Tag Archives: blogcation

More on Rome

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Last night, we had gelato and coffee in the bar of the hotel after dinner out.  I was talking with two retired travel agents from Detroit, Michigan.  It must be a good business because everyone I have ever met has wanted to get out of Detroit.  These older women were on a two-week tour of Rome and the surrounding areas.  Not bad.

Our conversation continued after POB (partner of blogger) and our son, TLP (fka SOPOBAB, and nka the little prince), went upstairs.  They were curious about how TLP was dealing with the violence depicted in the murals and other art.  The Renaissance Masters loved blood and gore.  As I mentioned in my last entry, kids figure it out, so I said that I think he’d be ok but it was a good thing to keep in mind.

I watched as TLP looked at the greatest collections of Renaissance and Roman art over the course of hours at museums and galleries.  He really didn’t focus on the blood and gore but he did like all the naked ladies.  He was disappointed that there was not full-frontal nudity and that the females were not prettier and more voluptuous.  So, my son reduced 2000 years of art into: “the girls look too much like boys”.  I responded that, for a long time, it was not ok for females to be artist’s models and, so, young boys were the substitute models.  TLP thought that was silly.

Out of the mouth of babes. . . .

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Roma, the next day

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My Italian friend (IFOB) reads my blog and thought I was being harsh on Italians in my prior blog entry.  Actually I was being harsh on Americans of Italian descent and self-satisfied religious people.  But I didn’t intend to be offensive to IFOB or others.

Today, Villa Borghese.  It is like Central Park, grander because it was formerly an estate of the Borghese family.  We couldn’t get tickets to the museum so we went with our son to the Zoo. We spent hours at the zoo and in the park.  Our son can identify animals to an excruciating detail, so when we go to the zoo, he says things like, “oh, look, an Egyptian diamond eyed swan!” or “see, a blue footed booby!”.  There is a kind of bird called a “tit”.  So, when he started saying, look at the beautiful [insert ornithological name] tit!” I had to muzzle him.  He didn’t quite get why I sternly told him not to yell names of birds, since most are not necessarily offensive sounding to a female passerby who might think he is remarking about her cleavage.  But I didn’t necessarily want to introduce a crass slang for breast if he didn’t already know it.  Ah, the joys of parenthood.

Walking in Rome is not quite the death challenge of being on the floor of the Colosseum in the old days, when at least one death was assured, but it is harrowing even to a New Yorker.  Even if you think you are walking on a pedestrian path, a Smart car will try to mow you down.  Mopeds and motorcycles are everywhere and will try to park on your feet if you are standing at a curb, waiting to cross.  People, cars, mopeds all use the same thoroughfares in a perpetual dance that is fluid and dangerous.  Traffic lights and rules are merely suggestions.

So, I was relieved to go to Ancient Rome sites via bus.  Let someone else do the drive and just sit in your seat oblivious to the potential mayhem in the streets.  We went to the Colosseum and the Fora.  Even our son said, “this is spectacular!”  It was hard to explain to him that people and animals were killed for sport, since that is a scary concept.  He was happy that it was long ago and not done today.  Sometimes we as parents over-think the issues and kids figure out their way to get comfortable with the facts on the ground.

The tour was arranged by 206 Tours.  It was awesome.

After so many hours walking and walking, we all collapsed. The hotel was in the middle of everything and truly old world Rome with updated amenities.  Great choice for people who don’t want to lounge about and really want an active visits.  Also arranged by 206 Tours.

Partner of blogger (POB) rallied us for dinner out.  Actually, she dragged us kicking and screaming because we were sooooo happy just lying around. Sometimes, vacation should not involve self-propulsion.  A little entropy should be allowed.

Our son’s gelato cravings is reaching heroin proportions.  Rehab once we get back to NYC.  For now, we are on a gelato spree.

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Roma, Day 1

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Day 1 in Rome and we woke up earlier than I ever get up usually.

We had a 8am guided tour of the religious sites.  We decided that we really needed someone to schlep us around Vatican City because, other than going to the Sistine Chapel, we weren’t so wild about the Holy See.

I am so glad we did.  The Basilica was spectacular.  Ok, the sarcophagi were a little eerie and the slightly decomposed body of Pope John the twenty-something lying in state was not a highlight.  The mosaics that look like paintings were unbelievably beautiful and we were in awe of the art and craftsmanship.  And it was fun to have a tour guide holding up a red umbrella because it was sooooo kitsch.  The Vatican gift shop is a trip — the Popes, Jesus and Mary in every pose, on every precious metal and for every occasion.  I was so overwhelmed by the beauty and art of the Holy See that I had to hold myself back from buying a cross (of course, one without a Jesus).  And I am Jewish, as in Jewish-from-New-York Jewish, as in two-generations-from-the-boat-to-Ellis-Island Jewish.  Luckily, I quickly re-morphed into Barbra Streisand in The Way We Were.

This tour was great and arranged through the travel agency, 206 Tours.

We had lunch and then a little nap.  (When in Rome . . . .)

Then we walked around and found the Spanish Steps and walked more and found the obelisks which were plundered when Rome was the seat of an empire.

The mix of people in Rome rivals that of New York.  Asian and Mediterranean people speaking Italian.  Of course, it shouldn’t be a shock.  Still, in a place where there are more churches than anything else, it is wild.  We saw a Muslim mother and daughter on the street, speaking Italian.  The mother wore a head scarf and jeans.  The daughter wore a mini-skirt with spandex leggings.  The big take-away from this for me was that older women wear sensible shoes in Rome and younger women wear high heels on cobblestone streets.  (Wait, was there another message in this?)

Rome is a beautiful, ancient and yet modern city.  You can’t walk two blocks without being astonished and awed by the beautiful antiquity that lives side-by-side with bustling modernity.

Tomorrow, Villa Borghese and Colosseum/Forum.  By Wednesday, I am going to need to see the Jewish Ghetto because I know that there will be no crucifixion scenes, no murals depicting the tragic deaths of martyrs and saints and no arenas where people fought to the death for amusement.  I love the history and walking where ancients walked.  However, we are on vacation and there is a limit to the suffering I can handle, whether ancient or modern.  I know it isn’t politic, but it is the truth.

And of course our son had gelato.  And so the day was a success.

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Blogcation Year 2 Epilogue

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We spent the morning by the pool and planned to have a leisurely lunch and be on our way home via East Hampton to visit the family of POB (partner of blogger).  So around noon, a van with bicycles on top drives up into the driveway.  Oh, I guess, the next renters are here.  (They are supposed to come after 4pm.)  Anyway, tall, gangly man, who looks like Steve Buscemi in the movie, “Fargo” (see http://www.funpub.net/poze/mare/steve_buscemi_1235391217.jpg), got out of the car and introduced himself in the deep voice, capable of cackles of ghoulish laughter, “My name is Mr. [Scary Guy from Hell]” and this is “Gizmo” (pointing to a little dog).  I am afraid she is high-strung and a little scary.”

Ok, a man who reminds me of a murderous movie character and Lurch (from the Addams Family) all in the same horrifying moment expects me to respond in a similarly mannered way.  I can only muster, “Hi!  We’ll be out of here shortly.”  Two women are with him, one looks like Uncle Fester and the other is hefty version of Morticia. I am freaked out about these people and ask POB whether she hid the knives.

It was hot and the women dark, long sleeves clothes.  Mr. Scary Guy from Hell was wearing tennis shoes, calf-high socks, a random long-sleeved shirt, with a bloody axe hanging from his neck (just teasing about the axe).

POB was upset that they came early.  I was upset not to have left sooner.  Perspective is everything.

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Blogcation Year 2, Day Whatever – Too Much Information

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So, on vacation, one can lose track of days, especially when one has drowned one’s blackberry (accidentally).

Our G-d daughter and her life partner came over for a couple of days.  We gave them the downstairs bedroom (with two full baths – go figure) and POB (partner of blogger), our son and I took the two bedrooms upstairs (with one bathroom to share).

As is often the case on vacation, everyone’s toiletries bags are open and strewn around the bathroom.   I was downstairs with our G-d daughter and her partner talking, and POB and our son were upstairs so he could get ready for bed.

Our G-d daughter’s partner overhears our son’s question to POB, “Mommy, what are Tampax?”  She repeats the question to us.  I jump up and ask, “[POB], do you need help?” “Ye-e-es” she responds in a way that says I am too tired to deal with this.

So, I run upstairs, my mind blank about the “Tampax” issue.  I get to the bathroom and say (because my son is a bit of a bird nerd), “You know how birds make nests when they are ready to lay eggs?  Well, imagine that we have nests inside us.  If we don’t produce an egg, then the nest has to leave our body and we use Tampax and other products to avoid the messiness that ensues from the nest disintegrating.”

He’s 8 years old

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 3 (or 4?) — The rain has gone

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The sun came out today — first as a faint orb in the gray sky and then in all its sunburning glory.  Now, all of us summer people can go back to our pools and the beach and not swarm the already overwhelmed (and wildly expensive) sea-side towns.

One thing I did learn was that when booking a house, one has to parse every single word of the ad.  For example if it says, “ocean view”, that could mean that one bathroom in the house has a slight view of the water.  In our case, there is some water on the horizon out of our second floor bedroom.  If the add says, “water view”, it could mean the pool or your neighbor’s pool.  Or for those really wanting to stretch (and break) the bounds of truth in advertising, water view can mean this:

A view of the Montauk water tower.  Yes, we have a lovely view of the water tower from almost every window.  But no matter.  We are close enough to the beach and we have a pool and the sun — hooray, the sun — is out today.  But really, the water tower?

The other excitement of the day concerned our rental car.  I got this huge, gas guzzling Mercedes.  Why?  The rental place had no Volvos (the safest family car) and no Mercedes had ever been recalled (and the rental place didn’t have just a family sedan) but it had more Toyotas than you might think possible in such a small rental place in a small (geographically speaking) city like Manhattan.  Toyotas — cars with brakes that don’t work; accelerators that have minds of their own?  Are you kidding me?  Nope. nope, nope.  No hybrids available either.  The place did have Chryslers and GMs but until ones come are assembled by non-disgruntled workers, I will take the car with the track record and pay through the nose for it.

The problem with the mammoth Mercedes is that I can’t tell my car from the other mammoth Mercedes (plural) in any parking lot out here.  Also, the air in tires needed rebalancing and the low beam light was weak, so I had to get it fixed.  As I rolled into the mechanic’s place with my mammoth car and asked about a light change and a rebalance of the air of my tires, there were enough smirks to go around that I figured, “this is going to be expensive.”  I know, I know.  It’s a rental car.  But having a blown left low beam can be dangerous as can unbalanced air pressure in the tires (I read that this “safe” care has a roll-over risk — awesome).

I hang out and talk to the guys while they are fixing it.  It takes a lot of unscrewing parts to get to the headlights.  Maybe easier in the assembly line, but not so much when trying to change a light bulb in the left low beam.  They keep teasing me about the cost.  And I tell them it is a rental car, to boot.  They look at me as if I am on drugs. I say, “I am not asking you to fix my cruise control or stereo system!  These are matters of safety for my family and others!”  One guy says he is impressed that I am not freaking out and calling my boyfriend.  If he only knew. We continue talking about life, what matters, and what Montauk is like when the summer people aren’t here, etc.  He is married (I tell him I am, too, which I am in spirit if not in paper) and I could tell he is flirting with me.  But it was a sweet flirting, in the way that someone appreciates that you are passing the time while he is at work and not talking on the phone while you wait for a “service person” to handle your problem.  He shows me pictures of old Montauk and it was a perfectly lovely way to pass an hour (plus he only charged me for 30 minutes).  And he did a great job and now I know that I have taken all precautions to be a safe driver and that lets me sleep at night.  (And, I am going to present the receipt to the car rental place.)

Anyway, all is good and I am slowing disengaging from my Blackberry.

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Long Island — Heaven on Earth? Or the Other Place?

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My son has visited his grandmother’s graves.  They are on Long Island.  Sometimes, as parents do when they have no answers to children’s questions about love and loss, we say, “Nana and Grandma are watching from Heaven.”   About two or more years ago, I had to tell our son that a family friend — family, really — had died and — well, er, um — gone to Heaven.  “Does that mean he is buried on Long Island?” our son asked.  I responded that while some people believe that Long Island is Heaven on Earth, we in Manhattan think of it as a place to keep and honor the bodies of our dead loved ones, but that Heaven was not a place on Earth and surely not on Long Island.

Fast-forward to this week of vacation in rainy Montauk. Yes, on Long Island.  Heaven on Earth to some (not us, especially in the rain). Today is Day 3 on the road to Utopia.

For a retreat for the rich and even-richer, my experiences in the Hamptons and Montauk today were particularly democratic.  All of us thought we would be around a pool or at the beach.  But the weather is the great equalizer.  We stood cheek by jowl and vied for tickets at the local movie house or a table at the local pizzeria.  You may be a titan of industry when you are in NYC, but here, HERE, in the RAIN, don’t even THINK of trying to take THAT table in the greasy pizzeria.  I did offer a chair to a woman with a particularly large number of diamonds on her finger because the weight of them seemed to make her list to the left in a most unbecoming way.  Tragic deformities of wealth.  Good thing we are not at such risk; we will have good posture.

Julianne Moore was browsing the Montauk bookstore with her husband and daughter.  Of course, her children’s books were on display.  Since she was a lead in the movie, “The Kids Are All Right,” I wanted to kiss POB (partner of blogger) to show her that women of a certain age with children can still feel love and passion, even though she portrayed some of us as insipid, mousy individuals.  Ok, some relationships, gay or straight, are that way.  But, it would be great if a major motion picture about lesbians wasn’t a feel-good movie for straight people.  Am I ranting?  Ok, so I am ranting while staying on some people’s version of Heaven.  Is this the closest I will get to the Pearly Gates?  Oh, boy, am I in deep shit.

I also went to the gym in East Hampton, because the stress of staying in Heaven while it rains was getting to me.  A woman started to talk to me in the locker room.  Apparently, even in Heaven, I have “schmuck” written on my forehead and a magnet for random strangers.  She was telling me that she needed to work out, rather spontaneously, because she was upstairs at Citarella and some woman continually bumped into her in a rude manner and then blamed her.  Apparently, she thought I was staring at her bizarre work-out “costume” (ok, she was right).  I looked around for the Court of Judgment and listened for those trumpets, because since this is Long Island, and therefore, Heaven, there must be a divine court of justice.  Hmmm.  Must be on vacation until Labor Day.  Back just in time to render judgment on me for Rosh Ha-Shanah.  My timing is impeccable.

The other thing I realized is that Long Island cannot be Heaven because I recognized some business people who said they would see me in Hell, and given their business habits, I believed that they, at least, would be THERE.

Gosh, I would love a relaxing beach vacation.  Anyone know where I can find one?

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 2 — The Shopping Expedition

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We actually shopped on the first day out.  The King Kullen which is sooooo big (by NYC standards) that it could be its own Congressional voting district.  I have this image of someone being interviewed on CNN with the caption, “Representative [John Q. Public] [(D)/(R)] — King Kullen, NY”. But I digress, clearly.

POB (partner of blogger) determined that I should be in charge of stupid purchases, since she had the master list of all that we needed. How does one live up to that standard?  How many stupid purchases could there be in a supermarket.  Ok, let’s assume that I am not going to buy pet food for a non-existent pet.  Let’s assume that I am only looking for comestibles, as one would generally find in a supermarket.

Still, I was overwhelmed by the choices for stupid purchases:

Here is the cheesoid (the cheese equivalent of a factoid), complete with aerosol canister that is bad for the environment.

Then there is the life time supply of cheese balls (really? really), that contains no natural anything so it can survive any number of natural and unnatural disasters.

Then there is enough Reddi-Whip for dessert for the entire world.  (This is actually a red herring.  I have seen more in my sister’s fridge.)

In POB’s defense, I went in search of insane food stuffs (or quasi-food stuffs) to purchase.  Some were more gross than these, but I think the managers of the King Kullen thought I was taking pictures for the competition and I had to stop.

I was especially taken with the colors of frosting on the “home-made” cupcakes.  Those colors require lab scientists to intervene in the natural order and produce them.  So, I guess the quotes around “home made” are meant to tell us that these are home made only if you live in a lab.

So, what food stuff was my “stupid purchase”?  I am not telling.  All I know is that there is no expiration date on it.

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 1

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We are at the beach and it is raining.  Happily, POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) are readers and can relax doing indoor activities.  I can always nap and blog.

POB and I read the Times.  Predictably, the news of the world’s ills twists me in knots but it is harder to stay angry and frustrated when you see and hear the ocean and feel the cool breeze through the house on a rainy summer’s day.

Just one thing, does the Ground Zero Mosque make you think of the Holy Roman Empire?  (Hint: HRE was not holy, not Roman and not an empire.  GZM is neither at Ground Zero nor a mosque.)  DISCUSS.

So, this is all we have done today.  When the rain abated a little, SOPOBAB jumped into the pool until the rains came again.

And I am good with this.  Really.

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Synagogue Retreat at the Norman Bates Motel

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Ok, this is a long, random recounting, so bear with me.

My sister thinks that her trip on a Greyhound bus to a casino — where, no joke, a medical conference and training were being held — brought her very close to the common denominator of humanity. She emailed me that when she got to the bus gate at Port Authority, the woman in front of her on line just started talking to her.  The woman was traveling back from Florida to Providence. She had to go to Florida to get her mother’s ashes, which were in the shopping bag that she showed to my sister in case she wanted to see. (I wish my sister knew how to use the camera feature on her cell phone. A picture would have really made the moment.)  The woman had spent 3 days on a bus and needed to smoke a cigarette, had trouble in her childhood but has now straightened out, etc.

Dear SOB (sister of blogger), welcome to my world.  It is good that you experience your birthright — i.e., Mom’s magnetism for the strange, creepy and absurd.

Well, I am at a synagogue retreat. It was a rustic experience. Lots of rules — you need to observe the Sabbath and subscribe to the Jewish dietary restrictions — not on the quantity but on the depth to which the culinary arts must sink in order to conform to Kosher laws. Alcohol is Kosher, for which many people gave thanks to G-d. Also, no coffee Saturday morning because it is the Sabbath and one cannot use electricity or fire. Really? Really? Does anyone want really want to deal with me de-caffeinated? Also tonight someone by accident started making coffee before the end of the Sabbath.  Before we could descend on the heavenly libation, the moshkiach (the Kosher police) told the kitchen workers that they had to dump out the coffee. Wastefulness CAN’T be kosher.

There are many blessings that are new to me. The place has helpful plaques to assist in mastering them. I took a picture of the blessing after one eliminates in the bathroom, thanking G-d for the creation of certain cavities in the body. Really? My orthodox grandmother said this prayer? Even when she had indigestion? This must be an invention of those “too cool for shul” types. I am not kidding. Look at the picture.

Ever trying to make lemonade out of lemons, I have decided that we would learn this prayer and recite it every time our father discusses his irregularity.  Maybe we could teach it to him.  Clearly, I am going on the slow boat the Hell.

The place was kind of like that.  As you enter, there is a sign saying, “We are blessed by your presence”.  Ok, someone should be holding judgment until we leave.  There should even be a sign flashed for a specific few (like me), “We are blessed by your leaving.”

“Blessed by your presence”?  Trying to create holy, kumbaya, religious space and energy at crash-landing impact, after braving hellish Friday night traffic.  I thought to sing, “someone’s kumbaya-ing my Lord,” but I didn’t want to say kumbaya to that.  This is getting to crazy, with the aggressive, reverse Kumbaya on the Sabbath.  Slow boat.  Nah, I am taking the express train to Hell.

As you may have surmised, we couldn’t do much documentation on the Sabbath because that required use of electricity or batteries, so I had to take pictures in secret and I couldn’t blog.  Now that was harsh.  As my own little rage against the machine, I turned on my iPod just BEFORE I left the premises to go on my run.  Ah, the little subversities. But, as usual I digress.

Friday night, after blessing the group with our presence (or so the sign said), we proceeded to our promised charming two bedroom cabin.  The advertising was so wrong it should be a felony.  So one civil crime justifies a religious crime — desecration of the Sabbath — to take these pictures:

Is this a charming two-bedroom cabin? Type that into wikipedia and I bet that you won’t see a picture of this.  Really??  This is a three-bed cabin.  Ooops, there must have been a mistake.  No?  No mistake, this is the very finest that the camp has to offer?  In the county in Connecticut with the highest per capita income?  Really?  Really?  I am in a mood most foul and approach the rabbis about the relative merits of, say, a Ritz Carlton.  Not so my friends can get business, but it is a base level that to which we should become accustomed.

But at least the turn-down service left conflict-free chocolate on the beds:

But the real kicker is that in the light of day on Saturday, I realized that I had parked my rented super-huge, gas-guzzling monstrosity here:

Ok, I am a convert:  There, but for the Grace of G-d, go I.

~ the Blogger

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