Holiday!

Of course we couldn't have a normal start to our holiday: the day before we left, it snowed.

It actually started as rain, then snow began to fall while it was still raining, so I grabbed the camera. And after about an hour, it turned to straight snow. It was so thick, I couldn't see the watchtower out of my favorite window, and the tower is less than a quarter of a mile away. In the end, we had over 2 inches of the fluffy white stuff on our terrace.

It was all gone the next morning, though, so we hopped a flight to Sicily for the children's mid-term break. When we left Rome, it was 2 degrees Celsius. When we arrived in Palermo, it was 12 degrees Celsius. Wonderful!

We got to our Bed and Breakfast (Al Baglio, in the seaside town of Mondello) just in time to find out that breakfast was over and the room wasn't ready. No matter, the owner made us all fresh coffee and tea and some sweet rolls, which Andrew now calls "Cake-bread." Our rooms there were pretty good, except that the first night there was no heat: apparently, the B&B is in the midst of a renovation, and someone forgot to turn a valve all the way.

Mondello is famous for its sheltered bay, which is full of turquoise water and tourists. It also has the most dramatic scenery, with rocky cliffs running right to the ocean. There are colorful docks with fishing boats, and each morning the local fisherman will sell their catch right on the seashore.

The children were horrified and fascinated - yes, you do have to cut the fish's head off when you clean it and where did you think fish came from? But of course, the restaurants had the freshest sea food you can imagine.

We treated ourselves the first night, and the first night ONLY, especially as we found that some foods are best left to the local population. In case of visiting Italy, there is a difference between Frutti di Mare and Calamari Fritte, regardless of what the fine print beneath the title suggests.

In this case, Bill and I each ordered Frutti di Mare, which was labeled as fried calamari. They were whole, tiny squids, including the eyes, innards, etc; battered and deep-fried. Not the lovely large chunks of fried calamari we were expecting. And let me tell you, if you think battered squid eyes are awful on your plate, just wait until the food poisoning kicks in at 3 a.m. Never again!

We avoided fresh sea food for the next few days, but it gave us plenty of time to take the bus (Yes, the bus!) into Palermo to peruse the many street markets.

More like an Arab soukh than a market, there were streets of clothes, shoes, toys, junk, antiques, spices, fish, beef and poultry (yes, all freshly butchered or caught) lambs, rabbits, fruits and vegetables, olives, bread, linens, embroidered clothes, knock-off CDs from Germany, and more.

But that first day in Palermo was warm, about 15 degrees Celsius, and we strolled winding cobble stone streets eating fresh strawberries, still warm from the sun. Then we went to the central Cathedral and let the boys chase the pigeons.

The Cathedral in Palermo was originally a Mosque, until the end of one of the Crusades, when victorious Norman knights took a holiday on the island and decided to renovate the place. There are still 6 minarets on one side of the building and intricate mosaics on the exterior walls that date to the 6th century.

Then we stopped by a friend's house for our children to enjoy the last night of Carnivale by holding a kids costume party. Oddly enough, they all got along, even though my children were the only ones who spoke English.

The days were very similar in the week: strolling the beach, digging for cuttlefish and sea glass, trips into Palermo, lunch in the sunshine, and an early nights.

The children also loved the Puppet and Marionette Museum and our trip to Cefalu, another famous seaside town.

Cefalu was nearly deserted, though. Either the day of the week, the off season, or the wrong hours (Italian shops are open from 8 a.m until 1 p.m. and then from 5 p.m. until 8 p.m.) had everything in town closed except the beach. There is another spectacular cathedral, or Duomo, in Cefalu. Nothing else was open, so the children went to the shore and drew in the sand.

Our last day ended with a triumph for Bill: for several years he has wanted to get cowboy boots, just like the ones my Uncle Byron wears. We never seem to find the boots he likes, however. But somehow, cowboy boots made it to Palermo, Italy, and they were even on sale. As Bill walked down the streets, wearing his new treasure, he looked at his feet and said, "What do you think? Have you heard of Roberto Cavalli before?" Yes, my husband paid a small fortune for designer cowboy boots, made of suede no less, and I will never let him get remotely near a barn in them!

As for negatives about Sicily, one of our only complaints about the week was the drivers: a friend in England once told me NOT to go to Italy until my children could walk. The reasoning was that pushing strollers up and down cobblestone-paved hills would be exhausting. However, chasing a 2 year old up and down cobblestone hills while trying to avoid Italian drivers isn't a picnic either!

And Italian drivers don't always drive on the road: they drive on piazzas, sidewalks, "pedonale" (Pedestrain only) streets, and your feet if you let them! I think I spent most of the trip bent over at the waist, with my arms out from my sides, trying to herd Andrew toward his brother and sister. The other half of the time I carried him!

Sicily may still be the home of the Mafia, but we didn't see anything dangerous, other than the drivers, and most neighborhoods seemed very safe. It is a beautiful island, with a dramatic landscape, and warm sunshine throughout the year. The people were friendly, the food was very good, squidlings aside, and since it is fairly close to Rome, we do plan to come back on our next three-day-weekend.

Porta Portese and Carnivale

Well, I should start by saying that my UPS package finally came today. Apparently, when I told the young man from UPS that I was expecting Valentines cards, he checked to see why Customs had imposed such a large charge on the package. The declaration page read, "Gift of medicines, toiletries and Valentines," but the declarations page was folded so that only the word GIFT was legible. And since the box weighed 20 pounds, they figured something good was inside and taxed accordingly.

But other than that, we finally had a great Roman weekend. Brisk weather and sunshine greeted us on Sunday morning, so we went in search of Porta Portese, the Roman flea market that sprang up in the Jewish Ghetto after World War II and proved popular enough to last eight decades.

We took the train to Flaminio station and walked south through Rome, as there are no train or underground lines in Trastavere, the modern name for the Jewish Ghetto. I think Mussolini moved out all the Jews and insisted that the neighborhood be renamed.

Trastavere is a lovely place, with four story stuccoed buildings skirted by winding cobblestone lanes; each window has a flower box, even in winter, with vines and greenery trailing down, and each street has art galleries, street cafes and trattorias.

We walked the mile to Trastavere since the sun was finally out, and passed through Piazza Navonna to see the sights: Carnivale has begun in Rome and the children's parade was held early Sunday morning. The cobblestones were littered with confetti and there were lots of happy, costumed children running about the plaza. There were fire-eaters and fire-twirlers and figures on stilts. The best was a Venetian Carriage pulled by horses that was open on one side: there were four Venetian-costumed musicians playing music for everyone in the square.

I have been to Mardi Gras and seen other Carnivals, but the musicians in Piazza Navonna on Sunday were the best I have ever heard. Wonderful, skilled, believable in their music.

We travelled on, through Campo Di Fiori, stopping only for the children to snack on meringues, and crossed the Tiber at Ponti Sisto, before wandering the pathways of Trastavere searching for Porta Portese.

Now I do need to mention something that happens very frequently here. If a person is looking for some sight, some piazza, someTHING, don't ask a Roman, because they will only say, "You can't miss it. I forget the name, but you can't miss it."

Not only can you miss it, but you can wander around for hours looking for it.

We found the Porta Portese around 2 p.m., just when all the stall holders start to clean up. So we didn't get a lot of time to see the antiques from Milan or the murano glass stalls or the Persian jewelers. But we did walk the length of one side of vendors (roughly a mile) and browse a few stalls that were staying open because of the sunshine and crowds.

And we've all come to a decision: Porta Portese on Sunday will become a weekly event for us. There is no way we are ever going to see everything in this market. And it's a perfect excuse for us to come to the city, enjoy a coffee and meringue and finish the day with an amazing dinner.

That is exactly what we did. As we walked back to the Ponti Sisto, we stumbled on an Italian Trattoria, just as the sun was dipping behind the buildings and the breeze was turning chill. Near Piazza Trilussa there are several small streets behind the statue and fountain and there we found Pizza del Moro.

We had a good feeling when we went in and they didn't frown at a family with three children: there was one other Italian family with an infant and two older gentleman watching the Sunday football game. A large family of 12 was eating after Sunday mass, and most importantly, they were all Italians who obviously came each Sunday. It is a perfect family owned Italian eatery that enjoys serving families.

And the food, oh yummy. Frito Misto is an important term: it is a platter of deep-fried delicacies like cheese stuffed zucchini flowers, cheese stuffed olives rolled in ground pork and fried, and balls of risotto stuffed with cheese and friend. Mmmm.

Then we had some amazing pizza with porcini mushrooms and Proscuitto. Mmmm again. And dessert Profiterioles stuffed with chocolate cream and drizzled with cream and chocolate shavings; cream tart with miniature strawberries on the top. Fabulous.

I am already looking forward to Sunday.

UPS, Italian Police and the W Curve

This is a funny story now, more than 24 hours after it happened. But five minutes after the event, if you'd asked me, I would have said I was going home.

It all started when I got a vague call on my mobile phone, from a strange man, speaking only Italian: "Dove?" he said. I knew that word. It means where. Dove Coleseum, Dove gelato, Dove Via Del Tritone...I know Dove.

But then he ruined the conversation by adding more words. "Riesci. Dove sei?" he said. Then he repeated it. After five more minutes of him repeating the same three words, and me repeating over and over, "Inglese. No Italiano. Sprechen sie Deutche?" I gave up. And hung up.

But he called back. And sent me a text: even worse, none of the words in the text, other than Dove, were in the Italian/English dictionary.

The next day he called again, and it finally clicked: someone was trying to find me! And I racked my brain. Who would try to find me? A delivery person.

It turns out that a relative was sending Valentines cards for the children and sent them, and some other treats, via UPS. The delivery person couldn't find the address. When he called back, I was prepared with my street and villa address. But he still didn't understand. So later that night I was called again, this time by the UPS secretary, a man who spoke fairly decent English.

When we got through the directions to my villa, he informed me that I owed 90 Euros to Italian customs for delivery of these Valentines cards. Of course, I asked, "How much?!"

He couldn't explain why the cost was so high and said I would have to talk to someone at customs; I asked for a phone number, which he insisted he didn't have; and he finally settled by saying that I should call the police to get the number. He then gave me the number 113 and said the package would be delivered the following day.

I dialled 113 and asked to speak to someone from customs. The police officer did speak english, very well, and immediately threatened to have me arrested for misusing an emergency line.

At this point, the W curve took a dramatic plunge and I was ready to pack up and head home.

The W curve, as explained by an author at an expatriate seminar several years ago, is a graphic used to describe the highs and lows of being in a foreign country. Instead of a horizontal sine wave, with rolling hills and shallow valleys, the W curve is marked by extreme highs and miserably deep lows.

The theory is that when a family moves overseas to another posting, at first everything is optimistically wonderful or depressingly horrible; very little is steady, uninteresting or mundane, simply because of the newness of the location and the excitement around the event. But a bad day swiftly becomes the worst day in your life, simply because you don't have the resources of friends and community to support you when you need it, or because you don't understand the culture, societal limits, or language.

Getting cursed at by a police officer in a foreign country because a UPS agent TOLD me to call a particular number certainly qualifies as a pretty lousy day. Add that Andrew had thrown up in my hair and on my bed that morning; it was 40 and raining again; we didn't have a clothes dryer to dry the laundry; I only had one set of sheets and had to throw away my favorite pillow; the heating bill had topped 2000 Euros last month and I was going to have to crank up the heat to dry things on the radiators; I hadn't left the house in four days; and Bill was in Guam....bad day. The W curve hit bottom.

And today, UPS did not deliver the Valentines.

At least the sun came out!