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traveling with children

Family Life, Life in Italy, Traveling with Children

A ‘Weekend’ Away

March 21, 2013

Heading out of town today for an adventure of underwhelming proportions. We have a fun game we like to play called ‘walk to the train station and get on the next train going somewhere interesting.’ It sounds very glamorous until you figure the logistics of rail travel with children, but nevertheless, it has busted us out of many a funk these past couple months. As an added bonus, today Dave has an entire day off work, which has happened once since February 11th, and we squandered it at IKEA, so this is momentous. Momentous, I tell you.

Now picture this sand covered in speedos. And cigarette butts.

Here’s the plan: load the double stroller up with children, supplies, and layers of clothing. Curse the heaviness of the load and start removing ‘unnecessary’ items, one by one, until only the children, 1 umbrella, the rain cover, and a handful of dirty raisins remain. Throw one questionably clean size 4 diaper back into the basket, congratulating self on having smartly purchased size 4s for both kids instead of the more-appropriately fitted 3s and 5s. (Yes mommy, you are a badass.)

Push stroller to the front door only to realize it’s raining. Hard. Curse the Mediterranean Sea, the gulf stream, weather.com, and any other entity which may be held responsible for the incessant moisture which is  primavera in Roma. Fling stroller back into the mailroom corner and strap the slightly smaller baby into the Ergo, wrap the toddler in an extra layer of water-resistance, and run for the bus.

Wait, you’ve seen this one? Sorry, it’s one of 4 pictures our our entire family. And JP isn’t even visible.

 End scene.

Or rather, begin a new, even more entertaining to passersby, scene. Arrive at the train station to find Joey’s heart bursting with joy. Most times we take the trains places, Joey is very, very pleased. He approves of the seating arrangements, the lack of seat belts, the bearded and chain-smoking conductor who comes to check his bigletti (let’s be honest, once out of every 4 rides or so. So tempting to work this system….), and the adoring crowds of strangers for whom he can perform.

His favorite acts involve blowing kisses and speaking in simple Italian in his raspy toddler voice while elderly Italian women faint at his feet. He also enjoys accepting piggyback rides from strange men, which is not quite as creepy as it looks in print. But almost. Don’t worry, we keep him within reasonable eyesight.

Not even from my camera, I’m pretty sure. Lazy, meet your new competition.

Our recent jaunts to the countryside include a memorable overnight in Assisi, a sun-drenched but frigid trip to the gorgeous beach town of San Marinella, and a spur of the moment Monday field trip to Bracciano, home to an impressively huge and beautiful lake and the preserved mideval castle where Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes got married. Obviously if I had known that before we visited, I would have planned an entire pilgrimage around trying to recreate their creepy publicity shots from various towers and windows. But alas, we had no foreknowledge of its storied history.

Not ‘the’ castle, but a castle we hand out at sometimes. Close enough.

Today we’re heading off to Castelgandolfo, temporary home to Bishop Emeritus of Rome, Benedict XVI, and a sweet lakeside amusement park for small people. Fratelli, a town 5 miles down the road, is one of Rome’s legendary providers of excellent vino bianco, so if I happen to wander off from all the fun….well, I can’t get too far.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of normality on this very happy Thursday, and crossing our fingers there’s no rail strike today.

Ciao for now.

Life in Italy, Suffering, toddlers, Traveling with Children

Adventure is Exhuasting

March 11, 2013

Just when I thought I couldn’t go at this parenthood thing any more ghetto-like, I stopped looking for a bi-lingual preschool/daycare situation for Joey and just settled on ‘taking him everywhere/sneaking downstairs to the market in front of our building while he naps’ route. So far, so mediocre, but we’ll see if we can’t tweak some things.

Mingling with the neighbors.

Today marked our 7th Monday in Italia, and like most of the other Monday’s before it, dawn found my trusty nanny sister Christina and me on duty once again. Dave has been working like a dog since the whole no more Pope situation reared its sad/exciting/confusing/mostly stressful/hopefully sanctifying head, so he is gone for 12 hours most days, with the exception of weekends, where we see him for all but 4 hours during the day. Wee.

“Is this an adventure, Mom?”

Having digested a grim forecast via Weather.com for a ‘100% chance of rain,’ we did what any sane caretakers of children would do in such a situation, and after one too many hours indoors over the weekend, and made the executive decision to go to the beach. Because everyone knows the only thing more fun than a rainy day at home is a rainy day at the beach. With babies.

Regardless, fortified by espresso, we marched our charges down to Stazione San Pietro and settled on a regional train bound for a medieval castle/town place, complete with a large lake. Close enough, right? Besides, the beach train wasn’t leaving for another 45 minutes. Now, lest I leave the impression that I am some kind of adventurous spirit who enjoys washing her undergarments in the bathroom sinks at local hostels and eating everypartofthepig at local kitchen table establishments, I’m not. I like eating at chain restaurants of the Mexican variety, and I really used to like my washer and dryer back home in the good ol US of A. But that’s neither here nor…well, actually, I guess it is there. But the point is, when in Rome…okay I’ll stop, I promise.

Scraping powdered dish soap out of the latch with scissors. Or teaching Joey a vocational trade. I don’t know.

We’re here now, anyhow, and life is hard. It’s beautiful and exhilarating and rewarding and once-in-a-lifetimeing…but the overarching theme is most definitely ‘hard.’ I spend anywhere from 1-3 hours per day doing basic household maintenance like laundry, dishes, and light cleaning, and if that doesn’t sound like a lot, then I’d like to cordially invite you to my former life where I cranked out 45 minutes, tops, on a good day, and called it health-code compliant. Dear God, I miss my dryer and my Bissel upright. And Super Target. But I promised myself I wouldn’t cry while writing this, so I’d better stop there.

The dryer with a full load.

Not to go all #firstworldproblems on you people, but I think my issues are becoming legitimately of a second-worldly nature. I have turned like 30% of my wardrobe greyish green because I can’t figure out how the flip to use the washing machine, and we have no dryer. That might not sound awful, but it is awful. I spend like 2 hours a day on laundry alone, and if I don’t we wear dirty clothes, because we each have so few options. And it takes hours for stuff to dry in the humidity. 24 hours, precisely, for most adult-sized pieces. And about 30 hours for jeans. And we each own 2 pairs, so…you do the math.

Speed drying on the radiator.

Also, we walk or take the train or bus everywhere, except the one time per week when we take a cab somewhere, during which period I anxiously watch the fare climbing on the meter and mentally tabulate how many bottles of wine could otherwise have been purchased. Let me tell you something, until you have schlepped home enough groceries and drinking water for 5 people for a day or two on your back, you haven’t lived. Truly exhilarating. When I’m going on a specifically water-seeking mission, I usually take the (empty) double stroller and load both seats down with 1.5 liter bottles. (We also drink the tap water, but we have been warned that the estrogen concentration is so high that the boys and Dave really shouldn’t, so we try to limit how much of it we consume.) Now, I realize this is hardly walking 4 miles each way to a plague and crocodile-infested river with a jug on my head, but it sure as hell isn’t Costco with a car. Somewhere in the middle, I guess.

Speaking of carseats, this is pretty much JP’s now…and he loves it.

Also, the complete!lack of any discernible! order! Oh my gosh, these people run their businesses like, um, well, like they run their government. It’s a shitstorm, I tell you. Case in point: we still don’t have our permanent internet. We signed the contract in January, but it’s only March, signora, and you can’t rush these delicate matters.

I realize I sound like the world’s most ungrateful and depressing downer right now, but I have to be real about how much I’m missing my friends, my parents, my car, my gym membership, and my beloved dryer. And Windex. And Oxyclean. Okay I have to stop now.

What I do have? Amazing coffee. The most incredible front-row seat to this historic moment in the life of the Church. Kids who are learning to speak Italian and interact more comfortably with adults than with other children (okay that one’s kind of sad, actually, but there just aren’t any here!), a beautiful view of St. Peter’s dome from my balcony, a balcony, great wine, a husband who is doing an amazing job and loving his new responsibilities, a very helpful and generous sister who is staying with us an entire extra month.

And really, really cheap train tickets to nearby adventures. Just so long as I try not to think about the laundry they’re going to generate…

Life in Italy, Moving to Italy, Traveling with Children

Landing Gear

January 14, 2013

We arrived in Italy late Thursday evening, rain falling lightly outside the airport terminal as Franco and Jacovich wheeled our mountain of luggage to a waiting van and somehow, miraculously, loaded it all in, fitting each piece in like vertical jigsaw puzzle.

I don’t recommend traveling with children ever. I used to, but then I had more than 1, and I changed my perception of what is fun, feasible, and rational. Traveling is none of those things so long as more than one in your party are crapping in their own pants and/or unresponsive to sleep-inducing medications.

Speaking of medications, the bleepity bleeping British version of the TSA confiscating not one but three bottles of baby Tylenol and about 40 containers of baby food whilst whisking through security at Heathrow. F word. Out loud. In front of mah children.

“Do you have a prescription for this?”

A hateful Brit dangled my bag of baby booty above a ravaged carry-on bag, a bag that had already been screened in Denver, mind you, and hadn’t really been anywhere besides, oh, the plane and this freaking connecting airport.

“For my Up and Up brand ibuprofen and benedryl?” No, no I don’t … but please give me your phone number and home address so that I may send you hate mail and late-night prank calls involving screaming, teething children who cannot be sedated.

Miss congeniality helpfully offered to open 6 containers of pureed delish and allow me to ‘safety test’ each one by eating a bite in front of her, but I was simply too focused on catching our connection to Rome to play her game, so I snarled and peeled out in search of our gate, with shit spilling everywhere from the stroller.

“You’re going the wrong way, madam.”

Literally growling by this point, I whiplashed the children in a brisk about-face and headed towards the gate, realizing about 100 feet shy of the desk that I hadn’t seen my purse in a while…

We didn’t make that connection.

3 painful hours and one very embarrassing spectacle of public affection later we were finally leaving Heathrow, booked helpfully onto the next Rome flight by a stoic British Airways employee after my errant diaper purse had been located and returned into my sniveling, hyperventilating paws. Stuffed with lip glosses, baby gear and 900 euro in cold, hard cash, I was a hot hot mess until I had it back.

Idiot.

So anyway, that was day one. When we finally got to our apartment that evening, Dave ran out for beer and pizza, and we sat around the table gulping Peronis and staring at each other in stupified awe.

We’d done it; we’d moved to Italy.