Heaven through the eyes of a child

So Reid has been talking a lot about heaven a lot. . . . where is it, when will he go, is Mimi there? I have been pretty good about answering most questions until he really stumped me the other day. We were walking home from school and he looked up in the sky and asked "Mommy which cloud is the heaven cloud?" I looked up and really didn't know what to say. How do you explain heaven to a four year-old? Finally I answered "It will be the most beautiful cloud you will ever see. If I ever see it I will show it to you." He seemed pretty satisfied with that answer. . . for now.

Ravello

So this year was a big birthday for me (still having a hard time adjusting) and instead of having a party to celebrate I thought it best to escape. Andy Reid and I went to Ravello on the almalfi coast. It was perfect. It is this tiny little village hanging on to the edge of a cliff. We stayed in an old monastary and because it was January we basically had the whole place to ourselves.

The first night we ate dinner at this little restaurant where the husband took our order and the wife was back in the kitchen cooking. She later came out and asked us if we like it and scolded Reid for not eating enough. “Mangia! Mangia!” she tells Reid and then brings out an arm full of oranges for him to eat. We liked it so much we ate there the next night too.

The next day we went to Villa Cimbrone and leisurely strolled through their gardens. I found where I want to renew my vows! It is this terrace that over-looks the world. It is called the Terrace of Infinity (or something like that). It was amazing! Unfortunately Andy would not step foot on it (afraid of heights) so it looks like I will need a “stand in” for the renewal service.

‘death by needle’ bin

The other day Kate and I had some blood work done for a physical. A local lab was recommended by the Embassy Health Unit. Kate went back to get her blood drawn while I filled out paperwork. After I finished with the paperwork I went into the next room to find the doctor squirting kate’s blood from the ‘plunger needle thing’ into an open-aired tube. I always assumed that the blood container was directly connected to the needle. I guess not in Italy. The blood was just sitting there with no top. It was daring me: “I bet you’ll faint - you wuss”. “No”, I countered. “I will NOT faint”.

And I didn’t faint. Score one: Andy. Then it was my turn with the needle...

It started off so well. The doctor stuck in the needle in, plunged away, and then squirted it into the glass tube. No fainting. Score two: Andy. The doctor put a bandaid on, and then walked away while saying something in Italian. Kate walked out of the room to pay the bill. I felt sure of myself, and so decided to walk around the room a bit. Everything was fine until I got to the corner where the biohazard bin was located. In the U.S. the biohazard bin is sealed and locked, with a one-way hole to put stuff in. Not in Italy. As you can see by the picture, it was just an open box filled with bloody used equipment. What’s hard to see in the picture is the blood splattered on the wall, as if the doctor throws the needles like a frustrated writer throws a crumpled up piece of paper into a trash can. I snuck a quick photo with my phone and didn’t get caught - score three: Andy.

As I put the phone back in my pocket I looked down to see my bandaid covered with blood. Looks like the doctor nipped an artery. Then I started to faint. Game End: Italy wins again. “Kate!” I yelled as a stumbled back (fortunately not forward into the ‘death by needle’ bin. Kate ran in. Then came the doctor. They laid me down. The doctor said something again in Italian, and made hand gestures to insinuate that I needed to keep my elbow bent and direct pressure to the bandaid. (I guess that’s what he said before - I need to learn Italian...).

Reid’s first day of school

We decided Reid should start school right after christmas. Andy and I decided to enroll him in an Italian school with the hopes he would become fluent in Italain. These are purely selfish motives, as we look forward to the day he can be our permanent translator. That, and the school is literally 3 blocks down the street. After much anxiety the big day arrives. Reid was very excited for his first day. It was all smiles as we got dressed, ate breakfast, brushed our teeth, and off we went.

Upon arrival the scene was truly Italian: kids running everywhere, frazzled teachers, and nuns walking the halls. It would be an understatement to say it was overwhelming to a child who likes to eat his peas one at a time. It was probably closer to a night mare. But like good parents we are we left him to his fate. When I came to pick him up he seemed a bit shell shocked. “They don’t speak any English” he tells me astonished. “But that’s ok”, he continues “I only got into two fights...” Since that day school has a bit of an adjustment for our little guy. He likes it when we travel because he doesn’t have to go. And he has recently informed us that he refuses to learn Italian... rats! our plot has been foiled.

Move in, ship out.

I never thought that anything could have been more chaotic than the two days that the movers packed up all our earthly belongings and put them in crates bound for Italy. But then again; everything's more caotic in Italy. The entire move-in process was typical italian. The delivery date was pushed back. And then pushed back again. But when the day finally arrived - it started surprisingly optimistic. I looked out my window at 9:00 and saw a bunch of smoking italian movers outside the gates to our apartment building. But alas, there was no truck. The movers yelled up something in italian and circled their hands around and around. Our portiera (doorman) yelled up and translated: "parking problems". Of course the movers wouldn't plan ahead and reserve a section of the road in order to parrallel park. That would be too efficient. Instead, around and around the block went the large truck, dodging small euro-cars while the movers yelled and threw their arms at anyone who looked like they were walking to their cars to leave. Finding one spot outside our apartment is tough. Finding three in a row for a moving truck to pull in takes a small miracle. The Pope must have woke up around 10:00, because that's when they finally found a spot large enough to pull in.

The second day started much like the first, with italians either not learning or not caring about the first day's parking delay. Then came the boxes. They came, and came, and came. Kate and I didn't know we owned so much stuff. Only their "face man" knew English. Whenever we heard a crash or bang, he was always the person who came running. The movers were nice and respectful - having the charm only a hard working, middle-class italian can have (author's note: a hard working middle-class italian has multo cafe' and smoke breaks). As with every move - some things broke. Other things that you wish broke didn't. But in the end everything went surprisingly smooth. Although the Embassy pays for the moving company to unpack the boxes and take away the extra packing material, the italians initially fought back. But Kate held their feet to the fire. At one point it looked like the kitchen exploded. I couldn't even walk in it, and every inch of counter space was covered with plates, silverwear, bowls, tuperware, and appliances. The floors were covered with half-opened boxes, and packing material. Kate and an italian kid that looked to be in college were unpacking. Neither spoke eachother's language and there was a lot of hand pointing. We worked our tails off. By the end of the second day (with help from my mom who was visiting) we unpacked most everything. Our house was finally turning into a home. No more echos through the marbled halls or broken ikea rental furniture. It was something we would enjoy for a whopping three days - until I left for an extended work trip to the middle east and kate left for the U.S. for eight weeks. But when we eventually come home - we can at least come home.

For the plane ride out here Reid was given a tiny pirate ship lego set from Grandma.  The legos were a success - they kept Reid entertained for a while on the plane.  We knew that half would be lost in the cracks of the seat, or the bowels of the plane.  And it's been over two months from then - so there's probably a third of the original amount of legos.  But that didn't stop my little engineer.  Unbeknownst to Kate and I he worked and worked on that pitiful little collection of legos this afternoon.  After an hour he came into the living room with a big smile on his face.  "Look guys, I made a pirate ship".  It was astounding.  Every piece was used, and it really did look like a little boat.  To go along with the Pirate Ship he had the 'dock', which was his friend 'Rocky'.  Rocky is his pet rock we made him when none of the other kids at the park spoke English, and we didn't have any new toys for him to play with.  (Reid's not the only one that gets resourceful).  Looking at his ghetto pirate ship and pet rock, Reid taught me a lesson on contentment (something God has been teaching us since we've moved here).  Just shows you God can use anyone to teach anything.

America's Largest Export

In the past two months I've traveled to 5 countries on two different continents.  No matter where I travel, one constant remains the same - American music plays in the background.  Ironically, this is especially true if the country primarily doesn't speak English.  While transiting the airport in Paris I was in the business class lounge, and Nelly Furtado was over the loud speaker.  In the Congo no one spoke English (they all spoke French).  I was staying in the Membling Hotel. The lobby sported a combination of Michael Jackson and Miles Davis.

Living in Italy Kate and I often say the most frustrating thing is the language barrier.  Once you leave the tourist district, no one speaks English.  Yet, every taxi car plays American pop.  In Bucharest, Romania the gruff taxi cab driver only spoke enough English to have a short, polite conversation.  But he knew every word to Miley Cyrus' (i.e. Hanna Montana's) "Party in the U.S.A." that played over the radio.

My favorite example was in Salzburg, Austria.  For dinner I went to this local joint where I had to brush up on my German to order the goulash  and venison schnitzel.  I was the only tourist in the restaurant, and received the dirty looks to prove it.  Everyone was speaking German, and the music playing in the background was a mix of Celine Dion, LL Cool J, Dusty Springfield's son of a Preacher Man, and a country song about buying a Mercedes Benz.  

If America's largest export is its culture via Hollywood's music and movie industry, I have to wonder if we're putting our best foot forward.