Bopril

Weekendings: Best When Water-Filled

It seems as though life might interfere with our annual 4^th of July plans at the lake, and so we made a last minute decision to head there for a relaxing weekend. I had taken Thursday and Friday off work in a sad attempt to use up my vacation days before they expire, and the weather promised to be kind to us, and so we went.

Thursday evening we road tripped for the second time in as many months---just us and the open road, guided by a late-night moon, the beat of our tunes and the quiet created when each of us surrendered to the pull of our thoughts. The trip began with animated conversation and laughter as we devoured the impromptu picnic I’d prepared to avoid gut-rot courtesy of the food available at rest stops between our destinations. But eventually, we settled into that comfortable place that comes after years together, when you can enjoy silence---alone, and yet so completely together.

Friday was chilly and a bit dreary, but perfect for lakeside reading wrapped in cozy towels with a fur babe snuggled on each side. I tore through three books and adored every minute of it.

Saturday and Sunday gave us bright blue skies and gentle breezes and we checked out the lake by pontoon boat and by wave runner and by kayak. I think if I could begin every morning greeting glass-surfaced water with the left to right rhythm of a paddle, I’d be infinitely more relaxed and would happily boast well toned arms. There is a lot more kayaking in my future, is what I’m saying.

A rogue wave tried to abscond with Jack when he got a little too close as I was attempting to gracefully exit the kayak, but I quickly grabbed him after only a few seconds of furious swimming with all four paws. Husband showed quick reflexes and Hero worthy moves when he deftly scooped Cooper from the water between the dock and the boat lift where he slipped in after running a bit too close to the edge. And we also took an unexpected dip while pausing astride the wave runner to take a closer look at a new-ish house on the lake’s perimeter. A lean too far in one direction dumped us both in one quick flip, but miraculously we were able to drag ourselves back onto the seat without much fanfare.

Unexpected dips into the lake aside, it was the sort of weekend that wraps up every summer staple into the perfect package. The sort of weekend where the Sunday sads came much later than usual, if they come at all. The sort of weekend that you just want to live again and again.

Here’s to lazy days of bright blue skies and yellow kayaks, and evenings full of smoky scented s’mores. Happy summer!

Cinque Terre

At last, let's talk about the final stop of our much loved, long awaited Italian adventure.

We finished our trip with a few days on the coast discovering the five darling towns of Cinque Terre. It isn't really a place that you can capture in words and photos, but it grabbed me by the heart and I know two things for sure: 1) I will never forget our time there, and 2) without question, we will return.

It's the sort of place that challenges reality; you honestly can't believe it exists. Stunning views at every turn, sleepy villages built into the mountainsides with panoramic line of sight to the ocean thousands of feet below. You look out to the horizon and see nothing but sea in all directions, but it doesn't feel desolate, it just feels peaceful. Comfortable. Like coming home.

I adored every minute and every stop of our Italy travels, but I am a coastal girl at heart, and this place brought out the best in me. We weren't able to do the full hiking experience due to an extra long rainy season that had the trails closed for fear of mudslides. I suspect they opened about a month after we left, and it is now on my life list to return and hike them in full. We did do the infamous "lover's walk" from Manarola to Riomaggiorre, and it was lovely. We stopped to take photos all along the way, and to inspect the locks and trinkets left by people all over the world who had traveled our same path. I posted updates to Facebook while we were on the walk, and immediately several people replied with their own endorsements of the same experience. It seems that everyone who visits leaves truly touched by this special place.

I think about Cinque Terre quite often; I close my eyes and remember sitting at the water's edge when the sun went down. I think about the full afternoon and evening we spent sitting at a table on a cliff. We drank wine and prosecco and ate jams and breads, and talked and talked. It is truly the sort of place that is so difficult to leave, you can actually see yourself forgetting the "real world" and moving there full time. I'd open my own cute shop or restaurant or gelato stand and interact with people from all over the world, every day. I'd hike and kayak and swim and take ferry rides and travel all over Italy and Europe. 

I'd endure thirty rocky train rides on dirty cars to get there again. It's a special part of the world, and I am so thrilled that I was able to experience it.

Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore---you captured my heart with your magic, and I will be back.

Summer, Is That You?

So far, summer has been incredibly weird here in the Windy City. It's barely shown up at all, as a matter of fact. A few picture perfect days have slipped in amidst the gray and rain and chill and blah, and we even saw a few days of scorching heat a week or two ago (not that I enjoyed it or want that particular temp to return), but on the whole, it's as if the city has forgotten how to do summer.

We have needed hoodies for the majority of our walks, and could have justified gloves on a couple of particularly chill worthy days. The state of the weather didn't deter us from welcoming summer the way we do every year---with our typical dose of hoopla and fun lakeside---but it certainly put an interesting twist on Memorial Day weekend.

Things that were the same (aka normal): feel-good runs around the lake, plenty of time for indulgent reading and relaxation, yummy family time, grilled food galore and lake-gazing at the end of the dock, lost in thought as the wind churned waves rolled in around us. 

Things that were not the same (aka wackadoodle): temps of FORTY-SEVEN degrees the first two days we were there, tornado warnings, nasty storms that upended trees, ripped off portions of roofs, and tossed patio furniture all around. Being without power for fifteen hours. Reading at the end of the dock wrapped in a hoodie and a towel with extra towels for blankets. Insane temperature ranges---low forties upon arrival, but the gauge in the card read 106 when we left to head back to the city. Bazar.

We made the most of it though, and rocked our long holiday weekend as hard as we always do. We just had a few different experiences this particular year.

Uncle Kevin ditched his beard, and it is unanimous that the new look is much improved:

After a decent day of enjoying outdoor time, albeit wrapped in extra layers, a storm blew in quite speedily and put on a thunder clapping, lightning flashing, wind whipping show:

We lost power almost immediately, and were without it the rest of the night. We improvised, and got quite cozy. It is certainly one of those times, though, when the merits of switching to e-readers are overshadowed by the simple truth that an actual book will never need to be plugged in. :)

Mother Nature made up for the insane storm in the form of a most rad sunset that we were thrilled to soak up from the dock:

It was an odd beginning, but a beginning all the same. And as we do every year, we happily welcomed the season of sunscreen and pruny fingers and s'mores in one of our very favorite places.

Happy summer, friends.

Under the Tuscan Sun

Apologies for the delay in the telling of our Italy story---life has gotten in the way with work and travel and events of late, but I'm getting back on track. Fair warning, this one is long. You may want to grab snacks.

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As we were planning our Italy trip, I knew that in addition to the big spots, I really wanted to try to see some of the Tuscan countryside, and we were both pretty enthusiastic at the possibility of wine tasting Italian style.

In Florence, where we had the most time and were closest in proximity to said countryside, we decided to explore our options. With the help of the amazing folks at the Four Seasons, we found ourselves hooked up with an all-day private driver to show us around and arrange wine tastings wherever we'd like.

It was a bit of a splurge, so we waffled momentarily on whether or not we should do it, before we finally looked at each other over a glass of pinot noir in the glamorous hotel bar and said "we're in Italy, why are we even talking about this, of course we're doing it!" And with that, we had our trip to the country and our wine tasting experience secured. We went to dinner and enjoyed a lovely Florentine evening, happy that we'd been able to fit this experience into the trip, and very excited for the day ahead.

Alessandro, our driver, was adorable, friendly and over-the-top eager to ensure we had the best possible experience. Before we even left the Four Seasons, he asked us questions and had a good idea of the places he'd like to show us. His English was terrific, but when he didn't fully understand, he'd respond enthusiastically with "yes!" no matter what you'd said. It was as charming as it sounds. We were so excited, and we had no idea how much we'd enjoy the magical day in front of us.

So you can really come along on this lovely little journey, here is Alessandro, conversing with the Husband:

Isn't he sweet? And here I am, consulting our map of "Chianti Classico," the countryside region that we'd collectively agreed was our destination for the day:

Italy makes what is arguably the best chianti in the world, and this specific region, just beyond Florence, is the heart of that production. The wine is made from the sangiovese grape, and the Black Rooster is the sign that marks a bottle of wine certified from this region. The labels are pink with a red circle for regular wine, and a gold circle for reserve wines. Here's a visual:

Having been suitably educated on the region and its wine expertise, we set out for the country. Within 20 minutes, the views outside our windows were stunning. If I had my pick of any place in the world to buy a vacation home, I think I'd be hard pressed to find somewhere that would beat Tuscany's countryside. We stopped many times, Alessandro expertly navigating our excursion and pulling over at the "best" spots to see the vast land and vineyards and Cypress and Olive trees that surrounded us on all sides.

We passed a centuries old church, maybe the smallest I've ever seen, and Alessandro dutifully pointed it out to us with plenty of warning so we could be ready with the camera. I easily imagined generations of villagers filling the pews to worship on Sundays, and was amazed at the intricate detailing of the tiny structure. It is evident that it was lovingly built with very skilled hands:

Now that we'd gotten a taste of what we were in for, Alessandro informed us that he'd called ahead to a good friend of his and gotten us into a half day tasting at a "great place."

We entered the grounds of Verrazzano, and from the moment we turned onto the drive, I was smitten and enthralled and head over heels in love. This is where the story gets really good.

Verrazzano is a family owned winery run by an amazing and spirited man named Gino with the help of his American wife and his small staff. We meet him immediately upon arrival and he warmly welcomes us, sniffling constantly due to his Cypress allergy. We also meet Maggie from New Hampshire and her parents; Maggie is living in Rome with her husband for a year, and runs her own wine and cheese shop back home. Her father is a surgeon, but his hobby is making wine of his own, so this is an excellent family to join for a wine tasting and tour. They are lovely and fun, and we banter back and forth all day, fitting easily together and very much enjoying each others company.

Elena rounds out our small group---she is a lovely woman who teaches American college students Italian, but having grown weary of that gig, is now training to work with Gino at Verrazzano. She takes notes in her little book all day long, and says "Brava!" every time I attempt a word or phrase in Italian. I can see immediately what a wonderful teacher she must be, and I develop a pretty strong girl crush as the day goes on. With our group fully assembled, we follow Gino on a tour of the outside grounds of the house and vineyards. 

Everything is picturesque and lovingly kept up, and there is a graceful peace that envelops you when you arrive and stays with you long after you've gone. Not to sound cheesy, but the place has an almost spiritual feel to it, and it is obvious from the start that everyone who works there is passionate about the wine, the grounds, and each other.

Before we go inside, Gino tells us how important it is to love the land, to understand that the land gives you grapes which allows you to make and "bring wine to the world." Throughout the afternoon, he will say again and again, "the grapes were here first." As I listen to him, I can't help but think how amazing it would be to go to work each day with such passion in your heart and such love for every single aspect of what you do. Inside is warm and cozy and lined with all varieties of barrels---small, medium and large---hosting all sorts of wines in various stages of the aging process. It is overwhelming to see how immense the collection is, how complex and planned the process, how wine truly gets into the bottle that we so casually pop open and drink without much thought.

Toward the end of the tour, Gino makes me cry for the first of about three times that day when he gathers us together to "say a few words" before we head inside to taste and have lunch. He speaks again of his love for this special place, for the land and grapes and every single drop of wine. He talks of good years and bad, of the dependency on weather and other elements completely beyond human control. He recites a poem in Italian by Lorenzo the Magnificent and then translates into English. It is beautiful, and I try in vain to keep the tears from spilling onto my cheeks. [I am still begging Google to find this poem for me so I can post it here---no luck yet!].

He makes us all laugh when he says Italian children drink sips of wine regularly; he doesn't understand why it is forbidden in America until the age of 21. To him "wine is life, and life is wine." When he says it, we don't laugh and I think each of us actually believes it, so infectious is his generosity and passion. He thanks us for coming to visit them, and says, "my friends...eat drink and love---and don't be afraid of death." I'm pretty sure I can work with that advice, yes?

We head inside to taste the wine we've been hearing about, and encounter more stunning views as we go:

Inside, we wash up and gather around a beautifully set table and out of nowhere, wine appears in front of each of us. Gino teaches us to properly smell the wine, notice its patterns on the glass and understand what they mean, hold the taste in our palettes and pair with the perfect foods. The staff serves an amazing lunch; it is the best of the trip and to this day, I think longingly about that lovely plate of food.

Gino toasts us, thanking us for sharing our lives with him and wishing us well, and I hide my tears behind my wine glass as I wish him the same, and then some. We eat then, and drink our wine, and soon part ways with our new friends, after exchanging email addresses and promising to become Facebook friends. As we pull away from beautiful Verrazzano, I say to Beeg "I will always remember this day." 

We explore more countryside, stop at a small winery for another mini tasting, and I can't get enough of their lavender scented everything. I wash my hands with their soap, and smell lavender all day long and into the night. We wander around a tiny village, mostly deserted, but lovingly cared for all the same. We stand atop a church that looks more like a castle, and wander the aisles of a tiny wine shop and the private cellar and wine collection of its owner. I stand on their tiny balcony and watch springtime exploding all around me. We visit an actual military fortress and I walk around in awe, half expecting armed Roman soldiers in full armor to come around the corner at any moment, and imagine an entire village seeking protection behind those high walls atop a gorgeous hill.

We load into the car and head for the freeway that will take us back to Florence, and we're lost in thought relishing our fabulous day. I have a sudden light-bulb moment, turn to BJ and say "OMG, babe right now I am literally under the Tuscan sun!" He laughs and we leave Chianti Classico clutching our bottles of wine, so happy with our decision to add this day trip to our itinerary. 

In Florence...

We climbed more than 400 stairs to the top of the tower adjacent to the Duomo and enjoyed panoramic views of the entire city. This was only after devouring every inch of the Duomo itself and exposing ourselves to cultural overload. It was breathtaking up there. And windy.

We visited a slew of other museums too, but photos were strictly forbidden, and ever the rule follower---I obliged and kept my camera tucked safely away from the critical eyes of security guards (even if they were somewhat of the rent-a-cop variety). I very much enjoyed wondering from painting to painting, from sculpture to sculpture, and like everywhere else on this trip, I just got lost in the history of my surroundings. It was especially mesmerizing to stand in front of the famous David sculpture. The scale is truly spectacular, and you honestly can't imagine how he carved such an intricate image from stone. I marveled at the artistic passion and talent of years past almost constantly on this trip. It made me wish I were more of an art aficionado, or at least proficient in art history. I might want to pick up a book or two in the future. And I know for sure that I've been letting the art in my own surroundings go to waste, having never visited a single museum in New York or Chicago. I have it on my list to remedy that as quickly as possible.

We luxuriated in our hotel---The Four Seasons---and fell in love with the grounds, the staff and the unparalleled service that is dependable and consistent no matter what corner of the earth you visit. The building was once a palazzo, and I easily imagined royal families dressing to the nines for formal dinners and throwing balls in the glorious staterooms, twirling the night away on marble floors. They boast one of the four largest private gardens in the world, and even when not fully in bloom, it was stunning. I took a particular liking to their magnolia trees.

We walked every square inch of the town, and especially enjoyed a central bridge in the city that, during the day, was covered from end to end in gold and jewel shops, and at night, was a glorious spot to stop and admire the cityscape back-lit by the moon.

We enjoyed fantastic restaurants here. In fact, we didn't have a single meal that we didn't immediately label outstanding, even as we came face to face with our first experiences with menus completely in Italian. Our love affair continued with gelato as well, and we admired the chic fashion sense that was uniquely Florentine. We met a very suave man named Filipo who used to work for Valentino and who lived in New York for ten years. He was very knowledgeable and entertaining, and from his table dressed head to toe in cashmere, he informed BJ that he "dressed like a basketball player." The conversation that followed was pretty funny, and we were at least a little sad to part company with our interesting new friend.

On two consecutive nights, we found ourselves closing out the night at an open patio bar in the middle of a huge plaza. We'd have a few glasses of prosecco and enjoy the DJ who always played cheesy American songs for the crowd to dance to. There was an older gentleman there both nights who danced beautifully with whatever lady he could convince to join him, and I thought of my Gramps as I watched them twirl and twirl. He was a dapper dancer, my Gramps. Just beyond the patio was a carousel that was just begging for my attention. I obliged on both occasions and gleefully went round and round on "Henry," my beautiful horse. I said again and again "it's just like I'm five." And I guess that isn't a bad way to live...not at all.

Florence was beautiful and stylish and a place I could easily imagine living. It boasts more than 4,000 American students every semester, and it is easy to see why it is such a popular study abroad destination. I would happily go back; I think Henry would be thrilled to see me.

As ever, you can find more photos here if you'd like.

Next I'll tell you about a day trip to Tuscan wine country, and why it prompted both of us to say it ranked among the top ten days of our lives.

Weekendings: Outside Again At Last

Our weekend was glorious, and I even gave considerable thought to making up with Chicago for good. We finally saw our old pal the sun, and temps soared well into the 80's. Our upstairs heated up quickly, forcing us to open windows and doors to beat the stifling heat. We were giddy about this---when we were home, that is, which actually wasn't much at all---and we dug through our closets to find our flip flops before heading out to enjoy our day. We went for walks, we ran outside, we sat in the sun, we ran errands with car windows rolled down, we turned our faces to the sun and we remembered the joy of spending the majority of our free time outdoors.

And, we returned to the park at last. We spread a sheet in the grass and enjoyed a picnic lunch. Jack ran and ran and retrieved his green ball and Cooper played for a bit before taking a nap in the sun.

I had forgotten the power of sunshine and a few days of good weather and time outdoors. It's restorative, and we were beyond ready. Fingers crossed it continues well into the weekend ahead.

My Windy Valentine

Hello, there. How have you been? Did you have a nice Valentine's Day? Did Cupid sweep into your home or office or car and impale your heart with his aimless arrow? I hope that he did.

We went to Utah for a long weekend, and I had my annual fix of zooming down mountainsides with sticks strapped to my feet. Snow Basin is a gorgeous mountain---as is every part of Utah that I've seen---and it features breathtaking peaks and sweeping views of valleys and lakes and other assorted outdoorsy fare at every turn. As I exited each chair lift or gondola, I caught my breath at the sheer beauty of the place. And once, I caught my breath at my own stupidity: it appears I was so obsessed with my surroundings, that I failed to notice I was willingly loading myself onto a chair lift that would deliver me at the top of the "expert only" mountain. I have skied a lot of mountains in my day, and "expert only" means different things in different places. At Snow Basin, it means precisely what it says. An alternate title might be "turn back now, April, for you have no business being up here. None whatsoever."

Several very tense heart-pounding-in-my-ears moments later, I had made my way down the steepest section of the mountain and was able to exhale at last. From there, I stumbled upon the most amazing, wide-open snow bowls I've ever seen. I was essentially alone up there, seeing maybe 10 skiers during the entirety of my ascent via chair lift, anxiety ridden survey of my surroundings at the mountain's crest, carefully negotiated descent down STEEP terrain and continued coasting along the remainder of my chosen trails. As always, music kept me company (and likely also prevented panic), and those hours on that particular mountain were exhilarating and freeing and the best form of stress relief I've experienced in a long time.

Up the chairlift I went, ducking my head against the wind, and then down the mountain I zoomed, grinning like the proverbial cheshire cat, oblivious to the whipping wind thanks to my helmet and goggles, reaching the bottom and stopping at last, laughing and panting and groaning at the burning in my thighs and knees.

I saw dogs everywhere, watched tiny, well-bundled children navigate those expert hills as if they were born doing it, which I guess they actually kind of were. I sat with my husband on a sun drenched deck and enjoyed a cold beer and fine people watching. It was so lovely to reacquaint ourselves with the sunshine, and it immediately prompted Spring fever to set in with a vengeance. 

Yesterday, we traveled home and scooped up the fur babes, who we missed terribly. And we celebrated Valentine's Day over takeout Italian food and yummy wine in the candlelit glow of our living room. It was our fourth Valentine's Day as a married couple, probably our eighth or ninth as a couple, but every single year, I think to myself "this one was my favorite."

A River Runs Through It

I have said here before that I love the water. Most of the time, I am referencing the ocean, but it extends beyond the salty sea to include lakes and rivers, and even the occasional stream. Blame it on my Pisces orientation or chalk it up to personal preference, but at the end of the day, it’s an omnipresent love, a visceral need to be near, on, in and around water. I remember this being true for all of my life---I obviously can’t speak to infancy and toddler hood, but even as a young girl, I recall loving everything about the water except having to leave it.

There is just such vastness, and my best and clearest thinking happens in the presence of crashing waves and rushing rapids and trickling falls. If there is a place in the world to seek and find clarity and calm, the water’s edge is mine.

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He was kind. This is what I always remember first, most. Everything about him was welcoming, friendly, safe. He laughed easily and smiled with his entire face, his eyes most of all. His faith was enviably strong, especially for his age, and he was comfortable enough in his own skin to own it. He thought differently, deeper, more intensely. He attended world youth day in Rome, and when he came back to reflect on his experience, he didn’t follow suit with his fellow travelers and mention the crowds or the sight-seeing or the awe of just being there. He said that there was peace, that for a moment he experienced harmony among the masses, and he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like if every day and everywhere---throughout the world---were like that. And when he said it, you could imagine it too.

His enthusiasm was contagious, his fire inspiring. The outdoors were his sacred playground, and he embraced adventure sports---especially his greatest love, kayaking---with limitless fervor. We shared many discussions about  water, reveled in our shared belief that no problem was too big for its waves and ripples and crashes to solve.

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My apartment was on the third floor that year, and the guys who lived below us were adventurous types, with mountain bikes forever hooked to their balcony, a kayak always sitting outside the door. It was red, and used often, and I’d always look to it as I dashed up the stairs, thinking of my friend, wondering if at that very moment he was soaring down a river somewhere, tackling every class of rapids he could find. I’d make a mental note to call or send an email, to check in---it had been too long.

It was my junior year; it feels like a lifetime ago, except for those moments when it feels like yesterday. I remember that his skin was still slightly blue when I saw him last, and I remember hating that, thinking it was inherently wrong, as though his constant friend---the one we shared---had betrayed him.

I’d like to walk along the banks of the Gauley River in West Virginia, to stand across from the Koontz Flume Rapid and see for myself the body of water that swallowed my friend that day in September. Perhaps I’ll sit on a rock and ask him the questions that have plagued me all this time. Maybe I’ll seek clarity in the constant rushing of the rapids, find calm in the hard and fast fact that even as it shows you its fury, the water can still exemplify grace. Or maybe I’ll just remember, think of him soaring gleefully down the river, and embrace the cruel but valuable lesson that tomorrow isn’t certain, that today is the best day to say what needs saying.

I’ve mostly made peace with it, accepted that I’ll never know for sure his truth that day. But I’d like to think that the comforting hand of his mighty friend reached up from the river bottom and held tight as he crossed from this world to the next.

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My sweet friend, has it really been eleven years? I miss you still…always.

Hello, 2011

How was your new year? Was it lovely? Exciting? Low key? Ours had a little of each of those ingredients, and while I'm still a bit stunned that 2011 has arrived, so far, it's looking like a pretty good year.

We racked up innumerable family-time moments and once more packed nine adults, six children and six dogs under our festive roof. There were hearty meals, and cookies galore and ipads in action---tuned mostly to Angry Birds, holy obsession---and dogs barking and kids playing and wine flowing.

When the ball dropped, I smiled, feeling good about the year ahead and ready to embrace a clean slate, 365 days to reset, recharge, redefine. 

At MIL's suggestion, we packed into our cars on New Year's Day and went, caravan style, to a nearby state park to spend a few hours sledding down ice filled tracks. My head fills with metaphors aplenty---racing into a new year, and the like---but mostly, it was just a deliriously fun day. We raced up the stairs and then flew down the track, cheeks glowing bright pink and our laughter and squeals echoing all around us. 

The joys of a large family are never more apparent than holidays, and this one was no exception. It's been a terrific couple of weeks, and tomorrow, reality sets in anew and we'll retrace familiar patterns into a brand new year.

Happy 2011! 

Gone Apple Pickin'!

Last week, we took Friday off work and headed to a nearby apple orchard with our fur babes. We picked the perfect day, without a cloud in the sky, and we loved every minute of our Fall inspired adventure. It was a bit late in the season for apple picking, so we didn't take much home in the way of direct apple loot, but we certainly made the most of our theme---leaving with a full apple pie and delicious apple butter which instantly took me back to my childhood---gathered around my grandmother's table, eating her homemade apple butter directly from the jar with a spoon.

There is truly no better season than Fall. Love, love, love.