Last Day (and Last Supper)

You would think that I had enough self-respect not to make a reference to the Last Supper.  But I don’t.

Before I start on today’s adventures, I must mention that during the visit to the Jewish Ghetto, we stopped at the Piazza del 13th (?) del Ottobre. (Sorry, IFOB, that I butchered the name of the plaza.)  It is the place where the Nazis rounded up the Jews and took them to Auschwitz on October 13th (?), 1943.  We were standing in the piazza and, as if on cue, a police car passes nearby, blaring Anne Frank noise (eeeeee-awwwwwww eeeeee-awwwwwww).  It is the sound that makes every Jew shutter.  The ambulances have a different noise, I noticed (eeeee-eeeee  eeeee-eeeee).  Now I have completed the tale of devastation and triumph of world Jewry.  Phew.

Today, our only aim was to shop.  Shop for things that are made here in Rome and not in Milan or elsewhere.  And of course look in the churches and walk in the piazzas along the way.  That is one thing about Rome, a church on every corner and lovely piazzas.  There is even an Episcopal Church that had Irish dancers and a bagpipe outside, trying to get worshippers to come inside.  Now that is a tough sell in the seat of Roman Catholicism.

So not a lot of things made in Rome.  We had to search out artsy areas, a hard thing for foreigners because it is so easy to get lost in Rome.  And, I get bored of shopping in less than an hour.  POB (partner of blogger) wanted to shop and so TLP (our son, the little prince) and I had to schlep along.  Mind-numbing and exhausting.  Some things but nothing really.  Milan would be the city for shopping.

So, nothing really absurd or crazy happened today.  We found some groovy areas that we would love to visit next time.

TLP had a great time in spite of his pre-trip whinings.  POB relaxed by mid-week despite her stress about traveling.  I got stressed as the week went on, because I was almost totally out of touch with everything in the US.  I did check in with the office daily and my secretary and colleague texted me as necessary.  I heard snippets of news — Dow tumbled on oil supply fears and not because of a massacre in Tripoli, Berlusconi’s Bill Clinton problems, Obama’s not defending DOMA anymore.  Other than the massacre, I really don’t care.  Monday I will care.

I think this means I actually had a vacation.  A real vacation.  But wait, the journey home is tomorrow.  So, I shouldn’t jinx it.

Roma, Thursday

Today we wandered a bit en route to the Jewish Ghetto.  We walked on meandering streets to the Tiber River and found our way to the Ghetto. We walked up to Capitoline Hill. We were a little lost until TLP (our son, the little prince) said, “this is Capitoline Hill.  I recognize it from our tour the other day and the map.”  POB (partner of blogger) and I looked at each other and sighed.  I guess we don’t have to worry about our child’s intellectual development.

IFOB (Italian friend of blogger) calls it the Jewish Quarter.  Euphemistic.  If an area was walled off with only day passes to the City, it was a ghetto.  A ghetto is a ghetto.  It was long ago and now the Jews of Rome thrive, with 15 synagogues.  We saw the two old synagogues and plaques from Roman times. But being Jews, we have to pick at the scabs of the past.  We have to wallow in the persecution.  All in, it took about 4 hours to recite the indignities since the 2nd century.  That was exhausting.

We had a kosher lunch.  That just means it is even more expensive than Rome generally and everything is overcooked.  IFOB gave us a suggestion for an eatery, but after the recitation of our people’s trials and tribulations we barely crawled to the first place we saw.  There was a sink and the blessing and men in yarmulkes.  All in Italian.  Very cool. A man came over to us and complimented us on how well behaved TLP was.  We were beaming, as in beatification beaming.  TLP got extra gelato.

We saw the four lesbians from the Jewish museum at the restaurant.  They were hard to miss in either place.  The particularly masculine one was flirting with a beautiful woman who worked at the museum.  The woman was clearly flirting back.  I was intrigued but my job as a Jew was to relive the painful past, so I didn’t have time for interesting side stories.  (IFOB: I am being my usual over-the-top self, so don’t be alarmed.  We really don’t going into excruciating details about the past.  We usually conflate a few centuries to save time.)

Then, we walked through various piazzas and along side streets where open doors showed courtyards and beautiful buildings.  Truly magical, as long as no one runs you over.

We took a bus to the Sistine Chapel and TLP survived, barely.  He is not a Raphaelite or a fan of Michelangelo or Titian.  I told him that I am not either, but one has to appreciate the art and the extraordinary talent and skill that is evident.  We took the subway back.  TLP was in transportation Heaven.

We napped and went shopping.  Then off to dinner, in a quiet restaurant. That is, until the LARGE, LARGE group of American adults and children came in.  Three huge tables.  And one of the adults thought it was appropriate in a public place to give a LOUD, VERY LOUD toast to the group’s leaders.  All the English speaking people in the restaurant looked on, stunned and gobsmacked.  The Italians also were talking, and I am sure not in the most glowing terms about the Americans.  One group of kids was being loud and I turned around and said, “Really? Really?  You think this is appropriate?”  They were silent.  Phew.  It could have backfired.

There was one family from the UK also in the restaurant.  They looked similarly distressed at the large (did I mention, LARGE), loud group. As we passed their table on the way out, I looked at the mother and said simply, “Oy.”  She held up her hand and we high-five’d.  Now, THAT’S international communication.

Another great day in Rome.

More on Rome

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. . . .

Roma, the next day

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.

Roma, Day 1

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.

Summer is for kids

Memorial Day Weekend makes me giddy with expectation of a long summer of fun.  Labor Day Weekend fills me with a mournfulness about the summer-that-wasn’t, the kind of mournfulness that is rightly reserved for more weighty matters.

So this past week I was an interloper in my son’s summer.  We spent days in the pool or at the beach or on play dates.  Except he was the one who wanted to stay in the pool, dive into the waves, and had friends out at the beach.  I wanted to nap.  POB (partner of blogger) and I were relegated to the roles of adults and rule-enforcers.

We did have fun as a family and we giggled a lot.  And POB sent me off to the gym and for runs so that she didn’t have TWO kids to keep in line.  But those are not summer activities, as I remember summer.  We didn’t hop on anyone’s bike and ride on untrafficked roads to an old musty bookstore and then eat ice cream on the lawn of the town church or library.  We didn’t play tennis and then go to the lake for an instructional swim or make peach-pit rings in the art studio.  Those were the days of my childhood summers.

Even if my son were amenable to recreating those days, I can’t quite imagine how one navigates the busy roads and fast cars that are everywhere in sea-side communities.  Maybe I am looking for a time that is just lost.  And maybe, like some things, those memories are sweeter in the rear view mirror.

My son had his own magical summer doing his activities.  I am grateful and happy that he did.  He looks and acts older.  He is tanned (even though he was slathered in sun block many times a day) and looks rested and ready for school.

Me, I have a sunburn.

Blogcation Year 2 Epilogue

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.

Blogcation Year 2, Day Whatever – Too Much Information

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

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

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.

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

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?