And then she goes all cliche on you...

This is for my Aunt Jackie, who thinks I’m being too cynical in my look at Rome this time. Please excuse the melodrama and hackneyed expressions; I’m going for The Mood here.:)
The pix above are to show what Rome looks like through a truthful lens, and what Rome looks like in the dreamy lens of hindsight. Beautiful either way, no?! The third is Tom holding onto Clare for dear life on the tour bus and we rocked and rolled and she refused to sit down.
------

Today seemed like the first day of fall in Rome. The heat of the day took on a bit of a sweet smile; a breeze blew strong and hard through the canyons of the streets, cooling the blazing buildings down to a lukewarm haze. The humidity seemed to break. After a ridiculous season of humidity in L.A., we were expecting something different from Rome, but it was close and warm from the moment our plane touched down. Today was the rent between the seasons, welcome and foreboding at once.

Fall is kind in Italy. The streets lose their sweltering baked facades, much like bread perfects after it’s lost most of its moisture and takes on an earthier texture. The shutters on windows are finally thrown open all day to accept the peachy light, and laundry seems to drink up the sweetness that the breeze brings with it over the Janiculum hill. Today as we strolled by the Tiber’s edge, the river swelled and churned with murky turgidity, but the sycamores that are forced into graceful arches over the riverwalk were beginning to lose their leaves. Leaves as big as dinner plates. Leaves crunched under our feet as we strolled, swerving around ruts and pits in the asphalt that the roots create.

We jumped on a tour bus, pulled Clare momentarily into her seat and took off for a tour of Roman traffic. We were on a “Christian Churches of Rome” tour bus but we saw more motorcades, diesel fuel, and construction than anything. I was getting slightly seasick from the rock and roll of stop and go traffic when we stopped in front of the Vatican to pick up tourists. The driver killed the engine to wait and we saw thousands of people massed to hear the Pope’s Wednesday address. The speakers were loud enough that we could see it some 250 yards away, and bright movie screens broadcasted live video feed out to the people far away from the dais. The crowds looked like rainbow confetti moving and swaying and praying in the mild morning sun.

After photographing San Giovanni in Laterno we came back to Trastevere for lunch and the requisite afternoon nap. Laundry fluttered from overhead lines and the music of vendors on the streets lilted up to bounce off the ocher walls of the medieval buildings. We scooped up some sliced beef with potatoes, twirly pasta with marinated peppers, spinach soaked in butter and broth, and tiny slices of fresh tomato pizza to “apporta via” back to our little apartmento. It “only” cost us about $20 for that little lunch of loveliness. No wonder the Italians are so thin.

After lunch we retired to our beds, Clare in her “Italy bed” (Phil and Ted’s T2, a godsend) and Tom and I to our four-poster that could sleep four. The afternoon breeze was so strong it blew open the windows and billowed out the embroidered curtains. The crimson and lemon gauze that drapes the bed filtered the afternoon sun, as we finished our respective novels and dozed in the early-dying light of what is the Roman Fall.

Clare at the Tempietto

O Sole Mio

There was a terrific rainstorm last night, really all day and night. Our apartamento has a few leaks…..to say the least. We put towels and pots and pans around to catch the drips. Despite of some of the inconveniences we really like our rooms. It’s a quirky structure as we’ve already noted, and our neighbors are no less strange.

Well, some of them…Above us we have a little man with a dog. We first spied him, our first night here, outside on the street, he was walking his dog and talking, mumbling to the dog, everyone around and to some spirits he alone could see. We thought he was homeless. I’ve taken to calling him Samuel Beckett. He looks like him and his demeanor is right out of “Godot”. Well, we now understand he is our upstairs neighbor. He rambles around, like he does on the street, across the gangway,(see the pics), and back, from one tiny room to another . He seems harmlessly nuts, in his own world . I might say the same about us !

The rest of our neighbors are pleasant when they see us, usually at the building entrance. But nobody seems interested in us. Perhaps they just see too many tourists. I hope they will open up more after we’ve been here awhile. One of our goals was to live like Romans, in a real neighborhood, becoming part of the neighborhood.

We ARE getting to know our neighborhood. We’ve tried a few restaurants and have picked a few favorites. There’s a Sardinian one called “D’albino il sardo all’angoletto”, and “Jaipur” (Indian), and “Il Archo de Trastevere”, and “Insalata Ricci”. There are quite a few artists and artisans nearby. A fine arts print studio just a few doors away, clothes designers, ceramic artists as well. Clare found some art she wanted to buy. A ceramic cat & mice teacup set…..how could we not get it for her. For my birthday the girls got me a compass/timepiece….very renaissance looking.

Clare has taken to singing aloud as we push her through the narrow medieval streets . I think she likes the way her voice bounces off the tall buildings. I’ve got her to sing more than “la la la” . She now has her own rendition of “O sole mio” . “O solo bambino” is her version, I think this is her subtle way of saying she’d like to get away from us. At the top of her little lungs, belting it out, unconcerned and unembarrassed, she goes on for blocks at a time. I think we have an actress on our hands.

We have managed to go out most mornings and shoot and document my churches. We’ve learned not to try and do too much in one morning. One or sometimes two buildings keeps us moving forward with the project. We have pretty much worn our feet out though. Rome is a great walking city. There’s so much to see and if you take a leisurely approach, as we have, and you can really experience a lot in a day.
Ciao, Tommaso

An Italian Willie O'Leary??

And after all this, you'll still love it like I do

A Survival Guide for those that want to visit Italy:
things to know before you visit the land of pizza, pasta, and ecclesiastical fervor:

1. It’s dirty. Filthy dirty. The kind of dirty that makes you long for a pouring rain and a bottle of Lysol. Trash litters the streets even though there are countless workers in green striped outfits walking around with plastic broom or the old-fashioned rush brooms. An empty beer bottle can always be found within three feet of a trashcan. Wrappers and bottles and broken glass adorn the streets. Street sweepers continually roam the streets, stirring up the trash and re-depositing it right back in the same spot.

2. It smells. I’ve tried to encapsulate all of the things Italy smells like before, but here’s a short list for your viewing pleasure. Italy smells like diesel and yeast, mold and salami, dank air and dog shit. It smells like rich chocolate, rotting pears, piss, and soap. It smells like thousands of years of human skin cells accumulating on the walls, and the burnt rubber of wheels, and the sharp bite of radicchio rotting in the sun. It smells like fetid water, leather hides, and the tang of cheese. It’s a terrifying smell: human, dying, ethereal.

3. Its cities are the loudest on earth. The clang and bustle of India might come close, but Rome has been declared Europe’s loudest city. All day and all night Vespas and Harleys rip up and down the cobblestones street, making a sound that’s like a swarm of angry bees gone mad on crack. People yell into their cell phones on trains, in taxis, at dinner. Music blares from every café (often American music, techno-ized). Children have one level: thunderous. Conversation has another level: deafening. Pile on top of that church bells and dogs barking and pot clanging and door slamming and police-ambulance-carabinieri sirens blaring and pipes whooshing and door being perpetually slammed and you have a typical quiet day in Italy.

4. The tourists are overrunning the place. I have a lot of room to talk, but we can’t even get near the major sites without having a panic attack. There are pasty-faced tourists clutching maps and guidebooks massed at every street corner. You can’t turn a corner without running into a phalanx of tourists, all following their guide who is holding aloft the ubiquitous Burberry Umbrella, metal pole with red handkerchief tied at the top, or simply, strangely, just their hand with a book in it. Once I saw a guide holding aloft a book that said something that could be translated as “The Night Pleasures of Rome”. I guess she gets bored while waiting for her charges to quit gaping at the huge marble hunks in front of them.

5. They like children. Too much. Clare is regularly offered hard candy, pastries, and (the latest infraction) a huge lump of marzipan rolled in sugar right before whatever meal we have just ordered. Occasionally she’s offered a regular dinner roll when we’re out shopping, but more often than not, it’s something she shouldn’t eat (choking hazard), can’t eat (health hazard) or plain isn’t interested in (marinated shrimps, unsalted crackers, etc.).

6. They also have very strong ideas about children. They won’t serve them cold milk (bad for health) or skim milk (bad for brain). But they will however, offer them a Coke or a Sprite. They hate to see them barefoot or without socks. They hate to see them exposed to the wind. They don’t think you should take them out if it even sounds like it might rain this week. They won’t leave them alone if they’re cute, even if that means hovering at your table long after you’ve exchanged the appreciative smiles, made the kid say hello and how are you in their language, and politely tried to get back to eating your meal before the kid implodes from boredom. They will pat their head, pinch their cheeks, and steal their nose long after the child has stopped enjoying it, while you are trying desperately to eat a hot meal and simultaneously, surreptitiously, fend off this stranger from your now-crying child.

7. They care not for their history and their monuments. It may seem like they do, and they be indignant if you suggest otherwise, but everyone around here knows that the monuments and the famous buildings are kept in repair because it brings in the tourists. All the statues and facades that are covered in scaffolding are being repaired to bring in tourist dollars. Left to the Italians, they’d suffer the same fate as the statues in the Borghese Gardens: Dante is noseless and wears permanent marker lipstick. A magnificent lion has blue spray-paint toenails and hundreds of names penned all over his body. The marble ponies have crude penises painted on them. Left to the Italians, Italy would be spray-painted and defaced as far up each wall as the human body could reach. It’s sad, disgusting, and defiant.

8. Inserting yourself in traffic is a game of roulette where gun is always loaded. Both chambers are cocked, ready, and bound to go off. Green lights mean go as fast as you can, watch for the Vespas clipping your fender, and swerve all over the street, honking loudly. Yellow means go faster, so you can avoid the ultimate insult of the red light, which is merely a suggestion. Red lights seldom are heeded, and usually if there’s someone in the poorly painted crosswalk, they find themselves dodging cabs and bikes and BMW’s bearing down on them. The key is to find a very old lady and offer to walk her across. The cars almost always stop. Almost.

(We saw a guy very nearly get killed yesterday. A Mercedes knocked him off his Motorcycle in the middle of one of Rome’s busiest intersections… you know, the one with no lights, no lane lines, no crosswalks (but with people crossing) and mayhem of busses, cabs, and bikes. The offended man was outraged, limped exaggeratedly around clutching his leg, took off his helmet and shook it at the driver, who shook his fist back in return. Ten minutes later they were still exchanging insurance information. Twenty minutes later they were leaning on the trunk of the Mercedes, talking animatedly. I told Tom that if this hadn’t broken up in ten more minutes I swear they’d go for coffee at the local bar and reminisce like brothers. They left 30 minutes later after waving off the local police from the wrecked bike and bent car. Only in Italy.)

9. They love the idea of religion. Churches sprout from every odd corner and nuns can be seen dodging Vespas and drinking mineral water. The priests, or priests in training from all over the world, are absurdly gorgeous, and more than once I caught myself giving a sidelong glance to a man of the cloth without knowing it. I found myself feeling absurd the other day when we stopped in a religious supply store to ferret out some kitschy stuff to send home to appreciative friends. Amongst the glow-in-the-dark Jesus figurines, the cheap plastic beads to make rosaries of every color and class, pot-metal saint charms, melamine plates with the present pope smiling in Technicolor, pope-eners (bottle openers with the present pope on one side and JPII on the other), pope nail clippers, and about a thousand incarnations of Mary surrounded in rainbow light, there was me: with a handful of Marys for Michelle Banuelos, two pope-eners, and the nail clippers, trying to walk discreetly by four nuns and a couple of altar boys to pay for my kitsch. Surely they see these objects for what they have turned out to be: made in Korea or China, cheap, hauntingly sad in their intent and purpose, and laughable. It almost seems sacrilege (to ME!) to have something so gaudy and second-rate try to represent a religion that proclaims to be rich in purpose and reward.

10. Religion is worn like Ferragamo. Insanely gorgeous women with miles of cleavage will adorn the valley of their breasts with a conspicuous gold cross. They will wear designer stilettos and designer tight skirts and designer tank tops to visit their cathedral, stopping at the double doors to toss a sweater over their immaculately tanned shoulders, as though God would be offended by their clavicles, but somehow not their sculpted derrieres. More than once I have seen them hiss at a tourist who forgot the protocol and somehow entered the church without making themselves “decent”, as though there is a dress code to stand on holy ground and gawk at the glorious art. Two youngish Italian women wearing tight Fendi and little else have hissed at me. One hissed and threw a sheer scarf over her bare shoulders as she tossed me a look. I was wearing pants and a capped-shoulder top (almost a tank top). Her uncovered legs flashed in the sun as she crossed the magically-lit cathedral and sank to pray at an altar, the soles of her expensive shoes turned up into the sun, her naked toes showing their glitter polished nails.

11. Pronunciation is key. Unlike in America, where we are used to immigrants and tourists and émigrés butchering our language, where we simply hear an approximation of a word and guess at the rest, Italians simply can’t understand you if you don’t put the right accent on the right syllable. Every syllable is pronounced in Italian, making it a guttural, rhythmic, and endless-sounding language. Their sentences have no apparent beginning and no audible end. If you approximate they give you a quizzical look and shrug. (The shrug, it seems, says everything.) Then they try a variation, something which sounds exactly like what you just said, just faster and with more lilt. You nod and they say “Alora! Why didn’t you say so!” I did, you think, and you say it exactly the same way again. “Yes, that’s it!” they’ll cry, slapping you on the arm. You’ll leave Italy bruised from trying the language on: an imperfect fit on your uncultured tongue.

The bibliophiles that we are...

Books we have already finished on our Italy trip, and their corresponding reviews:
-----
Tom:
Mark Salzman’s, "Lying Awake"
( a Carmelite nun has visions that lead to rich insights and poetry, she also has a brain tumor, is it religious experience or a medical problem that creates this state)

Jake Morrissey, "The Genius in the Design"
(Bernini, & Borromini transform Rome into the Baroque. Fun reading, lots of 16th century gossip)

Judith Testa "Roma Amor"
( art and architecture in the eternal city, from ancient times to the present, lots of history but also the back story from the point of view of an American academic.)

Anthony Blunt "Roman Baroque"
( THE book on the subject, lots of scholarship from the man who later would be outed as the 4th man in the Cambridge spy ring. Nevertheless, he’s the source on the baroque.)

Megan K. Williams "Saving Rome"
( Ex pat and NPR contributor on life in Rome. A must read for anyone coming to Rome for a stay……more than insightful, she captures the chaos and inexplicable people of Rome.)

---
Lisa:
Ruth Reichl’s "Garlic and Sapphires"
(Rich personal narrative of a restaurant critic and her disguises. A bit like sex… indulgent, addictive, and a sensual feast.)

Brenda Vantrease’s "The Illuminator"
(Medieval artiste with secrets woos noble woman. All hell breaks loose. Sex, plague, religion. Nuff said.)

Gerald Durrell’s "My Family and Other Animals"
(Wry, pastoral, kooky. A look at a family crazier than yours who moves to a Greek island and tries not to kill each other.)

Judith Testa’s "Roma Amor"
(All the confections of the period broken up into digestible chunks. An eye-opening read and a convenient portal into Baroque thought.)

Adam Gopnik’s "Paris to the Moon"
(Disapponting. Rather like leaning in for a kiss numerous times, only to find your lover asleep, snoring, or otherwise engaged.)

on tap to read:
Edwidge Danticat’s Breath, Eyes, Memory
Megan Willams’ Saving Rome

This is for Carla, and to prove that Clare likes Boar sausage and Sharp Provolone

The killer in me

I almost killed a boy today. On purpose. We had just set out over the bridge across the river to begin our day of photographing churches. I had seen three boys playing with cellphones near the mouth of the bridge where it widened out into the street, but they were about 8-10, and I didn’t think I had much to worry about. This is where being an observant person comes in handy: about half way across the bridge I noticed a shadow a little too close behind me, what appeared to be a short man on a cell phone. Suddenly an Italian man yards away yelled out Ragazzi!and I stopped short, swinging around to find a boy running away.

My bag, which I had been carrying messenger style behind me, was gaping open. I ran my hand through, checking for missing holes while simultaneously running full boar after the street rat. He stopped at the end of the bridge and lifted his shirt, showing that he had nothing, but making provoking gestures like comeon, whadda ya gonna do? And you know what? At that moment I thought about picking him up by his greasy rat scuff and dangling him over the charging river and its concrete bed to teach him a lesson. I was so full of pent up anger at all of the sh#$%% we’ve had to deal with in this trip, so burned with disillusionment and rage, so ready to snap his neck over the idignity of his actions that I scared myself.

I knew he didn’t have anything; my wallet was beneath a huge plastic bag of Clare’s plastic dinosaurs, and my hand had found my camera immediately after I swung around. But I didn’t care. I knew if anything was gone it wouldn’t be him who had it, it would be the boy furthest away, the little one who could run the fastest. But I didn’t care. I wanted to strike the provoking kid so that his friends learned a lesson too. I yelled at him: next time, you little bastard, I’m calling the police! And to that he lifted his shirt again, indignant this time, and made a gesture like go ahead, see what they do. And I didn’t care. I knew they would do nothing. As it is in Italy. That’s probably why my reflex to dangle the little bugger over certain death was so strong. And still is so strong. I feel vulnerable. Helpless. Adrift. And open to any devious hand rifling through my pockets and my identity.

I am going to make a million bucks

When I write the new bestselling novel, a sequel to "What To Do With Your Kids in Rome"

DON'T.

If they're under 4 or 5, DON'T! They don't get it and you're going to go nuts. End of story.

Send the chcks to Lisa Dowling. C/O the looney ward.

Here is a pic of Clare throwing a tantrum at the Forum.

clare's jesu, cioccolatto, and dinner

Wednesday night fever

Buongiorno ragazzi,
It’s been awhile since I added my observations. I’ve been preoccupied with our housing dilemma and the possibility of coming home early. It’s still not resolved, but I’ve started to kick some ass, metaphorically speaking, we may yet get the trip we planned. We have started to photograph and document my Baroque churches.

Each morning the three of us go off on a “walk a walk” as Clare says. Morning work in the churches lasts as long as Clare can stand it, then we’re off to lunch or gelato. Today we were in the Jewish ghetto, so what’s more natural than a kosher hot dog! Clare’s choice of lunch for the day was a success.

As bad as our situation has been we find great moments and experiences…..
We were in a snack bar the other day and they were playing Italian Country & Western Music !!! “My vespa’s broke down and my Gucci’s got ripped but my Mama still makes great pasta “ or something along those lines…..

We went out for passagiata the other night, even though it was past Clare’s bedtime.Strolling down the via S. Francesco da Ripa, past all the shops, with every grandmother in Rome sitting outside, spotting Clare from a distance…”Que Bella”, “Principessa”…Clare would respond with a” Buona Sera “ or “Ciao Ciao” sending these Italians into a frenzy of gestures and accolades. After 4 blocks Clare was like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever….strutting down the street, waving, pointing, full of herself and her power.
I’ve got remember to videotape her one night.
Ciao, Tommaso

This is for Uncle Louie

Il Jesu is spectacular.

Dancin' in the rain.

Piazza Navona is a particularly good place to kick up your heels in the rain. Can you tell?

Did I mention Clare likes Italian Cherry Pies?

nuff said.

PIX?

We're having trouble uploading pix. Seems that Italy's FASTweb isn't so fast. I'll try later, my friends. I have some good ones for you.

We are Trasteverini, almost.

9/19/06
For better of for worse, we have moved into the Trastevere apt. The building, by American standards, should be condemned. The apartment we are housed in is charming, though, to say the least. It appears to be two medieval houses that were connected by a narrow gangway that is suspended over the next level by what looks to be toothpicks and rebar. I’ll try to take a picture so you don’t think I’m kidding. We’re on the fourth floor (American fifth) and you can feel and hear each step of the occupants that are wedged into the attic above us. The front room of the house is roughly 75 feet away from the back room, and we spend most of our time getting from room to room. It’s rather the same as how we’ve spent our time in Rome so far, getting from apartment to apartment and retracing our steps innumerable times.

Trastevere is a welcome break from the madness of the city center. The people are more varied, more diverse, without being more tourists, if that makes any sense. We wish we could stay on this street: it has everything. San Francesco a Ripa connects with the Viale de Trastevere at an odd angle, and is a one-way shot, so the traffic doesn’t really funnel through that much. That doesn’t mean that we don’t have 250 Vespas parked outside out bldg… you can’t escape that fact no matter where you go. But the street is lined with extraordinarily interesting shops: a rosticceria (roasted rosemary chicken and potatoes and grilled veggies); a fornaio (fresh bread of all ilk, pastries, and cornetti), a laundry (Tom loves that); numerous restaurants (Indian below and Sushi around the corner, real anomolies in Italy, and the sushi is passable!!); a hair salon (Bed Head and BIGsexyhair); a Greek place (haven’t checked that one out yet); Big Mama’s Jazz club (it’s underground so we can’t hear it); numerous Gelaterias (why is gelato so addictive?); Rome’s biggest flea market around the corner (the Porta Portese is known for its good deals and pickpockets); and Rome’s most popular pizzeria: Ivo (lines for the counter spill into the street during all open hours).

If only we could stay. Right now we’re so ridiculously fed up with italy-acomm.com s empty promises that we’re ready to change our tickets and come home. We spent these last few nights tormenting ourselves with the possibility that we might have to abandon our dream trip and come home. The prospect sent me into a spiral of despair so deep that I found myself, frustrated, crying, sitting in the middle of some huge marble steps in a torrential downpour, crying my eyes out. I had spent all day looking for a kind face and somewhere to recharge my cellphone credit so I could call my mom and scream about my unhappiness. Of course it was Sunday, and all of Italy is shuttered; the people in the stores that ARE open are also openly hostile.

Well, two older ladies saw me sopping and squinted from under their umbrellas: “Are you okay, dearie?” I must’ve looked miserable: hair plastered down, nose a brilliant red, and mascara raccooning my eyes. They were from Iowa, and I regaled them with my story of apartment hell and the lost dream of Italy being the mystery and miracle that it was 10 years (and five years) ago. They said they’d pray for me. I was touched, even though some of my friends would laugh and think (“to their own personal unicorn” {it’s an inside joke}) but it got me thinking about prayer. It’s really just a concentrated thought that has hopes of being channeled somewhere useful. And if someone offers to pray for you, even if you’re an agnostic or else, you should appreciate that fact that someone is going to take the time to concentrate their thoughts on you or your problems or the world around you. That’s pretty special, and while the end result may still but bad, you can know that at least a few people in the world wanted your problems to come first. There’s no sweeter notion of human compassion that that, holy or otherwise.

So we’re here until at least the 2nd of Oct. After that, all is in the wind. If we make it that far, we will be pleased to entertain my mom and aunt, my sister, her husband, two babies, and a good friend. We hope they find a more hospitable Rome than we have encountered so far.

The scrawl of Lucas

A note on graffiti. I'm particualrly disgusted with a zealous tagger named Lucas. We are unused to the notion of graffiti in L.A. We see it on the freeways and think it to be a part of some counterculture, some perversion of expression. In Rome it is both disturbing and pervasive. It adorns everything from trains to monuments. It says everything from Kill America to Rome is #1. And how can you argue with any of it? Where else do they have to express their contempt at being overrun by tourists, being overwhelmed by history, being expected to accell at all arts and sciences, at the notion of technology usurping the gravitas of their past? I hate it, and yet after a while, begin to not see it. A week has passed now and I have become mostly immune. While in L.A. we make attempts to cover it up, in Rome they layer it until it becomes a palimpsest of color and message. Rome would be truly beautiful without it, and yet has never existed without its presence. Even Pompei had forms of it, as we saw when we visited recently, with handprints left in dust along a commercial wall. Romans MUST leave a mark it seems, no matter how ugly.

Are you sending good vibes out there?

I might scream. Ya'll dont' want to hear what happened next. Trastevere? HA! We need a lawyer (or a mafiosi)? Anybody know anybody who can deliver a pair of concrete boots? We need 'em.
More soon,
Lisa

Va Bene

Va bene,
For better or worse, we now have our apartemento. Its not as nice as the one we’re in now, but it will do nicely. I like the neighborhood, very old, real Rome, not as trafficked or loud as we’ve been experiencing. Tomorrow we will shop a little, continue scouting out and photographing my churches. San Andrea della Valle will be the goal tomorrow. It is a good choice, one of the largest churches and just around the corner from where we are now. There is a Henri Cartier-Bresson exhibit across the strada, I think we will go there as well. Ciao, Tommaso

Hopeful for Trastevere?

Today we wandered over to the apartment in Trastevere that Italy-accom wanted us to look at. It’s noisy, wild, funky, and almost perfect. We thought we’d wait… go see the apt up at the Piazza del Popolo way WAY across town before making up our mind, but after standing on the bridge in the middle of the Tiber river and watching Tom on the phone in his indecision over accepting the place, I just wrote on a big piece of paper: ACCEPT THE PLACE! He hung up the phone happier than I’ve seen him in a while. He finally got his hovel in Trastevere.

It’s on the top floor, of an ancient bldg, right over an Indian restaurant and across the street from a jazz lounge called “Big Mama”. Right across the street is a beauty salon that carries BedHead and BigSexyHair, two products I can’t live without and was lamenting the loss of when the cans leaking all over in my luggage in the cargo hold. (Girls, I know you’re rejoicing for this frizz-head right now!) It has a large kitchen, internet connect (allegedly) and GET THIS: a huge clawfoot tub right in the middle of the one and only bedroom. Did I mention that that’s right next to the working fireplace? (Like I’m going to search out and haul up firewood, HA!) The bed is a huge four poster with flying canopies of bright fabric. Decidedly funky. The stove is huge and the bathrooms appear adequate, with a stone utility sink in one so big that I’m sure I can bathe Clare in it.

So, we are supposed to move in on Monday. Send the strongest vibes you can for good luck.

Rewards

I meant to write a bit about Troy. Tom and Clare were standing at the edge of the marina in Positano, waiting for the ferry to take us to Salerno (best thing we ever did for ourselves: avoid going back through Naples by going even further south out of our way to get a direct train to Roma.) I was sitting on our luggage and taking last minute pictures when all of the sudden right in front of my two loves arose a man out of the sea like a Triton and shook himself off, flinging a great spray of salt water in a halo. From where I sat, there was no apparent way he could have gotten there other than magic, and I sat bolt upright. Of course Tom saw him pull himself up the seawall below and introduced himself immediately. (Turns out he was taking a cooling dip after trudging with his heavy trekking backpack downhill) He was an Aussie, about 30ish, very tan, with ice blue eyes, and a great hank of sun-streaked hair that flopped over his eyebrows. Tom and Clare exchanged pleasantries and I walked over to introduce myself.

He was a sweet guy and we chatted aimiably until the ferry came. We parted ways, not knowing that he was actually on the same ferry and he arrived in Salerno at the train station at the same time we did. We spent the better part of two hours talking to him while waiting for our respective busses and trains. He is a carpenter by trade, and is taking a “little” 8 month holiday to see the world. I lamented the short vacations of the Americans and he laughed. I guess he sees some corrolation between how freakin’ uptight we are and our lack of play time. I certainly see it. The remarkable thing about our meeting was the ease with which we picked up and carried conversation, much as old friends who wer just getting reacquainted. By the time we parted ways he had our phone number and address in his hand and Clare blew kisses.

That’s what travel’s all about: meeting people you never would have bumped into if you shut yourself up in your little enclave of home. If you didn’t have to struggle with the language, how would you appreciate the sweet satisfaction of finally procuring that choice table by the window, of that wedge of brilliant cheese. The struggle of travel is what makes it travel. Of course, we have had a bit too much struggle this time with italy-accom failing us twice so horribly, but the rest of it is lovely. Really lovely. Seeing the waiters fall all over Clare is wonderful. She’s never been so manhandled in all her life, and I’m a kissaholic mom. Seeing the waitresses fumble shyly with English and blush when Tom fumbles Italian right back in sweet tones is a lesson in personal risk. We all risk looking stupid when we travel. We might wear the wrong clothes, say the wrong word (Tom’s famous for asking to “Take the door away” instead of asking for “food to go”), or look like an idiot when we can’t for the life of us figure out how to turn on the stove (hold down these three buttons and flip that switch while praying to the patron saint of natural gas). We might miss our train, piss someone off when we bump into their Vespa, or make a cultural taboo happen, like giving an OK sign with your thumb and forefinger at the fruit market (your mother would not approve of me writing here what that means, trust me).

Risk is scary, and the little thrill that follows when you finally get is right is the rich reward of travel.

Pears, Pollo, Positano

Pears. That’s all I have to say.


They fall in the middle of the night with a thunderous crash, sounding like someone’s head being bashed open. The tree in our courtyard is laden with summer fruit: inedible pears that show years of botanical neglect. The orange and lime and lemon trees are in equal disrepair. Rick, the professor-botanist-arborist, would be mortified, clucking his tongue and muttering the Latin names of the sooty mold and scale and various other diseases wracking these poor trees. All night long we listen to the rotten fruit crash down through the canopy… a great whacking crash and then a gory splitting sound. Since we haven’t been sleeping very well on account of Clare Mae’s seemingly endless jetlag, we just lay and listen all night. (I’m sure that last sentence isn’t grammatically correct, but I don’t have Strunk and White with me, and honestly, after that last bottle of Pinot Grigio, I don’t rightly care! Sorry, Gary.)

So, as Tom said, we had the most blissful meal ever, after a harrowing hunt for poultry this morning. We scaled the cliff, looking for an alimentari open on a Monday (for some reason, not so much) and finally found one with meat set out for sale. After puzzling over what could have been turkey and what could have been the largest chicken I’ve ever seen (and the only whole chicken offered for sale) we simply pointed and said “questo pollo, tutto”. Which basically means, I’m a fat American, hand over that humongous bird.

I wasn’t really looking when the butcher smiled and wrapped it up, but when we got home and I started to prepare it, I was slightly aghast. The poor thing had only recently met its fate, and there were still feathers attached. Its legs were lopped off just before its dinosaur feet and it looked rather… well, chickenish. Now, I just finished Michael Pollan’s book “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” which follows four meals through the food chain to trace our culinary, economical, and biological attachment to our meals, and trust me, I know where this chicken had last been. At first I was dismayed, plucking out feathers and quills left over from the wash, but as I prepared it I thought: this is probably going to be the chickeniest chicken I have ever had. And you know what: it was. The butcher had stuffed its cavity with rosemary and all it did was throw sea salt, pepper, and lemon into it and roast it hot. That, along with potatoes, fennel, and baby onions made this Glorified Grotto into a Gastronomia. I never eat chicken skin, and I was filching off the last shreds as Tom laid designs on it. I dipped my unsalted bread in the juices. I ran my fingers through the roasted lemons and licked. MAMA MIA. I’m never comin’ home to slimy chicken and shrink wrapped beef again!! No wonder Italy was the birthplace of the slow food movement. No wonder we long for the “ideal” Italian. Trust me, nothing you’ve ever tasted at home equates. It can’t. Italian food holds the tilth of the soil, the taste of the salt air, and the simple state of mind of the farmer that killed the animal. No factory farmed American food can compare. Ever.

Chicken Extraordinarie

Some people have said to me, “why would you want to leave home, here, you have so much, you have everything you need”. I agree. I do have all that I need; all that I cherish is here. But one has to push outward to engage the world, to look to other realities and experiences to see where one resides. As an artist I have always asked of myself, “Where am I, Where do I stand that no one else does?” As a human, I ask a similar question, “what makes me unique”. My answer is my experiences. Through experience I gain meaning. I could remain home, and those experiences could be just as rewarding, or I could reach out to engage the world and experience something more, something out of my ordinary life. I choose this option at times in my life because I have always found value, understanding and yes, meaning in that effort.

Yesterday I swam in the ocean, the Mediterranean Sea with my 2 year old. Clare and I shared a few hours of bliss, but moreover, a connection to our historical past. Tomorrow Lisa, Clare and I will go to Pompeii, another connection. I Know Clare will only remember this trip through photos and family conversations, but hopefully she will also have this connection to a greater world of experience. I hope that this is just the beginning of her engagement with the world.

Speaking of experiences, my wife has made quite possibly the greatest dinner ever known to man this evening. A whole roasted chicken, with potatoes, and fennel, etc…in the Italian fashion, but with a gourmand attitude to the preparation! It was not without drama of course. In the Italian fashion, the oven would not work, the fuses were blowing over the extreme heat, the Italian landlord was summoned to fix “l’electricita’ . He did, the cooking proceeded, the bird, garland of rosemary et al was devoured by the three of us. Lisa and I both agreed, it was the best chicken we had ever tasted in our lives. Clare, will be reminded of this superior event all her life, I’m sure. We of course will always compare every chicken dinner in the future against this most magnificent repast.
A domaini…. Pompeii
Ciao, Tomaso

Tired of Ugly Americans Already

We all know the saying: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Well, what if the Romans DON’T do? I’m amazed at the passivity, the nonchalance, and the SHEER numbers of Romans wandering around in natty business suits at all hours of the day. I keep asking Tom, what DO they DO?! He’s not sure either, though I’m sure we both know: they do whatever it is that keeps them drinking espresso and eating cornetti and looking absolutely fabulous. Because they all look fabulous. From the donna and her designer to the mama and her sensible well-sewn shoes, they’ve all got more style and sense of “fare una bella figura” (to make a good face) than any other culture I’ve met. Before this trip I used to think that passagiata (literally, a walk-about to gossip and be seen) was silly, and now I see if for what it really is: a chance to show a respectable face after living in a city full of crime, graffiti (more on that later) and TOURISTS.

I cringed the other night when we ate dinner at a typically tourist place on the Campo de’ Fiori simply because we knew they took credit cards. The woman tourist (Amercian) next to use said, in an off-putting tone: I would like-a a glass-a white-a wine-a. The waitress, who spoke a little English said: Pinot Grigo, Soave, Gavi, Lacrima Christi? And the woman said, louder: A GLASS-a WHITE-a WINE-a. The girl gave her a withering stare and I fought the impulse to lean over and tell the woman in no uncertain terms: “you uncultured boob, those ARE white wines.” I let her blunder.

I stepped in the other day in Positano, though, when an American man waltzed into the Internet shop I was sitting at and proceeded to swipe away loudly at the keyboard, yelling to his girlfriend over his shoulder: “Hang on, I wanna to check somethin out.” The hostess of the shop stood up from behind the desk alarmed and uncertain: “Scusa”, she said, tentatively. The guy, immediately sensing that he was acting like an ugly American, played the part beautifully. “Wha? Wha? How whas I upposed ta know!? They’re no signs anywhere!?” Of course, it was posted modestly -- everywhere. After he bumbled out I made apologetic motions to the hostess. I tried to explain to her through her indignance that in America, Internet was free in cafes and some public places. She looked both shocked and untrusting. “Internet is never free,” she said. And how was I to argue?

Getting Comfortable

Buona Sera,
After a good nights sleep in Roma we ventured out….to find …banco, internet and veduro, [vegetables]. We were successful on all counts. The apartemento saga continues…tomorrow we go across town to Trastevere to view an apartment that they think will service ours needs…we’ll see. But that is…” a domaini,” tomorrow. Today we had a great time in the rain and in the early morning shopping through the Campo dei’ Fiori. What a wonderful treat to buy your food all in one place, fresh and full of life, seriously, full of the existence of life,…. bees swarming over the food , a few flies, but who’s counting !....the fullness of engagement with that which one takes in for sustenece…no packaging, no sterilization…..just food, fresh and exposed, ready to cook and eat.

The language is slowly coming back to me. We were here in January of 2001 for a few weeks but my language skills weren’t pushed . 10 years ago, after classes and study I was really prepared….today,… I just let it come , , the Italiano arrives for me when I really need it . Like tonight when trying to buy a good wine. I went from shop to shop, I finaly found an Entoceca that serviced our “bisogno de vino’…..After much haggling I came away with a Sauvignan……The thing about Roma is …everyone has the same concerns, forefront in their minds: they want what you want….. …. the best food, the best wine , the best price…so everyone is on the same wavelength……..where to meet the girls and the boys is also a big consideration, but fortunately we don’t have to worry about that.

Well, all things considered, we are in a good place for the next few days, really a Palazzo, a large apartemento, across from the Palazzo Farnesina in the Campo dei’ Fiori. One could not want anything better. This is the” gift” from Italy Accom for screwing up. I’ll always remember this place . Really an aristocratic, rich location and accommodation.

A domaini…Chiesa Nuova, to start my project on Baroque churches, Campo dei Fiori and the Trastevere apartemento is on our agenda for La Vita Roma tomorrow…
Ciao, Tommaso

Clare's Angel

-----Clare threw a fit in the middle of particularly trying day and ended up meeting an angel.

The Italians have a particular interest in Blonde, curly-haired children (something to do with putti angels?) and Clare has learned how to say, in no uncertain terms: Don’t bug me. Of course, it sound something like, donna bugga meah, so no one knows what she’s saying but us, but the message is unequivocal. She tired of her head being pet, her hand being stroked, he cheek being pinched. The only part she loves is when they melt and hand her a crusty roll of bread and say “ho fame, bella?” You’re hungry? And for them, she always is.

So the other day as we transferred from Positano to Salerno via ferry and were waiting at the train station when she decided that she had had enough. I had walked her around endlessly, pushing nonworking elevator buttons, watching trains, taking pictures in the silly photomat, and nothing was soothing the terrific tired that was coming on. She stood in the middle of the train station and had a meltdown, complete with stamping feet and tears and utter frustration. A dark haired man who looked suspiciously American walked over to where Tom stood stooped over the crying mass of Clare, and stepped in. He stood her up, brushed her tears away with a thumb pad, took her hand and stroked until she was listening. I was 10 ft away, sitting on our bags near Troy (more later) and watching. Tom was 5 ft away, having backed up tentatively when this man stepped in. Clare stopped crying. Her face melted from Red to cream.

Her arms relaxed. I watched, terrified that this man would scoop her up and run, and enthralled that it was working. He swept her up in his arms and squeezed her. He walked her over to a window sill and sat her in it, talking softly. She listened. For god’s sake SHE LISTENED! He just held her hand and patted, pointed at me as I took disbelieving pictures, and waved. I was too far away to hear what he was saying, but Tom said he spoke no English; he just kept telling her in Italian that he knew she was tired, she had a long way to go, and that it was all going to be okay.

They stayed that way for 10 minutes or so, with Tom nearby, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, me sitting and waiting, absorbing the experience, and her, drinking it all in. I don’t know who he was or where he was from , but he had a transformative effect on Clare. She slept in the train on the way home (stroked and kissed, of course, by the dark, youngish, Roman God sitting next to me) and she was angelic for the rest of the day. She is, amazingly, Laura, 100%. My little sis Laura always preferred men, resisted women, and crumpled many a well-meaning mama with her impatience at the feminine wiles. Clare likes testosterone, deep voices, and the simplicity of men. (Her mother can’t complain).

Questa Sera

Buona Sera, tonight is the 12th of Sept. Here in Positano we’re experiencing a major thunder storm. Very little rain but lots of thunder and lightning. I suppose it is raining hard on the other side of the mountain we cling to. The electricity….why is always the electricity !, has been cut back. We have some lights, but air conditioning, refrigerator, everything else is off. The Italian version of a brown out. Our showers were cold tonight, luckily we ate before the storm arrived. Lisa went to figure out our departure via hydrofoil while Clare and I went to the beach…la spiaggia, one last time. The clouds were ominous and the thunder was quite loud. Clare determined the clouds were angry.

Tomorrow we return to Rome. Hydrofoil to Salerno, train to Roma. We hope that Italy Accom has found us a suitable apartment. The hardest part of all this has been the unknowning. Having your life in the hands of people you don’t know and who seem so incompetent. We’ll see what transpires. Meanwhile Lisa and I are thinking of “Plan B”.
It’s always good to have a secondary plan at hand. It gives you options, it can even give you leverage. Ciao, Tommaso

Positano Porter

Tonight I kissed a stranger. Not on the lips, mind you, but on the cheek. The Positano Porter said he could take our bags down to the beach for a mere 5E (6-7$) and I was so overjoyed and tired of hauling crap around that I kissed him square on his sculpted, stubbly cheek. That 5E will save my poor husband from hauling that dastardly suitcase down about 100 steps. It will prevent the inevitable sweatdrops that we accumulate just going up our stairs to leave our apt complex. Then, a 13E ferry ride to Salerno to the train station (to avoid going back through Napoli (see previous post as to why) and a 3 hr train ride to Rome, where I’m ready to kick some administrative ass. At times the laizess-faire (sp?) Italian attitude is so charming, and something to emulate. We Americans can get so worked up. But at times the prompt, courteous, and no nonsense Capital ideal is lovely. Shit gets done.

Positano is lovely, and made lovelier by the cooling wind and thunder rolling over the mountaintop. We hired a car to take us to Pompeii today. I thought I would be much sicker on the hairpin-turn-mountain roads, but we got along okay. The terrible thing is that Clare won’t stay in her seatbelt, and no amount of cajoling and bribing and threatening will keep her there. I kept having visions of her launching out the window if we got hit,a nd at one point she lunged at the handle and the door popped open slightly. $%&#$^%#@. What can you do?

Pompeii was … well, I don’t really feel like I got a chance to connect with it. We spent a lot of time wandering, looking for the right direction to head and Clare tripped her way through the rutted streets. It was a slow, ponderous haul, and I settled for taking pictures of every doorway and piece of rock in front of me. Those tricky Italians make everything confusing and unmarked so you have to either buy the guide books or hire a guide! Smart, but exhausting. Sometimes you long for the simplicity of HERE IT IS< RIGHT HERE of American signage.

Tom took my picture in the “House of the Tragic Poet” and I really felt it. I had planned on writing while I was here, and I feel that now it won’t happen. I’m too tired at the end of the day, too frazzled from chasing Clare, keeping her out from under Vespas, cooking, haggling, trudging trudging trudging along. We’ve only been here a week and I SO dearly miss Auntie Leigh Ann’s 15 minutes of peace she gives me every day when she whisks Clare away to see the kitties, eat blueberries, and “eat rainbows”. I am looking forward to my mom and aunt paula coming over, my sister and her husband visiting with my niece and nephew, and the change of scenery.

Did I mention Clare downright fractured her toe? Seems she’s bent on gradual destruction while we’re here. Maybe it’s protest. She ran right up to a heavy teak chair and crushed her large toe (take note: opposite of the foot that already had a purple toenail from dropping a big flagstone rock on it a few months ago) and jammed her toe under the chair. No amount of cold water from the garden’s fountain would help and when it turned raspberry and then violet, I know we were in for it. Two days later she still lifts her big toe to walk, but doesn’t wake up at night crying “my toe, my toe” at 1 am. What trooper.
Sigh.

Positano, and Near Miss #2

Finally in Positano. After an arduous car transfer, luggage drop, taxi ride, train trip, taxi transfer, hydrofoil haul and then sweat-inducing, muscle-pulling, can-we-just-STOP-now walk straight up the sheer face of a cliff hauling way too much luggage and sleepy child, we are here. It is breathtakingly lovely, and the prices are sky-high. Everyone is nice, though, rather unlike the hustle and bilk attitude of Napoli.
Honestly, I am a little scared of Napoli. Imagine this scenario: The minute you step off the train you are accosted by touts for everything from taxi rides to hotel stays to candy. They wrap their arms around you and slip their hands into your pockets. You walk to an official taxi rank and some shill walks up and starts directing “taxi” traffic, and you slide right into the car of an imposter. The whole way to your destination he is trying to talk you into a “deal” of some sort that he can hook you up with. Of course he doesn’t speak English, and of course you don’t speak Italian, so you wave your hands furiously at each other until one of the other gives in. From afar it looks as though you are two regular Italians having normal conversation, gesticulating wildly.
The city of Napoli is dirty and crazy. People must have earplugs and caffeine jolts to survive. The Vespas dart in and out of traffic at a speed that makes Roman Vespas look like tricycles. Clare decided to take this moment of madness and make it even more exhilarating. While I was changing her diaper and washing her hands at the Molo Beverello harbor, she yanked her wet hand out of my wet hand and ran down a short ramp, straight into oncoming traffic. The attendant, normally busy cleaning under his fingernails with a paperclip, leapt from his chair and put his body before hers in traffic. I was milliseconds behind, but the drama was a slow clip-by-clip play of a tragedy unfolding with no apparent ending. I grabbed the attendant forcefully by the shoulders and considered, briefly, kissing him square on his greasy, sunburnt lips. American prudence took over and I released him to retreat back inside the Servizio, where I was torn with the decision to either hit my child (normal reaction for fear-induced terror) or simply hold her so tightly that her eyes bulged slightly and speak to her in grave tones [the New Parenting (and highly physically unsatiating) way of dealing with surprise, fear, and horror. I dug two 1 Euro coins out of my purse with shaking hands (it cost just 10 cents to enter) and made Clare hand the attendant a paltry $4 for saving her tiny life.
After that incident, she fell asleep peacefully on the hydrofoil, drooling copiously onto my sleeve. We rounded the point of the Amalfi coast ad laid eyes on our present stay, Positano. I write this from our “Glorified Cave” as Tom calls it, carved into the steep hillside of a sheer cliff. The road way is suspended over us at about 200 ft, a precarious linkage of concrete slabs embedded in the rocky hillside. Prickly cactus and scrub clings to the face, and they shiver when the cars rolls by. Our apartment smells strongly of damp from the water running between the rivulets in the mountainside, and the fact the neighbor’s garden sits directly over both of our bathrooms. Damp on damp on damp. But there is air conditioning, a glorious courtyard where we consumed a lovely bottle of Pinot Grigio this afternoon, and an alimentary up the hillside with the tastiest fresh mozzarella I’ve ever eaten. There is the Verde bar a bit down the road, and the sweet shops selling everything at a very dear price. There is the waterfront, with its grey pebbles and numerous polished sea glass pieces. There are the nightly fireworks (at midnight no less) so loud and reverberating that it is as though someone is standing over you with a cookie sheet and a baseball bat, whacking excitedly. The baby is terrified into prolonged cries just as she begins to sleep deeply.
There is the throng of tourists, all trying to blend in and all failing miserably. I am happy to be among them, here, where it is normal to be from anywhere else. I almost dread the return to Rome, where you are expected to assimilate quickly, completely, and wholly -- immediately. Our apartment situation is sketchy, and the rest is a mystery. I suppose this is what adventure is really about. One can only hope.

Scare #1

Our first few days in Rome were a haze of jetlag-induced discord. Upon checking into our first apartment, we were greeted with the unwelcome portent of things to come. We opened all the windows on our first floor (American second) apartment, all of which overlooked the alley-like street below. While we settled the bill in the living room with Clemente, Clare busied herself with snuggling under the bed’s feather comforter until she was nothing but a wrinkle in the expanse of white. While we haggled and joked with the porter, we suddenly noticed that it had become preternaturally quiet in the bedroom. Tom rushed in looking for her, and noticed the bed rumpled, unmade, and empty. The curtains ruffled slightly in the breeze and I caught sight of her chubby legs near the windowsill. Tom lunged in and grabbed her as she serenely leaned out the window, observing the street life and sidewalk restaurant below. Her ladder, a large Tupperware box under the windowsill, which had gone unnoticed, was hastily dispatched to the hall closet. Luckily all the shutters had latches on them that could be hooked partially open, just enough to keep the light and air and child, in. It was an Eric Clapton-esque moment that we hoped would never repeat.
That night was slept like the dead, snoozing well into the afternoon of the next day. Clare was tightly wedged between us in bed, a position she never liked in normal circumstances, and one that I was glad she adopted, if only for the moment.

Roma, here we go

I think that travel must be in your soul, deeply imbedded, for one to endure its vagaries. I consider myself a good traveler, one who listens to the call to wander. But these first few days have tried my sense of self as a traveler. I knew that it would be hard on 2-year-old Clare and hard on us keeping her happy on such a long journey. She has been a real trooper, taking most of the seemingly endless days with much more panache than anyone could expect of a small child. The weather has been extremely humid. Just the kind of climate I hate. I don’t function well in this mugginess. One expects the first few days to be hard, all that travel, jet lag etc. We also have had to reckon with the news that yet again, we have “lost” our apartments in Rome. The company is working on replacements but we have little confidence in them now. They are disorganized to the point of confusion. They gave us the wrong contact phone numbers for our stay in Positano! Hours later we finally got into our cave. It’s a beautiful cave though. All whitewashed walls and old timbers with an enormous patio. If the weather were better we’d enjoy the outside more. Nevertheless, its home for now, and apart from the damp smell its quite comfortable. We walk each morning and again in the afternoon down the hill to the beach. Everything is very expensive and quite touristy. The art is awful, even less interesting or as competent than in Laguna. But, we are here. It’s the experience we are after. The feel of the Mediterranean, the beauty of the place, even the glorified cave we live in brings some meaning to our journey. We hope to visit some of the ancient sites in the next day or two. I know that will help restore our sense as travelers.

Ciao, Tommaso

Airports, Security, and feeling Insecure

To the patron saint of airport lines: grazie. When we return home I will build you a shrine. We've been waived through many many long lines and the size of our carry-ons ignored because of the cherubic face of our cranky two year old. After just 5 hrs sleep on the plane, her hair looks like she's Albert Einstein reincarnate and her parents look like thin shadows of themselves. We are amazed at the lines, the doublespeak, and the security. I (lisa) am feeling rather insecure about taking my child halfway around the world. She keeps asking if we can go home now. How to tell her that this IS home, for the next three months. Tom and I were wondering on the plane how long this would feel to her: interminable in the present, and just a blip on recall? Who knows how the mind of a toddler remembers and processes?!
Okay, my one-british-pound internet connection is about to expire.
Ciao!