Six!


I registered for a four hour cooking class in Florence. We meet as a group, head to the outdoor market for our fresh ingredients. Go back to the kitchen where we create three dishes. And dine together, with 2 glasses of chianti.

The next afternoon I take a four hour 'vintage' Vespa tour -- more dining and chianti to ensue.

The countdown on the office whiteboard has been going well -- I'm now down to six full days before my flight! And I've added the weather forecast as a bonus.

I'm milking this suspense for all it's worth.

(I've had a surprising number of folks come out of the woodworks saying they wish they could come along. Hmmmm, maybe I really should consider starting a tour company!)

Italian Overload


Not content with simply attending Italian class twice a week, spending hours on Duolingo, reviewing classwork while walking briskly on the treadmill, and listening to Radio Skylab and Lady Radio, I have also been watching Marco Nisida on Youtube.

In some of his videos he teaches Italian in English and Spanish simultaneously! I wonder what language he dreams in!

I also subscribed to innovativelanguage.com Italian streaming channel on my Roku, where Consuelo teaches beginner Italian backed by a squeezer with mad accordion skills.

Within ten days I was experiencing Italian overload -- little wonder! -- and decided to take a break.

So I spent an afternoon watching Garibaldi's Lovers --listening to the Italian while reading the English subtitles.

Conversation in Italian


Piacere! Io sono Cecilia.

Io sono turista di Charlotte. Sono americana.

In Italia voglio mangiare spaghetti e pane, e beviate vino. Troppo! E mi piace la pizza e il gelato.

Ci vediamo!

The Short Line


I'm a big Googler -- you've prolly guessed that by now -- and I love to follow links in online articles I'm reading. I've learned some really obscure interesting facts by chasing these blue lines......

One day recently I chased an article down the rabbit hole and found myself learning exactly how those folks at the airport get the cred to use the Short Line at TSA (something that I've lusted for on many an occasion).

In typical American Capitalistic fashion -- they pay for it!!!!

Yes, pay a fee, approx $90, for a five-year US Airport Only Membership to the Short Line. Pay another $25 or so and get Short Line benes in airports worldwide. The fee covers the cost of your Super Invasive Patriot Act background check. (And really, if you've got nothin' to hide, why not give up a little privacy to skip to the front of the line!!)

It really is an almost painless experience. I filled out the application online and scheduled an appointment just a few blocks from my office at a strip mall office jointly shared by a drug testing establishment, what seemed to be a local Saul-Goodman-esque operation, and the TSA Pre Check office.

We took a photo, reviewed my passport, and I paid my fee (no cash, no check). In and out in 15 minutes. I got an email with my 'case number' which I could track online. And within a matter of weeks I got a hardcopy letter with my Known Traveler Number.

Short Line, here I come!!!

Click here to get started on your own Short Line cred!

Imparare a parlare


I started by downloading Duolingo -- If you don't know about Duolingo listen to the fabulous Ted Talk about it here. It's great! The price is right and success ratings are comparable with Rosetta.

It's built like a game, which makes it fun. I can actually hear the pronunciation (which is a problem I've experienced in the past with electronic / digital language learning), and -- and this is a biggie -- Duolingo can listen to my responses and grade my enunciation (pronunciation? Enunciation? Enunciation!)

Next, I signed up for a basic 'Traveler's Italian' class at a local travel agency. Ten lessons taught by an American who lived in Italy for eight years.

Also, I started watching Italian movies on Netflix and listening to Italian radio on TuneIn. Radio Skylab -- "tutta la musica che ch'e".

Italian Lessons


I am an American. I talk loud. I credit this (blame?) to being raised with everyone around me talking loud and laughing loud. We don't consider it loud -- it's just the way we communicate. Those who are unexposed to non-Americans truly do not know there is any other way.

As I learned by working in a multi-cultural environment, I also 'listen loud' -- meaning that I can't hear the words when people speak in a soft voice. The natural volume for many of my teammates is very soft and gentle, and it is truly a Seinfeldian experience at times (thank goodness, no puffy shirts  in sight!).

But one thing I do not want to be when I travel is an Ugly American -- the loud one who speaks louder and louder in English until the (foreign speaking) listening gets the message. And to that end, I'm taking Italian lessons.

Italian language lessons.  (I'll save the cooking lessons for my trip.)

Rub Your Butt


My Googling re: driving in Italy finds words about the local drivers such as "aggressive", "skillful" -- and warn of a "white-knuckle experience".

I'm cautioned about 80+ mph tailgaters, scooters appearing out of nowhere, ZTLs (no traffic zones), and medieval streets.

I learn that gas stations close during siesta.

But the most strident warnings by far are about the parking -- or lack thereof. Parking is at a premium, lots fill up quickly, meter maids are ruthless, and towing is not rare.

Luckily for me I'm driving in Liguria, where the locals have a foolproof gesticular blessing to appeal to the parking gods -- rubbing your butt with sincerity.

Full Stop for The Ages


Since this is my first rental car experience in Europe, I give myself permission in advance to make a few mistakes. I can always refine and improve on future trips.

The second-guessing averted and after being overwhelmed by the volume of rental car ads screaming at me from Google, I gravitate toward those with comfort-food Ameri-recognizable names... and end up at Hertz.(Cue Roberto Benigni che attraversa l'aeroporto.)

Every small model car available has standard transmission, and with a slight frown I sigh and accept my fate of reliving 25 years of stick shift driving, and the closely related sciatica, during those three motoring days in Western Liguria.

Fiat-Nation has taken the US by storm and I'll admit I am a bit Fiat-curious. So after a few days of reviewing and debating I book a Fiat Punto Evo.

(Full disclosure: I currently drive a smartcar and am very happy with my ownership of it.)

[After booking I did a little more poking around... The Punto Evo -- translation Full Stop for The Ages -- has 4 doors. Perhaps I can mini-size me at the counter. But if I can't, no second-guessing grief allowed!]

IDP, idk


If I'm going to drive in the hills between Genoa and the French border catching sight of East facing sea views, I'm gonna need a car. This is a facet of international travel I haven't tackled yet, and requires some research, so naturally I turn to my old friend Google.

First, I will need an International Driver's Permit, which is basically an official document attesting to the fact that you have an active driver's license back home. This meta-document can be obtained from AAA for about $15. If asked "Papers, please!", you will present said US driver's license and said international driver's permit to the official who's asking -- in all their redundant glory.

IDP in hand after a 10 minute visit to my local AAA office, I start researching cars -- Italian cars.

Allegedly

Plans to visit Genoa prompt vivid memories of my earliest history lessons in elementary school.

We had switched from the big, fat green pencils doled out by the teacher's assistant du jour, to personally owned and maintained yellow #2 pencils with attached red erasers which we sharpened multiple times a day queueing up for the Boston hand cranked sharpener screwed securely into the window ledge -- shoving and pinching and whispering as stealthily as we could before being called out by the not really intelligent and (still today) smug moon-faced girl who had spent the first month of first grade crying every morning after her mother slipped away. But I digress in bitterness....

This would have put us in second grade, which would also make sense because my best friend in second grade, at least while he still lived in my town before his father was transferred, was a guy named Chris, and he taught me how to spell Christopher. And so I only had to learn to spell Columbus, Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria to ace the test!

So, we were taught that Christopher Columbus was Italian and he sailed westerly, hoping to find a quicker route to the East Indies (India to you and me) but instead ran smack into the New World -- which was really great for him because an alternative was to fall off the edge of the Earth due to it at that time having a plane-ular shape.

While in the story we memorized Sig. Columbus was Italian, and his three little ships sailed from Genoa (pronounced ji-KNOW-ah in my little town), he was given financing for his adventure by Queen Isabella of Spain. And even for my 7-year-old brain this didn't make much sense, because common folk having audiences with a Queen were pretty rare occurrences (except in scenarios like the pussy cat who goes to London), and getting in to see the Queen and immediately asking for a pile of money was just a ridiculous idea.

So I, with my superkid powers of analysis and detection, knew that something was hinky with the allegedly Italian Columbus and the tale of the New World.

A quick Google re: Sig. Columbus, and a heated conversation about visiting Genoa with a zealot-ous Spaniard, suggests that Chris is a garlic that may not be fully peeled yet.

(Just, don't mention this in New York... especially in October. Unless you want to sleep with the fishes.)

I think I'll learn some maritime history while in Genoa.

Countdown!

The hoops I jumped through determining where I would go on my adventure this year are only interesting to me, and only because it gave me insight into musings of a caterpillar dreaming of butterflydom.

At any rate I eventually decided that I would:

  1. Fly to Florence 
  2. Train to Genoa 
  3. Drive in the hills to the French border (East facing sea view) 
  4. Back to Florence for some days in the city and some more days in a suburb (which actually predates Florence as an Etruscan city). 


I've never been North or West of Monterosso and I'm excited to explore the Italian Riviera. There are indeed sweet little towns in the hills above the coast, with eastward views down to the Med.

I've started a countdown on the whiteboard in my office, where friends pop by to check the days and visibly feign jealousy.

I'm sooo excited!

Look East

I grew up on the East Coast, in a tiny town 30 minutes inland, surrounded by towering pine trees and spreading oaks. It was hot and sultry, yet we never lacked for shade.

For two glorious years after college I lived on the oceanfront (yes! on the oceanfront, the very edge of the continent!) in a ramshackle house which ultimately fell into the ocean during an especially violent hurricane. Many was a morning I got up in the dark and sat on the sofa watching the sun kaleidoscope from the east over the relentent waves. No shade here, and truth be known burning sun is desired on the beachfront. No biggie.

It was only when I moved to Charlotte that I experienced the setting sun. Dun dun DUUNNN!

Oh my lord! The pain. The agony. There aren't any happy summer cookouts in a westward facing backyard. No amount of shades and draperies and blinds can protect your living room if it has a southwest exposure. I took to warning friends who had moved from the North or from California 'make sure your entertainment areas face east!' And when it came to buying my own dreamhouse, I spent 18 months composing a list of Must Haves and Nice To Haves -- with Eastward Exposure at the top of the list.

And so, when I started planning my Retirement Exploratory Expedition (hereafter to be known as REE), I knew I wanted to target areas where I might have some sort of water view facing east.

... and Work your Plan


Two worrisome aspects of this trip in planning loomed over me, each offering a bone juicier than the last to my inner OCD.

Unable to gather enough energy (and awake time, if truth be known) to obsessively over-analyze both of them in tandem to my usually proficient level of zeal, vigor, and bullet-pointed list-making, I decided to harness the power of compulsion first in planning the trip to the nth degree.

I will save the panic over traveling alone for a time closer to the date of departure, confident that once I book flights, accommodations, cars, etc., there is no way my ego would allow me to cancel.

Divide and conquer I always say.

Plan your work........


When I started chatting up my idea to make a foundational Retirement-in-Italy journey, I naturally met with a 180 degree spectrum of reactions and suggestions -- ranging from predictably knee-jerk where-Amuricans-should-live advice to excited encouragement and offers to keep me company in my lonely wine-soaked exile.

Unexpectedly, I got a lot of interest from various friends wanting to tag along.

Some Francophiles currently biding time in India thought it might be a nice leg off their own vacance. Take the train from Nice, meet up with me. Museums, antiquities, oregano and basil in their tomatoes instead of cumin and curry. A good time had by all ultimately was derailed by aging parents and needful planning for the re-immigration (emigration? immigration!) to the good ole US-of-A. (And troof be known, prolly my disinterest in 5-star dining didn't help!)

I had a couple of serious conversations about making a combo Franco-Ital tour with my GBFF (another Francophile with plans to déplacer en France). But his plans to actually RETIRE from his job at the end of this calendar year (damn your good planning, Marcel!) put the kibosh on him travelling in 2015.

A friend from work briefly approached me about coming along with her and her childhood friend on a package dealio -- but that is not the scene for me (see throwing up in my mouth) and (secondarily!) I wouldn't want to be the third wheel in an all female band. (Nightmares from high school/summer camp/ freshman dorm, anyone?)

 So that left me going alone.

Planning for Retirement


Since the death of my sweet doggie The Nutt a few years ago, I've been in (an initially unconscious [subconscious? unconscious? subconscious!]) financial contraction.

I discovered that funds previously allocated each month to the care of my special needs (furry) child could be diverted into my 401k with nary the blink of the eye or an empty feeling in my jeans pocket.

Then, I found myself Offended and Outraged (both with capital "O") at the amount I doled over for cable and mobile each month -- especially since you could hardly tap a key without a news article flashing onto your screen about the joys of streaming television or alternative mobile phone coverage. Barely two hours with my friend Google and a temp Excel file and I had cut those expenses by 50%. Out of the way of my Ginsu knife!

It became a game to me -- benefits enrollment time came around and I sliced my monthly costs by betting on my continued good health. Slice! I started shopping for food at the local farmers' market and cooking at home more often. Rip! A slow dawning mindfulness brought me the understanding that I was, in a way, 'nesting'... I was preparing for retirement!

I realized that I had been daydreaming about being awakened by the sun each day instead of a noisy jolt, and taking walks in fresh air instead of listening to hardly earth-shattering complaints. I imagined painting and cooking and writing every day. And even more vivid, my daydreams of retirement were always more about where than about what.... and I always saw myself in Italy.

So on a dark winter evening with freezing rain falling outside, wind howling across my balcony, and a forecast of 24F the next day, I Googled the temperature in San Lorenzo al Mare... and saw that everyday for the next seven days the temps were 45F - 55F.... And I knew I wanted to be there...

It's just not quite right.................


Once upon a million years ago some friends visited Spain. They brought back amazing photos of Moorish tilework... and just for me they brought back a pair of flamingo feathers they had picked up on a beach (I could divulge how they had strayed onto a beach in a 'restricted and protected' area and how they were chased off the beach by park rangers, but that's a story for another day). For the briefest moment on a 6F evening I considered going to Barcelona to spend a week taking tango lessons. But decided before I could embark on an intensive course of tango I would need some well broken-in dance shoes -- and of course to be in right country (Argentina! who knew!?) to learn the tango!! So, that moment passed.

I thought about Portugal. I always think of Lisbon and the "letters of transit" But I'd need time to learn more about the country than just passing references to WWII -- I'll save this trip for the future when I have time to research.

I thought about going back to Germany -- the land of large, beautiful shoes and great beer. But this is not the year for a Deutsche experience.

Nothing felt quite right.......I kept searching my brain.

Where to go?


Lounging at home on my sofa during the dark cold hours of our bizarre winter, shivering under a blankey and taking solace from Netflix, I debated what type of adventure I should have in 2015.

Clearly there was no way to top my month in India in 2014 -- especially from the sheer unlikeness of my daily existence, and if truth be known, an almost complete antithesis of my life to date. And why would I want to try? Did I want that much differentness this year? Did I need such a challenge? I decided not.

Each time I face this decision I always consider taking a heritage tour. Going to England... going to Scotland... buying some scratchy clan plaids (what would I wear under my kilt? I can assure you it's not the future of Scotland) and visiting castles. Maybe I'd get to witness a log throwing in person!

Perhaps I would discover that Doctor Who is a long lost cousin. Or maybe I'd happen upon my very on Aspergerish village doctor with a lovely water view who can't bear to live without my acute spatial reasoning skills.

But so many things struggle in my mind against taking this trip, most prevalently the thought that I would spend a long flight only to be met by cold, gloomy weather and the same collection of ruddy, teetotaling Campbells, Stewarts, and Johnsons I could meet up with in my own one-stop-light hometown. 

Once again, I decided against a trip to the Homeland. 

I quickly discounted Vietnam / Laos / Thailand as being too exotic and different -- can't do that two years in a row -- especially without a support group such as I experienced in India (thank you Lek and Lax! Love you girls! You too BB!). Or without taking a package tour -- which I find so Fonzie-saying-"Wrong" that I have thrown up in my mouth just typing the words. 

Where to go... where to go? 

Let's Get This Party Started!

It's Wednesday April 29, 2015 -- where are your travel dollars?

Looking back to this time last year, I was in full 'iron lung paralysis' over my fast approaching trip to India -- oooh, I don't like to be dependent on other people; ooooh, I will be a minority in a sea of exotics; ooooh, why shake up my comfort zone....  But I survived, learned a lot, and returned to tell the tale.

Twelve months later and I'm elbows deep into planning my next adventure -- and the only paralysis in sight is the hands of the clock tick-tick-ticking until departure.

Hello land of Ceasar, spaghetti, and my future Retirement! Italy, here I come!