Blessings abound.

You know, I meant to write this post last Wednesday, after a much-needed dinner with Erica and Anna on Tuesday night. We went to try out Guntersville's newest dining establishment, The Lakehouse, then grabbed a Blizzard before watching the season finale of Glee (although, we lost Anna somewhere between blizzards and Glee). The three of us haven't been together at the same time in something close to six months, but you'd never know. As soon as we arrived at The Lakehouse, we picked up where we left off. It was refreshing and healing and everything I needed.

I would've written about it Wednesday, but I woke up and hit the ground running to get back to Tuscaloosa for lunch with Erika at Panera. From there, I had just the perfect amount of time for grocery shopping before Chasley arrived for a few days in Tuscaloosa.

At the end of each day over the past week, one theme has danced around in my mind: blessings. So many blessings. Outrageous, unnecessary, undeserved blessings. From much-needed catch-up time with A&E to dolling up with Chasley for no particular reason... My life is oh-so-good right now.

Chasley and I met up with Boyfriend two nights in a row for trivia and some dancing-- mostly, Chasley danced and we all looked on in awe. I earned my place in trivia with a clutch answer about the Bastille (I knew my useless knowledge about the Marie Antoinette era would come in handy some time), which was really the accomplishment of my week. Well, that's debatable really-- Friday night I cooked dinner for Boyfriend, which could have been make-or-break considering his palette is somewhat limited... that is, there are approximately two things he eats outside of meat. I, on the other hand, am a borderline vegetarian... so finding a compatible meal for both of us was kind of huge.

On Saturday, Boyfriend met the extended family on my mom's side. If nothing else had happened all week, a day with my family would have called for a blessings blog on it's own. We told the same familiar stories-- even Melinda, who's still in the single digits, was able to correct one story saying, "That was Uncle Lance not Aunt Debbie!"-- and added several new anecdotes to the repertoire. I got to airplane my niece around a sufficient amount to make me sore the next day, and I ate enough homemade ice cream to make my skirt just a teensy bit too tight at church the next day... but so worth it.

I spent Memorial Day with Kat and Abby and Boyfriend laying out by the pool, reading and trying not to drown-- hello, when you're scraping 5'3, a 5' pool depth makes hanging out a little more strenuous; everyone else is just lounging about while I'm fully en pointe. Today, my skin is pink and sore to the touch, but, once again, so worth it. Between the incredible friendships I have, the new boyfriend who puts up with my eccentricities and even manages to seem amused by them, and the family that I fiercely adore... it's a good life. It's a very, very blessed life.

Days 7 & 8- Travelling with a Coke addict.

Days 7 and 8: Rome and the journey home.

Our last day in Rome was spent leisurely strolling the city and, once again, showing the Roma public transit system what’s what. We took the bus to the Pantheon—once again, no thanks to my dear friend Matteo, the miserable deskman—and guessed (correctly!) where to get off. We navigated the tiny, winding roads into the heart of Roma, following very helpful brown signs, and lo and behold the ancient landmark appeared around a random corner.

The Pantheon is old—like, real, real old. Once upon a time, it was a sanctuary to all the Roman gods, but at some point along the way the Catholic Church Catholicized it. Every niche has a sculpture of one saint or another—you’ll have to excuse my lack of knowledge regarding saints—and the now-church also houses the remains of Raphael and two Italian kings.  In fact, I unwittingly pledged allegiance to the Italian monarchy, which is apparently very controversial. All I know is, I saw a nice old man in white gloves manning what appeared to be a guest book, so I strolled up to him and signed it. It seemed harmless enough. Later, I was doing a little research on the Pantheon in our hotel room, and I figured out that I had signed some sort of passive petition in favor of a monarchy, as opposed to a Republic. Oops. No wonder he seemed so pleased when I signed “U.S.A.” after my name.

From there, we headed to the Piazza Navonna for lunch. By now our forecast was clear: the clouds were beginning to churn and the breeze was chilly and damp. Sure enough, as we sat eating our pasta lunch, sprinkles began to fall from the sky. I covered myself up with my napkin; very chic. This is really the first and only time when the persistent street vendors came in handy. Out of nowhere, countless vendors appeared with arms loaded down with umbrellas. I’d really like to know where they keep their goods. My mother has a fear of melting, apparently, so we cornered a vendor and bargained for an umbrella. For just five euro, we quickly became the proud owners of a tiny red umbrella… one that I didn’t benefit much from, but Mom was significantly happier. And we all know that “if Mama’s not happy, nobody’s happy,” so it worked out just fine.

Umbrella in hand, we pressed on to the Spanish Steps. In the rain, the Spanish Steps are just that: steps. I can’t say I was nearly as impressed as I was my first go-round in Rome as I stood in the misting rain and looked up the staircase this time. Mom insisted on a picture to prove we were there, and then we ducked gratefully into the subway station. And once again, I’m proud to report, we dominated the public transit.

On our way out of our home base subway station, Mom had to stop and get a Coca-Cola. This brings me to my greatest observation from the trip: my mother is a Coke addict. Watching her sip on her endless supply of red cans at home, I don’t think I ever appreciated her dependency. Get her away from her stash, though, and the withdrawals become clear. Luckily, we never progressed past a headache and low blood sugar, but I feel certain that had Lady Luck not been in our favor I would have found her trembling in a puddle of sweat and vomit.

We spent the rest of the night repacking our lives into our suitcases, now a bit heavier with a few souvenirs and finished carry-on books.

We woke up Monday around the same time Dad was going to bed stateside—10:45 pm in Alabama and a very painful 5:45 am in Roma. After breakfast, we checked out and sat in the hotel lobby sleepily awaiting our airport shuttle. And we waited and waited and waited. The shuttle was supposed to arrive at 7 am so by 7:35 I was getting concerned. Luckily, Matteo was off duty so I got to deal with Michela instead. In comparison, she was a ray of pure sunshine. She called up the shuttle service and, after many transfers and Italian arguments, she was able to inform me that our shuttle would not be coming to Hotel Diana. Apparently, the shuttle service was having trouble with their drivers this morning; when they were going to tell us that, I’ll never know. Anyway, Michela arranged for a taxi to pick us up. When our taxi driver arrived, I asked him if he took Visa—of course he didn’t; of course we were down to 5 euro. So, first stop: bancomat (ATM). The sweet man who spoke zero English—not that it stopped him from talking to me in Italian continually—took us first to a bancomat. I jumped out, scampered over to the ATM, and was unable to use it. So I ran back to the taxi window where I spoke English and Driver spoke Italian and somewhere along the way communicated to each other that I couldn’t work the ATM, so the sweet man got out to help me. Well, he couldn’t figure it out either. Not speaking Italian, I don’t know if it didn’t accept Visa or was out of order or what. Anyway, off we went, still communicating by not communicating. When we arrived at the airport, I went jogging in to find an ATM while Mom waited—in complete silence—with our driver. Obviously the ATM was in the very back of the airport, and of course the line was three-deep. After 20 minutes or so, I got back to Driver and Mom. That sweet man was—predictably—extremely sweet about the situation and graciously took the money and gave me perfect change, which I handed back because the man had certainly earned his tip. At long last, we were ready to check our luggage and relax.

Or so we thought. Fiumicino Airport is not  so organized, as it turns out. We were in Terminal 3; however, US Airways flies out of Terminal 5. You can’t drive up to Terminal 5, though: you take a shuttle.  Then you go through a long line of self-check-in kiosks that conclude with an airport attendant checking your boarding pass and pushing you along to the next stop: baggage check-in. Another winding queue takes you to the baggage check desk, where your boarding pass and passport is checked once again and, at long last, your luggage is taken from you. Next up: surprise! Another queue. This time, the light at the end of the tunnel is the security line. All electronics must be put in plastic bags—the kind you put your produce in at the grocery store—and scarves and jackets must be removed along with your shoes and dignity. The security workers are just as friendly in Italy as they are in America, by the way.

You would think that this is where we turned a corner and headed to our gate, footloose and fancy free. Oh, but you’d be wrong. Once again, you are taken to a shuttle where you are ferried off to your gate.  Then and only then are you free to have a seat or, like Cheryl, find the nearest Coke vendor.  Once they began boarding our flight—which, despite being there three hours early, was soon after arriving at our gate as a result of the labyrinth style arrival process—it was time for a little more security. I passed through unfazed, but once Mom caught up on the plane, she began grilling me. Apparently, she had been pulled aside for a little “extra” scanning. Maybe Italian security misinterpreted my “Coke addict” musings…

Our flight home was infinitely better than our first transatlantic hop, despite the extra two hours. This time around we each had our very own television screens, complete with Video OnDemand: Sex and the City, True Grit, Two and Half Men, Entourage, Cake Boss, etc. Without this little novelty, the eleven hours would have been unbearable.

The rest of our trip was uneventful, thank goodness, and we arrived in Huntsville with no issue. Tim was there to chauffer us home, and we were beyond glad to be there. Trips are great—and I know how outrageously blessed I have been to do the travelling I’ve done—but at the end of the day, home is where my heart is. Nothing beats familiarity and creature comforts: my own bed, plugs that don’t threaten to blow up my electronics, waiters that speak my language, vending machines that accept my cash, and so on. 

Day 6- Rome is great, but it's falling apart.

Day 6- Rome- 14 May

            Don’t make threats you can’t back up. I sassed Jet Lag, and then I paid the price. I thought for sure I would sleep like a baby last night, but instead I tossed and turned for hours until I finally caved in and popped an OTC sleep aid. Just a few hours later, it was time to get up. Bright-eyed and busy-tailed I was not.

            To make the morning even better, the deskmen were their ever-pleasant selves. I waited for ten minutes to talk to sweet Matteo, and when I finally got to ask him the best way to the Coliseum, he talked to me with his usual charming eye rolls and sighs. When I asked for clarification—he just kept saying, “Out and two roads to the right”—he just ignored me, refusing to make eye contact. Few things steam me like poor customer service.

            Anyway, little thanks to Matteo, we made it to the Coliseum via the subway and met our tour group. We strapped on our audio guides and followed Alessandra as she guided us through the most ancient parts of the Eternal City. It’s so hard to picture Rome in its glory now, but the Coliseum and the surrounding ruins are at least a blurry glance into the past. The events that this place has seen are unfathomable: the guide described the Romans as macho, compared to their Greek philosopher contemporaries, delighting in the blood and gore of the hunt and the kill. Imagine packing into Bryant-Denny or Jordan-Hare to watch the imposing team be mercilessly slaughtered: instead of playing the Auburn Tigers, Greg McElroy faces off against an actual tiger. It doesn’t seem quite as enjoyable to me somehow, even being the Auburn fan that I am.

            From the Coliseum, our tour next went to Palatine Hill, where Romulus, the founder of Rome, first settled and from whence sprang the city of Rome. Later, emperors lived here and entertained visitors with private chariot races and social baths—spending my day in the bathtub with politicians isn’t my idea of entertainment, but to each their own. There are still remnants of the marble floors throughout the Hill dating back to the days of Caesar; I tried to envision the Senators and Emperors strolling the Hill in their togas and lounging about the baths, being fanned and popping grapes in their mouths. Kind of mind-blowing.

            We took the Sacred Way, site of many a parade celebrating Rome’s latest conquest, to the Roman Forum where fallen and free-standing marble pillars mark the spots where temples once stood in honor of Saturn, Vestia, and many other Roman deities. Any temples still standing had long since been turned into a Catholic church, which the Pope of the era believed would drive out the Paganism embodied by the temples. There in the Forum, too, is the funeral pyre where Julius Caesar’s betrayed body was cremated; people still lay flowers around in honor of him. Dying to be Elizabeth Taylor, Cleopatra was one of my first classic movie rentals, so the monument to Caesar was especially cool to me. The man was right there.

            Afterward, we went to the prison where Peter was held, Mamertine Prison. It’s one of Rome’s most ancient sites, predating the empire itself. It’s more a cave than what we think of as a cell, surrounded completely by dank, dark stone walls. There were no doors; prisoners were simply dropped through a hole in the floor above. Supposedly, Peter produced a spring of water in the cell with which he baptized his guards and other prisoners. More likely, there was already a natural spring of water in the underground dungeon, but his leading his guards and fellow prisoners to Christ is nonetheless a powerful thought; however, I might add, good Protestant that I am, that even if he did bring forth a spring of water it was by God’s power and not any kind of magic within Peter himself. This whole Peter thing is really driving me nuts: the audio guide suggested that it was from Peter’s works in Mamertine Prison that Christianity sprang. And here I was thinking it was Jesus’s death and resurrection. Silly me.

            We left the shrine to Peter and headed up—and up and up—to Capitoline Hill, home to one of Michelangelo’s masterpieces, the Campidoglio. This building and piazza is made up of sculpture’s crafted by the master around what was considered the center of Rome, and, in the eye’s of the Roman Empire at least, thus the center of the world. From Capitoline Hill, we moved on to the Domus Aurea, Nero’s golden palace. That is, we tried to move on to the Domus Aurea. Working from a map and vague memories of my first time in Rome, we found the general vicinity of the remains but were unable to find any signs or indicators that we were near it. Finally, we determined to eat lunch first and then ask our waiter for directions. Naturally, this was the first restaurant experience we had with a waiter who didn’t speak English. So on to Plan B we went. Luckily, we had spotted a couple of policeman hanging out on the sidewalk across the street, so we asked them to point us in the right direction. With some effort on both our parts to communicate, they indicated where the gate to the Domus Aurea was, and off we went. Our kind policemen failed to mention in their broken English that the palace was currently closed for repair. But we needed to walk up another hill anyway. Ce la vie.

            After our failed attempt to see where Nero fiddled and did other crazy things, we went back for another round on the subway. I have to say that I’ve been very pleased with our navigation of the public transit here in Italy. We have now travelled by waterbus, land bus, train, and subway, and not once have we went the wrong way or taken the wrong bus altogether. Pat on the back.

            We spent the rest of our evening in our hotel as usual, planning out the next day and giving our feet the opportunity to recover. I’m actually writing this on Day 7, and I wish that I could report that I was finally able to overcome my jet lag, but alas it was not to be. Once again, I stared at the ceiling for hours into the night before choosing artificial sleepiness in the form of a little blue gel cap I’m coming to see as my dear friend. Sleep, we will be reunited soon.

Day 5- Pete & rePete.

Day 5- Florence to Rome- 13 May 2011

            This morning we had another great breakfast on our hotel’s rooftop terrace. I could really get used to the Italian hot chocolate every morning; unfortunately, my waistline cannot. As I wrestled my way into my jeans after breakfast, I knew immediately that I’m in for some hard times when I get back to gym access. I’ve pretty much sulked about it all day, not that it stopped me from splitting ice cream with Mom after dinner. Ce la vie.

            We took a mid-afternoon train to Rome after lunch. The train ride was uneventful save for the unavoidable sleep. Something about the movement just lulls you into dream world, and before you know it your neck’s snapping your head back against the headrest. It’s a very cute look, gaping mouth and all.

            Once in Rome, we went in search for our hotel. In both Florence and Rome, our hotels have been blessedly close to the train stations; it’s just unfortunate that on our initial trek from station to hotel we have no idea where we’re going. The trip back to the station is never a problem, though, so I guess there’s that. Anyway, we drug our luggage through the streets once again. My irritation with this has nothing to do with laziness; sure, it’s a pain, but—as noted earlier—I’m in desperate need of a little calorie burnage. The problem is the meandering people all along the sidewalks, taking up as much room as they please, blowing their cigarette smoke downwind at me, and so on. This elicits audible sighs from me, my road rage on steroids.

            We checked into Hotel Diana a little after three. The concierge was none too pleased with my questions about WiFi and a power adaptor—the man rolled his eyes and sighed at me!—but I pretended not to notice and hit him with a 1000-watt smile. That’ll show him. We settled into our room then hit the ground running.

            Here’s a fun fact about hotel bathrooms around here: every one of them has a bidet. If you’re unfamiliar with a bidet, it’s like a birdbath for your bum. Usually there’s a little bottle of “intimate cleanse” next to the bidet and a special towel, I guess it’s a bum towel as opposed to a hand towel. The bidet has a faucet and a stopper, like a miniature bathtub, but to be honest I’m not sure how to use it. I keep meaning to Google it as the novelty doesn’t come with instructions or pictures. Do you fill it up and sit in it? Do you just splash about? Try to aim the nozzle just so? I know, I know, it’s kind of personal, but we’re all friends here.

            Back to Rome. Before we left our hotel for our first day of sightseeing, we had to stop back by the desk and see my friend the concierge. Boy, was he happy to see me. No matter how much eye contact we have maintained, I smile silently until he verbally acknowledges me. I don’t know what it is about poor customer service that drives me to be a tiny bit obnoxious, but, hello, I’m paying to be here. Smile at me. Please. Anyway, he quickly instructed us on the bus and hurriedly cut our conversation short before sending me on my way to buy bus tickets. And off we went on Mom’s first Italian Metro experience (Em, having recently endured Chile’s micros, this was a snoozefest). Just like when she rides shotgun with me, she gripped her seat and went back and forth between wide-eyed horror and squint-eyed prayer.

            We arrived at Saint Peter’s Square in no time and got into what we believed to be a line to get inside. It was definitely going in the direction of the entrance, but the queue system at Saint Pete’s seems to be a bit off. After standing patiently in line for several minutes, we noticed that groups were randomly popping in line ahead of us. This won’t do, obviously, so we took a page from their book and pressed on. It was just some kind of free-for-all. Chaotic, but oddly satisfying.

            Now we’re not Catholic, so this wasn’t any kind of religious pilgrimage for us. Architecturally speaking, this place is beyond breathtaking. The light cascades through the dome, and you expect to see a dove descend from Heaven at any moment. Michelangelo’s Pieta is the first thing you see when you enter, and the vision of Mary holding the crucified Christ is just the sobering image you need before entering this holy place after a stampeding line to get in. As a Protestant, it’s a more jagged pill to swallow. I’ll try not to get on my soapbox about it, but it kind of breaks my heart. There’s a famous statue of Peter whose concrete foot has been rubbed into a teardrop shape by so many pilgrims hoping for his blessing, like some kind of Christian Buddha. Around the sides of the basilica are altars housing the remains of popes from long, long ago and, in front of the altars, pews for those who wish to kneel and ask favors of the saints. Perhaps someday I’ll find out I was all wrong, that I ignored the serious resources of a network of intercessing saints… but for now, I am humbled to believe, and thus to know, that I can speak directly to the Man Himself.

            On our way back to our side of the Eternal City, we made our first big tourist faux pas—which I think is pretty good considering it’s Day 5. We found our bus stop with no problem, the bus came and emptied, and we hopped on, pleased that we had scored seats. The bus went nowhere, someone was yelling at us in Italian, and then suddenly people on the sidewalk were telling us to get off the bus. Dutifully, we hopped off the bus and it sped away still empty. A sweet Italian grandfather tried to explain to me what had just happened, but he spoke as much English as I do Italian, so we were never able to make a connection before his own bus arrived. I left Mom on the sidewalk to wait for a friendlier bus as I went to find answers in the bookstore across the street. Apparently, we were at the bus’s last stop. After the last stop, the bus driver gets to pull over and enjoy a few minutes’ break in his empty bus, then he pulls into a parallel street where the route starts over. So off we went, one street over, to hop back on the bus with the driver who had yelled at us before.  Perfect.

            On our way home, we stopped at a pizzeria in our neighborhood for Mom’s first Roman pizza—wood-burning oven-baked cracker crust with tomato sauce, cheese, and mushrooms. Ooh la la (French, but totally necessary). We had caprese salad first because it’s my personal favorite and fresh fruit with a dollop of vanilla ice cream afterward because it’s Mom’s ideal dessert.

            For the rest of the night, we’ve stayed in the hotel. Mom’s having some bizarre dizzy spells that she thinks are due to the pressure change, first in the flight over and, today as the train went through tunnels. As of now, bedtime, she’s feeling much better, but we’re hoping for no further relapses. I, on the other hand, have read several chapters in a book and paid an outrageous fee for WiFi in order to update my Facebook and be sure I’m not missing anything earthshaking in my social world, shoot my dad and the new boy emails, and do a little research on vertigo and guided Coliseum tours. And now I’m off to bed where the epic battle between jet lag and I continues to rage. Jet lag, prepare to meet thy doom.

            

Day 4- Stompin' around the old neighborhood.

Day 4- Florence- 12 May 2011

            Last night (Wednesday), Mom and I had dinner on the terrace at our hotel. The special drink was sparkling peach juice with whiskey, which I thought I would hate. As it turns out, it was shockingly good. The pizza was excellent as well, but the mixture of a little alcohol and a warm pizza increased my jet lag to a dangerous level. I struggled through it to introduce my mom to gelato—I am coming to believe that this is the singular reason she wanted to visit Italy—at my favorite gelateria in Florence: Coronas Café. Afterward, we came back to our room to plan our last day in Florence (today). Sadly, I wasn’t much help. For the first time in a while, I absolutely couldn’t keep my eyes open, drifting in and out of conversation. I’m not sure when Mom caught on, but the next thing I knew she was turning lights out. Sadly, with the nature of jet lag being as it is, I was wide-awake again around 2 am, staring at the ceiling for an hour or two. It’s in these moments that I think about things like what I’ll wear to an upcoming engagement party or what Italian recipes I might try to recreate. So at least I’m using my time wisely…

            This morning, we got up for breakfast on the terrace, a perk of our hotel. A slew of pastries, toast, prosciutto, eggs, fruit, juice, and coffee… although the juice and coffee is not served Americana. The orange juice is actually red, and the coffee is like espresso. After breakfast, we struck out on the town.

            Our first stop of the day was the Palazzo Pitti, where the Medicis and other powers-that-be in Florence have lived previously. Well, we went over the Ponte Vecchio to get there, but that’s not really a stop so much as a stroll… But anyway, behind the palace, is “the garden that started it all.” That is, supposedly other dynasties copied the Boboli Gardens at their palaces. The gardens go up a steep hill to an eventual panoramic view of Florence. The view was breathtaking, but we walked up about a thousand steps to get there. That’s good though, since I’m consuming about that many calories at every meal. The grounds at the Palazzo are home to two cats, which obviously sought us out within minutes of our arrival. Typical. After a little time with the cats, we headed upstairs (Italians LOVE stairs) to the costume museum, where they housed dresses from the early 1700’s up to the 1990’s.

            Feeling like we had conquered the Pitti Palace, we decided to seek out lunch. I thought it was high time Mom experienced authentic Italian street pizza, so we ducked into a tiny pizzeria for a couple of slices. It was easily our cheapest meal yet at 6 Euro, and obviously delicious. Next, we strolled along the Arno on our way to Santa Croce, the epicenter of Florentine leather works. It took some searching, but I finally found my way back to the Florence School of Leather, a gem I was introduced to when I was here years ago. It’s a leatherworking school based in the monastery of the Santa Croce church. You can watch the leather workers creating their masterpieces: jackets, purses, wallets, bracelets. You want it, they can make it. We picked up a souvenir or eight.

            On the way home, we stopped for Mom’s gelato fix. Obviously, I’m a repeat offender with the Nutella gelato, but she’s experimenting with the fruity varieties. She hit a particular favorite today with peach. If I’m going to have a dessert, I want chocolate, but even I will admit that the peach gelato was perfection.

            And speaking of perfection, our dinner tonight was the best yet. We toiled over where to go, and Mom did some research and finally landed on a highly recommended place called The Porcupine, although it sounds much more eloquent in its Italian form. Our waiter, Franco, immediately asked us where we were from and from there asked us if we were ‘Roll Tide’ or ‘War Eagle.’ I thought that was pretty incredible. He said he had friends from Birmingham—we soon found out he has friends EVERYwhere—and that they’re Republicans; I also thought it was funny that he figured that would win our approval.  Of all the restaurants in all of Florence, of all the waiters… ours knew about the greatest rivalry in all of college football. Even if he considered himself a Longhorns fan, I had to admire his SEC prowess. He called us “y’all” for the remainder of the evening, which is actually one of my personal pet peeves but he was too kind to correct. It was especially hard to correct him just after he patted my cheek kindly and corrected my pronunciation of “bruschetta.”

            I have found that my pronunciation of Italian words is oftentimes better than my actual English. That is, my English takes on a decidedly British accent when I’m speaking to Italians. I suspect something in me thinks that’s prettier and easier to understand than a Southern dialect, which I’ve never particularly cared for and always tried to eliminate in myself. I first noticed my British back-up plan my senior year of high school; I was on a cruise with Lauren and ordering room service, when I got off the phone Lauren reprimanded me with a quick, “Who ARE you??” So yeah, I’m a wanna-be. Whatev.

            Catch you on the flip side.  Or Rome. Whichever. Cheerio!

Day 3- I lived here once.

Day 3- Florence- 11 May

            The alarm went off at 8:30 this morning in Venice. Our room had no air conditioning so we slept with the window open; between the street noise and the general disorientation, I got about 3 hours of sleep. Needless to say, the alarm was not a welcome noise. I finally tore myself from bed, though, just in time to check out and catch a water bus to the train station. By just in time, I mean we got to the train about 5 minutes before it left the station.

            Mom and I sat across the aisle from each other, and Mom had the misfortune of sitting in front of a real chatter. You know when you get stuck on an airplane next to someone who just talks your ears off regardless of your noncommittal “mmhmms” and “yeahs”? Just like that, except she was talking to the other couple in their forced foursome, a French Canadian couple celebrating both of their 50^th birthdays. Apparently, Chatty Cathy lived in Italy for a year 20 some-odd years ago, and she was more than willing to let the French Canadian couple what she would and wouldn’t do, thoroughly dismantling the planned itinerary they had mentioned. Anyway, evidently she was able to tune it out as I looked across the aisle just in time to see her jaw drop in sleep. Likewise, my neck snapped up from overwhelming sleep multiple times… like when I would go to my grandmother’s country church when I was a child and my chin would gradually drop to my chest as the preacher drawned on and on to the elderly crowd.

            A little over two hours later, we arrived in Florence. We de-trained and hit the streets to find our hotel. Just two American girls lugging giant suitcases down the crowded streets of Florence, no big deal. After we checked in and freshened up—mainly complaining to one another about how our hair never looks right on vacation and how our eyes are puffy and raccoon-lke—we hit the streets again, this time unhindered by luggage.

            Our first stop was my old apartment in Florence. It was such a bizarre feeling to walk right up to it without having to consider at all where I was going. I was flooded with memories of waking up just two stories above where I stood today, eating gelato with Morgan and adamantly skipping her afternoon run. Maybe that’s why I gained ten pounds and she didn’t… hindsight is 20/20.

            After a montage of , “I ate lunch there everyday… I sat and sketched the Duomo from there” and the like, we headed to the Galleria del Accademia, the home of the David. There is lots of other artwork there as well, mainly paintings of the Madonna and Child that just made me angry at the Catholic Church. That’s righteous anger, though, right? But I digress… Michelangelo’s David is truly breathtaking. I know you think it won’t be a big deal because you’ve seen pictures of it all your life and it’s just some statue anyway… at least that’s what I thought. This thing is incredible; it’s larger than life and so perfectly detailed that you expect to see his diaphragm lift with breath at any moment. At some point, I made an aside to Mom about the intricate details of the statue down to the veins in David’s hands. Later, while we were admiring the rendering from the rear, Mom mentioned that David was supposed to be young and it didn’t make sense for him to have so many veins at the peak of his physical form. She continued on to say that David was much too young to have so many broken veins, “old granddaddy legs.” It was then that I realized she had thought my comment about the veins in his hands was in reference to the natural “veins” in the marble. The whole time we had been admiring Michelangelo’s masterpiece, Mom was disgusted by his placement of varicose veins all over the young man’s body. She was considerably relieved to find out otherwise, and Michelangelo’s good reputation in her mind was blessedly recovered.

            Tonight we’re having a small dinner on the roof terrace of our hotel and then going out for the main event: gelato. Ahhh, gelato… my blessing, my curse.

Day 2- Venice is sinking.

Venice—Day 2—Tuesday, 10 May 2011

            Well, we arrived in Venice at 9 this morning (that’s 2 am in the States) after having slept right around 30 minutes total on the 9-hr flight. We successfully gathered our luggage—this in itself was a major victory—and headed to catch a water bus. In America, we would have a shuttle going from the baggage claim to the vaparetto stop. Here in a land less lazy, you just walk the 8 minutes. This seems trivial until you’re pulling a 46-lb piece of luggage behind your already zombie-like body. The water bus is at least a scenic route from the Venice airport to the Venice of tourism; however, the slow pace and gentle rocking is the perfect recipe for falling asleep on your feet.

            We got to our hotel around 11 am (4 am Stateside) in hopes of checking in. Hope is the operative word there, and ours went unrealized. We were able to check our luggage into a storage room, but our room wasn’t ready yet. At this point in the jet lag, the misery becomes almost laughable. You can’t help but be amused by your bad luck. We wandered around the streets of Venice, looping through the Piazza de San Marco more than once… and not on purpose, until we settled on a place to eat. Our number one prerequisite for our dining experience: peace and quiet. Apparently, the perfect weather here in Venice has drawn unseasonable crowds, and every sidewalk and alley is jam-packed. If you’ve ever experienced my road rage, you might appreciate that it translates on land. It seems no matter how desperate I was to get around the meanderers, there was always a wheelchair or goo-goo eyed couple taking their time just ahead. Everyone has the right to their own pace… I would just prefer that they take their pace out of my way.

            At long last, we made our way back to our hotel where we were able to check email, take a much-needed nap, and shower before dinner. The built-in hair dryer in our bathroom is little more than a hose that leaks out warm air, so you can imagine that Mom and I are both having a fantastic hair day. You won’t have to imagine for long though, as it is evidenced in our pictures.

            Showered, napped, and feeling much better, we headed out on the town once again. This time around, our mission was to find a  traditional gondola ride at a less-than-traditional price (you wouldn’t believe the price for a 45-minute ride!). I tossed my blonde hair and smiled my best smile and may have even shown a little cleavage—which I’m not proud of… but am kind of proud of—and managed to shave 50 Euro off the price of a trip down the Grand Canal and through the tiny canals winding throughout the ancient city.  It was basically the perfect way to view the city—relaxed in a boat with our feet propped up. I wish all sightseeing could go so well.

            We had dinner on the Grand Canal, which was ripe for people watching. Having read that the city’s specialty dish was cuttlefish, Mom took the plunge. The waiter, Maurizio, repeated her order to her multiple times to make sure she knew what she was doing, but I suppose she just chalked it up to her Southern drawl needing clarification. Twenty minutes later, a plate of polenta cakes and squid was brought to our table… topped in “black sauce;” that is, sauce made from the ink of the cuttlefish. Mom muscled through a few bites like a champ, but I almost lost my appetite altogether as the pungent smell assaulted my nose.

            It’s funny how it takes the Italians about 20 seconds to realize that they should be directing their conversation to me instead of Mom. I guess their initial reaction to us is to speak to the adult—the older adult—but they don’t get very far. Occasionally Mom will toss out a phrase like, “Mucho bueno!” and I just beg her to say no more. Even in the squid incident, the waiter smiled at me like we were in on some inside joke.

            In sum, Venice was the perfect start to our Italian vacation. The weather was perfect and the sight-seeing wasn’t too intense for our sleep-deprived bodies and minds. Everything seemed to come together perfectly with few exceptions, namely our lack of air conditioning and jet lag preventing us from a full night of sleep. But now, on to Florence!

Day 1- The Lost Day

            It’s incredible how you can seemingly lose an entire day.

            This morning, I woke up to find Macy staring at me and purring contentedly before pouncing onto my chest and settling in—just as I needed to get up. After I permitted her the 8-minutes my alarm awards me with a tap of the “Snooze” button, I hopped up, cranked up my iTunes, and hit the shower. It’s a big day, after all: Mom and I are headed to Venice, Italy.

            We arrived at the Huntsville airport around 9 this morning (Monday), checked our bags, and said our goodbyes to Dad. At the security checkpoint, I was pulled aside and had my hands checked for trace amounts of explosives. They swabbed my hands and inserted the swab into a machine, like they were checking them for Strep throat. I suppose something about my short stature and beach blonde hair is threatening, who knows.

            After an uneventful flight from Huntsville to Charlotte, things started getting a little frantic in the Charlotte terminal. First of all, our boarding pass said Gate E31; however, Gate E31 informed us that we would have to look elsewhere—she was sincerely that specific. We chased down an agent who, as luck would have it, directed us back to Gate E31. The fourth person I asked was finally able to tell me that our flight would be leaving from Gate E35B, in a tone that made it sound like it was so obvious, and would I please step back from the podium until they call for boarding. I mean, really, I don’t know how I wasn’t able to put the pieces together that E31 was really code for E35B, and the signing saying “Charlottesville” should have conveyed to me that my flight had a stop in Charlottesville on the way to Philadelphia. Duh.

            A bit miffed but happy to move on with the second leg of our journey, Mom and I boarded our plane to Charlottesville (and later to Philadelphia). My first concern was that there were ashtrays in the armrests on this plane, immediately suggesting that it’s a mite antiquated. Clue number two was that the plane had propellers. I immediately felt like Ilsa boarding a plane to escape Casablanca—only we weren’t fleeing from Nazis; we had boarded this death trap voluntarily.

            I was no less assured of my safety as the propellers cranked up and filled the tiny vessel with a sound like a combination of a weed-eater and a dial-up Internet connection. At some point I wondered if the noise would ever die down, but I quickly realized that should the mechanical grinding stop, the silence would surely be immediately followed by a free fall from 10,000 feet.

            Our two-part flight was punctuated by dips and shaking and other disturbing bits of turbulences, causing my mother to close her eyes in what I assume was silent prayer and me, the considerably less silent of our duo, to audibly gasp from time to time. Here we are trying to go on a great adventure, and there’s Death… waving in a black tuxedo. I couldn’t help but think of the things I’ve made it through lately just to be dropped from the sky in a flying cracker box, circa 1964: outrunning a tsunami, a legit earthquake, the most devastating tornado our state has ever seen. I wondered if my dad would remember to feed Macy after I was gone, if my last text to the new boy was funny or sweet or sarcastic, if Auburn would win the Iron Bowl this year, if I remembered to turn my straight iron off this morning… you know, very important life or death stuff.

            Mercifully, we came to a shuttering halt on the landing strip at the airport in Philadelphia before I had time to scrawl out the details of my funeral, should any of my personal effects be found in the wreckage. Shaken but no worse for wear, we emerged onto the tarmac and onto land—glorious land.

            After a quick stop in an airport gift shop—bargains!—for a $12 pack of gum and a neck pillow, we boarded our final plane, an enormous vessel many years removed from her maiden voyage, and were at last on our way to our first European destination: Venice.

            As I write this, I’m somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, though I couldn’t say if I’m closer to home or Iceland. I’ve had dinner—TV dinner-style chicken with rice, yummm—and a sleeping pill, though both have done nothing more than make me lethargic. I thought if I got these things off my mind, I might sleep better… More likely, I’ll drift off about 20 minutes before we land on Italian soil.

            My game plan for Venice is to claim our bags (fingers crossed), take a water taxi to our hotel, check in, shower and freshen up, and hit the streets of Venice for Mom’s first genuine Italian meal, a gondola ride, a frenzy of pictures at San Marco’s, and casual ambling through the Venetian streets. Lousy flights or not, life could be worse.

for Mom.

            My mom and I are often more different than alike. Pragmatic and realistic, my mother’s days are planned-out and purposeful; romantic and eccentric, my life is ruled by emotions and whimsy and, while I almost always have a plan, I rarely have a reason. The books she reads are about real life: Ann Rule’s retelling of  a crime committed and tried or Barbara Walter’s autobiography; meanwhile, I’m drawn to Austen’s lyrical love stories and the fantastical world of Harry Potter. Neither introverted nor shy, she appreciates time removed from others, alone with her God and her pets on her deck. I’ve always admired this, though never understood it, because I think it says a lot about a person to be so self-sustained. She is keenly aware of her blessings and takes great pleasure in quiet moments of contentment. Me, I’ve never been one for entertaining myself: my energy is based completely on the presence of others, whether I’m entertaining or being entertained. Often blind to my own richly blessed life, I seem to always be looking for the next best thing.  My mom has this incredible talent of finding true delight in the simplest things: the first round of strawberries from her garden, a sunset over the lake, my dad’s worn-in jokes, time with her parents and siblings, a warm chocolate chip cookie and ice cold Coca-Cola. Contentment is so rare, it seems…

            I often think of my mom having some extra-special hotline to the Lord—I’ve accused her more than once of praying perfectly suitable men right out of my life—because her faith in her Creator is sometimes more than my mind can comprehend. When I would resort instantly to questioning and railing against God, she waits patiently for His word, ever sure that He will come through in His own time. I haven’t seen Him fail her yet.

            I’ve seen my mom in times that most people—I hope at least—never see their parents. Specifically, when I was eleven, I watched her lose her first-born. Watching Adam’s heart physically break, I watched Mom’s heart break in sync with his as she committed him to the Lord’s care. In what is surely the darkest day of her and my dad’s life, their faith never faltered—in God or each other.

            I have my mother’s blue eyes and Roman nose—that’s how Dad makes a nose that neither of us cares for sound better—but our other similarities are more learned than inherited. I can’t count the things I’ve learned from my mom, but I’ll give it a shot:

-       The value of a dollar. “I’ve got a coupon for that at home. We’ll get it next time.”

-       A love of animals that may or may not supersede a love for humans. Dad and I are both off-the-charts allergic to cats: our home currently houses three of the delightful creatures. “I just called to tell you that the pets just did the funniest thing…”

-       The most adorable, lasting love for a man I’ve ever witnessed. It’s nothing short of amazing how after 30-something years of marriage she is so truly amused with him, like a favorite playmate. And trust me, this is no small feat: more like my dad than my mom, we are not always so perfectly amusing.

-       An efficiently planned vacation is the best vacation. “All of the books say that we should start at Space Mountain, go straight to Splash Mountain, and double back to Toy Story when the lines are shortest. And it looks like the best restaurants are in Frontierland, so we’ll need to be there by lunch.” No lollygagging allowed.

-       Monopoly. I’ve never actually learned how to beat her, but I’ve picked up some key strategies. Meanwhile, she can quote you the price of rent for two houses on Baltic Avenue off the top of her head at any time of day.

-       Diplomacy. Mom lives in the business world, so she puts quite a bit of thought in her dealings with people. More than once she’s interrupted one of my rants with an, “I might not say it exactly like that to that person.” More than once I have wished that I had taken her advice.

I could go on and on, but I’ll stop here because she doesn’t love the limelight like my dad and I—just wait until my Father’s Day post. Mom and I don’t always understand each other, but the older I get the more I learn to appreciate the differences. She’s my confidant, my personal prayer warrior, my voice of reason, my North Star, my biggest fan, my ideal for what a wife and mother and Godly woman looks like…. She is truly my very best friend.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you to the moon and back.

good grief.

            My first verbal reaction as the news of all the damage to both my current city and my hometown was often, “Good grief.” As I typed it out in a text message, it really hit me: Good grief. Good. Grief. Good grief?? What on Earth does that mean anyway? Can grief ever really be good?

            In a city that became unrecognizable even to lifetime residents in a matter of minutes, it seems like the answer is no. I’ve driven around countless times since the devastating outbreak of tornados on Wednesday, and the devastation is absolutely senseless. Natural disasters don’t discriminate, but the massive tornado that struck Tuscaloosa this week seemed oddly biased. I live in an apartment complex that is only a few years old; it’s gated, there are multiple pools and tennis courts, and the parking lot is spotted with BMW’s and even the occasional Porsche. It’s a safe assumption that most of us in my apartment complex could rebound from property damage. Meanwhile, just over the fence is one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city. A split between Section 8 housing and houses more aptly called shacks, my surrounding neighborhood was close to destitute even when they had homes… and now, those who could afford it least are without homes and worldly possessions. And here in my apartment complex, we suffered little more than some missing siding and two or three damaged roofs.

            It’s incredible, really. My only connection to the outside world for the past week has been the Twitter and Facebook apps on my phone. Day after day I see status updates and tweets from my friends who are bummed that they’re missing the last episode of The Office or just that reading by candlelight is boring. For days, I was bombarded by tweets about who wore what to the Royal Wedding. Don’t get me wrong—there are lots and lots and lots of people trying to help out—but there are so many that haven’t really put the pieces together yet. Meanwhile, as I walked over the rubble of what had once been a neighbor’s home, the many displaced and homeless residents praised God for the little things—a family photo found high in a tree or a loved one found deep in the rubble.

            It’s such an enormous perspective adjustment. What would have been so important to me—Kate’s wedding dress, the countdown until the end of the semester, and so on—seem like distant, irritating memories. I would take a dozen finals and write a lifetime of research papers to undo the damage here, to bring back the 200+ missing, the 40 deceased.

            At times, the grief is overwhelming. Not for myself, per se, as I came out of this so completely unscathed, but for my neighbors and my city—a city I never thought I’d refer to as mine. It’s hard to believe that this grief could ever be considered good, but everyday I am shocked at the good that is indeed emerging from the grief. The community has rallied together like never before; ministries are exploding all over the city as the hands and feet of Christ are given ample opportunity to love on and care for those in need—in need of something greater than shelter, some One to hold onto in the midst of the storm. And it gets clearer and clearer that if those of us who can help do our part, we can gradually turn this grief into good… we can turn those who are grieving to the One and Only true good. 

4.27.11

            On Wednesday, April 27, I woke up around 5 am to thunderclaps and the rapid taps of hail pegging my windows.  I walked to my living room window to survey the parking lot and listen for sirens. After determining that it was nothing more than a severe thunderstorm, I crawled back in bed and let the rain lull me to sleep.  A few hours later, I woke up to a text from my cousin Rachel along the lines of, “Hey, are you okay? My mom told me about your parents…” My immediate instinct was to go into panic mode, but I tried to stay calm as I called my home phone, my dad’s cell phone, my mom’s cell phone, and then Rachel. Eventually, Mom called me back:

Mom: Well, our house was hit by a tornado.

Lindsey: What do you mean our house was hit by a tornado?

Mom: Our-house-was-hit-by-a-tornado.

            Apparently, when Mom got up for work Wednesday morning and turned on her ritual morning news. When the local weatherman said that there were tornadoes heading in the general direction of our neighborhood, she woke my dad up to head to the basement. Just like a man, Dad piddled about—a quick stop in the bathroom, a leisurely shuffle to the stairway, and then an analysis of the situation. He was at the glass doors that lead out to the downstairs deck when Mom said she heard the sound you’re always warned about: the rush of an express train, headed straight for your home. Quickly, she, Dad, and the pets, got into our “safe place” in the basement. After the “train” passed, Dad went out to assess the damage. Our decks and parts of our roof were gone. They quickly found out that this was a very familiar scene throughout our neighborhood: trees down, roofs damaged, windows busted, power and water long-gone.

            That morning, I had a hard time reconciling that my home wouldn’t look the same when I returned. That morning, I scrambled to find out news for my parents’ sake of the damage done to my hometown, as I was their only connection to media and the outside world. That morning, I had no idea what was coming my way.

            Predictions of bad weather come through my neck of the woods quite often this time of the year. A tornado siren isn’t scary so much as a nuisance—or at least that’s the way it used to be. Under threat of bad weather, I got in touch with my professors and found out that I didn’t need to come in for supervision or work, but I should be checking my emails in regard to class that evening. Satisfied that I had a few hours to spare, I settled down on the couch and flipped on the news. My local weatherman frantically warned his audience to let anyone they know in Guntersville to take cover, especially around Marshall Medical Center North, as Round 2 was on their way. Of course, I started calling my parents to tell them what was on their way: Mom had to hang up on me right away to go into a disaster response meeting, and Dad assured me that he was safely tucked away in the basement. I paced my floor and tried to warn as many of my friends in Guntersville as possible and simultaneously keep my blood pressure from peaking. Meanwhile, many of my friends were beginning to contact me. Some were checking on my family while others were warning me of the bad weather coming in my own direction.

            The familiarity of it all coupled with my growing concern for my family and hometown made me brush off the warnings, but eventually I made my way into my closet—my second story closet, by the way. Cozied in with my laptop, my cat, my pillow, and my Diet Coke, I was ready to ride yet another storm out, whatever. After the first couple of text messages from my friends asking if I was in a safe place and telling me that the tornado was coming straight for me, I started to take things a little more seriously. The power shut off, and my phone stopped sending and receiving phone calls and messages, and then it was just a waiting game.

            Looking back, it’s hard to explain. It’s hard to differentiate how much of the shaking was my building and how much of it was just me. I can say that it is the first time in my life that I have genuinely thought I was about to die. Suddenly, I wanted to tell my mom and dad how much I loved them, and I was wishing I could rewind and go to a safer place—it occurred to me how unfair it had been to my family for me to stubbornly stay put, that they would be left grieving because of my stupid decision. After a few minutes that seemed to go on forever, the storm around me quieted. It took multiple tries, but I was finally able to get a phone call through to my mom and let her know what had happened. Aside from genuinely wanting her to know I was fine, I was stalling. I wasn’t sure what was waiting for me outside of my closet door: if the rest of my apartment was still there or if I was going to emerge into Oz.

            When I did get out of my closet, I walked through my apartment and out into the parking lot. I wasn’t the only one with this idea: from every building, residents emerged wide-eyed and mouths agape. Speechless, we surveyed the damage. Siding and shingles were scattered all over the parking lot, but beyond our gate the damage was unspeakable. Less than a half-mile away, the horizon was leveled. Where apartment buildings and decades old homes once stood are now piles of broken plywood and shattered cinder blocks. It looked bad then, but I had no idea until I went out to volunteer on Friday.

            So that’s what happened to me. Truthfully, nothing really happened to me at all. I was shaken and afraid, but so many people’s fears were realized. My neighbors weren’t just emotionally shaken, but forcefully shaken right out of their homes… homes that are no longer standing. In the days since then, I have been overwhelmed with love and support. My family and friends have prayed for me and regularly checked in on me, and people that I haven’t talked to in years have offered to bring me anything I needed or help in any way they could. It’s such an enormously humbling experience… it’s hard to describe really. My prayer now is to be used in any way possible in this community—this community that for so long I wanted no part of, this community that has rallied together and inspired me so—and that even in such an enormous disaster, the Lord will be glorified.