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"You's guys needing something, eh?"

The customs agent looked us over with that characteristically Canadian attitude of friendly suspicion.

Or maybe it was guarded alertness. Bordering on vigilant complacency?  Hard to pinpoint precisely.

Anyhow, our behavior was positively suspect. So we'd gotten past the security clearance checkpoint, that proved nothing. No one else was out of their vehicles. No one else felt moved to pause for peace. Or dwell on the overarching commonality of our countries' half-sibling status. Or overtly take a shot at it.

We answered quite matter of factly, "No, thanks, just wanted to snap a photo here."

Well, that certainly raised a red flag! With a red maple leaf emblazoned upon it? Not to mention bumping the international threat level up to high alert.

But was it our fault that the immaculately manicured lawn stretching out so invitingly compelled such reckless abandon?  Unencumbered by rules of diplomatic protocol or any obstacle that dared restrain us (in this case, it was a border of bloomin' petunias), we barely felt the chill of early morning dew drops soaking through our sneakers so intent were we on picking out a path which avoided stepping on muddy, aerating sod plugs laying in wait deceptively on the ground. We must have looked like clods. But if ever there was a grass-is-always-greener-on-the-other-side moment, this was ours!

We explained to him that every year we take a 1st day of school picture, complete with signature flag waving. Simply to prove that, although we are homeschoolers, we can wave flags & pledge our allegiance right along with the best of 'em. Yet we'd arrived unprepared for this symbolic monument to sibling arch rivalry. So M&K improvised & grabbed the homemade flags we just happened to have on display in our car's rear view window, even though they'd - the flags, I mean - become faded after months of spreading subversive messages & infiltrating the minds of gullible people throughout the west coast. (Irrefutably influencing the outcome of the 2008 presidential election, plus exerting enormous pressure on China's Tibet policy. Golly, and in such callous disregard of how it might hurt China's feelings?)

Dutifully satisfied with his inspection of our dubious intent, the shrewd investigator shook his head at such a pathetically fabricated borderlie & then methodically retraced his steps to the command control center (immigration booth), glancing back occasionally lest we make any sudden moves. Like, say, hopping back and forth across the imaginary borderline dividing our two superpower nations? Well, how else are we globeschoolers gonna claim to have visited Canada over 40 times, huh?

It must have been a slow day there on the border. But, then again, ya can't really blame him for wanting in on a peace of the action, can ya?   

In anticipation of this 2008 venture to British Columbia, Mikaela & I studied Margaret Craven's novel I Heard the Owl Call My Name. But once there, as much as we'd hoped to see Keetah & Mark's hangouts in the remote setting of Vancouver Island, we decided to skip the pricey ferry fare + an expensive three day stay in the touristy capital city of Victoria, where visiting artist Emily Carr's house was the only nerdily worthwhile attraction. Ok, ok, so it's also because we're cheapskates -- but that fits with the winter sports theme, does it not? (Actually, and here I go bragging again, I'm a world-class short track cheapskating champ.)

Instead, we wanted to spend the time exploring the gold rush era "Wild Horse Trail" on the touted International Selkirk Loop, which runs through Washington state & Idaho before winding along Canada's Kootenay Bay. And then camp in the more pristine Pacific Northwest rainforest of British Columbia's interior. (Hey, Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park is a good 40 miles north of the border. That counts!) Indeed, we found the wilds there, but in the form of very large groups of twenty-something campers sharing one tent (& several bottles), blaring American rock music & setting off fireworks over the bay until 4 in the morning.


So the majority of our time was spent skimming skimping the surface in the mainland city of Vancouver. Instead of Victoria's famed Butchart Gardens with its $61.90 entry fee or Vancouver's own VanDusen Botanical Garden's family of four $22.75 deal, we romped through Queen Elizabeth Park, which, after an exhaustive in-quarry, we found to be delightful and absolutely free. (Got that sunken feeling at no charge!) And, instead of Capilano Suspension Bridge's $26.95 per adult & $15.65 per child admission bargain where you get to jostle hundreds of other tourists for the privilege of walking once across "Vancouver's Most Popular Attraction," we took a pass & opted for Lynn Canyon's free bridge in North Vancouver. Not only is it a full 10 meters higher than Capilano, but when the 256 feet of suspension got too intense, there was no pressure. Having it completely to ourselves allowed as much time as needed to chicken out repeatedly before finally closing our eyes & traversing "Clubbuddy Crossing," so dubbed by our hand-clasping gripping wrenching daughters after their 15th successful attempt.
On the other side, a short hike to Twin Falls awaited, though the Canadians' love of chain link fences -- which we discovered well before all those 2010 Olympic cauldron viewers -- obscured much of its scenic appeal. (Ya know, the Olympic torch elected to do the very same thing a couple of years after us & made a pass above troubled budgeting waters by routing through Lynn Canyon, and not Capilano. Miserly flame!)    

Stanley Park was also fun, with hiking trails throughout its 1,000 acres of firs, cedars & spruces, plus great cityscape views from the Pacific seawall path. We watched float planes taking off & landing at Canada Place and proudly boasted that Houston's "Little India" trumps Vancouver's, at least in terms of that all-important veggie samosa test. (Though the vegan cooks at Richmond's Buddhist Temple all-you-can-eat lunch buffet might silently disagree.)


However, at the edge of UBC, our college campus touring streak was sadly broken. Due to the girls' fears of inadvertently spying a streaker, fresh off the university's own nude beach, flashing past. And Chinatown wasn't exactly the enriching experience we'd hoped for either, although the kiddos did get to gawk out the car windows and get quite a good look at an authentic Chinese apothecary shop as we circled the block 3 times. It was more like drive-by cultural immersion. We wanted to stop, but - despite some exposure to Seattle and downtown Portland's homeless problems - Gastown's overflowing & vocal presence filled all available parking spaces caddy corner to Chinatown and caused that proverbial putting of pedal to the metal.

Which led to our favorite trip in all of British Columbia -- a drive along the Sea to Sky Highway. As Katrianna noted in her travel log, there were "Lovely views of the Coast range meeting the sea. It has waterfalls, lakes & hills meeting the ocean all together in one." Due to the ongoing road construction in preparation for Olympian traffic jams, stopping at the overlooks wasn't allowed but its views of Howe Sound's fjord were as pretty as the travel reviewers promised.
 
So we arrived at our final Sea to Sky destination whistlering a happy tune. Whistler, site of the 2010 Olympic skiing events, was at that time a sleepy little village. Really sleepy. Apparently it was nap time for all the frustrated snowboarding teenagers who lounged on bus stop benches or atop decorative flagstone walls while anxiously awaiting the season's first snowfall. Occasionally, they'd rouse themselves to perform skateboarding tricks across stairway railings & attempt death-defying jumps over strategically placed Adirondack chairs borrowed from hotel cafes. All before settling back down under a tastefully trimmed hedgerow to catch some z's. Well, truthfully, that's when demonstrations of their even more elaborate smokin' skills began. And, dude, before we realized it, it was 4:20 - imagine that - and certainly high time for us to cut out.

As soon as we walked into Whistler's 2010 Olympic visitor center, we could tell that their welcome committee, in the form of a solitary greeter, was indeed prepped in the spirit of the winter games. Normally it's sorta part of the job-volunteer description that these folks are extra friendly. But this fellow was, appropriately, the polar opposite: he was an arctic blast of icy cold Freezie. We could have wisely let it go. But it was either find my entertainment with him or go back out to the snowboarders, so he got another try. Giving him the benefit of the doubt that he'd simply mistaken us for naïve skiing novices (when the truth of it is that we're actually freestyling know-nothing moguls), I faked it. I mentioned some pertinent Whistler Mountain trivia that I'd read just the night before and then merely alluged to the fact that we might like to visit the nearby Sliding Centre venue to see the progress they were making on the sledding track. Ha, lured him in alright! And then spent the next 25 minutes nodding, concurring and listening intently to the intricacies of bobsled strategy & track construction. It was all downhill after that. But at least I showed him not to judge American tourists quite so hastily, didn't I? 

Not that we globeschoolers weren't glad for these experiences. Whenever a Whistler-related news story appeared afterwards, we got to reflect and think 'Skookum, and we were there!" But, luckily, not on the very day that gondola tower fell smack-dab in the middle of the Village. Thank goodness, nothing was smashed. Well, except maybe for some potted plants...

But I blame the US. And the American invasion of British Columbia during the Vietnam War. When all of their tiny towns' populations swelled with our very own homegrown conscientious objectors. Of course, that was a long time ago, during the throes of the peace movement and amidst a recognized moral quagmire, so we really can't judge them for their (in)actions then... But is it really okay that they're still there conscientiously objecting to this day? For, in this, the new millennium, it seems their primary objection is to moving beyond 1968. And that goes for their cars, too.
Or at least conscientiously removing their rusted out automobile frames from the driveways. Or front yards. Or streets. Or green public open spaces. It's kinda like Woodstock meets Carhenge, only with ancient school buses, VW campers & a stray Pontiac Bonneville or two.

Yet this gross generalization is perhaps unfair. And overlooks many of their second & third generation blond-dreadlocked progeny boldly practicing civil disobedient defiance at the local Walmart. No, these youngsters, as they roam barefooted down the aisles munching on Cheezies & looking to replenish their tie-dye supplies, are not protesting against a corporation's renowned socially unconscious stance. It strikes much further than that, to the very core of liberty & freedom of individual expression: they rage against The Man's "No Shirts, No Shoes, No Service" dictate. Yep, the fight the power vibe in Squamish is not for the squeamish.

Lastly, to provide a completely unbiased view of our journey, we prepared a little audiovisual montage. What follows is an exacting duplication, a verifiably authentic recreation of the sounds & sights one encounters when traveling into the depths of British Columbia. So please imagine, if you will, that you've just crossed the US-Canadian border. And there you are, at first hearing the familiar crackle of radio static & then desperately rotating that dial to discover:

OK, to be fair, that video is not really representative of Canadian radio.* Cuz not once did we hear their native singers Paul Anka, Neil Young or kd lang... in fact, there was one dire point when Bryan Adams might even have been welcome. Instead, suffice it to say that something downright magical happens as soon as you reach within 100 yards of the Canuck border -- all AM/FM frequencies disappear. And you're left with 3 options: Depression period folk fiddling, counting down the top 40 evangelical sermons of 1957 with Casey 'Billy Graham' Kasem, or Hindi music.

Of course, the choice is obvious. An unexpected opportunity to practice my jammin' Bollywood dance moves with side-shaking head bobs & open-palmed quarter turns?! That's right, a highly recommended way to pass the time while waiting in endless border customs queues, we had our own lil' Holi right there in the car. Frankly, I don't think anyone would've blamed them if they had waved us straight on through, but they didn't. (Bet they felt sari afterwards, eh?) Eventually, it got to the point we looked forward to forays into Canada solely for its superb stereophonic selection of big Indian musical numbers.

*Yeah, yeah, it's not nice to insult our Canadian neighbors' music. Or totally ignore that Los Angeles' 1984 Closing Ceremonies headlined Lionel Richie singing All Night Long in a sequin & polyester pant ensemble. Which then led to his infamous Dancing on the Ceiling debacle in '86 -- where he disregarded the gravity of a consequent fall from R&B soulful grace. Now, as far as I'm concerned, The Commodores & their horn section could do no wrong, but what was Lionel thinking going solow like that? Sure, Peter Ueberroth, you were the first commissioner in modern times to turn a profit on the Olympic Games, but, honestly, at what cost?  

In France's Aix-en-Provence, nicknamed "The City of 1,000 Fountains," we tirelessly sought out their celebrated symbols of overflowing abundance & watery romance. And, after wandering 5 kilometers or so along the Cours Mirabeau, with labeled brochure in hand, we saw approximately 12 of them. Four of which worked. Or, anyhow, held water.

Yet & still, Aix did add to our fonts of knowledge - in the abstract form of spontaneous math exercises: Kids, what's the probability we'll see actual cascading droplets at the next one? "Mom, that's not a fair question," they figured. "Do trickles count?" "What about algae buildup?"  

But what we were really there for was Paul Cézanne. This was his hometown. His artsy, if brick paved & congested, turf. We saw the houses where he lived. Or visited. Or probably stopped in front of. Or even might have painted, had he ever felt like it. It was moving, all right... and just like Cézanna ho!, we were anxious to move out & into the surrounding Pays d'Aix to see the natural places that inspired him instead.

So we stopped at the city's L'Office de Tourisme, the sure way to save time & get the definitive answer to our pressing query which no internet site or guidebook seemed to know:    Where is Cézanne's studio?

"A little ways down Cours Mirabeau," they informed us.

1 kilometer?  2?  3?   

They nodded agreeably, "Oui."

Yet, after a couple of hours & the disturbing disappearance of those shiny Cézanne route symbols along the promenade, we astutely surmised "A little ways" required more than a stroll.

We slogged back to the car, drove out of the old city & stopped at the outlying regional welcome center. Again we asked,   Where is Cézanne's studio?  

"A little ways down Cours Mirabeau," they explained.

1 kilometer?  2?  3?

They nodded agreeably, "Oui."

So on we went, several more kilometers until the dense ville gave way to a last building on the outskirts of the suburbs. Ah, this must be it! After reversing & finding a parking spot about a half mile back, plus dodging oncoming traffic because apparently we'd also discovered Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends, we triumphantly walked in.  To a hospital clinic.

How Rue-d.

But, for the Lauves of Paul, we wouldn't give up! (We're so studio-us.)  

And, indeed, we eventually determined that they'd been right. It was a little ways back down Cours Mirabeau. Then turn right onto Boulevard Carnot, turn a slight left onto Cours Saint-Louis, hang another left onto Boulevard Aristide Briand, turn right onto Avenue Pasteur, U-turn onto Avenue Paul Cézanne and "Oui," there you are, a little ways down Cours Mirabeau. "C'est simple, non?"

Grateful to have finally arrived, we were only mildly disconcerted by the fact that there was no parking lot. Or that when Chris ran inside to ask, the staff directed us to the back of an apartment complex where we were, no exaggeration, greeted by an old woman tossing dirty water out of a second floor window (aha! more of those famous fountains?), a man in a soiled undershirt emerging from a rusty car resting upon two very flat tires and a premium, if unmarked, spot reserved especially for L'Atelier Cézanne customers, wedged between a dumpster & piles of broken glass.

We'll take it!

We then excitedly picked our way through littered shrubbery to dash across the highway & through the studio's gate just in the nick of time, deftly avoiding the rumbling trucks that sped around the curve and were about the only vehicles heading out of town down this otherwise empty road. Well now, this was excitement!

Once inside the yard's thick walls, we casually paused. Yes, to try to sense Cézanne, the Master's, presence. And/or to catch our breath while thoughtfully reconsidering the standing (loitering) offer of those friendly 10 year old security guards who'd circled round to attentively watch our car. No doubt well versed in foreign tourists' language barriers, they didn't bother to ask, but willingly accepted the self-appointed job as they'd been outside finishing off their cigarette stubs anyway.     

Ambling down the extremely well trod dirt paths of the garden, Katrianna was enchanted by its shady turns & twists & hide 'n seek possibilities. She delightfully darted behind brambles, trees, low stone walls, a tool shed, mounds of squishy mud, piles of exposed pvc piping, several extra large clay vases and a few forgotten & discarded crackedpots of various shapes and sizes (and nationalities) strewn about the garden. All waiting impatiently, like us, for timed admittance into the house.

Buuutttt it wasn't fair, 'cuz we were there first! Followed by two pairs of straggling couples & some nerdy art lovers. We all bought tickets for the next entry. And then a busload of a tour group descended. Assuming that we weren't fluent speakers -- not exactly erroneously, btw, although a few tense (past perfect) moments don't necessarily preclude one's ability to comprehend others who can speak French well enough -- the tour leader conferred with the admissions' director who agreed to let the whole bunch, sans reservations, go ahead of the rest of us. She then explained to us that this was unavoidable since they'd scheduled their tour far in advance, "comprenez-vous?" Before retreating to the outdoor patio to continue a much more satisfying conversation française with Cézanne's cat, I thought 'En principe, oui, je comprends, bien sûr!' but elected not to say anything lest I garble a vowel & thereby risk losing her respect.

We'd experienced this sort of group mentality in Europe before and would again (and again). The interests of the many consistently outweigh recognizing the value or desires of individuals. Admittedly, theirs is nearly the antithesis of that stereotypically selfish American mindset. You know, like the American practice of allowing a person with 3 or 4 items to skip ahead of those with full carts in line at the grocery store... or stopping at an intersection to let someone make a left turn against heavy traffic. Quite often, we actually choose to inconvenience the majority, if necessary, to pay common courtesy to the few. (Yeah, yeah, I realize those are pretty trivial examples... but, evidently, what we Yanks might construe to be "grand gestures," like, say, lending a hand during WWI and II, don't really count all that much.) Thank goodness there are still places left in the world that don't cater to such blatant preferential treatment.

Moreover, I'm obligated to add, it wasn't fare either. Especially for us. At many tourist sites throughout Europe, we discovered that Americans have to pay a different, higher price of admission. We arrive on their welcoming shores with no European Union citizen benefit &, as they say, pay the price. Of course, we learned -- thanks to that additional thirty minute wait which provided plenty of time to peruse the tourist offices' informational pamphlets -- that Cézanne's studio wouldn't even be there if Americans  - two guys & the 114 donors they recruited - hadn't saved it in 1952, restored it and then donated it to the Université d'Aix-Marseille. Shouldn't that entitle us to some sort of discount? Or at least make them us pause before giving us them the Aix next time??

So, in the spirit of international cooperation, I'd like to propose that when people from the EU visit our Smithsonian Institution, for instance, which has always been free to all Americans & the rest of the world, too, we begin checking passports and assessing Europeans a reasonable 10 euros per room (600 sq ft) surcharge, generously applying the going rate at l'Atelier Cézanne. By my calculations, that would make a regular priced EU-exclusive-privileges-only ticket to see the National Air and Space Museum a very fair €5570 (or $7947 after converting for today's exchange rate of 1.4268, variable customary service fee not included). This equitable policy aligns nicely with their disdain for greedy capitalism & fits snugly into a socialist redistribution of wealth system, plus could very well be the US' answer to eliminating our national debt. (Remember, the Smithsonian alone has 19 museums!)  Oh, and they'd be let in promptly, as soon as everyone else, as a group, was done.

Meanwhile, back at Lauves studio, both the brochures & our esteemed directeur predicted the time to 'take it all in' when we ultimately ascended that stairway to art heaven: 30 minutes. They were absolutely correct, once you divide that number by 10. Three minutes & we were done. We lingered another 6 or 7, so as not to appear unappreciative, but fyi, for itinerary planning purposes, it's safe to allocate 5 minutes, give or take 30 seconds.

For what it's worth, the rest of our Route de Cézanne tour was très magnifique! Not only was it essentially free, minus several liters of gazole, it was blissfully empty of crowds & tourists. And was scenic, relaxing & fun. It seemed we'd gotten all of the hard times out of the way: A time to get lost, our time it did cost, a time to get had, a time to feel sad... plus all of those "Turn, Turn, Turn" refrains that just about drove me -- not to mention the car's gearshift -- crazy (ok, so perhaps I had a bit of an Aix to grind back there).

But now we were left with only the good times to be had in the rolling Pays d'Aix & could finally appreciate the unencumbered beauty of the fall-ing for Cézanne. Now there was a time for cordial chatting with Le Tholonet's mill-turned-art gallery curators and a time to pause at the crossroads of Beaurecueil, a time for exploring up & around Mt. Sainte-Victoire and ample time to easily locate his other favorite painting haunts. Mostly, there was time to absorb the sights of the pines' deep green needles stretching into the sky's cloudy blues, contrasting in sunlight-refracted rectangles with the meadows' oranges & the rocky reds. All within view of his beloved mountain, which he described, with each painting of its changeable nature, as the expression & illustration of his own soul. Enfin, we'd caught up with Cézanne's spirit & Victoire was ours!

I never liked The Sound of Music. Not exactly sure why. But the opening scene with Maria singing about live hills & twirling around in a dress certainly didn't help any. What sort of dramatic action was that? Now, if Evel Knievel was jumping across some of those hills on a motorcycle, especially if there were some school buses set ablaze to add suspense (in lieu of an errant bonnet that needed retrieving), that might have been worth watching! Also, I couldn't see its connection to Christmas despite the fact that every year TV networks reran this never-ending movie during time-precious school holidays. There was nothing sacred about it. After all, it wasn't the Peanuts' Christmas special. Probably the crux of it was simple resentment. No doubt it was preempting a favorite primetime show which I counted on for continuity and moral guidance. Like, for instance, The Dukes of Hazzard.

Sorry to say, but when Maria sang, froid was what it left me.

But then I gave birth. To two girls. And, apparently, to a previously undisclosed yet infinite capacity for schmaltz, as well. In the early years, I rebuffed Chris' annual suggestion that we enjoy this "Greatest All-Time Family Film" with our little ones (for their sake, ya know, to avoid recurring night mères). Eventually, however, I agreed. For the purpose of exposing the kids to cultural literacy, thereby satisfying that core academic component for the homeschooling year. I figured 15 minutes tops would suffice. We settled down. And 2 hours + 54 minutes later, we got up.

To clear more floor space for M&K. Who were singing. And twirling. And Austrian folk dancing. Well, after first sprinting to the bedroom to change into their most billowy dresses, thereby enhancing those mandatory fru fru effects.

What a ridiculous movie! How contrived! Quite blatantly, unapologetically hokey! Why, it's a veritable medley of mush. My Favorite Things: Corny. Edelweiss: Patriotic propaganda. The Puppet Show: Herd it got your goat. And what about the cute, chubby-cheeked five year old scooting up the stairs while bidding us So Long, Farewell: Say Goodnight, Gretl! You've got to be kidding, who would succumb to that von Trapp?
 

Yep, it became our family's new, all-time favorite movie! As I dabbed my weepy eyes for the twentieth or so time that evening, Chris & I watched our spinning daughters in a revelry of perfectly goofy contentment. And only had the heart to declare it bedtime when Katrianna, imitating a leaping Liesl, came up a little short on her 16^th going on 17^th  jump from the couch to the arm chair to the dining table....

The next morning found her still keyed up, kneeling at a mini electric piano playing the Do-Re-Mi-Me-Me scales by ear. M&K then spent the next several weeks in dual yodeling-guitar lessons with Dad, checking out every How To Waltz video from the library and performing elaborate puppet shows with several stuffed animals & one marionette that they'd previously ignored.

Compared to all that, our actual visit to Salzburg was pretty uneventful. In fact, I began to wonder if skipping the authentic Austrian Sound of Music guided tour, led & narrated by affable Australian expatriates, was a mistake. I'd seen the promotional videos, I knew what we were missing: It wasn't just the opportunity to enjoy an 8 hour bus ride in air-conditioned comfort. Nor the tourism superiority afforded by a tinted-glass advantage point 15 feet above the supposedly Smart cars. Neither was it the chance to chuckle at the Aussie's gentle comedic gibes aimed at tickling Midwestern American sensibilities. Fun! But what we were really missing most was the campy camaraderie of the sing-alongs. Where every single one of the fifty passengers broke into rounds of Climb Ev'ry Mountain, inhibitions be dammed, as they forded ev'ry stream to follow Maria's dream. (Not to be irReverent, but, oh Mother, that one really is irredeemable.)

We did our best to improvise on our own. Experiencing each sequential Sound of Musical setting elicited impromptu performances of How Do You Solve a Problem Like [Insert Choice of Family Member Name Here]? And, perhaps it's divulging too much, but Chris and I got a bit swoony beside Leopoldskroner Weiher, staring deeply into each other's eyes as we crooned, "And somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something wrong." Finally, when we longed to pay tribute to Dad by dedicating The Leder of the Band Hosen to him, accompanied by a suitable souvenir purchase on the Getreidegasse, he considered breaking up The Sarkar Family Singers in pursuit of a solo career.... It took an appeal to his greater sense of Schtoompah (Richard Scarry's "Funny Austrian") to suspender his indignant oompah. Will he never learn Das ist Jacke wie Lederhosen?

Lastly, one destination, though convent-ional, did prove especially memorable. Because we ended up trespassing (yes, again) while earnestly searching for a way to Get thee to a Nonnberg nunnery! Our first stop was the Maria Himmelfahrt Church, where we listened to the nuns chanting vespers. Honestly, they were out of sight, though their voices could be heard floating forth from the balcony on high. The chapel itself was empty, so M&K seized the wedding day, reenacting the marriage ceremony with Mikaela as the whistleblowing Captain and Katrianna playing a post-feminist Maria (sans wimple, yet demure).

Outside, as we wandered around the grounds trying to identify more Sound of Music-significant details, we found the gates open, the cloistered welcome mat seemingly beckoning us onwards. We were merely looking for the refectory, not being refractory. But just try telling that to the Head Nun, who rushed out to chastise us and replace the ORDAINED PERSONNEL ONLY sign to its rightful front & center order (it had been pushed aside... Nope, not by us - couldn't divine its meaning anyhow).

Yet what intrigued us most was that she'd been on the phone when we inadvertently glanced into her office. Surprisingly, it wasn't a cell phone, as one might expect at an abbey. But, a rotary dial, clunky receiver, crimson telephone with those lit up buttons. Similar to the Cold War red one at the White House -- and, rumor has it, at the Batcave? -- with its singular, blinking push-of-a-button omnipotence.



And then it occurred to me, who could she be talking to?



Whoa, did she have a direct connection, or what? But before I could ask for a turn, just to say a quick hello (can you imagine those long distance charges? then again, she must have the unlimited calling plan... think that includes free texting?), she sensibly shooed the barbarians back outside the gate (making short Stift of us). Truly, we hadn't meant to in-nun-date or upset her. And it really wasn't our fault, it's just a bad habit we'd gotten into.

So, anybody up for another showing of The Sound of Music? Albeit, I still contend it's not really a Christmas movie. Now that we have the dvd, we tend to watch it on Thanksgiving & Easter, too.
 

And just in case you're not one of the original 13.5 million world viewers, here's Belgium's take on The Sound of Music. Of course, we Americans aren't expected to have any discriminating taste... But what's their excuse?

We met Ben & his mom in a queue forming at the entrance to the Vatican Museums in the wee hours of dawn. Luckily, we'd arrived so early that we were the 1,032 - 1,035 people in line. (Ben & his mom had the enviable 1,030st  and 1,031st spots.) With nothing better to do (Ben was reading Harry Potter), these fine folks from Australia finally broke under our incessantly friendly banter. We discovered common ground by discussing shared concerns: the difficulties in working for a big company versus starting your own business, educational desires for our children and Barack or Hillary? Once everyone else in line heard that, they all moved in a little closer, encircling us, wanting to weigh in on the strengths of their favored candidate & ask for our -- as their American representatives -- votes. (McCain was never mentioned. But, to be fair, he hadn't named Sarah Palin as his VP yet...?)

Slowly (not that it seemed there was any hurry since the doors didn't officially open for two more hours and we wouldn't actually get inside for another three), Mikaela and an initially very shy Ben struck up a conversation about great world literature, uncovering that they'd both read every Just William cover and also very much liked Little Men (understandably, Ben refused to confirm that he'd either read or enjoyed Little Women). When he mumbled an explanation that nothing but a 27-hour flight from Sydney could have induced him to start the Harry Potter series, Mikaela immediately forgave him - as he had her, upon learning she'd not yet graduated from catechism classes & received first communion as he'd done just before taking this trip.  


The clique had been cast... lacking a Rubicon, we crossed ourselves and then the threshold of the Vatican's hallowed halls together, mutually agreeing that continuing to share this experience would be fun. We were all a little giddy, though that might simply have been the exhilarating rush of taking 5 or 6 unimpeded, speedy steps at a time...

Now "Mikaela's little sister" was there, as well, but up to that point Katrianna had not been getting her usual amount of attention. She was also at that age when grabbing the hand of anyone you liked was instinctual. It was her way of being amie-rous, nothing more. And Ben here was her new friend. But Ben was a much older man. "Ten and a half, to be exact." He was mature. He had a rep to think of...


However, Ben was also a gentleman. So he spent most of his time trying to figure out how to subtly disengage his hand without offending the young lady. Judging by his ever reddening face and perspiring brow, the anguish & anxiety it caused him were excruciating.

What made it worse was that Katrianna was a very distractible partner-in-arms. She'd regularly release her iron grip to bound off and get a better look at displays, like gleaming, gilded cases filled with relics or the collections of those intriguing, instructive instruments about which she was so Inquisitive (she admired others' vises, too). At other times, she'd let go in order to wave her own hand with a flourish in the direction of a particular Egyptian artifact to which she wished to command his attention. As she lectured on its merits and historical relevance, he ever so subtly wiped his palm with great vigor against the back of his pants. About two to three dozen swipes and he was awash with relief.

But, just as he was lowering his hand from the job of drying the condensation built-up inside his glasses' lenses - it must have been very humid that day inside the climate-controlled Vatican - she'd seize upon it again. Then gaze up at him adoringly, likely noticing the tears welling in his eyes but no doubt attributing it to his being overcome by the awe of her expertly performed docent duties. Accordingly, she said nothing. And instead sympathetically squeezed his hand a little tighter.

It wasn't until ¾ of the way through our four hour, self-[Katrianna]-guided tour that we learned that Ben had been sick the day before. What a relief that they'd still managed to get to the Sistine Chapel after a night like that! I understood perfectly: it was especially worrisome when a child felt poorly far from the comforts of home, not to mention the disruption it created in a family vacation abroad where every precious moment counted (at an exchange rate of 2.65:1).

For our final stop, we were pressed to squeeze a time-sensitive and CO₂-abundant religious experience out of the Sistine Chapel, where we rubbed elbows & just about everything else with those other 1,029 people who'd preceded us in line, as well as the roughly 8,965 who'd come later. Apparently, when I wasn't paying attention in that queue, everyone had agreed to convene there - in this 134' x 44' chapel space, about a third of which was roped off for restoration - all at once.

A captive audience! Mikaela took back the tour guide reigns, explaining Michelangelo's political misgivings with Pope Julius II and the rushed, noticeably less intricate & stylistically inferior sections of the of the ceiling that resulted. And, thanks more to the extremely detailed DK Italy guidebook than our own homeschooling studies, she told stories about the scenes and identified the various artists of each lower panel painting. When it came time to escape, I mean depart, Ben & his mom were part of the elect, I mean they elected, to skip St Peter's Basilica. Our day & dilettantes had gone on unexpectedly long and they were supposed to meet Ben's dad, all rested up from his alternate activity choice [nap], several hours ago... What a Pietà, not that I'm one to make Assumptions.

We made it to Pompeii the next day, but the morning after that Katrianna woke up with a stomach ache. Plans to see any more of southern Italy were thrown up out the window. We picked the shortest and supposedly fastest route home (our temporary quarters in France) - straight through the Alps. Certainly it was disappointing, but perhaps there was a silver mountain lining. I'd read descriptions of it before in Italian Baedekers and, sure enough, the Colle del Piccolo San Bernardo was very pretty, at its height with fall color and ear-popping altitude.  

And, yet, Katrianna was more and more unappreciative of all it had to offer with each and every of its hairpin turns. Too far along to turn back & nowhere to go but onward through the mountainous terrain, I vacillated between proceeding at a get-there-fast clip and, once a  succession of stomach turns drove home the necessity, a painstakingly slow 15 km, g-force-reducing rate. At moments, I would not have been surprised had I looked up to see Hannibal and his elephants not only passing us by, but also having a more enjoyable trip.

Of the many renowned drives we took throughout Europe, the Colle del Piccolo San Bernardo was truly the most scenic Rout of them all.

On July 4, 2007, we were in transit. Much to M&K's disappointment, we had to skip going on our annual patriotic picnic hike, listening to the symphony play John Philip Sousa tunes & watching fireworks from our usual, strategically-placed-blanket spot.
 
Not to worry. I assured the kids that missing the Fourth would soon seem less pitiable on July 14 when we would get to participate in France's Bastille Day activities and merriment. Every French teacher I'd ever had drilled it into our heads (it was perfectly tense) how superior and spectacular Bastille Day was in comparison to America's festivities. So, I suggested we rest up and Basteel ourselves for a rousing celebration de la Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité! (ou la Mort?)

It started off well enough with a hike through the mountains to the gnomadic alpine village of Valmorel for Corte D'Or ice creams. Its single strolling lane was lined with plenty of shops selling mementos decorated with Mickey Mouse or Hello Kitty, which was okay - we immediately understood that all trinkets are suitably French because, after all, they are called "souvenirs." Plus, the town square's morning program was full of endemic celebrations that likely could not be replicated anywhere else, such as displays of Balkan folk dancing against the idyllic backdrop of the French Alps.

But that's not all. There was also the nearby, larger town of Moûtiers which drew us with a promised "fête formidable with dancing in the streets, bien sûr." Turned out that its bustling avenues reminded us most of those found in Western ghost towns, as we aimlessly wandered across eerily quaint but abandoned bridges (bedecked with cascading flower baskets on the outside, and graffiti & litter - and, ever so momentarily, us - on the inside).

Eventually, we did find some townsfolk when we wandered into the seemingly empty Cathédrale Saint-Pierre of the Archdiocese of Chambéry. Yet, to our dismay, the devoutly dapper were not seated in attendance on the beautiful, heavy wooden pews fronting the gilded main altar or absorbing the delicate, multi-colored light filtering in through the church's windows. No, they were not in the side chapel either. Instead, Mass was taking place in what appeared to be a lean-to church annex - a low ceiling, windowless, wholly unadorned small room with folding chairs (similar to the set up in some start-up, strip center American churches). It was not due to heating or air conditioning concerns or for any other reason apparent to us, who sat in the airy main chapel in our blue jeans contentedly contemplating our faith... as well as the big, meaning-of-life questions that can only occur in the midst of centuries of organized religion's showy splendor, to which we concluded: 
Hey, if you're going to go to all the trouble of exacting tithes and exploiting medieval serf labor, you might as well get your money's worth - go ahead & live it up, take the plastic off the cathedral seat cushions & enjoy going gothic in the main chapel! Really, even many villages' "small" cathedrals are often awesome in the true (meaning, not George W's) sense of that word: the interior columns and arches are designed to make one automatically turn eyes upward to God, to put one's puniness in proper perspective & thereby inspire Heavenly thoughts, and, perhaps most importantly upon stained glass-reflection, to cause the humbled pilgrim to lay back in wonder just far enough so all the loose change spills from his pockets onto the floor (cha-ching! gotta fill those coffers somehow).
 
Undeterred, we set our sights on a night of feu d'artifice back at Valmorel's ski resort, its influx of party-seekers seeming to confirm it was "the spot" for a national bang-up gala. In reality, theirs was a modest fireworks display (some might term it a blasted bomb, pyrotechnically speaking). But Mikaela caught the spirit of the evening anyway & lit it up all the more by accompanying each explosion with graphic historical accounts of how the bourgeois' good intentions went somewhat astray. (Now isn't that just like homeschoolers? They really know how to completely ruin all the fun in a good, old-fashioned revolution!) 

Our revelry continued well into the enwee hours. In front of the fountain, a rock band played American covers and Katrianna verified its Americana authenticity by clapping her hands (over her ears & adamantly refusing to remove them - something she automatically does for similar music in the States). Finally, just as we were about to declare our Independence and go home, the dancing in the streets indeed began (actually, to be honest, it was square dancing) - of course, we joined in, all the while telling ourselves we think we can-can.

Overall, Bastille Day was an enlightening change of pace from our typical July 4ths in the U.S. We were happy to partake in all of the new cultural experiences France had to offer on this special occasion, despite the fact that there were none of the traditional amusements we'd originally expected - like frolicking games of Pin the Head on the Aristocrat (much anticipated by Mikaela), Storm the Prison & Free our Comrades sack races, or the undeniably thrilling, though life-threatening, Running of the Boules (probably for the best, as everyone knows boules fighting is justifiably frowned upon by PETA). Well, we globeschoolers continue to live & learn. Anyhow, as I recall (with a knitted brow, Madame?),
it was the best of times.

"Ummm... excuse me, but could you tell me where Isaac Newton's clapping hallway is?"

Katrianna stood on tiptoe to peer into the ticket booth at Trinity College's Great Gate.

"His what?"

Katrianna tried again. More than anything else at Cambridge, she wanted to see the hall where Newton tested his speed of sound hypothesis by clapping his hands and listening for the echo. Earlier that day, when driving to the university, our family voted on which college to visit based on limited time & expense. Katrianna convinced the rest of us that Trinity's Isaac Newton trumped all other notorious cards who'd attended our second choice, nearby King's College (we could save face(s) for another trip).   

She dejectedly walked back through the heavy wooden doors to report, "He said Newton didn't do the clapping experiment. It's just another tourist trap!"



Impossible! Could Rick Steves be wrong? All four of us simultaneously looked up to check the sky - nope, still intact. Katrianna pulled out her well-worn pocket travel log and made a tally mark - "That's #42, Mom."

Alas, once again, we would have to hold our applause. We consoled ourselves on the outside of Trinity's ivory towers (which looked a lot like exterior brick walls) by taking a photo of Newton's dorm window which faced the street and looked down upon a small apple tree.
 
"If I may, do you know who is up there above the gate?" asked a man who suddenly stood beside us, apparently taking it upon himself to point us in the right direction. (Verily, it was the same gentleman whose truth telling had taken its toll on Katrianna minutes before.)

Mikaela giggled self-consciously and Katrianna held her breath. "Ah ha," he thought, "I've got them!" But just as he was about to explain, Mikaela realized that his was not a rhetorical question and exclaimed, "Sure, doesn't everybody? That's Henry the Eighth!"

"And he had six wives!" jumped in Katrianna, who was busily leaping from cobblestone to cobblestone in a game of imaginary hopscotch.

The gatekeeper looked up to Henry and then back down at the girls with a quizzical expression. 

"Your turn?" Katrianna asked. Mikaela gave the nod. They took their positions - face to face, two feet apart. Mikaela cleared her throat. Katrianna attentively bounced in place. Their Henry VIII call and response commenced:

"Catherine of Aragon --"           "Divorced!"
"Anne Boleyn --"                       "Beheaded!"
"Jane Seymour -- "                   "Died of her own accord!"
"Anne of Cleves -- "                  "Divorced!"
"Catherine Howard -- "             "Beheaded!"
"Catherine Parr -- "                  "Survived!"

"Crikey, that's more than most English schoolchildren know!" He scratched his thinning silver crown and reconsidered, "I've been working here for over 30 years - that's more than most people at Cambridge know!"

He told us about the students' annual prank of stealing Henry's scepter and replacing it with either a chair leg or a broom handle. Indicating the globe held in the king's left hand, he next queried, "Do you know what an orb is?"

Evidently, unbeknownst to him, this was a multiple choice question, for Katrianna started, "O swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb..." And Mikaela finished, "Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere."

The poor fellow hadn't realized his miss fortune. M&K had spent months reciting that "orb" line from Romeo and Juliet's balcony scene and Mikaela had grown especially fond of the Twelfth Night quote after seeing it engraved on a statue of Shakespeare's jester in Stratford-upon-Avon. From then on, she seemed to find it applicable to any and all situations in Europe, even without such fortuitous prompting.

Additionally, M&K ran through their sing song rendition of Henry's greatest hits (on his wives) on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis  - it was part of their top 40 repertoire at the time. Besides DK or Michelin travel guides, we'd brought along only 4 books for this entire European trip (we'd agreed to "go light" & the limit was one book per carry on bag). The kids had never experienced such a dearth of literature and so had devoted themselves to memorizing the minutiae of The Complete Illustrated Guide to the Kings & Queens of Britain. (By chance, we'd found it on Border's 60% off clearance shelf just before our trip and, unlike the Don't Know Much about the Kings and Queens of England series or similar children's books that were considered "age appropriate," M&K were fascinated by its 250+ pages of stories and argued over whose turn it was to reread the best parts aloud as we drove around Great Britain.)    

[As far as learning English history for the even younger set, we liked an 1897 edition of Short Stories from English History by Albert F Blaisdell, a book passed down to us from Grandma's collection.]

Luckily, our self-appointed phantom of the tollbooth discerned (or forgave?) the jovial spirit of the girls' copious (or would that be quote-idian?) exuberance and graciously suggested, "Jolly good, now why don't you take a tour? You do have time to look around?"
 
It was getting late and most of the colleges were closing to visitors soon. "Well," I answered, "we just have this afternoon... And we'd hoped to see Newton's hall, but now that we learned the truth about that - thank you, by the way - we're pretty happy to see his tree here..."

His eyebrows went up (proof he adhered to a naturally principled philosophiæ). I calculated (though it seemed an infinitesimal differential), "Or a descendant of his tree?" He nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"We're thinking we'll go ahead to King's College." I'd unwittingly touched a nerve.

"King's College? Why there's so much to see right here! Come with me!" Immediately, he waved his arm and the gates to higher learning open sesamed.

We entered Trinity's vast courtyard together, but soon after our spontaneous guide noticed a bevy of VIPs congregating at the entrance. He quickly imparted instructions for us to stand in a very particular spot and he'd return for our answer to "What is significant here?" No doubt pleased by our puzzlement, he cried as he sped away (in much the same fashion as Alice's rabbit hurrying off for his very important date), "It's to do with the clock! Go, watch the clock!"

So, we compliantly bided our time in front of King Edward's Tower, taking care to steal only furtive glances at this side of Newton's paradise, aka an inside job view of Sir Isaac's dorm room. But our satisfaction was short-lived as we realized, in watchful ignorance, that we had no idea what he was talking about.


Was there a ghost of a chance that Hamlet's father was still lurking about up there? No, that was not to be, I was quite off the Den mark - he'd be over at King's College. Ah ha, the clock struck the hour! Surely now we'd learn for whom the bell tolls. From their tower roosts, disturbed doves fluttered about cooing secret messages to us, but regrettably their pidgin English was merely indecipherable squab(ble)s... Then, from the adjacent college, another tower's clock chimed out of sync - was that it, were we caught up in the chronic[ker] showmanship of rival superiority? Or, a once-in-a-sentry breach in the time peace? Whatever was the Greenwich meaning of this? I admit, I was getting ticked.

"Having a good time, all tickety-boo?" Our seer, mortarly bored of regents perhaps, had enthusiastically returned to us at last! However, his new hints were to no avail and finally he just told us that this was the clock featured in Chariots of Fire - the "stopwatch" timing Lord Burghley's famous run about the perimeter of the Great Court during its 12 noontime strikes. We never would have recalled that detail on our own, mostly due to the fact that the girls had not seen the movie and their parents had watched it in 1981. He'd done it! We were speechless. He then took pity on us and revealed that the scene's filming had actually taken place at Eaton College, not Cambridge, and that the Harold Abrahams character is erroneously portrayed as fleet footing it when historically Lord Burghley was the only runner to successfully beat the clock (yet not in 1919, preceding the '24 Olympics, but in 1927).

He escorted us to the chapel, lingered over a few more questions and then allowed us to tour the rest of the grounds on our own. It felt as though we had the place all to ourselves (well, with the exception of the omnipresence of our ol' pal, Newt, Sir Francis Bacon, Ernest Rutherford, Charles Babbage, Niels Bohr, John Dryden, Lord Byron, Alfred Lord Tennyson, A.A. "Pooh" Milne & William Makepeace Thackeray) and we were suitably charmed by its vanity fair. When we met up again with our host, he had one final question for Mikaela: "So, do you think you'd like to study here at Cambridge?"

Wishing not to offend him, a wise Mikaela summoned all of her tact, saw fit to spare him of her "homecolleging" plans and simply reverted to a schoolgirl giggle by way of response. "Indeed," he proffered, "we should have given you a degree already!"

The rest of our gloaming Cambridge evening was filled strolling along the River Cam like typical tourists and unintentionally finding ourselves trespassing through college yards and campus grounds (to which we were politely told by the guards to go back the way we came, essentially permitting us to freely explore many of the colleges' "backyards" and hangout spots at our leisure). There were more repeatedly surprising and remarkable conversations, as well: the first was struck up by a friendly biology professor & her teaching assistant; later, graduate exchange students wanted to compare impressions of England's attractions (and dwell on the weather's detractions); and finally, the local grocery store's chatty & inquisitive checkers were keen to hear all about our "brilliant" adventures throughout Britain, although they were incredulous that "there was anything interesting to do here in Cambridge?"



At the end of the day, it was clear to us that America's Southern hospitality and manners have some serious competition from the Brits' warmth and easygoing gentility. Not only that, but despite Mikaela's uni-lateral acceptance deferral, I readily consider this the kids' first college scholarship offer (at least in terms of its third degree potential?). Of course, it seems a mite presumptuous, but after all we obviously have very powerful connections with those in charge of Cambridge U's highly selective admissions process.

[Editorial note: We know, it's Oxford with the Rhodes Scholars program, but Cambridge has the Golden (Bill) Gates.]

Two households, both alike in dignity,  
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,  
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes  
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,  
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which but their children's end naught could remove,  
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which, if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
                                                                                            Prologue, Romeo & Juliet

On June 1st, Italian soccer star Luca Ceccarelli and his stellar girlfriend Irene Lanforti, both alike in dignity, got married in fair Verona. The mayor officiated at the ceremony in an effort to promote the city's romantic image, as well as a brand new $1300 bargain opportunity for other lovers to follow in Luca & Irene's footsteps (or in Romeo & Juliet's wake, as the case may be - my guess is that the price tag for the latter might be a bit higher, though, as it involves a double ceremony of sorts, so do check with your wedding planner in advance). In fact, they exchanged vows on Juliet's famed balcony, a destination which already receives 1.2 million pilgrims a year.

Only problem is that it's not Juliet's balcony. We jester not (we're no Shakespearean fools), we have this on high authority - that's right, we watch Rick Steves. Apparently, the Cappello family household, supposedly linked to the ancient Capulets, was actually occupied with "misadventur'd piteous overthrows" of another sort... indeed, it is reputed to have served famously as the neighborhood brothel. (Does this earn Luca a red light district card?) The balcony was added to the facade centuries after R&J's legendary tryst, but I wipe my civil hands clean of disparaging it any further.


The point is, by the time we got to Casa di Giulietta ourselves, it was a bit anti-climatic. All of us were jaded by visits to too many sightseeing attractions and - though it was subtle - we discerned that this one was yet another tourist booby trap. The whole idea of seeing Juliet like that rubbed M&K the wrong way, so none of us was disappointed when we arrived after closing time.

But, now, a flashback to the prologue of our own play on Romeo & Juliet:

M&K's Shakespearean melodrama had begun long before we entered Verona 'live and in person.' After several nights spent reading acts of the play aloud for "bedtime stories," we went ahead and scheduled Franco Zeffirelli's version for family movie night. They loved it and, naturally, it provided all manner of new family farcical fodder, like the scene where Romeo finds out Juliet is masquerading as a Capulet - dubbed the "Oh, Crap-ulet!" moment (yo, no disrespect). I very purposefully emphasized how silly R&J were to be so impatient, "doomed" and inclined to moaning - trying to make sure to counteract any over-romanticizing of the love story and its outcome (putting me in direct opposition to the dreamy Mercutio, thousands of English teachers who annually uphold this as the sacred epitome of tragic love, and the millions more afflicted with Sir Walter Scott disease in its many Harlequinesque manifestations). But, since they already knew about that sort of thing from Marc Antony & Cleopatra, I felt relatively assured that they were quite content to scoff at scars & won't be inclined to feel - or purposefully self-inflict - any wounds.  

Nevertheless, it did inspire them. We created an abridged script of the balcony scene and M&K began practicing at once...  so, May we humbly present Mikaela in the guise of Romeo and Katrianna as a r's rolling, Romeo-relishing Juliet:

And, since there was only one fair way to resolve "the ancient [actress] grudge that threatened to break to new [sibling] mutiny," Mikaela now assumes the role of a be-musing Juliet & Katrianna displays her best Zeffirelli-directed portrayal of the boysterous, love-struck Romeo:

Eventually, after all of this intense theatrical preparation in the states, the girls found themselves performing to wide acclaim across Europe. In nearly every village, town or city, in each & every country we visited, they sought out spare balconies, trespassed their stony limits & winged it to love's lofty heights to answer the summons of Shakespearean schmaltz. As you can imagine, many awe-struck, appreciative aficionados would stop what they were doing to listen (interpreted by M&K as a 'standing O') before resuming their mundane daily tasks, which peculiarly enough usually involved sweeping the dirt off their own balconies so that it cascaded, confetti-like, right onto Romeo & Juliet's upturned, praise-expectant bare heads.   


When we finally got to Verona following four months of "touring," our little troupers approached it with all of the enthusiasm of hackneyed actors on their 500th run of an off off-Broadway production. Their namesakes "up in graffiti" outside the gates of the Casa di Giulietta failed to amuse them. But, it was a beautiful, crisply cool night so we merrily romped through the medieval, marble-cobbled streets pretending to be the Montagues & the Capulets (improvising to add the snappy fingers & mandatory dance moves of the Sharks & the Jets, obviously). It was really perfect and oh-so authentic, all except for the fact that Tybalt, aka the Prince of Cat's, aka Chris, refused to change into the tri-colored tights I'd brought along especially for this occasion... clearly, men do not support the arts.

We strolled past Verona's colosseum and through a maze of fashion boutiques to Piazza delle Erbe, the expansive town square lined by herb vendors' carts, gleaming lights and freely flowing fountains of youths imbibing the nightlife. It was quite nice, but then we meandered around a corner and found ourselves in Piazza dei Signori, lorded over by a middle aged, supremo Dante who refused to tell us definitively whether we'd found Paradiso or, could it be, the infernal Cinema Paradiso? - certainly, his mute condescension proved to be a divine comedy at our expense.  Once more, we wandered on through an indescript opening in the walls and, magically, we were completely alone in yet another piazza facing the biggest, most imposing staircase and balcony we had ever scene!
 
That did it. The Sarkar Sisters Theater Company sprang into "Action!" Well, at least they tried to. Turned out that the final, moonlit performance of Romeo & Juliet actually started with the Intermission due to a minor glitch - when, upon inspecting the balcony to ensure its safety for the children, Mom was, at its vertex, suddenly struck with her fear of heights forgotten in all the excitement. No problem, there was only a slight twenty minute delay as Mom took to her hands and knees to crawl back down the 72 steps...
 
The dénouement of our Verona play date:

Truly, I don't know how I hadn't thought of this before. We always seem to overlook the obvious and what's right in our own backyard, don't we? But, thanks to the newly betrothed Mr. & Mrs. Ceccarelli and the fare-mayor of Verona, I'm adding The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas to our list of worldly, must-see sites. Of course, it's the home of the esteemed classic musical, valid reason enough. However, now I also realize we should be looking ahead and scope it out as an ideal spot for Mikaela's or Katrianna's future nuptials & afterparty. A wonder that it hasn't occurred to the fine, entrepreneurial folks at the La Grange chamber of commerce, ain't it? Just goes to show that we Americans still lag far behind in terms of European sophistication and literary nuance...     

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished;
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

My first encounter with fin de siècle Vienna was in a wonderful college freshman Humanities course which explored the connections in art, literature, music, architecture & politics at the turn of the 19th century. We debated the merits of Gustav Klimt and Oscar Kokoschka and their artistic license or licentiousness. We played with Arthur (Weiner) Schnitzler and learned what makes the world go La Ronde. We listened to the atonality of Arnold Schoenberg which, to my untrained ear, sounded like he kept losing his composer. We admired architect Otto Wagner who stated "Something impractical cannot be beautiful" and was the Ringstrasse's biggest proponent (until he was awarded the city's post office as his only commission and became its biggest detractor). Finally, our studies culminated in a field trip to see an opera in Cleveland, Ohio, the reputed home of the world's second best opera company and a cosmopolitan mecca where the more flamboyant professors could whip their scarves about in urbane fashion. But as much as I enjoyed learning about it, I never thought I'd visit Vienna.

A few years later, I taught a Viennese thinkers course to high school students. To buttress my weakness in architecture, on the fly I invited the math teacher's architect husband to lend us his expertise on the construction of the Ringstrasse. He also brought along his apprentice, who just happened to be from Austria and could provide invaluable verification, primarily through head nods, that indeed a particular building existed and was significant because he had seen it himself. Apparently it meant so much to him that we were studying his homeland, he "borrowed" my text and nostalgic sentimentality must have prevented him from ever returning it (even though he invited himself to all of our subsequent meetings). After such broadening cultural experiences, it crossed my mind that some of my students might one day visit Vienna in person, but I still never thought I would. 

Then I had kids. And repressed thoughts, or at least those which related to Sigmund Freud, Vienna secession or intelligentsia of any kind. Even after finding out we'd get to spend a few months in Europe, my focus was solely on Salzburg, Mozart & the Sound of Music. A typical protective mother, I was more than willing - when it came to my own little girls - to put Modernity on hold indefinitely.
 
But then 9 year old Mikaela read a Marie Antoinette biography, and then another, and then another. Schönbrunn Palace became, in her mind, the equivalent of visiting Disneyland. Above all other places in Europe, she wanted to go to Vienna on her birthday and eat cake with Maria Theresa, Maria Antonia & Franz Josef. (I know - because Mikaela told me - Marie Antoinette didn't really say "Let them eat cake." Sorry, I guess I just lost my head. . .) But still (Bastille?), it got me out of preparations for a usual kids' birthday party - you know, making those tiny guillotine-topped cupcakes or a homemade papier-mâché Marie Antoinette head piñata (which I'm sure would have been a bust). So I agreed. We would celebrate her fin-de-décennie in ten year old decade-ends.

Inside Schönbrunn Palace (which Marie Antoinette claimed was far superior to her shabby digs at Versailles), we took the Grand Tour and saw 40 of the 1,441 rooms, including countless trompe l'oeils that were absolutely necessary to give an illusion of spaciousness to the place, blue porcelain and silk tapestries aplenty, the Mirrors Room where 6 year old Mozart gave his first concert before plunking himself down on the Empress' lap to smooch, and all else that glitters and is gilded. But, mostly, we saw the backs of the other 1,441 tourists who were also let in during our 15-minute assigned entry time slot.
 
Mikaela served as our very informed tour guide, correctly identifying Maria Theresa's 16 kids in the Children's Portraits Room and explaining the advantageous political marriage-alliances engineered by their empressive mama. We saw Franz Josef's historically important billiard and walnut rooms where he held minutes-long audiences with hundreds of dignitaries in a day. In his Spartan study, we couldn't help but wonder at his incongruous, dedicated work ethic - he awoke to splashes of cold water in his face at 4 am each morning, knelt on a stool next to his iron cot-bed for lengthy prayers and denied himself all extravagance with the one exception of a built-in ashtray in the otherwise austere wooden toilet bench in his bathroom (installed only after he realized he could devote the saved time to state affairs - yes, both kinds).

Outdoors in the "back 400," the girls were thrilled to run through two hedge mazes & puzzle out the giant Labyrinth, which proved nearly as challenging as the game of constantly jumping out of the way of poorly skilled carriage drivers and their galloping horses on the crisscrossing walking paths. Adding to the drama, police cars, ambulances and firetrucks kept roaring by, sirens blaring, across the groomed grounds to places undiscovered. We never figured that one out, but eventually realized no one else found it extraordinary, so we went to the zoo.



We also climbed to the viewing terrace of Maria Theresa's home office (aka The Gloriette) and staggered kilometers and kilometers to "hit the wall" at the Roman ruins (rebuilt for the sake of tourism). When M&K realized the Privy Garden was aptly named, more for its smell than its secrecy, we were ready to call it a very long day.
Back in the van, a cranky Katrianna serenaded us with "The Blue Danube" on her souvenir Johann Strauss mini music box and we felt inspired to look for a romantic spot to spend the night waltzing (ok, camping) along the river outside of the city. We gave up after finding only industrial-lined tributaries in all directions within 50 kilometers of Vienna. Well, sometimes it hapsburgs and you just have to rococo with the punches. 

The next morning was spent cruising in dizzying circles around the Ringstrasse. Finally, we just decided to ditch the van and go on a fortifying walk. We strolled through the Heldenplatz gardens to Hofburg Palace, the royals' winter residence, and checked out the books at the Nationalbibliothek. We even saw the exercise field for the famed Spanish Riding School, but not the Lipizzaner stallions since they were literally put out to pasture at the time of our visit and no doubt had gone on holiday to horse around at the Cannes film festival. It was a let down after our rigorous preparation for seeing a live performance - we'd watched a whole Disney movie.

Of course, every museum along the Ring had must-see exhibits featuring Klimt, Kokoschka and Egon Schiele. We skipped in concentric circles around them all. Long ago M&K had seen works by these Austrian greats in a traveling 20th Century Art Masterpieces show at Houston's MFA and it had been a limited success in terms of enhancing their art appreciation. After five minutes of observing Jackson Pollock's Number 1 amid complete silence in a room full of art elites striking poses of profundity, a two year old Katrianna loudly proclaimed, "Mom, if he was gonna just scribble anyway, how come he only used black and white?" Even if those impressions had faded, I figured revisiting Gustav so I could deliver a more sophisticated explanation that his little black rectangles were phallic symbols of potent sexuality wasn't going to prove any more edifying for M&K this time around. So, we Kissed the chance goodbye, despite it leaving me feeling noticeably ver-Klimt.

Similarly, outside at 19 Bergasse, my Id dreamed of going in and seeking the famed analytical-psycho Freud (hysterical, isn't it?). But my Super Ego said no. Sigmund is unacceptably Beyond the Pleasure Principle, especially when in the company of minors, so I talked myself out of it and was cured. (Or maybe I just couched it in the unconscious, I can't remember.) Anyway, the Anchor Clock chimed that our session was over and I knew my time with the good doctor was up.

Along the murky brown Blue Danube, the road out of Vienna was a mess of torn up asphalt, construction cranes and traffic jams. However, it did allow plenty of time to observe the city's ubiquitous contemporary art: graffiti tags spray painted on every railroad trestle, bridge overpass and roadside wall. After not "being moved" by the fine art or the bumper-to-bumper bouchon as the thermometer hovered at 35 Celsius, we took a 90 degree turn into the fast (food) lane.

We pulled into a McDonald's to wait it out, get some drinks with ice cubes (unheard of anywhere in Europe except McDonald's, Pizza Hut or KFC - yes, they are all there) and appreciate the "architectural realism" of 21st century Austria which had fully embraced the structural form of golden arches. McD's was more crowded than any spot in Vienna, but this time it was not fellow tourists but locals who jammed in to criticize, and all the while enjoy, the restaurant's fine ambiance where they could listen to the American top 40 tunes - played nonstop there, without the interspersing of Austrian heritage music required of state radio stations. There were no seats to be had in the red & yellow booths below the hanging works of iconic portraiture, exquisite renditions of Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. So, we sat out in the parking lot beside the Blue Danube and watched a stream of guys in business suits who came after work to rakishly lean across their little cars and eat big macs. Along with fries and soft serve ice creams, M&K got a "biggie size" order of Vienna's modern realism.

On our extended trip to Colorado, a different sort of snow job commanded the attention of our family of flakes in the form of a blizzard. We don't ski, but we easily could have been mistaken for a bunch of lugers out there chillin' on the mountain. (Really - and I don't mean to brag - I could have sworn I heard a couple of snowboarders call us just that when they swooshed by...  true, it was a little muffled in the 70 mph winds... Down South, by the way, we call those gusts 'hurricanes' instead of 'wind resistance.') We went sledding down a perilously slippery slope that extended for quite possibly a whole 40 feet (even the bunnies were laughing at us - from their vantage point about 500 feet up).

And, not once during our outing did Ethan Frome's "smash up" slip slide away into the recesses of my psyche...  but, luckily, our day involved no desires under an elm, shattered pickle dishes or zeena-phobia.  [I hated that book when I read it at 16, but no amount of topical Wharton remover, applied liberally to my prefrontal cortex twice daily ever since, has proven effective in eliminating its imagery.] Overall, however, it was a very (very) cool experience!
  
During our time spent in Boulder with Bob and his wife, Chaya, we also went to the Dushanbe Teahouse, where the fine service, like the fine tea, apparently cannot be rushed. Once you enter the doors, time stops and all is at rest. We arrived just when we should have - not even close to tea time - and the place was nearly empty with tables plentiful, yet our seating preparation and the ceremonious setting of utensils took at least ten very consciousness-inducing minutes while we stood waiting at the cusp of enlightenment (which is located just inside the entryway, wedged between the hostess stand and mere millimeters from the swinging door - which I can only assume to be intentional and symbolic of our precarious position in the universe).  The unanticipated respite provided us abundant time to examine and accept the futility of our rushed lives and overly eager expectations, as well as gave Bob ample opportunity to select and purchase a tasteful souvenir. When Chaya asked if she could have milk in her tea, the waiter deliberated and answered philosophically 'Why, yes, he thought she might' which he emphasized by agreeably nodding his redhead. It took quite a bit more prompting to move him out of the realm of possibility and into the actual delivery of the milk, but the result, of course, was our deeper appreciation of each and every aspect of our tea time, as well as a savoring of the teahouse staff's superior understanding of the subtleties of service. Truly, at the famed Dushanbe teahouse, my cup runneth over.  

And, now, a final metrospective: Boulder is, due to a tremendous amount of concerted effort on the part of its citizenry, just a bit quirky. Everybody drives either a Prius or a VW van converted to run on veggie oil, conscientiously rehydrates with only organic beer after Bolder Boulder training runs, climbs rock walls in 100% hemp laced birkenstocks or spins around on their tandem bicycles (outfitted with a modified second seat to accommodate their dog who pedals like mad in an effort to reduce its carbon pawprint). There is also a plethora of "Keep Boulder Weird" bumper stickers & paraphernalia, yet I am required by Texas allegiance (& the desire to avoid another scuffle with state patrol border guards on the way back in), to take umbrage and point out that their beloved mantra was plagiarized, lifted verbatim from Austin, TX. True, it is hard to blame Boulderites since that wording is so profound and evocative. May I humbly suggest they try something more local, a pithy summation that is indicative of their own region instead? I got it, how's about BOULDER: WE'RE FULL OF CROCS!

I don't know, it might need some tweaking...  Perhaps Austin just had beginner's luck coming up with our so emulated slogan & no city should expect to coin something that achieves transcendent, world famous status. Oh, shoot, I just remembered the Alamo... Guess it's time for us to return to the only state that can rightfully claim to have the highest density of original weirdos in the nation!




Great (Dave) Scott! I didn't mean to resort to Lance strong Arm tactics there...







P.S. For the record, during our visit to Boulder, we did not once catch sight of Mork nor Mindy. But, I did see several characters who I suspect might be aging backwards... either that, or they're new aging. I admit I can't tell the difference.

Today, President Obama met with British Prime Minister Gordon Brown. As much as I support and admire Obama, his glaring diplomatic misstep in the press conference afterwards was a bit embarrassing. And I quote BBC news, 

"Asked about their personal rapport, Mr Obama said they had 'spectacular wives and wonderful children in common'."

That's all fine and good, but I'm afraid Obama was merely showing his neophyte understanding of interpersonal and political dynamics by citing such a transparent and superficial connection. Proof? Well, when George W was asked about what he had learned after a crucial first meeting with Tony Blair, he was ready. Relying on all of his years of international experience and personal charisma, Dubya stunned the world with his incisive grasp of the relevant when he responded: "We both use Colgate toothpaste."

To his credit, however, Obama recovered somewhat when he noted: "Great Britain is one of our closest and strongest allies and there is a link and bond there that will not break."

To what bond is Obama referring? Some might think it's our common heritage under British rule. Or, perhaps, our shared preference for English muffins over a breakfast bagel. It could simply be the use of the English language (or a semblance thereof in the case of US leaders that make me wax nostalgic).  But, all true policy pundits immediately know what Obama was getting at. The real tie that binds us Americans to our British compatriots -in-spirit is one thing and one thing only: really bad jokes.

(Could it be that Bush was inadvertently and unwittingly more astute than we all realized?  I guess we'll just have to do like he says and "See what the history books decide." Oh, I can hardly wait.)

Obama clarified: "This notion that somehow there is any lessening of that special relationship is misguided... The relationship is not only special and strong but will only get stronger as time goes on." Gordon Brown concurred, stating, "I have come here to renew our special relationship for new times. It is a partnership of purpose born out of shared values."

They both went on to warn about the dangers of isolationism and the prosperity that is certain if we all refuse to "'project inwards' by encouraging protectionism." I wholeheartedly agree. If we cannot come together with our English cousins in fair and equal comedic commiseration, with an unfettered exchange of goods, services and puns in particular, how can we ever expect to find common ground on other, less significant issues like preventing world economic disaster? Let's learn from our past. It wasn't called the Great Depression for nothing.

I didn't really need this segueway to discuss bad British humor as a means of excusing my own. I admit I've been feeling sheepish and somewhat apologetic about my pun-laden prose since this blog's inception and have been mulling how to go about redeeming myself intellectually ...  But, just yesterday, I caught sight of this headline on BBC's front page news:

            Wheely bad: Thefts hit Paris bike scheme

With that, I feel absolutely no need to recuse myself from future blogging and the lofty heights to which I pun. Besides, even Shakespeare includes a healthy smattering of puns in his plays, so I figure I'm in good company. (True, his use of such undignified humor was an attempt to amuse and thereby quell the low-class, raucous urchins who occupied the pit of his Globe... But, then again, how is his writing so different from mine?   Now, if you keep reading, blame only yourself.) 

I am not asserting that England has any claim to superiority in comedy. For instance, despite calling myself an English major, I never ever could tolerate Monty Python marathons - any clever allusions in Holy Grail are unmercifully negated by chauvinistic slapstick that fully escapes my sensibilities. And, despite his eerie resemblance to my husband (at least according to several of my admiring/bewildered students), Mr Bean does little for my desires to relax heavy & punitive protectionist taxes on imported humor.

But, in terms of "the man on the street," in our travels thus far, we consistently find the grandest rapport with the gentlefolk we meet in Great Britain. (No slight intended to Joe Six-Pack, Main Street America, you betcha!) Sure, part of it is our common language, but it is also a shared willingness to use language for inclusion, nuance and a certain joie de vivre. (Mais oui, bien sûr, that is borrowed French...  but the French too often miss the point, so it's okay to appropriate their phrases. Besides, the girls and I actually speak French, but, in our months there, we enjoyed little in the way of repartee or outreach beyond our being repeatedly corrected on the pronunciation of Juuuuuules Verrrrrrrne. Quel dommage. Zut alors!)

Two examples of England's convivial conversationalism occurred in Dorchester. We'd gone there on a quest for Thomas Hardy, but then got sidetracked by King Tut. (Isn't that always the way?) We'd arrived a little later in the afternoon than we'd hoped, meaning we'd just missed the admission hours for Hardy's home tour, so we found ourselves with an unexpected Hardy hometown respite.





We strolled over to the Mayor of Casterbridge's house, took an obligatory photo while we tried unsuccessfully to recall the plot of said novel, & wandered around until we serendipitously entered the world-famous, two-roomed Dorchester Museum. (Travel tip: The exceedingly friendly receptionist talked us into purchasing the more economically-advantageous family annual membership, so that, in the likely event that we did not complete our perusal of their expansive collections, we could enjoy unlimited return visits.)














To my young Egyptologist's delight, the touring exhibit on display was that of actual replicas of King Tut objects, most of them in the ultra-realistic medium of wax (allowing us to skip a visit to Madame Tussaud's, so it was worth every pence). Lest you doubt the thrill of this experience, let me brag on and say that the ticket included an added sensory bonus - when we entered the makeshift tomb, it was exactly as it had been the moment Howard Carter broached it in 1922, down to the odiferous supplementary whiffs authentically discharged from a retrofitted Glade plug-in.  This diversion was not on our planned itinerary, but it was nonetheless edifying. Indeed, before that moment, I'd never known King Tut was a Hardy boy...






I know, there's no humor in that. I'm getting to the funny part now.












When reentering the light of day and 2007, we squinted and rubbed our eyes only to find ourselves amid festive preparations for the Queen's grand procession. Apparently, Dorchester is the only town in all of merry England still permitted to assemble a queen's volunteer militia.  We found a place among the waiting throng of Dorchester's multitudes, when my husband loudly quipped, "What are we all waiting for? A public hanging?" From the elderly gaggle of ladies next to us came: "Certainly, of Tony Blair." With that introduction, they graciously forgave us for being Texans, and we all immediately and with ease proceeded into a discussion of the merits of public beheadings and the foibles of the various King Georges on both sides of the Atlantic.  We were having a jolly old time, but weren't sure if they were just humoring us Yanks from o'er the pond, when we suddenly realized our amusement and delight was genuine and mutual. While we were passing the time in anxious anticipation of seeing one of the women's husbands marching by in his regiment, I'd glanced up just long enough to become disconcerted by a man passing us with a ridiculous, leering grin aimed right for me and my young daughters. I dismissed it, as our little group's hilarity and social protocol regained my attentions. It wasn't until we looked out onto any empty street that the woman realized the whole parade was finished and she'd forgotten to even notice her husband...  we quickly exchanged pleasantries and cheerios as she ran off to find him. It was only much later, when I got our pictures developed and again saw that scary old man so intent on catching our eye, that I realized I had seen her shining knight-at-arms after all.

After such excitement, we elected to pass that night in Dorchester and resign ourselves to a drive by (photo) shooting of Hardy's home at dawn.  I'd read in my handy guidebook that Max Gate, the name given Hardy's residence, was now a National Trust site, as well as a semi-private residence occupied by a couple who were esteemed members of the Thomas Hardy Society. Visiting days and hours where very limited, with tours seldom offered, and we'd missed our chance due to being so understandably caught up by the festive regalia and charms of Dorchester. Arriving that morning outside of the gated compound at the edge of town, and finding that its sign verily confirmed that we were not welcome until 3 days hence, Chris consoled himself by stealthily trespassing to snap a memento (we are Americans, after all). Fortuitously, in the garden, he tripped over the cord of the electric weedeater wielded masterfully by Sir Andrew, aka custodian of the estate.  We've all read enough Hardy and Dickinsonian English tales to know what happened next, have we not?  That's right. We were all invited in for tea and a spontaneous, gratuitous, private tour of Hardy's home. We flipped through pages in Hardy's personal photo albums as we were regaled with as much Hardy lore as we could heed.


Much to our surprise, we were told that Hardy was a sentimental man. He loved animals and had several pets. In fact, the caretaker continued, when a pet died he carved and engraved a tombstone for each of them with his own hands.  In particular, he recalled, Hardy had loved a cat named Snowball. But one day, tragically, Snowball had made his way over to the railroad tracks and was fatally struck. Hardy was devastated. My girls listened intently and nodded somberly. Oh, to be privy to such intimate details, we all felt privileged. He next insisted that we follow him outside and around the grounds to Hardy's pet cemetery, a quiet, shady grove scattered with a few small, stone markers. It was tranquil and humbling to stand there, where Hardy had taken such care of those dear to him. Our guide pointed out the names - a lap dog there, his wife's favorite collie here... Finally, he carefully directed our attention to a headstone which read "Here Lies Snow." And, a few feet over, "Here Lies Ball."  Only then, did he emit a hardy laugh at our expense.

As his wide smile displayed his gleaming white teeth which glistened in the English sunshine, it made me wonder, "Could it be he uses Colgate, too?"