn't too attentive to it as I read. The image Wiker creates of his office - a chess set, comfortable chairs for snoozing, swords and pistols on display - provides a quirky setting. It would be great assignment as an intro to modern philosophy, perhaps why Wiker, a professor at Steubenville, wrote it.

Finally, I also skimmed through Natasha Tretheway's new collection of verse, Monument: Poems New and Selected. It was on display in honor of Black History Month, but I have loved Tretheway since I first read her work when we lived in Gulfport, which forms a backdrop to many of her poems. She became poet laureate the year after we left to live in Guam. Her poetry examines the complexities of coming from a place so full of contradictions, of beauty and darkness, and the complexities of her mixed race background, her mother's murder by her second husband, and the imagined lives of former slaves.  She makes poetry seem so easy, and then includes a line of clarifying brilliance, a twist that reveals her gift.  Read more  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/natasha-trethewey

Ask yourself what's in your heart, that

reliquary—blood locket and seedbed—and

contend with what it means, the folk saying

you learned from a Korean poet in Seoul:

that one does not bury the mother's body

in the ground but in the chest, or—like you —

you carry her corpse on your back.here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/148332/imperatives-for-carrying-on-in-the-aftermath

Elegy for the Native Guards

BY NATASHA TRETHEWEY

                                        Now that the salt of their blood   
Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea . . .
       —Allen Tate
 

We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overhead

trailing the boat—streamers, noisy fanfare—

all the way to Ship Island. What we see

first is the fort, its roof of grass, a lee—

half reminder of the men who served there—

a weathered monument to some of the dead.

 

Inside we follow the ranger, hurried

though we are to get to the beach. He tells

of graves lost in the Gulf, the island split

in half when Hurricane Camille hit,

shows us casemates, cannons, the store that sells

souvenirs, tokens of history long buried.

 

The Daughters of the Confederacy

has placed a plaque here, at the fort’s entrance—

each Confederate soldier’s name raised hard

in bronze; no names carved for the Native Guards—

2nd Regiment, Union men, black phalanx.

What is monument to their legacy?

 

All the grave markers, all the crude headstones—

water-lost. Now fish dart among their bones,

and we listen for what the waves intone.

Only the fort remains, near forty feet high,

round, unfinished, half open to the sky,

the elements—wind, rain—God’s deliberate eye.

Natasha Trethewey, “Elegy for the Native Guards” from Native Guard. Copyright © 2007 by Natasha Trethewey. Reprinted by permission of Natasha Trethewey.Source: Native Guard (Mariner Books, 2007)

South

BY NATASHA TRETHEWEY

Homo sapiens is the only species
to suffer psychological exile.
        —E. O. Wilson
 

I returned to a stand of pines,

                            bone-thin phalanx

 

flanking the roadside, tangle

                            of understory—a dialectic of dark

 

and light—and magnolias blossoming

                            like afterthought: each flower

 

a surrender, white flags draped

                            among the branches. I returned

 

to land’s end, the swath of coast

                            clear cut and buried in sand:

 

mangrove, live oak, gulfweed

                            razed and replaced by thin palms—

 

palmettos—symbols of victory

                            or defiance, over and over

 

marking this vanquished land. I returned

                            to a field of cotton, hallowed ground—

 

as slave legend goes—each boll

                            holding the ghosts of generations:

 

those who measured their days

                            by the heft of sacks and lengths

 

of rows, whose sweat flecked the cotton plants

                            still sewn into our clothes.

 

I returned to a country battlefield

                            where colored troops fought and died—

 

Port Hudson where their bodies swelled

                            and blackened beneath the sun—unburied

 

until earth’s green sheet pulled over them,

                            unmarked by any headstones.

 

Where the roads, buildings, and monuments

                            are named to honor the Confederacy,

 

where that old flag still hangs, I return

                            to Mississippi, state that made a crime

 

of me—mulatto, half-breed—native

                            in my native land, this place they’ll bury me.

Natasha Trethewey, “South” from Native Guard. Copyright © 2007 by Natasha Trethewey. Reprinted by permission of Natasha Trethewey.Source: Native Guard (Mariner Books, 2007)

And I finally finished Signs of Grace by my former professor, Fr. Nicholas Ayo. This book has been my bathroom meditational for many months, picked up and set down. I finally read the last reflection on St. Jude. Ayo travels around the Notre Dame campus, using landmarks and little-known corners as inspirations for meditations on faith and life. He seems so full of love and understanding, a genuinely good man. He was always thoughtful, a slow speaker, a gentle soul, in class. Perhaps he was always praying. I am sure he is missed by many, especially in the Program of Liberal Studies.

So many good books this month!

A hidden life revealed

I have been spending Tuesdays and Thursdays at the library the past couple of weeks because I don't start teaching again until February. I meant to use this time for research, writing, and planning next semester, but I've mostly used it for researching our Rome trip and other diversions. For instance, last week I was actually looking for a book about ecocriticism, but I happened to pick up another interesting read off the library shelf: Monica Baldwin's memoir I Leap Over the Wall. It's the story of a British woman of aristocratic background who leaves convent life after spending 28 years as a nun. She entered the convent (which she doesn't name, but a little internet research reveals she was Augustinian cannoness at St. Monica's Priory in Hertfordshire) in 1914 during the beginning of one war and returns to the world in 1941, the beginning of the second world war. It's a fascinating peek at the changes that occurred in those 28 years and the impressions of someone who was removed from worldly life at a time of great social upheaval.

Baldwin makes the obvious comparison of her to Rip Van Winkle a number of times. She notes changes such as wartime privations and increased materialism. She entered the convent as WWI was beginning and leaves as WWII is ramping up.  Some of the notable changes: Ladies' dress: panty hose, underwear, bras. Her sister picks her up outside the convent and takes her shopping first thing.  She writes that all of London seemed poor and working class, no more assistance in the shops, no more glamorous gowns. Women were smoking on the trains.  Music was also quite different.  Interestingly, providentially, one of the first songs she hears on the radio is one of the last songs she ever listened to - Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin.  

Why did she leave the convent? It does not seem that she lost her faith, but rather that she doubted her vocation. For a decade after she realized she had followed her own will into the convent instead of God's will, she lived in distress and then began the process of getting permission to give up her vows. Her reasons for leaving are simply that she was not suited for convent life and that she had to go. I thought it admirable that she doesn't dwell too closely on her own interior struggle. Several remarks about her faith make it seem that she did not lose it, but just realized she didn't have a call to consecrated life.  She doesn't complain about convent life or other sisters, although her description of the habit she wore does sound complex - the headdress sounds like a torture device. But the simple collation described in the refectory sounds delicious - whole grain dark bread, vegetable soup, figs or dates, all eaten in silence.  She does describe a couple of convent conflicts - arguments over opening windows - "Fresh Air Friends" vs "Fug defenders" -and over the volume of plainchant. But she writes a good deal of praise for the prayers and music, including describing the divine offices - the order's raison d'etre.

Much of the book describes Baldwin's struggles to find a job. She stays with an elderly aunt in Sussex for some time and then with her uncle, one time Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin.  The names of the ancestral homes are so lovely -  Astley in Worcestershire, Bredon Hill, Woodbury, Abberley - the Malverns,  Hallow, Grimley, Shrawley, the Severn River.  Her immediate family seems unable or unwilling to take her in. I am guessing her parents had died, although I don't remember reading about them dying - admittedly, I skimmed the book to get through it in a couple hours.

Her skills are not very marketable - painting illuminations, researching St. Augustine and his time, administering simple home remedies as an infirmarian. She does not want to be a teacher or be around a bunch of girls. And she mentions that she avoids tiny women for some reason.  But she does try out several jobs - as a garden worker or "land girl," a factory girl at an ammunition factory, a blue print designer, a canteen worker - until she finally finds some satisfaction as a librarian.
The dream of the Cornwall Cottage

At one point she stays with two elderly women Barbara and Gay - grandmothers who smoke and cuss call her immature, naive, try to teach her about life.  Later she meets some "Buchmanites" who were early evangelicals who take her in and give her encouragement.   She finds London smothering and longs for the country, "ordained by God" for healing the soul. This line resonated with me, as city life often gets wearisome.  She has a dream of a tiny cottage in Cornwall with a garden against a cliff, which becomes her goal.

Eventually, she becomes an assistant librarian with Royal Medical Society. In this capacity, one evening she happens to have dinner with Lord Dawson and is introduced to spies - perhaps obliquely invited to be one. She lectures Dawson about the history and love of Christ that led to the building of monasteries and the blessings of a hidden life. She offers a convincing apology for convent life even as she leaves it behind when she describes seeing all souls as cells in the mystical body of Christ with the purpose of carrying on his passion. We have our own individual life but contribute to the unity of the body of Christ. "The whole Christ lives in me" in the flesh - convents devote all to Christ to have more unity with his heart, in union in contemplation. Their goal is to bring Him to the world in prayer; they are like the force that created and preserved the world and is refused nothing by God - a miraculous being. Dawson in response to her descriptions offers her a job of developing a welfare society, but she declines.

Although she enjoys the job as a librarian, her eyes are no longer good. Her doctor tells she was well preserved and wasted her life for the 18 years she thought about leaving the convent. She talks about the experience of envisioning adventures and growing in humility during that time, learning to make room for God. She continues to be disgusted by materialism.

In the end, Monica finds her tiny cottage in Cornwall that she dreamed about. Her conversations with another uncle about convent life and perhaps frequent questions about why she left inspire her to write her memoirs. She must have become something of a hermit, living in Cornwall with her cat and writing. She published this book in 1949, then wrote a novel Called and Chosen that came out in 1957, shortly after A Nun's Story by Katheryn Hulme, which was more popular.  I think she also wrote another memoir. 

The couple of hours I spent reading this were a delightful glimpse of another world and of another soul seeking to follow her vocation without road signs. Perhaps not the best use of my time, but the hours were not wasted.

Trip planning: Executive function overload

I may have mentioned once or twice or several times that our second oldest has been in Rome since September studying architecture. We are planning a trip to see him in less than a month, and we are taking the four younger kids. I booked the flights back in the fall when I found a major deal on a good airline with convenient travel times from out here - the return flight is direct to LAX. (The drive to LAX from here may be the worst part of the trip.) We are considering it the kids' religious education for the year since we aren't paying Catholic school tuition this year. We'll leave on a Tuesday, arrive on a Wednesday afternoon (after travel and time change), and leave the following Wednesday - so 7 days in Italy.  Our budget is supposed to be equivalent to what I am getting paid to teach one class for one term, which is to say about $5000. The flights took up almost half of that amount.

Now after figuring out travel within Italy - because we are planning to visit Assisi and Florence for the weekend - and the cost of admissions and food and shelter, I think I need to add $1000 to that amount. Or at least $500.  Here is my quandary: what is the value of convenience and what is the value of comfort?  I am thinking of all the ways that traveling with kids brings up different considerations than traveling alone or with other adults who don't complain or tire as easily, are fueled by cafe and crusty bread, can sleep wherever, and are pleased to peek inside dimly lit church after dimly lit church seeking relics and works of art that you once studied in art history class.

That extra $500 could go towards a few different things: I've found three different apartments: A nice one right by the Spanish steps for $500 for 3 nights (which is cheaper than staying in most budget hotels here in America, considering it is a bright and clean two bedroom apartment with beds for 6 and a modern kitchen). Then there is one right by the Pantheon for $325 for 3 nights (think one real bed and 2 futons for sleeping, a grimy looking bath, stove and sink, but great location), or one that looks nice inside but is located out near the Lateran farther away from everything except closer to where our son is staying for about $325 also. We are staying in that area the first two nights for about $150 for 2 nights, but the same apartment is not available when we return from our weekend trip. There are also a couple of nice and affordable apartments near the Vatican, but my husband doesn't want to stay on that side of the Tiber, even though I pointed out we should be staying with the nuns and priests if we are considering this a pilgrimage. I was disappointed to realize we will miss the Wednesday audiences and the Sunday blessing because of our travel times, so we probably won't catch a glimpse of the pope.

At any rate, what is it worth to have a comfy bed in a nice place?  We could also save or splurge $80 on a faster train from Florence to Rome, saving about 3 hours on a train with kids (1.5 vs 4.5 hours). Also, how many art museums can we visit based on our budget and the kids' endurance and taste for Renaissance paintings? I have been visiting website after website, studying train schedules, figuring out prices for adult and child tickets to various attractions and trying to figure out how much time we need to travel between them. I've studied Frommer's, Rick Steves, and Fodor's guides, in addition to A Literary Guide to Rome and various websites. We watched Life is Beautiful, Tea with Mussolini, and some Rick Steves videos the past couple of weekends, and have Roman Holiday and a Bishop Barron video queued up to watch this weekend. I'm about halfway through Anthony Doerr's Four Seasons in Rome, about his year in Rome on a writing fellowship with his wife and baby twins. which makes me wonder if I was that tired with babies?  The planning and dreaming is half the fun, but 'm beginning to get planner's overload.

The reality is we won't possibly be able to see everything, and we should take time to enjoy the things we do see. Our son should know and my husband (who spent a year there 25 years ago) still has a good sense of getting around Rome, so I should just leave the itinerary to them.  But I like to be informed - or prepared - or in control; however you like to look at it. Also, we need to reserve times to enter the Vatican Museum, the Uffizi, and a couple other things that they don't think to plan for. My husband wants to skip the Colosseum, but I think the kids will like it. But there's another way to save time and dinero. . .

The one thing we might save money on without skimping on pleasure is food, depending on how much gelato we eat. I have budgeted $200 a day, but I think if we eat dinner and breakfast in (or from a market) most days and keep lunch reasonable, we may be able to eat for much less, but still be satisfied. 

The adventure awaits...

Take and read

I just finished what is sure to be my favorite book of the year - Amor Towles' A Gentleman in Moscow. So, so, so good! It was a delight to read from beginning to end.  Maybe I did wonder at the beginning, "Where is this going to go?" but only because I have avoided reading many reviews. I keep seeing it highly recommended (along Towles' other book Rules of Civility, which I am going to head to the library to checkout first thing tomorrow, even though I have three other library books and three books of ecocriticism essays I am intending to read for class...) but I never paid much attention to the reviews out of a shortage of time for reading about books I don't have time to read. But just before we left on our Christmas travels, I stopped in at the library for some fun books to read, and this one happened to be sitting out on the library's "to be reshelved" cart, so I picked it up. I neglected to take it with me because I needed to finish a book I had borrowed (River of Gold, by a local author, Victor Villasenor - a fine book full of interesting historical details about the lives of Mexican immigrants in the 1920s) and then I read Maryanne Wolfe's Come Home, Reader, which is also really good because of its subject matter and the way Wolfe combines details from studies by neuroscientists, education specialists, literary critics, and technology gurus into a very readable cautionary tale about what is lost when reading digitally. It's a book I want to write about more because the subject matter is so pertinent.

But right now, I urge you to do yourself a favor and escape to the world of the Metropol Hotel in Moscow where Count Alexander Rostov has been exiled to the end of his days beginning in 1922.  Towles creates a vivid and delightful world by combining interesting details about Russian politics and history with engaging character studies and insights into human nature and what gives life meaning. It's a world the reader doesn't want to leave.  I was willingly drawn into a self-imposed exile into the life of the Metropol with Count Rostov and his friends - and an enemy or two.  Towles creates the very enchantment with an imaginary world that Maryanne Wolfe writes is so necessary to our identity as people who read, people who need escape as well as enrichment and engagement and delight. 

The cynic in me is a little hesitant still to read any reviews.  Perhaps some critic has accused Towles of creating a main character who is a little too much of the perfect gentleman. Are his observations and insights ones that have been made better by other writers? Does it matter? I was happily absorbed by getting to know the characters and listening in on their witty dialogue, the philosophizing, and the observations of character and history.  And so wholeheartedly I recommend setting aside a few hours of respite from regular life to retreat to the Metropol and enter into life in Moscow in the first half of the twentieth century.