Waking up

 Friday morning, we slept in. I think we were up by 10:30 am.   With wooden shutters closed, you never know what time it is by sunlight.  We grabbed a pastry, the standard breakfast fare and walked to the museums on the Cittadella. We passed Carson on our way with a chuckle and a hello.  After meeting him on the bus, he seemed to be everywhere.  The first museum held archeological artifacts, mostly Roman.  It  felt amateur compared to the Vatican. I will admit they had the most stunning collection of clay hands. I felt like I was looking at the pile brought to King Limhi after Ammon defended the sheep. The proportions and positions were perfect. Alarmingly so. The second museum was a collection of works stolen from the Catholic churches during some kind of coup.  The depiction of the human form has altered over time and I am grateful. The strange elongations of the body and the gray tones speak only of despair and sorrow. Being church works, I would hope they would be enlightening or hope giving. 

 Cagliari is beautiful. It holds character and interest I fail to find where I live. It is vibrant and filled with an ancient presence.  America feels so young and empty compared to the compact live styles and rich history of the Italian lands.

 I wonder if the residents appreciate the ambiance of the land they live in. Graffiti covers virtually every inch. Most buildings have it, old and new. Imagine a four thousand year old building smeared by spray paint.  I must pause to consider what I fail to appreciate about the particular land I live in. Each day  I rise, or just lay in my bed, mountains tower above me. It is impossible to look outside without seeing them. Yet, I wonder how often I look without really seeing them.

 I love the character, the picture perfect.

 The Stagno were the flamingos nest is there in the middle of the ancient sprawl.

 The rooftops flow together.  It is classic. 

Dinner Friday night included walking around for an hour before the restaurants opened and finding a fabulous pastry shop. The gray-haired gentlemen who declared he should have been an actor like Dustin Hoffman elucidated on the history behind every pastry. They are national figures, like Sicily's cannon and American cake.  He talked and talked like we were old friends. He smiled and laughed. If I lived nearby, I would be a devoted patron of his. A place where he would know my name and what I like. I would leave a big tip just because it is him.  He and his deep brown shop were a treasurable find.

We ate dinner in an alley, of course.  The bread was fire toasted and too hard to eat. I ordered carbonara. It wasn't as fantastic as Seth's a few nights before.  Seth ordered something safe and classic and unmemorable. Brian ordered a delicacy, horse meat. Illegal in the US, horse meat has been part of Italian cuisine since the Roman period. Naturally.  In the last one hundred years several efforts have been made to ban the slaughter of horses, but the effort has yet to prevail. The flavor is nothing extraordinary or unusual, but the experience is unique all together.

 While we ate dinner, I tried to convince Seth to try it. He would not be prevailed upon, but calmly stood his ground, stating he had tried enough new things. While engaged in this discussion, a voice spoke near my ear. Just a greeting, but it was unnerving to hear a man address us. I suspected it was a peddler, but the behavior of Seth and Brian indicated otherwise. My back was to the alley beyond the boundaries of the restaurant. They are clearly marked by menu signs and potted jasmine.  I looked at Brian who ignored the man. I looked at Seth who looked me straight in the eye and I could not look away. The manager noted the man's attempts to engage in conversations and shouted the man away from his patrons.   Brian told us the man was drunk, but we were ignoring him, so he did too.  What happened next, I will leave out, but Seth needs to know though small, I will not forget.


The night passed slowly and I did not sleep well. We had new neighbors and they were loud. When they finally went to bed, someone had a deep resonating snore.  We left for the airport at 5 am Saturday May 19.  As we waited for the taxi, I looked up one last time at the ceiling.

 The building was hundreds of years old and still held some of it's distinct architecture.

We watched the sun rise as we flew from Cagliari to Rome. In Roma, our passporto was checked four times.  The most alarming was the Arma dei Carabinieri called us over with their machine guns strapped to their side and hand poised to use it if necessary. Brian declared they called us out because he made eye contact. NOTE: Do not look at gun-toting authority figures in airports. When we checked, I knew we were with Americans. They look different. They behave differently.

Last fantastic Italian meal in Roma

We picked up our last fantastic Italian meal and rode across the Atlantic with the sun.  In Newark, we went through customs where we heard a fantastic NJ accent. We ate American food. Funny how lost my appetite was at the thought of the menu items. I wished we were still in Italy. We flew to Detroit and then to SLC. As we landed in SL, the sun set and we had been traveling for 24 hours. It was the longest day of my life. Literally.  


By the time we arrived home, our children were asleep. The next morning, Sam passed by our room, but did not enter. When one of the girls told him we were home, he said, "I saw."  It was like Christmas morning. I know it was harder on all of them than our delightful caregiver let on. It is nice to know that I am needed and someone's world falls apart a bit without me.  How selfish of me to think so.   Eventually, we shared with them some Italian candy. 

 Adam liked the licorice.  I played with him that morning and he sounded his joyful giggle. As he did, our good caregiver announced that he had not giggled like that the entire time. Maybe his black smile is his way of telling us he's just happy to have us back.

I will always love Italy for how romantic it is: holding Seth's hand without a child thrusting me away to take my place, the layers of history, the wealth of art, the variety of style and cuisine, the glory of aged trees and roads, and the knowledge that what I experienced cannot be written.  I will never be the same.