10 Hours in Rome

After a heartbreaking departure from my mom and dad at the airport, we headed to our separate gates. They were bound for Zurich, New Jersey, and Denver. We were bound for Rome, Johannesburg, and Windhoek. Before the big 10 hour flight, we had a big 10 hour layover in Rome. Mark had been talking up the history to David, who got to choose where we would go. First stop: the Colosseum with everyone and their mother, and their mother's mother. And hundreds of tour guides, tours, and military police too. The two hour line to buy tickets landed us in the shady side of the Colosseum where we froze and I managed to lose my hop on, hop off ticket with the Big Red Bus. One of the touts gave my children "free stuff" and when we refused to pay them money, he grabbed me in protest. Perhaps it was during this that I lost our 85 Euro family pass, perhaps not. Either way, it sucked when I realized it happened at all. 

Onward in the line, we crept until we finally reached the ticket office. Onward in the line, we crept to the bathrooms too. FINALLY, we hustled up the stairs to enjoy the glory of the Colosseum. It was just as awesome as the last time we saw it. The tales of re-enacted water battles, and people fighting animals in the center ring enthralled David's imagination. When Mark asked him what animal he would be willing to fight he said "a ferret."

The Forum line was too long for any one of us to care about enduring, so after navigating a smug and unhelpful Big Red Bus representative about our lost ticket (yes the brochure and website does say if you lose your ticket, too bad so sad), we called customer service to troubleshoot and immediately got onto the next bus with a fresh ticket. Thank goodness. 

We hopped off at The Vatican stop, David's second pick. Mark talked to the kids about the complexity and power of religion, and he and I pined to be the ones climbing up Saint Peter's. We did know that a visit there means an early arrival and long lines, and our time was extremely limited, but it didn't make it any easier to walk away from one of the most beautiful, sacred buildings in the world. A brief and pricey lunch, followed by gelato, a visit to the Pantheon, a bottle of wine, and another gelato stop, Trevi Fountain, and a jaunt through the Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels and the Martyrs did take most of the disappointment away.

With that, our ten hours in Rome were over. We took the train back to the airport and said goodbye to stifling-cold-Rome-unless-you're-in-direct-sun, hello to uncomfortably-hot-Africa-still-wearing-wool-socks-but-can't-unlock-my-bag-to-get-sandals. 

Three weeks with my amazing, adventurous, and entertaining family was great. I miss my mom and dad so much. But man, it's wonderful to be home.

Pistachio.

The Vatican 

Pantheon 

Trevi fountain on a light day

Sunset view from Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels and the Martyrs.
Credit: Mark

Sicily and Mount Etna

After the fish soup debacle at Novocento Restaurant, Mark banned me from making future decisions on where to eat. Fine by me, I said. On following morning, we were blessed with blue skies and clearer roads. After canvasing the opposite side of Mount Etna on previous day, we were determined and more confident we could get there. Our first attempt was up the east side again, which is considered the most beautiful with pitch black rock lava against the snow, and canopies of trees that still held onto the vestiges of autumn. Icy conditions forced us to bail about 3km from the base of the volcano. Our rental car just couldn't do it, and the crap chains we had to rent with it snapped the moment Mark put them on. Discretion was the better part of valor so we attempted the southwest side and ascended easily to the base. 

We paid two million dollars (120 Euro for four people) for a gondola ride up. Many people freely hike from the bottom, but we didn't have an extra 4 hours to do so. Our hike began 3/4 of the way to the top, and it still took us about 2 frigid hours to make progress. Margo led the entire way, speeding up the mountain, leaving me to "tie up loose ends in the rear" re: gasping for air and lamenting my lack of endurance. The trail was nothing but a steep climb of crumbly lava rock and snow. Halfway up, what we thought was a cyclone of swirling snow ended up being volcanic air vent blowing out sulphur steam and heating up our boots. Further up, we hiked around extinct volcanic cones with the kids recalling anecdotes of watermelons getting tossed into active volcanoes and evaporating into thin air. (Mark had introduced them to the Bad Science podcast, which discusses the scientific accuracy of movies. They were obsessed and have been listening to it since).

Cold weather finally beat us into submission, so we rode the gondola back down and hopped into the car to drive the entire circumference of Mount Etna. This included a necessary lunch stop in a town called Bronte. Our travel book had little information on the town, which was very unfortunate. While it was still a snug, 1.5 lane one-way town with tons of people, there was a lot more we would have enjoyed to see, especially in terms of pistachio farming. Forced to make a rash decision on lunch, I chose another Trip Advisor recommendation: Pepe Rosa. With handmade pasta and Sicilian craft beer, my reputation was somewhat recovered and we ate like kings. 

The western and northern side of Mount Etna is lesser travelled, but no less marvelous. In fact, it was what Mark and I both thought the entirety of Sicily would look like: terraced farms selling citrus, wine, and strawberries; rolling green hills spotted with tiny villages, and distant northern mountains which on the other side led to the sea. The pace was slower up here, greener, and sweeter. It was also where all the kick-ass wineries are. I took advantage and booked us a lunch reservation at the Gambino Vini Winery the next day. For 30 Euros a person, we ate and drank 100% locally grown products until there was no room left. We walked away fat, happy, and with a few extra bottles to take home (Petto Dragone, an aromatic red wine made from the Nerello Mascalese grape. They are exclusively grown on Mount Etna.) They aren't the South African prices we enjoy paying in Namibia, but after drinking hangover heavy butcher wine, we were more than prepared to pay for higher quality. We adored everything about that place, including our sommelier, Hanna from Poland. She was just right kind of awesome.

Only a couple of days left, so the following morning, we took off to Noto in the southeastern region in search of three things: gelato, craft beer, and an abandoned city. We got two out of three. Cafe Costanzo reportedly has best (and weird) gelato in Italy. David confirmed this when he first ordered gelato containing spring onion, and was convinced to try the cinnamon-almond instead. The original Noto was abandoned in 1693 after an earthquake hit it. We were free to roam the castle which was built high on a hill, and without much in the way of fences or supervision. In fact we were the only ones there save two farm dogs. I thought Noto was lame and lacking in vitality. Mark however loved it.

The craft beer visit was not as lucrative. At Pepe Rosa, Mark and I found a saison made by Yblon. Their FB and website seemed to indicate easy location and visitation, but all for naught. We couldn't find the damn place among the rows of industrial warehouses. We drove back beer-less, but made up for it by drinking Chimay at a fabulous pizzeria (Al Pino) in our neighborhood.  

Before we knew it, the trip was nearly over one day left to be spent in Catania, an historic port city on the east coast. David most looked forward to walking through the famous fish market, which we did in repeating loops, watching vendors scream and sell some of the most beautiful Mediterranean fish. Most of the crustaceans and squids were still alive, and the millions dead fish eyes stared back in wonder. We weren't the only ones enjoying the spectacle. In fact, locals love hanging out here. Rows of old Sicilian men clad in black wool and grey hats stood above the market, watching over the rails. 

Once the busyness died down, we explored the rest Catania and shopped at Siculamente, a hipster's dream come true. Their designs contain famous Sicilian colloquialisms, some of it pithy, some with extreme levels of innuendo. Mark bought a bicycle hoodie that translates to "you bought it, now ride it." That sort of thing. Despite a few other fun t-shirt finds, Mark wasn't really feeling the Catania vibe, whereas I liked it better than Noto. Even with seeing a naughty young couple doing it in the middle of the park. And now I can't unsee it. 

We packed in a few more miles of walking the streets, taking in souvenir shops, huge churches, and  countless statues as sort of a last minute prep for our 10 hour layover in Rome the following day. 

Break dancing in front of Noto's Duomo.

Trekking to the crest.

Finished.

Mount Etna

Le Pescheria 

Winter in Sicily

Volcanoes, like fezzes, are cool. I have never met anyone who didn't think they weren't amazing and beautiful landmasses, yet capable of heartless mass destruction. And here we were in Sicily, driving up the side of a volcano in search of our final AirBnb, a house that was once an old winery. Google Maps mostly got us there through narrow, winding roads that fit 1.5 cars, and an old fashioned phone call that led us to the front door. Squeezing into the galley kitchen with our duffel bags, and into the dining area, I could tell Mark was smitten immediately. He saw the wood stove and fireplace, the lofted bedrooms, and the vestiges wine making equipment laying around, making it by far one of the most eclectic places we had ever booked. 

I, however, could feel the cold seeping through my Converse shoes and the cold seeping through the walls. A cold front had moved in, abolishing any thought of maintaining the cute winter look. Not a few hours after our host left, the snow started. Huddled by the fire, on went the hat, scarf, jacket, and any blanket I could get my hands on. The snow continued, but dinnertime was near, so Mark and I headed out on foot in search of an open grocery store and butcher. With luck, we managed to pick up a few items, including five liters of "butcher wine" to make dinner for the rest of the family. It snowed into the night. Now, technically in my book, 10 inches of freshly fallen snow in the early sun should have been a magical moment. But after shivering through the night in full-on winter gear and finding the courage to sit on a cold toilet seat, only to find the water pipes had frozen, I was nearly in panic mode. I would rather pee outside in a snowstorm than be "the one" who broke the toilet. Oh, and the 1.5 lane roads were impassible even with chains (which we were required by law to rent). Cabin fever came on quickly and no amount of butcher wine would take the edge off.

Luckily, the kids went ape-shit crazy for the snow and played in it for hours. They were joyful helpers when we had to melt the snow for drinking water and watching dishes, and  I practically had to drag them inside when the sun went down. On day three, the sun and plows did their job and we made a break for it, first attempting to drive up Mount Etna from the east side, but quickly ordered to turn around by the street plowers. Too much ice, they said, so instead, we drove to the southern end of the island: Agrigento for Greek ruins, Valley of the Temple, and a side trip to Scala dei Turchi (Turkish Stairs) a weird looking, sedimentary sea side rock face that I saw on Instagram once. 

The following day brought blue skies and a road trip to Syracuse where we visited a Greek theater that once held 15,000 spectators and the Ear of Dionysius, a crazy limestone cave once used for keeping prisoners. The acoustics in the cave allowed guards to eavesdrop on them without much effort. Hungry tummies brought us to the adorable and hip island of Ortygia. We ate at Fretelli Burgio, next to lively street market that would be a fishy sneak preview of Catania later in the week. David was mesmerized by the piles of octopus and squid, inky black staining the hands of the vendors. After eating buckets of gelato and suffering heartburn, our next plan of attack was to drive back north, towards Etna in search of an alternate route to the top. 

The evening began with slight frustrations over finding dinner. In Italy, no one eats earlier than 7:30pm, and many restaurants are closed on Mondays. It was 6pm and people were hungry.  Trying to be helpful, I found a place that opened at 7pm (they didn't really) with seemingly decent reviews (well, decent enough to be ranked #6 in an industrial, grayer part of town, so... not really) and with a Trip Advisor discount of 20% if we booked through them (nope). We went anyway. The kids and Mark ordered normal things like pizza margarita. I ordered what I thought was bean soup. It was chickpea fish soup. 

Now, I am no fish, nor soup hater. This combination however, was both funny and horrible. The soup looked like Dan Aykroyd's Bass-O-Matic slurry and tasted just as bad. To make matters worse, my mom followed my lead and was silently choking it down, afraid to be the complainer. For fear of going into hysteria, I couldn't look at my mom. I kept my head bowed, face buried in my scarf, when I dropped part of it in my soup. My laughter was silent and dripping with tears. Until it wasn't. The kids were worried I was upset but then I broke, exploding volumes of cackling laughter across the vacant, cold restaurant. Pretty soon we all were laughing too, including the staff who had no idea what was going on.

Mount Etna behind our AirBnb

Mount Etna and churches

Mount Etna and citrus

Ear of Dionysius, Agrigento

Photo credit : Margo

Scala dei Turchi. I was disappointed that I couldn't get any closer- it was fenced off.
Either the people of IG lied to me, or people trespass here all the time.
Map link here. Park on the SP68 or the "Terrazza sulla scala parking lot"next to the Beach Lounge.
 

Huddling by the fire

Purchasing our meat and butcher wine, and trying
mystery meat formed into congealed lard.

Standing on the ledge of our yard at sun set.

The first merry merry night in the converted winery.

Boris Takes A Photo

Mark and I never did get that dream wedding at Lake Bled back in 2010. But as 2018 came to a close, we did get a chance to hire a photographer and recite our vows in front of friends and family. Only problem was, I had totally forgotten to pack the sheets of Homewood Suites stationary that Mark and I used. I WhatsApp'd my friend in Windhoek with a request to help me out. She needed to go into the house and into the living room, where on the top shelf on the right hand side of the TV, sat a small tin box with the label "Box-O-Crap" (my sister-in-law gave it to me several years ago. I think she was on a road trip with her then boyfriend, my brother, in the Rocky Mountains.) Would my friend be so kind to take a photo of the vows and send them to me? 

She quickly agreed to this favor and followed through brilliantly (thank you Christina!). While in Slovenia, I first downloaded Mark's, which I easily got onto one page. Apparently I had quite a bit to say while standing at the altar eight years ago because when it came mine, mine took up six sheets paper. My hand cramped, so I cut to the chase and settled on the highlights of why Mark is a better person than I am and ever will be. 

The kids were great sports about the photography session, as were my Austrian friends who I convinced needed to be in the photos too. Our photographer was a man named Boris. He used to play professional hockey, which meant of course he had played Sport Club Ciuc, much to Mark's delight! Ciuc (pronounced Chook) is a small city in Romania known for two things: winter sports and the kind of cold weather that goes beyond a three-dog night. You need the whole damn dog pound to handle Ciuc's winters. 

Boris and Mark got on famously, talking about photography, ice skating, and how Boris hitchhiked around Ghana and Botswana when he was a kid. I think once Boris realized we weren't a bunch of nut jobs who wanted three hundred perfect photos, he ended up liking us all tremendously. In fact, after two hours of smiling-not-smiling at the camera, Boris was game to take more pictures for as long as we wanted. Once the sun dropped behind the mountains, however, it was instead time for lots of HOT mulled wine and/or gin. Plus, a snuggle by the fire with my favorite piece of perfection.

Sharing a piece of our historic promises with the kids.

The High Five, reenacted

Christina and Roland and Mark and Emily

Lil' Red

Huddling by the carp filled lake.

The fire I didn't want to leave.

Should anyone find themselves in Bled, Slovenia, and want to have dealings with photographers or wedding related events, I recommend using Primavera Bled. 

Sweetness of Slovenia

Sometime in the last 15 years I have known Mark, I learned that one of his favorite romantic place on Earth was Bled, Slovenia. He hoped one day he would get married in a church that sits upon an island in the middle of Lake Bled. Life threw an unexpected, unplanned curve ball (David's birth) and the dream didn't come to fruition, and never will, if I have anything to do with it. Everything worked out for the best and here we are, now traveling and living internationally with two kids. Anyway, the Slovenia leg of our trip was an easy one to plan since he'd always wanted to come back, and I wanted see the place that gets him a wee bit misty eyed. So we rented a car and drove out of the tight city of Venice, and into the high, wide mountains of Slovenia. 

For the week, we planned to see castles, ski, hike, breathe in the fresh air, and play in the snow. The only thing that didn't go according to plan was that it didn't snow, so we had to settle on the lingering frost that coated everything overnight and the sparse, man-made snow at the ski resorts. 

The church on the island was gorgeous. Ninety-nine steps lead visitors from the shore to the base of the church doors and tradition requires the groom to carry the bride up the steps. It's paramount to a happy marriage. Beyond the church, on the hill is Bled Castle, built in the year 1011 and is easily the most visited castle in Slovenia. Initially, I was not super gung-ho about visiting, but after some mulled wine and a hefty hike up the steps, my attitude changed. 

First off: the view is of course magical, overlooking the lake, which at the time was smoother than glass. Second, the interior rooms were filled with things that kept the kids' attention, from jewels to weapons, toilets to clothes, to interactive videos. What took the cake though, were the castle staff who reenacted time-old professions. Margo and David learned how to bottle wine by a monk, and we met a blacksmith who was not only knowledgeable and hilarious, but a legitimately trained blacksmith. His lineage had been employed by the castle for hundreds of years. At least, that was how the story went. 

The blacksmith told us how Slovenia was responsible for outfitting the majority of Venice with wood and ironworks to build their bridges and houses. Both are still major exports for the country today. He showed us his craftsmanship, which I totally would have bought, were it my taste. Another lucky customer would get to buy his exquisitely detailed, soul-piercing Jesus on a cross. Telling us a bit of  Eastern Europe history, he described slavery as equal opportunity, and how children and women were not at all discriminated for agism or gender.  Fishing around in his apron for a coin to mint for another customer, I asked him if he had future lineage ready to take over his profession so he could enjoy early retirement. He tossed his chestnut brown ponytail, bound by a leather thong over his shoulder and said that first, he needed to find a woman dumb enough to marry him.

Outside of the towns were countless kilometers of hiking and exploring. Slovenes love being outside and take no heed to inclement weather. They simply gear up and go. On the trails, handfuls of hikers blew past us with hiking poles and miniature crampons, backpacks stuffed with backup gear. For good reason too: not even 3km up the mountain the sun disappeared and the trail went from brown to white. Snow covered or not, the trails are well marked with red and white bull's eyes, the official trail marker for their national park system. The trailheads also have signage boasting the power of surrounding oneself in negative ions. They are abundant in the forests, waterfalls, and beaches, and are believed to produce biochemical reactions that increase levels of serotonin, helping to alleviate depression, relieve stress, and boost energy. Margo and David enjoyed tracing a finger labyrinth. It was posted along the trail and aims to induce relaxation. Pro tip: always start from the outside in.  

I am certain the kids felt self-actualized when we took the kids skiing for the first time. They took a few lessons, skied with Grandma and Grandpa, rode the poma and chairlifts, and were left begging for more. The kids closed out the mountain, something I don't remember ever doing. After a fifteen year absence, I was nervous. Would I remember how to turn if something got in my way? Would I remember how to "ride Fat Bob?"  In both cases, yes- thank God.  I didn't remember however, was how fast and technically sound Mark's muscle memory was. He gave me a run for my money, and now he's making all sorts of plans to go heli-skiing when we move to Uzbekistan (August 2020).

On the way back to Venice, another dream of Mark's came true. We detoured to the Dolomite Mountains in northeastern Italy. Nearly 3 million years old, the peaks are jagged and intimidating, reaching as high as 10,967 feet (3343 meters). Huge chunks of WWII ran through these mountains with the 10th Mountain Division skiing and fighting between the peaks and ruts. James Bond's For Your Eyes Alone was filmed here as well as Cliffhanger, and thousands of skiers visit the multiple resorts every season. Early January meant frigid temperatures of 5F as the sun ducked behind the mountains. We had the pleasure of reaching these mountains at just about the same time. Subsequently, we drove nearly the entire route in 1st gear and descended into bumper to bumper traffic on the way to Venice. Next up: balmy Sicily, where I could finally wear cute sweaters and not freeze. Or so I thought.

Lake Bled with Bled Church, backed by Bled Castle.

Bull's Eye

Typical Schlink family death march.

Hibernating bees.

A little bit of Slovene went a long way.
Everyone loved our kids for their stabs at politeness.

Eating with my favorite people on earth.

So happy.

At the top of one of 37 Dolomite Passes

Photo credit: Mark

Christmassy Venice

When we arrived to Venice by way of Rome, Johannesburg, and Windhoek, I anticipated cooler weather, cute sweaters, and languorous walks through the city famous for its canals, history, and culture. What I got was bone-chilling humidity, snow pants, and speed walking in order to keep warm in the city also famous for its prices, mean seagulls, and crowds. 

I only half jest. I got all of the above, because when you are married to a man who studies European history with fervent enthusiasm, you get to space out when the walking gets boring and listen to fascinating stories of Venetian battle, diplomacy, and religion as told to a 6 and 8 year old. One of my biggest complaints about the Rough Guide to Venice was that it was hard for me to read. It just didn't have a narrative that I like. Mark's was better.

As we walked through St. Mark's Basilica, he spoke of the  gorgeous relics. "Many of the the pontiff jewels, gold chalices, thousand year old pottery, tools and paintings were the spoils of the Crusaders sneaking into Constantinople, ancient Turkey. Thieves, they were!" 

When gazing down at the Rialto Bridge, Mark talked about Venice being a European powerhouse since it had a strong navy and thriving economy, manufacturing and shipping out textiles, weapons, armor, and other goods. The bridge, built to connect two neighborhoods facing each other on the Grand Canal, also served to increase sales and trade. The current opulent facade of the bridge shows off Venice's historic wealth. Before that, the bridge was rebuilt time and time again. One time it collapsed under the weight of too many people during a revolt (that backfired). Another time it caught on literal fire. Architects built the final bridge out of marble and it is "single span", anchored at each end with no support in the middle.

I had opportunity to show off a bit too, talking about infections and plague doctors, prompting David's desire to buy a mask, which he wore throughout the duration of the trip. 

Cool stories and COLD weather. Mark was horrified to see me in public wearing snow pants, a neck gator, and hiking boots, but I had to sacrifice fashion for feeling even moderately warm. Most mornings were thick with fog and temperatures rarely got above 45F. We were lucky if the sun came out, but even then it felt miles away. So when none of us could take the chill (or walking) anymore, we would duck into a cafe for espresso, wine, or both. The meals, though crazy expensive (meals for four people plus drinks, usually wine cost about 100-120 Euro). It was also the trip where I learned that my kids eat adult portions. 

Schlinks love to walk, hike, wander, and explore. So do the Ripleys (Grandma and Grandpa) but even after 10km, we all got tired. The only thing that might distract Mark from walking an additional 15km would be a soccer match. So it was a pleasant discovery to find that Venice FC was playing Cosenza, an Italian city nearly 10 hour's drive south, at the stadium right down the block from our Air Bnb. I was willing to sacrifice being a cold in exchange for a break from walking. 

When attending matches in Italy, and likely throughout Europe, ticket purchases require passport identification. Mark got our tickets which were hilariously in the old-white-guy stands. No one moved a muscle except for their screaming mouths, until halftime when the stands emptied for cigarette breaks. The cheering section adjacent to us was steadfast throughout the game, singing non-stop for 90+ minutes. Venice didn't win, but the experience was just as awesome as the last match we attended.

Four cold days and one Christmas holiday later, Venice was finished with us. Onto: Slovenia.

Sinking tower in Castello neighborhood

Some of the nicer looking graffiti.

Warm-up break. There's an extra fee if you sit versus stand.

Photo credit: Margo. When you visit the Fondaco dei Tdeschi and climb to the top,
you get a free rooftop view of the Rialto Bridge,  and a panoramic view of the city.
Make a reservation on the iPad stand if there are crowds. Otherwise, just walk right up.

Top of Fondaco dei Tedeschi

The details

View of Church of San Giorgio Maggiroe
A view we didn't intend to get when we took a wrong turn
and ended up walking an extra 4km. FUN.

Gramps, or Grampie as Margo calls him.

St. Mark's Basilica: erosion from too much touch.

Wandering the neighborhoods.

Venice FC

If you walk between the pillars of Saint Marco and Saint Theodore, you are guaranteed bad luck.
It used to be the site of execution for all to see in Venice.

Plague Doctor, Jr.