Italy

My girls (ages 11, 9 and almost 8) announced today from the back of my rickety Honda Pilot that there are 18 days till summer break begins.  I waited with trepidation for the next logical questions, which came quickly:  "What are we going to do?  Can we go back to Italy?"

Lola, Stella & Isabel at lunch, Fiesole

Ahh, Italia.  Last summer we managed a trip to Florence, Milan and Venice via house swap with an Italian family I found randomly on the internet that far surpassed our expectations.   Our kids are well-traveled -- we're fortunate to have family in a multitude of fun places to visit (Colorado, Florida, Arizona, California, Michigan, to name some favorites) and I have never been shy about dragging them all onto a plane - mean people don't really register with me.  With my first child (mellow, calm Isabel), she and I flew to 13 different destinations before she was a year old -- mostly to nearby places like Columbus, Ohio and Evansville, Indiana, but she also experienced her first trans-Atlantic flight with mom and dad -- to Paris at the ripe age of 6 months.  Some of you might remember a favorite picture of Roc holding her up in the air with the Eiffel Tower in the background.  A few years later, when the brood had grown to three, I vividly recall several trips to Colorado to see my mom in Summit County, without Roc, making my way through the airport sporting a Baby Bjorn with Baby #3 stuffed in, pushing a double stroller with 3 carseats piled precariously on top, and doggedly calling to the two meandering toddlers behind me as they helpfully left a trail of Cheerios should we somehow become lost between Gates 2 and (what seemed like) Gate 1037.  Travel is my thing.  As a friend once pointed out (and not necessarily in a complimentary way), "You have serious ants in your pants."

Isabel wandering, Burano

So last year, following the precipitous decline in real estate in Chicago (my husband is a real estate developer, so this was especially bad news for us), our summer plans looked grim until I came up with the idea of doing a house exchange somewhere in Europe.  I had used mileage almost a year previously to purchase tickets to Milan, but where would we stay?  I began a search for a house exchange with an Italian family, and in a short time our dream family materialized -- in Tuscany (a 2-hour train ride from Milan), but so what?  I hadn't been on a European train since studying in London in 1989....time to see how times havw changed.

I informed my husband of the new plan for Summer 2010 and he gamely agreed.  One of the many wonderful things about my husband is his willingness to follow when possible, and lead when required. Our house - which we had recently completely renovated -  had been on the market for several months so it was pristinely clean and ready for occupation.  We even threw in our car (yes, the rickety Honda) for good measure so that "the Italians" - as we came to call the mystery family - could traverse the city easily.  I spoke with Patrizio, my exchange partner, only once -- on my cell phone while shopping at Target.  He huffed at me that Lake Como was over-rated and that Rome was too crowded (apparently only Tuscany was worth our while).  I asked about Venice.  He grudgingly acknowledged that the kids might enjoy "all of the water" and, since we were flying to Milan, I decided to make it a triangle -- by train to Milan to Florence to Venice and then back to Milan for our return flight.

Our friends thought we had lost our minds.  Amid protests that everything we owned would be stolen, our house vandalized and our car wrecked, we jumped on the plane to Milan and set off on our adventure.  The flights from Chicago to New York (2 hours) then from New York to Milan (7 hours) were fine as we had taken all three girls to France and Switzerland two summers before when they were 8, 6 and 5; however, taking the bus from the Milan airport to the train station (45 minutes) to board the train to Florence (2 hours) to find a cab to take us to Patrizio's city apartment so that he could give us his car (20 minutes) and then to drive the winding roads from Florence into Tuscany (30 minutes) was a bit of a push.  The last leg (from Florence to the hills of Tuscany) was crazy as the girls had completely gone into overdrive and were laughing in that hysterical way that lets you know a major meltdown (consisting most likely of hitting, pinching and screaming) was dangerously close.  I urged Roc to drive faster -- never mind the narrow, winding, roads with the cliffs dropping off the side.  Meanwhile, Patrizio (charming, enthusiastic and very Italian) insisted that after settling at his place in Tuscany we drive back to Florence to have dinner with him, so after a quick dip in the lovely pool of our beautiful Tuscan villa (Patrizio and his wife own a small hotel in which they have a fantastic apartment, which is where we stayed), we loaded the girls back into the car and headed back into town.  We were all a bit zombie-like, but that particular night was one of the best, mainly because Patrizio turned out to be such a welcoming and lovely person.  The girls dozed in their seats at the restaurant and we rolled back into the villa around midnight.  Whew.  Long day(s).

Stella in St. Mark's Square, Venice

I could fill many pages of this blog with stories about our stay in Italy, but suffice to say that we couldn't have been more delighted.  Tuscany was as gorgeous and historic as we had imagined.  Venice was magical, with its (somehow) romantic gondolas and the crazy pigeons in St. Mark's Square (Stella, Dr. Dolittle, was in heaven).  Milan felt just a bit like Chicago - big, noisy and crowded, but still overwhelmingly Italian.  We shopped for school clothes.

As for Patrizio, after welcoming us to Florence he left to meet his family at our house the following day and we communicated via text for the entirety of our trip.  His texts would come rapidfire:  "Headed to Oak Street Beach for swim! Using your bikes!" or "Dinner on Wells Street tonight."  One of my favorites regarded his upcoming plans to meet friends in the Hamptons (post-Chicago).  "Why do I want to go to the Hamptons?" he wrote incredulously, "I have the Mediterranean!" Another regarded his wife's frantic search for an iron (I don't own one) so that she could iron our bedsheets before their departure.

People sometimes ask me why we go to "all the trouble" of taking our kids so far away when, really, they would be just as happy playing on a Michigan beach. It's true - children do find joy in just about any new experience - but I think there's value in these cultural experiences -- even young as they are.  One of my favorite pictures from a trip to Paris a couple of years ago is of Lola sitting in the Louvre pouting on a bench (she's 6 years old).  She was miserable and it was definitely our fault.  Despite our plan to traverse the city via every Parisian park that we could find (there are a LOT!) - interrupted only by croissant and cappuccino breaks - we had uncharacteristically broken from the routine and decided to  squeeze in a few museum visits - the Louvre being one of them.  Of course Lola remembers nothing from that experience in "...the most boring museum in the world," but that's all right.  The picture is priceless.  What she does remember is going to the top of the Eiffel Tower at midnight with her dad.  And what her sisters remember is playing with French children whom they met in the awesome playground inside Luxembourg Gardens.

In Italy, as in other places we've visited, our kids played with children who spoke different languages and had foreign customs but who, surprisingly, were "just like us."  They laugh and cry and bleed just like us, too.  How miraculous to realize that "them" is not so different from "us", whatever country it may be.

On a more ethereal level,  we recently visited the spectacular home of John Ringling (of the Ringling Brothers' Circus) in Sarasota, Florida, which is clearly designed with Venetian architecture at its core. To our surprise, as soon as we walked through the first archway, 7-year old Stella commented casually, "It looks like Venice here," and then skipped down the flowered lane, while her surprised builder-dad and architect-grandpa looked on.

But....Italy was last summer.  This summer there's no European vacation in the works.  This year...while many friends are busy booking their kids into a myriad of amazing camps (it's Chicago, after all), we hope to soak up some much-needed downtime. It's been a hectic six months with the sale of our house (December 21 closing; that was awesome), a move to a rental home while we figure out what to do next, plus the usual frenetic pace that comes with three very active children and two working parents.  So....while we have some travel planned (those ants really have taken residence in my pants), what I'm really hoping for is a lazy summer spent down the street in the trees at Trebes Park, lots and lots of lemonade stands, and plenty of bike riding along Lake Michigan. Carpe diem!

The Seduction of Whole Foods

Those of you who know me accept that I'm a rather too-frequent shopper at Whole Foods Market.  This self-proclaimed "world's largest retailer of natural and organic foods, with stores throughout North America and the United Kingdom" beckons to me with its gleaming windows and cheerful green signage every time I drive near the intersection of North Avenue and Sheffield.  My husband feigns shock each month when he reviews the MasterCard bill where my addiction is clearly documented.  "I shop the European way!" I tell him grandly.  "You know, I buy fresh stuff every day.  Like if we lived in Paris or something."  He rolls his eyes to which I respond tartly, "I'm doing it for you guys.  You should thank me; it's not an easy job."  And then I storm off to secretly tune into Dancing with the Stars or something like that while he's left to struggle with my selfless shopping at the most expensive grocery store in America.

The truth is that Whole Foods makes me feel good.  When I go into one of the "competitors" I find myself worrying about the risk of pesticides on the produce, mercury in the fish, and the all-out lack of concern for using a separate plastic bag for every three items. At Whole Foods everybody smiles benevolently as they bustle about sniffing organic peaches and tasting samples of the best guacamole ever made.  My kids wander off to the "Trail Mix Bar" where they fill brown paper bags (recyclable, of course) with things like banana chips, organic granola and pumpkin seeds.  If it's been a long day, I might grab a glass of wine to sip from the Wine Bar (yes, they have a wine bar!) as I stroll around happily tossing things into my cart.  Sometimes they have live music in the bar section; or shoulder massages upstairs.  If it's a nice day, you might sit outside and eat lunch, watching the Chicago River flow by.

On the downside...there is a certain degree of judgment I can't help but acknowledge. "Mais, non!" you say?  "Mais, oui!"  I say.  When I stand in the checkout line I am careful to place my lettuce and apples and strawberries on top to hide my less impressive selections (ie, cookies, ice cream, pizza) lest the shoppers lined up behind me think me unworthy to shop at this mecca.  Oftentimes I'll see one person with a cart full, I repeat, a cart FULL, of wheatgrass, radishes, kamut and other unappealing items in the checkout and I'll think, "Come on!  You really eat that stuff??" Of course, this is my own inferiority raising its ugly head, but that's what can happen at Whole Foods if you're not careful.

Fashion can also be a little confusing at Whole Foods, too.  Many shoppers shuffle around in old jeans and torn t-shirts, only to load their many bags of groceries into a waiting Lexus SUV.  Add that to the rows of shiny new hybrids stacked in the primo "Hybrid Only" parking spots up front and your brain may begin to pulse, "Does not compute." After all, when the average cost of a bag of groceries is $50-$60, you ain't fooling nobody.  It reminds me of the scene in "The Kids are All Right" where Annette Bening totally loses her mind during dinner with friends as they ramble on and on about composting and the health benefits of acai (pronounced "ah-sah-ee").  "I just can't take it anymore!" she grumbles as she slugs down another glass of red wine.
  
A lot of my friends shop at Whole Foods, too, so hopefully I'm not making a bunch of frenemies -- I'm there all the time, after all.  I'll be the first to admit that this place just draws me in.  And although Roc is prone to proclaiming in exasperation (while peering into the refrigerator), "What?  Are we rationing normal food now?" I still can't shake the feeling that I am doing good by my family by making this place a part of my regular routine.  I reason that there is probably little else more important than what we feed our kids (and ourselves), so maybe the inordinant amount of time and money I spend there is somehow justified.  Either that, or I've been seduced by something a lot worse -- appearances.

Waiting for Spring in the Windy City

Another beautiful spring day in the Windy City.  Blustery, gray and cold on this 17th day of May, but hope lures us onward with a promise of warmer temperatures by Saturday.  I realized yesterday that we are a city full of amateur meteorologists when, while waiting in line at Whole Foods, I found myself in earnest discussion about the weather with three or four strangers.  It began innocently enough with the usual, "How about the weather?" comment from the hip, young, bohemian thing weighing my overpriced organic avocados, but morphed quickly into a full-on discussion as the bagger joined in, and then the man behind me, and then someone from across the aisle.  I think some poor soul up on the balcony may have been desperately trying to shout down some statistics that he had quickly accessed from his Iphone, but we were too far away and too engrossed in our own conversation to hear, so he no doubt went back to his independent Reiki studies.  Meanwhile, following several minutes of intense discussion my new comrades and myself agreed that if we can just make it till Saturday we may be able to tuck away our parkas, boots, and mittens until at least September 1st when Old Man Winter will surely come galloping back into town, shattering our short-lived summer bliss.

Yes, weather is a frequent topic, ie, water-cooler talk, when living in Chicago, but I've no doubt it builds character.  The whole city swelled with pride when President Obama remarked that upon moving to balmy Washington D.C. his children were astounded that their classmates didn't want to go outside in 30-degree temperatures.  My three daughters (and basically, all the children I know) are sent packing into temperatures well below 0 on a routine basis.  We'd all go mad if they stayed indoors.  And besides, there is a (misguided) demented pride that goes along with surviving in this climate.  My friends in California routinely comment on the lovely "perfect" weather they are having in stealthy, "oh, did I say that?" ways, but I generally don't take the bait.

Recently my sister-in-law, who is fortunate enough to live in Malibu, remarked that she could see whales passing by from her living room window.  This information could have sent me into a funk as we struggle through yet another cold, unpredictable Chicago spring but, instead, as I looked out to my sad little patio with its wilted flowers (planted too soon, as I optimistically do every year), her comment reminded me that perhaps now is a good time to call Herb, the Rat Man, again.  The weather will be turning soon, most likely, and the little critters will be on the move.