January 11, 2007
Dear all,
The tree is down, the parties are over (My favorite
event being Js company Christmas party-a black tie
affair. I managed to toss two DIFFERENT shoes into
the suitcase (Thankfully, there was at least, one right and one left).
Didn't I look the part of the good
corporate wife in one 2 inch sling back shoe, the
other a 3 inch strappy number?! So, THAT was a good
ice breaker.). Currently, everyone in England is
detoxing. I'm serious. It is widespread. A hostess
will say to you, "Wine? Coffee?" and then hushed,
with a wrinkled nose, "Or are you detoxing?" Of
course, we're not detoxing...
The kids get a month off for Christmas and we used
every moment of it. School let out and I had just
enough time to wash a few school uniforms (bigger
house, still no dryer) before we jumped on a plane
bound for Verona and Venice. What can I say about
Italy that hasn't been said countless times before?
It is beautiful and the food is divine? Cliches, but
true. Italy's hype didn't let us down. What I was
completely unprepared for, however, was the discovery
of a base and shallow person that I never knew existed
within myself. The delicious Italian shoes, handbags
and fashions awoke a part of me that apparently, had
been lying dormant. I wanted everything. I pressed
my nose up to every shop window without shame. I
ached to be a tall, thin Italian woman just so I could
pull off the full length fur coat, cinched at the
waist with a thick, black patent belt and worn with
spiked, buttery leather boots. Hair: jet black and
trendy. Always sunglasses. I wanted everything: the
supple shoes, the hand tooled books (such old world
craftsmanship that a simple Harry Potter book becomes
a work of art, priced at over $900), the funky
Venetian glass, the hip eye wear, the marbled paper
and even a hot Italian guy or two. Everything was
crafted with love and pride (young Italian guys
included). The hot chocolate was decadent, like
steaming melted chocolate bars, cream on the side. I
morphed into Veruca Salt just before she was deemed a
bad nut, thrown down a shoot and the Oompah Loompahs
chanted about her demise.
We travel the world with a little man who demands we
keep things simple. While J and I secretly
fantasize about returning to every destination without
children, we are grateful to slow down and see the
world through children's eyes. This trip was no
different. A was again the star of the show, with
everyone rubbing his blonde head. A and R
could have happily remained covered with pigeons all
day in St. Mark's Square ("No, we cannot bring any of
them home...") while J and I sat at a cafe on the
square wearing sunglasses and drinking strong Italian
coffee, trying to look cool. The waiters offered
S wine every evening, much to M's
frustration.
We came back home in time for lunch with Santa at the
Queens Hotel in Cheltenham. Back to balmy weather and
bad service. Our Christmas was happy and relaxing.
We had a New Years Eve party as last year our New
Years Eve was spent tragically homesick. The party
was good fun and it kept us rocking until 4 a.m..
That is fairly late for a four year old who was up two
nights earlier until 2:30 a.m. I fully expect a visit
from Family Services.
M had his adenoids removed and had nasal surgery
January 3. We went "private", which means you go to a
non-National Health Service hospital, you actually get
to chose your surgeon and (choke) you have to pay
ahead if you do not carry English medical insurance.
We were told it would all be very "American". It
wasn't. First of all, because all the private doctors
work for the NHS, you are assigned a time and date for
surgery around the doctor's NHS schedule. Our ENT is
allowed to work with private pediatrics one evening a
month. If that date isn't convenient for you, you
wait until next month. Most startling, the ENT who
was recommended was called "Mr." Hamilton. "Not 'Dr.'
Hamilton", I asked? No, the Brits have some kooky
reason why surgeons are called Mr. Also, they call
nurses "sister". Last year, in one of my life's
greatest moments of embarrassment (worse than the two
different shoes episode), I actually asked a nurse who
looked like a bit of a tart if she was a nun. She
almost fell down laughing, grabbing other "sisters" to
tell them what I had asked, all of them becoming
crippled with laughter, as I stood there wishing I was
dead. Anyway, the private hospitals are not quite the
American spa/country club hospitals we are used to.
The first one we went to for the consultation was
outdated and drab. M and I killed time by
staring at the carpet playing a fun game called, Guess
That Stain. Despite looking just like a Travelodge,
the hospital in which M had his surgery was
small, but clean (They are forever shutting down
hospital wings here due to nasty viruses that
"mysteriously" kill a dozen people before someone
remembers to toss a bit of disinfectant around.). The
Mr. did a wonderful job. And because he stayed
overnight for observation we were both well cared for
by the sisters.
We have been abundantly blessed. May God bless you
with a year filled with happiness, health and
laughter.
Hopefully attached are a few pictures of us
in Italy.
With love from England,
T-Ann