Interlude from the interlude: My quixotic quest for American-made clothing

And now an interlude about my quixotic quest for American-made clothing during my interlude about our road trip.

Inspired by our adventure at the UAW retreat center where we were told we couldn't drive on the grounds because my Mazda wasn't UAW-made (see previous post), I have been seeking a couple made-in USA items of clothing. As many of you know, I've lost about 30 pounds of unsightly blubber, so my already-roomy clothes now make me look a little like David Byrne in his Big Suit. (I still have a lot of unsightly blubber - just a little less of it now).

David Byrne in the Big Suit

 Through web surfing I found that Brooks Brothers trumpets their Made In America status ( http://www.brooksbrothers.com/catalogview/catalog.tem?Page=1&catalogname=MakersMerchants_09 ), and that they were having a sale! Although savvy web researcher Karen Hanson pointed out that not all their clothse were USA-made, I felt assured that I could find a USA-made shirt and pair of pants at somewhat reasonable sale prices.

So I went into downtown Mpls today, circumventing road closures and finding inexpensive street parking to avoid $7-for-the-first-hour ramps (boy, it's as if they don't want people to come downtown!).

After traversing the barren retail wasteland of City Center, I located the deserted Brooks Brothers store on the skyway level, went in and started perusing the sale shirts. What I found was Made in Malaysia, Made in China, Made in Bangladesh, and Made in Anywhere-But-Here. And these were all shirts that retailed for at leat $98 each! I had previously noted that Macy's Pink brand of fancy dress shirts, which are $100-$150 each (no, I don't own any) and the similarly-priced Minnesota-designed Hammermade shirts (advertised on KFAN by Hall of Famer Paul Molitor!) at the Galleria were made in Bangladesh and Istanbul respectively. So price alone doesn't assure domestic production.

Finally I found the Country Club line of Brooks Brothers shirts with fabric made in Italy (hey, wasn't this blog supposed to be about Italy?) and that were Made in the USA!! Score!! Woo hoo! Although the selection of size Mediums was sparse, there were a few blue or gray striped or checked shirts that I could work with. Look, I want USA-made, but I'm not gonna buy anything with actual color! let's not get crazy here.

I turned one over and saw the price -- $168!! The sale was two for 50% off, and one for 30% off. So I tried to do the math and quickly calculated that 70% of $168 was --- still too damn much for my budget. I looked at chino-type dress pants and, once again, realized that $98 don't get you American! I did find some dress slacks that would need tailoring for about $254. I decided to pass on them, too.

So I threw in the towel, at least temporarily. Desperate for a few affordable items that fit, I went to Macy's and bought a shirt, a pair of pants and some shorts made in Bangladesh.

I haven't given up yet, though -- I'm going to peruse the L. L. Bean and Brooks Brothers websites and carefully study what's USA-made and affordable. It looks like the BB Made-in-America shirts start at $69.50, which is still more than I'm used to paying, of course, but doable at least this time. I didn't see any of these downtown -- maybe the Maple Grove store will have them.

Yes, I know all this driving or catalog ordering means a bigger carbon footprint, but I'm not gonna get US-made and carbon-neutral. At the wife's suggestion, I'm also going to consult with the woman that coordinates the Retrorama fashion shows, because she's into sustainable fashions. And I'm considering seeking out local tailors to see if a custom-made item or two would be almost as affordable as a pricey catalog item. Of course, I'd have to make sure any such item isn't made by 10-year-old illegal immigrants in a local sweatshop -- I assume those exist, too!

So the adventure continues! More later. Thanks for reading!

Okay, let's see if I can still catch part of the Beerlympics.

Interlude Part 3: I refuse to learn/Twins score 19!

Since it's too hot to even walk to DQ, I thought I'd try to do a quick road trip entry. (PS: Go Twins! 12-5 over the orioles so far).  My apologies to Leesa, Steve and Wendy if I miss some of the wonder of our Mackinac visit.

After the aforementioned wondrous, pathetic dog and pony  "Wild West" show, we repaired briefly to the Brisson home, and then lit out for the Lilac festival parade. (Due to global warming, the Lilac Festival was curiously Lilac-Free). The clear highlight of the parade was the Clown Band, which was actually pretty good. For Leesa another highlight was all the bag piping. Then we had ice cream from ye Olde Ice Creame Parloure.



Sad "Wild West" show

At the end of the parade, the band played and encore, and then kinds freelance/walked to the other end of town. With the enthusiastic Leesa leading the way, we followed the band, and then took and exciting back-alley route back to the house. You'll soon be able to follow this route on Leesa's "Back Alleys of Mackinac" tour. I might have the sequence wrong, but I think we then got a guided tour of the new Mackinac Art Museum, which had a great exhibit on the Grand Hotel's 125th Anniversary (http://www.grandhotel.com/). Great historic photos!



Porch at Grand Hotel - longest in the world

I requested alfresco dining, so Steve and Leesa (that isn't really how she spells it, by the way) led us to a lovely restaurant in the shadow of the Grand Hotel. It was a little rainy, so we started to dine inside -- only to be driven out by the terrible performance of the singer/strummer entertainment guy, who sang as if he had never actually heard these songs. (Note: Now it's Twins 14, Orioles 5).

(Oops - this quick entry is getting less quick by the minute.)

After talking politics/museums, we watched in amazement as Steve drank the tankard of French Press coffee he requires to have the energy to sleep, and went off to bed to rest up for the next day of island living.

We woke to a wonderful, restful symphony of Sunday morning small town sounds: The clop-clop of horses, the singing of the choir at a nearby church and the distant peal of bells from the fort. As Wendy noted, it was exactly the sort of sound collage you would have heard a hundred years ago on the island -- or even in our house on that ungodly busy Cretin-Dayton intersection!

When the admirably pious, well-dressed Brisson family returned, Lisa fed us breakfast (by the way, Steve took us to a great Mackinac greasy spoon Saturday morning while Madam Director was off Being Important). Then all but Matthew (?), the outdoors-avoiding, exercise-hating middle-child Brisson (I knew I liked that kid!) clambered aboard a diverse collection of bikes (some with gears, some with brakes, some with neither) and rode to the highest point of Mackinac. Lisa, the compulsive planner, admitted that this was part of her hidden agenda. We were asked to indicate on a one-to-ten scale how much nature we wanted, and how much exercise -- and the route was selected accordingly. Thank god we could walk our bikes up that giant hill.



Yes, these are "cottages"

 Steve and Leeesa couldn't help but point out various historic landmarks - cemetery this, turn-of-the-century cottage that, etc. Despite their best efforts, I believe I retained absolutely nothing.

Leeesa then fed us a delightful dinner that we ate with her freakishly well-behaved, self-entertaining children. Then, at my urging, we got "all gussied up," as Eddie Lou used to say, and went to hear the Grand Hotel Orchestra, which the Grand Hotel website said was playing every night. Apparently this was also an item on Leesa's hidden agenda!



Anotrher "cottage"

Sadly, it was just a jazz trio with a mediocre singer, because it was Sunday night. I wanted an orchestra (or a big band at least), dammit! So we went to the cupola for drinks. (Twins lead 19 - 5 now).

To be continued...

Interlude Part 2: War of 1812 Dog Parade

(Uh oh! this is taking longer than I thought. I guess brevity is not my strong suit).
PIctures to come...

We started out our journey with Mackinac Island as our first destination. We were going there to enjoy a couple days of Island Life (Michigan style) with Steve and Lisa Brisson, two vivacious, charming, funny museum professionals spending their first summer with their family on Mackinac Island in a 1800s house provided to them for the summer by Mackinac State Historic Parks. Steve was recently appointed Deputy Director for Mackinac State Historic Parks, which take up about 80% of the island (the remaining 20% seems to be evenly split between gigantic 1800’s “cottages” and fudge shops).  That's why he and his family get to stay on the island!

Lisa (or, as she is known by us Leeeeeesa) was recently named Director of the Michigan Museums Association. She also is a mother of three, writes a food column for her local newspaper, is a museum consultant and Elder Hostel tour guide. I suspect she also may be an award-winning beet farmer and champion baton-twirler, but that is beside the point. She insists on being called Madame Director. I know, weird, right?

We had a long drive ahead of us, and had to make the 9:00 ferry to Mackinac, so we didn’t have many stops along the way, save for taking a picture of us in front of the World’s Largest Soup Kettle in Laona, Wi. Wendy, who loves her glowing screens, juggled two to four electronic devices throughout our car rides,  navigating, selecting iPod play lists, planning ala carte stops and researching random questions.

World's largest soup kettle

When we got to Mackinac City we pulled up to the dock, were greeted by the ebullient, chatty and enthusiastic Lisa (and coming from me that’s saying a lot!), and boarded the ferry.  Once on the island we hoofed it through the historic and quasi-historic streets of downtown Mackinac, rolling our luggage through the few blocks to the Brisson's historic summer home located a stone’s throw from the village green. We didn’t take a car, because it was only a couple blocks – and because motorized vehicles have been banned from the island since the late 1800s/early 1900s.

Like Venice, Mackinac Island is a lot like Walt Disney World (but not at all like The House On The Rock). Not only are no cars allowed, but - just like WDW - Mackinac is sprawling, super-cute, expensive – and there are water rides (in the case of Venice and Mackinac, Gondolas/Vaparettos and ferry rides respectively).

Mackinac is so cute that it's ridiculous

It was fortunate that we were making our way to a Brisson manse at 9 PM. If it was earlier, we would have had to dodge hordes of tourists riding horse-drawn carriages, careening down the streets on rented bikes or on horseback, or wandering aimlessly while hopped up on fudge. Because Mackinac Island is tourist central – especially in June/July/August! And if it had been later, we might have had to dodge drunks and vomit – because in the summer, the youngsters come to PARRR-TAY!

After a refreshing beverage and some chatting, we all hit the hay in giddy anticipation of the upcoming War of 1812 Dog Parade, followed by a Dog and Pony Show!

Yes, you heard me: War of 1812 Dog Parade – and an actual Dog and Pony Show, not the ones we see (and participate in) at work! Apparently, we arrived at the tail end of the island’s Lilac Festival, which always features a themed dog parade. In this case, since it was some even-numbered anniversary of the War of 1812 (you don’t expect me to remember or do the math, do you?), the dogs were supposed to dress up in some way that references that conflict.

War of 1812 Dog Parade

What this meant was dogs in little uniforms, or wearing costumes that looked like ships, or just wearing red-white-and-blue flowers or something. There was also a reluctant pony with a fake cannon on its back. Our favorite was the Golden Retriever dressed in an epaulet-laden uniform, who was holding a plastic sword in his mouth!

Indian Princess and Soldier. He shoulda won!

At the parade’s conclusion, Lisa, Steve, two of their three children and Wendy and I walked to the parade terminus, a wind-swept and unseasonably chilly point on the island. After an interminably long time, the dog parade winners were announced (our sword-holding favorite was robbed!) and the Dog and Pony Show began.

Unfortunately, it was really just a pony show (no dogs were involved), and a pretty bad one at that. Apparently, it was officially called a Wild West Show, although it wasn’t wild, had little to do with the West and there certainly was no show. It featured several logy horse-type creatures (some probably were ponies, some were bigger horses – I don’t know the difference) reluctantly doing stuff that may or may not have been tricks, like walking two legs on a beam, or bending at the knees.

False advertising

There was a bigger horse and a younger woman, so I had hopes of bareback riding tricks around the tiny inflatable circus ring. But no such luck, I think the big horse was involved in the big finish, which may have been “dancing”. You could only tell that a “trick” had been accomplished because the sheepish looking ringmaster (who wore freaky yellow-painted shoes) would raise his hand every once in a while. Which meant we were supposed to clap.  What made the whole thing even more sad was the intermission, which featuresda twenty-minute rambling speech by a local aged veterinarian who told amusing stories about pet disease. It was the kind of pathetic display that would have rendered Holden Caulfield even more melancholy had it happened in Central Park!

Now, Wendy and I actually enjoy little community festivals, such as Perogie Days and Rhubarb Days; we find them to be charming, like the misguided displays of civic pride that take the form of giant roadside Paul Bunyans, Turkeys or Pie Dishes. And at first we considered this sad display just another charming, poorly-organized small-town small-time festival. But then we remembered that Mackinac was a major national tourist destination, and that they have a full-time events coordinator (who apparently went to Harvard and will inform you of such within five minutes of meeting her). Frankly, any one of Wendy’s staff at the History Center would do a better job – and do so with less money on a regular basis.

NOTE: Neither Brisson was involved in the Dog Parade or Pony Show.

To be continued…

Interlude: Best Road Trip Everrrr - Part 1

Wendy and I recently went on a road trip to Mackinac Island, Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. And, although I fully intend to (eventually) continue my posts about our more-high-end Italy trip, I want to take a moment and document this road trip on this 97-degree miserably hot and humid 4^th of July.

The trip itinerary was planned, navigated and executed by Wendy, who is a virtuoso of the car trip. And I believe this was her four-wheeled masterpiece!

The trip was characterized by the features we both most enjoy in a road trip, including:

·         Urban settings

·         Lots of activities each day

·         Little or no nature

·         Roadside colossi

·         Presidential Libraries/Historic Sites (complete with President/First Lady-themed Christmas ornaments)

·         Mold-A-Ramas

·         Interesting Architecture (including Art Deco and/or Frank Lloyd Wright buildings)

·         Twins games

·         A dash of fake history (see Creation Museum, Kensington Rhunestone museum, or the Nixon Library’s recounting of Watergate)

·         Delicious road food that will fatten you up, harden your arteries and eventually kill you

Now, mercifully for you, dear reader, I actually want to finish this set of postings! So I’m not going to go quite the excruciating level of detail that we are accustomed to. In fact, this posting may very well devolve into bullet points. We shall see.

Note:  This posting will feature wildly inaccurate statements, incorrect chronologies, false statements and outright lies. Wendy and others may chime in to correct the statements. Or not.

To be continued...

Episode Six: A high-end "House on the Rock"



Another hellish tableau from
House on The Rock

 A couple years ago Wendy made us tour The House on the Rock in Spring Green , Wisconsin. Frankly, I was pretty reluctant. I, mean, I almost always love the places chooses for us to visits - odd museums, roadside attractions, out-of-the-way diners, etc. She is a masterful and delightful trip planner. But I was wary of The House on the Rock, given its reputation as notorious tourist trap, a sprawling, pointless collection of god-knows-what, and - architecturally - a shoddy imitation of its more-prestigious neighbor, Frank Lloyd Wright's home and studio, Taliesin. But she said, "Honey, you have to experience it!" So, of course I relented, and we spent half a day "exploring" the hellish, unbelievable maze of random collections that is The House On The Rock.

Why do I bring this up in a blog about Italy? Because, as Wendy so adroitly pointed out, The Vatican Museum is "like a high-end House On The Rock":

• Once you enter, there's no way out.
• It's a gigantic building filled with collections of -- well, everything and anything. The next room you enter might contain ... anything.
• You are given no real map, have no idea where you are, and are never told who long it will take.
• You end up spending eight hours wandering from grandiose collection to grandiose collection.
• There's a snack stop in the middle.
• The answer to the question "Why is there a room full of (fill in the blank) here?" is always "because they could."

 Now, there are a few differences. After all, the Vatican Museum is filled with priceless Roman antiquities and Renaissance masterpieces. House On The Rock is filled with - well - anything and everything: Suits of armour, fake cobblestone streets, doll collections, planes and plane replicas, a bizarre football-field-sized sculptures of sea monsters, ship models, carousels, visions of hell (the Vatican Museum has plenty of Visions of Hell, too). etc.

Despite the warnings by our Asian host with the Australian accent, the wife and I took the five-mile walk past clothing stores, restaurants and gelati shops across the river into Vatican City. At fifteen minutes before the opening there were huge lines of people waiting to get into the museum wrapping around Vatican square. Fortunately Wendy had bought the Vatican equivalent to a Disney FastPass online, so we skated by the crowds of school groups.

The Vatican Museum:  A giant corridor
of Roman sculpture. Why? Because they could.

The word "gigantic" really doesn't quite describe the size of the Vatican Museum. And it was crawling with touristas and school groups, many with their own private guides (we would see that in several places in Rome). Everywhere you go, there are signs that point the way to the Sistine Chapel -- the main attraction that draws people there, of course. The signs essentially say "Sistine Chapel -- it's just right around the corner." After a while, you stop believing them, because even if you study the guidebooks it's hard to grasp the fact that in order to get to the Sistine Chapel you're going to first walk through endless galleries of paintings, tapestries, sculptures. bronzes, bas reliefs, etc. And that every square inch of the interior will be covered with gold leaf, frescoes, paintings and other flotsam and jetsam. Like Wendy says, it was the Renaissance Full Employment Act.

Roman sculpture from the Vatican Museum. Apparently, the Mississippi was not the first Ol' Man River.

(To be continued...)

Episode Five: Is it okay if we walk through the Rose Garden?

So we arrived at our Hotel in Rome at about 8 AM our time and, after a lovely snack of croissants and cappuccino on the patio overlooking the courtyard of our hotel, we did the unthinkable: We slept for a couple hours! I know, you're supposed to stay up to adjust to the Circadian rhythm of your new locale. But, frankly, we were exhausted! I'm not a good on-the-plane sleeper, and Wendy had pulled an all-niter to finish something for work (a budget I think) and  to pack. So sleep was needed!

After a couple of hours, we emerged from our room refreshed and ready to explore. It's a good thing that Wendy had several detailed maps and has a keen sense of direction, because the Garmin GPS we brought along never did find a satellite to connect to. This was no surprise, this same GPS had in the past brought us to a suburban home and an exurban apartment building when asked to find a coffee house in the US.

Guided by Wendy, the Human GPS, we started carefully traversing the death-defying streets of Rome. the first thing we noticed was that every woman under 60 was wearing skin-tight leggings, whether it was a wide fashion decision or not. Call them tights, leotards, jeggings, slim-fits, whatever -- they were everywhere! And the men's apparel was equally distinctive: Shiny puffy coats (c'mon guys, it's a Mediterranean country, it's in the mid-50's), tight pants (but not as tight as the women's) often in reds or green, greasy long hair (peruke or ponytail optional) and scruffy stubble that had not seen a razor for at least a week.

Italian dude in red pants. Hew wasn't the only one.

We also realized that crossing the street meant taking your life in your hands! Rome is a huge, busy city, like New York. And there are precious few opportunities for crossing busy urban streets with the aid of a Walk signal. So we learned to wait until an Italian simply stepped in the street and - hoping that traffic would actually come to a screeching halt in time.- we would step right behind them. I kinda thought that the Smart cars were light enough that I would survive their impact. But the scooters and sleek motorcycles were fast and their drivers were reckless. So I was worried about them.

Hmm.This looks important.

Braving the traffic, we wandered a few blocks until we encountered a large white building with a spacious brick plaza in front of it ringed by police.Wendy's maps indicated there was a large lovely garden nearby. We found the entrance to the garden -- but there appeared to be a guard stationed in front of it. Wendy approached the man, asked if he spoke English, and - since he did (just barely) - asked if we could walk through the garden.

He indicated that no, we could not walk through the garden. Then he added "is President's Palace." Apparently what we had done was tantamount to walking up to a Marine on duty at the White House and asking if we could take a little stroll through the Rose Garden!

Somewhat chastened, we returned to the plaza in front of what we now knew was the Italian President's Palace, where people were gathered to watch ... well, we had no idea what they were gathered to watch! But then we heard the dulcet tones of a small but excellent marching band.

It turns out that it was time for a kind of changing of the guard at the palace, and the guys in sailor hats who were with the marching band were replacing guys with capes and berets. It was no changing of the guard at Buckingham palace, but it was cool nonetheless, and unexpected.

After ensuring that the guard had safely been changed, we continued on our orientation stroll. We walked the narrow cobblestone streets, dodging the occasional tiny Smart Car, Fiat or speeding scooter, and passing restaurants, clothing stores and Papal Supply Outlet Stores until clusterf*ck otherwise known as the Trevi Fountain.

I mean, it's a nice fountain and everything, but it was 10 deep in touristsas, all of whom needed to toss coins in the water and take each other's pictures. Chaotic and annoying! Apparently no one cared until "Three Coins In The Fountain" (1954); since then it;s been overrun with tourists. We took some obligatory Trevi Fountain pictures, skipped the whole coin tossing thing and made our way toward the Pantheon.

No, not the Parthenon - that's in Greece. The Pantheon, I learned, was a Roman temple built in 126 AD by Emperor Hadrian (we'd hear a lot about this dude in the coming days). It's incredibly well preserved -- mainly because it has been in continuous use throughout its history, and since the 7th century, the Pantheon has been used as a Catholic church. As the Interwebs say, "...almost two thousand years after it was built, the Pantheon's dome is still the world's largest un-reinforced concrete dome."

We've all seen still pictures of the Pantheon dome. But it's not until you actually see it in person that you realize how huge it is.

After touring the Pantheon, we walked up Capitoline Hill(one of the Seven Hills of Rome, apparently) to look at a piazza designed by Michelangelo, a replica of  an equestrian statue of the emperor Marcus Aurelius, and to enjoy a spectacular glorious view of the Roman Forum (more about that later). Then it was back home to rest and to have Wendy plan our Day at the Vatican!

Episode Four: Gypsies, tramps and pee

Disclaimer: This post talks about Gypsies. Although they are not a protected class in our country, I assure you that I do not intentionally discriminate or harbor any ill will against Gypsies or other Romanian-Italians. I am simply reporting what I read and saw. And I love Django Rheinhardt!

As Wendy and I have said many times, travel is not for the faint of heart. Even the "easy travel" we were about to embark on (everyone speaks English, the toilets flush, etc.) can involve long walks (or runs) through airport terminals, miles of uneven cobblestone streets, careening motorcycles, and 463-step ascents to cathedral rooftops. And even when you travel to cities as civilized and refined as Rome, Florence and Venice, there are genuine perils which can inspire trepidation among even the hardiest sojourner.

Since just about everybody has already been to Italy, we received quite a bit of advice from friends and colleagues before our trip. In fact, our dear friend (and Wendy's co-worker)  Bill, whose whole family hails from the region, had a family gathering to brief us on the perils and pleasures of travelling to their homeland.

In addition, friend and world-traveller Sarah L. messaged me the following: "Have you heard about the pickpockets in Rome? They're real."

And about a week before the trip, colleague and virtual namesake Kari M. sidled up to me and asked, with great solemnity and gravitas, "Are you aware of the bathroom situation in Italy?" She went on to describe the primitive place-for-your-feet-and-hole facilities she and her hubby had encountered in their own travels, and to describe an unfortunate incident involving her spouse and such a facility.

Kari went on to express concern that the combination of primitive bathrooms and an abrupt transition from my no fat, no-carb 17-Day Diet meals to rich, fatty Italian pasta, bread and sauces could result in a veritable perfect storm of digestive disaster!

I thanked Kari for her information and her concerns, made a mental note to get a giant plate of pasta  from the Macaroni Grill ASAP, and started Googling "Italian pickpockets" and "Bathrooms in Italy."

My bathroom research resulted in many warnings about bringing your own toilet paper, the perils of the hole-in-the-floor model that Kari warned me about, recommendations and rules-of-thumb (use the facilities you find in museums; when in doubt, seek out a McDonald's or Burger King), and an actual web app that showed where to find the good toilets in Rome.

I also researched pickpockets in Italy. Several alarming accounts described the threat that Gypsies posed in Rome, including a gambit where an adult shoves a sheet of cardboard under your chin and, while you are distracted trying to read what's on the cardboard, their children steal your possessions with their nimble little fingers! Several other posts described another nefarious tactic where they board a subway with a baby - sometimes fake, sometimes real - and then they throw the baby at you to distract you while they rob you!

Really? Gypsies are a threat? And they throw their babies at you? I have to confess, I don't know much about Gypsies. I know 1930's jazz virtuoso Django Rheinhardt was a Gypsy; legend has it that when he hit it big in Paris with the Hot Club of France, he invited his whole clan to live in a tent they set up in his hotel living room. (See him in action here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzz6fAdFFis&feature=related ).

I also remember once being warned as a kid not to go down to nearby Basset Creek park because there were Gypsies living there! I have no idea whether it was true. But I do know that a camper had been set up in our little WPA-era roadside rest stop -- and who other than Gypsies would have a camper?

Django Rheinhardt. Listen to his brilliant playing, and then try
to figure out how he played like that with only two fingers!

I dutifully reported the results of my research  to the wife, warned her of the Gypsy treachery that apparently abounds in Rome, and purchased a money belt at REI. In the week before the trip we often would facetiously remind each other "don't catch the baby!"

We landed in Rome, bussed into the city, and made our way toward our hotel, luggage in tow. Suddenly we saw before us a gaggle of colorfully-dressed children and an adult female with a baby holding a sheet of cardboard. "Yow - Gypsies!" we exclaimed in disbelief. "Walk quickly, don't talk to them, don't look at the cardboard and don't catch the baby!"

We rapidly circumvented the horde with our possessions intact and made our way to the hotel, where our charming host provided refreshing croissants and cappuccinos on the patio overlooking the courtyard. Whew - crisis averted!

We never again encountered this ploy, and only came across one hole-in-the-floor toilet in the two weeks that were there. And, thanks to Kari's warning, I abandoned my diet several days before our trip just to make sure I didn't experience a shock to my system when I reached foreign soil. So the Wednesday before we left I went totally off the rails and consumed the following: A Mai Tai, 1/2 a burger, onion rings, Tater Tots, pizza, pickle roll ups, hummas and pita bread, and some birthday cake. I think I might have overdone it.

Episode Three: Odd trousers

Now, back to our story.
(Note to management: No work hours were harmed in the writing of this blog!)


Despite the passport snafu, when we arrived at the gate we found that our flight to Toronto hadn't even started boarding. We breathed a sigh of relief and sat down, making sure we kept control of our bags at all times, and accepted no gifts or packages from strangers, per the TSA's instructions.

Among the waiting passengers, I noticed a couple guys in winter jackets, which seemed odd given our recent Spring-in-March Minnesota weather. They also appeared to be unfamiliar with the idea of shaving more than fortnightly. One was wearing a pair of bright green pants. Little did I know that this would be a harbinger of things to come!

It's 68 degrees out. Do you need to wear the jacket?
Also, what's with the green pants?

The Toronto airport has an intriguing unique concept of checked luggage all their own. Even though we checked one bag each with Delta and were assured that it was "checked through," everyone on our flight had to retrieve their bags from one carousel, carry it through customs, and then deliver it to another baggage check! Of course, no one actually told us to do this; we learned by watching what others were doing.

In Wendy's and my case, on, a woman standing behind an unmarked baggage conveyor saw us passing by, interrupted her animated foreign-language phone conversation and asked us if we were flying AlItalaia. When we replied in the affirmative, she grabbed our bags, put them on the conveyor, and continued her phone call in a tongue we couldn't identify.

We wondered where our bags were actually going to end up, and hoped the people who would eventually possess them would put our clothing and sundries to good use.

The large, mostly
empty Toronto terminal

At the AlItalaia ticket desk, we encountered more long-haired, unshaven Italian men in colorful pants and odd, shiny puffy jackets. Several of them had three or four hard-shelled luggage items apiece, which - judging by their animated gesticulating - apparently was causing a kerfuffle with the airline.

Despite the fact that only one of the five staff persons manning the desk was actually doing any work, their issues were apparently resolved at some point, because we saw them on our plane to Rome - sitting in First Class! Perhaps dressing for success in Rome means crazy trousers, greasy hair and 10-day-old stubble.



One overpriced, mediocre airport meal later, we were on our way to Rome! Hurray!



The delicious treat that awaited us at our Rome hotel! Not mediocre.



Episode Two: Title explanation/Summary of highlights

Before I continue posting about our misadventures in Italy, I thought I'd offer an explanation and a summary:

Explanation: Blog Title
Some of you may wonder why the title of this blog is "Two Rubes in Rome..."  I mean, Wendy and I aren't really rubes; we're college-educated urban professionals who are somewhat well-versed in a variety of areas, including literature (Wendy), history (Wendy), art (Wendy), the Renaissance (Wendy), and bass guitar (Gary).

Okay, at least Wendy isn't a rube! And  in my defense, I did NOT end up going with 'Plan A' for my travel outfit (a fanny pack, big white tennis shoes, cowboy hat, "God Bless the USA" t-shirt, stone-washed jeans, foam #1 finger). But between our inability to speak Italian beyond "Grazia" and "Il conto, per favore'" (which is either a way to ask for the bill or a request a conte' crayon), our occasional cultural blunders (like asking if we could walk through what is essentially the Rose Garden of the Italian White House), we pretty much felt like rubes through much of our visit. And, frankly, those rube moments are the most fun stories to tell. Thus the title.

Summary: My favorite things
To paraphrase a training video that my co-workers and I are all too familiar with, "A lot of people want to know the bottom line." And, although I am a beguiling raconteur, anecdotalist and all-round man-about-town, some of you may just have a passing interest in our little trip. So here's a list of some of my favorite Italian things; unfortunately I am not Oprah, so you audience members will not be receiving these items:
Gary's favorite Italy stuff:

• Michelangelo's David
• The cappuccino and gelati 
• Sistine Chapel and Raphael's School of Athens
• Saint Paul's cathedral (the Vatican)
• The cat shelter in Rome
• The cheesy Wax Museum
• The Pantheon, Roman Forum and Colosseum 
• The markets in Rome, Venice and Florence
• Reliquaries of saints' remains
• The Bone Church (Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini)
• The sheer cuteness of Venice
• Wax anatomical models at the Museo Della Cere
• Food at Porks and Pugi
• Boboli Gardens (Florence)
• Medici Chapel (designed by Michelangelo)

Future posts will talk about this stuff and much, much more in excruciating detail. Proceed at your own peril!

And now for some random Italy pix:

There are Roman ruins everywhere!

My tour guide and human GPS

You too can own fancy vestments!

Episode One: Introduction

These are stories from Wendy Jones' and Gary Miller's two-week trip to Italy. It's designed to amuse, inform, and help me remember what happened!

"Oh no! You brought your old passport!"

We were ready. We had carry-ons filled with books, Kindles, iPads, travel guides and Twizzlers. We had suitcases packed with shoes, shirts (one of us had three; the other had fourteen); a week's worth of socks and underwear (laundry would have to be done); adapters, headphones, phrasebooks, toiletries, and sundry supplies, devices and effluvia.

That is, we thought we were ready, until the gate agent asked me for my passport. That's when my wife discovered to everyone's horror that I had brought my 1998 passport instead of my recently-renewed one.

I left my bags at check-in, and with a sick, panicky feeling, ran through the underground labyrinth of Terminal A (catchy name, that) threw myself into a waiting taxi. I urged my Ethiopian taxi driver to push his nondescript vehicle perilously towards the speed limit, attempting to ingratiate myself by displaying my prodigious knowledge of his home country -- which pretty much started and ended at "Haile Selassie."

With about an hour to go until our flight to Toronto took off, I arrived at our house, burst in the door, startled the cats, and tore up the stairs. Thankfully, the new passport was right where I hoped I had left it. After briefly considering incurring hundreds in parking fees and moving violations by using my own car for the return trip, I threw myself back into the waiting cab, and continued to feign interest in the coffee crops of Ethiopia (the best in the world, I am given to believe). My panic must have been palpable, because the driver offered to push his vehicle to a hair-raising 37 miles an hour -- which has got to be a land speed record for taxis on St. Paul surface roads!

With about 30 minutes to go before out flight, I arrived at the Delta counter where the wife and the good-natured, helpful agent were standing by. The agent checked us in, ascertained that our marriage appeared to still be intact, and sent us to the TSA line.

A few pat-downs and wandings later we walked briskly through the airport to our gate, where passengers were just starting to queue up to board.

Crisis (and wifely Old-Testament-style smiting) averted! Europe here we come!

PS: Is it too early to get a drink on this flight?