I suppose it's always best to start at the beginning, so:
Monday morning I woke unusually early (probably around 9) and so I checked my email before class, only to find the worst email I've ever gotten.
"Dear Kate,
I have disapointing news about your Dad and France... he has pneumonia! He is on antibiotics and codine cough syrup and feels terrible. At this point he expects that he won't be able to come."
and so, like any properly selfish child, I was torn between being sad, worried and pissed, because this wasn't fair, and I had been so looking forward to seeing him. Would this mean that Jane wasn't coming either? What sort of terrible thing did I do for karma to come at me like this?
Later, after establishing that Jane WOULD still be coming, I called home and when I heard his voice, which sounded like he was pretty much on his deathbed, and far more disappointed than I can ever imagine, all of this selfishness melted away and I just hoped that he would feel better soon.
So the trip continued, one man short, starting in Paris, early in the morning, in one of the seven portals into hell– The Charles de Gaulle airport. (I have discovered another in Nevada and am searching for the other five, just so I know which places to avoid in life.)
Jane and I started our adventure by hopping onto the Paris train-line and heading toward our hotel, which, a metro hop and a taxi-ride later welcomed us to The City of Lights very cordially and showed us into THE SWISHEST ROOM, nay not room, suite, THAT I HAVE EVER BEEN ALLOWED INTO
I may have gone a bit overboard with the photos, but I just want to impress upon you the swish-ness of this place. Note the (glass) bottle of evian water, the TWO plasma screen television (which we forgot to ever turn on) and the super-bathroom and bourgeois furnishings. It was the most comfortable bed that I have slept on since arriving in europe, possibly ever.
Paris was Paris, very sparkly and pretty, with way too many many people, though the Seine will never lose it's charm for me. We wandered around the first day, did a bit of touristing and then ate dinner on a patio across from the eiffel tower as it's lights sparkled through the darkness. As much as I complain about Paris, it really was kind of magical.
The rest of Paris was gone in a flash, a whirl of museums and parks and animated clocks that were out of order and churches.
The Defender of Time (on his break):
Notre-Dame:
Notre-Dame is and will always be one of my favorite places. I would pay good money to be there without the waves of tourists.
We had banana-nutella crepes every morning for breakfast and then set out for the day's wanderings, stumbling upon tektonic-kids and drum-brigades along the way and watching the sun set from the steps of Sacre Cœur as a culminating finish.
Then, Sunday morning, we got ourselves up (well, Jane got herself up, and dragged me after her) at the wee crack of dawn to head to the Ryanair airport (YES! another wonderful Ryanair experience!) where, after standing in line for several hours, they cancelled our flight due to extreme fog conditions. So we all slumped back to Paris and Jane and I booked the next rain to Pisa, leaving that evening, continuing on through the night with a 5am changeover in Milan. I am going to say only that sleeper cars could stand being just a tad more comfortable, and not go into any of the other details.
Laying in our booths though, we could watch the stars flying by from our upside-down view out the window...it almost made it worth the trouble.
We finally arrived in Pisa around 11:30 and a day late and with a phone# that wasn't working, so after taking a minute to melt into a bench in the piazza in front of the station, we scrounged a phonebook at a near-by hotel and called Elio's home, hoping and praying that he would answer. Lucky for us, he did, and immediately, he and Carla were in the car, on their way to come collect us.
I have never been happier to meet people than I was that morning, and I have never had such an immediate feeling of acceptance. This is family, like only italians can pull it off. Maybe it was because I was exhausted, maybe it was because I was linguistically lost, but, considering how distantly we actually are related, I felt like this was immediate family, come to save me.
Here is how we are related (as I understand it...)
My Grandma had two cousins: Ida and Lida
Ida has two sons: Elio, who lives with her and Mario, who married Carla
together they have: Francesca, who is my age, and who speaks impressively good english
Lida has one son and one daughter (both in their forties +?) I met her daughter, Laura. She was nice. Very loud, very funny.
Here is how communication happened:
Elio speaks a few words of english, and a few more words of french, but is very shy, and so, though he spent most of his time occupied with us, was not especially chatty and when he did speak, did so very quietly. I adore him. He is so timid and awkward and wonderfully caring. He also had a wee italian to english dictionary which became my favorite tool.
Mario and Carla do not speak english, but that did not stop them from talking non-stop to us in italian. They gave us tours of Luca and Florence, sharing history and stories and carrying on conversations with us, even though much of it was simply words lost to the wind. Despite gaps in conjugation and and vocabulary, it was obvious that they are eternally happy, and cheerfully funny. They are incredible and made me feel incredibly at ease and at home.
Ida spoke not one single word of english. She is the very image of old italy, very strong, very alive. Amazing
Lida didn't speak english either, but she pinched cheeks.
Laura spoke some english, and is a character in any language.
Francesca, as I said, speaks english really well, but unfortunately, she spent most of her time in classes, and therefore, not translating for us. I don't have a picture of her, but she is incredibly sweet.
we email a lot.
it's nice.
I Do Not Speak Italian. I speak english, and I speak french, I even speak a little spanish, but italian... nope. I found, however, that it was close enough between spanish and french that I could understand it fairly well, the thing is, even if you can understand, there's no way to respond. I learned enough to say a couple of very important things: I am full. I can't eat more. Thank You. Yes. No. Ok... everything else was the most pathetic mash of french and spanish said with a terrible italian accent and the hope that it would be understood.
It worked some of the time...but it was very very lame.
this is the church where my great grandmother was baptized.
Que Fuerte. (that is spanish)
I will let the other pictures of italy speak for themselves.
So obviously, amazing.
The rest of Janes trip was great too. For me at least, you'll have to get her side of the story. We went to Mont st. Michel, I played in quicksand (sank up to my calves!) We lounged around Rennes, basking in the surprisingly warm sun, in a garden full of blooming flowers. We went to the cinema. We ate gallettes and ice cream every night for dinner.
It really doesn't get much better.
