(To start at the beginning: Adventures in Italy Part 1)

Genova to Bordighera – August 2016

Our last morning at Il Borgo di Genova was pleasant; we had a nice long chat with Allesandra about the vagaries of operating a B&B.  She said they used to get more Americans there, but with the advent of Airbnb, more people were renting flats in town.  She was hoping the trend was reversing as people realized that you get what you pay for: no cleaning service and no breakfast with Airbnb.  We also said farewell to the American couple staying there, Richard and Annette, an older couple from California.  They were at the very end of a 3-week vacation in Europe.  We had quite enjoyed talking to them the previous morning.  Annette was quite chatty – reminded me of me, actually.  When she started in with talking about the parrot that they’d left behind, we realized we’d better start edging away, since we had a train to catch. 

We planned to take a train from our location to the main station in Genova to transfer to our train to Bordighera.  Once again, what looked so easy on paper turned out to be more complicated.  When Kris tried to buy the tickets, they were “non-sale-able.”  We’d allowed ourselves plenty of time, but still, this was concerning.  We went over to the ticket counter in hopes of talking to a human being.  Kris found a uniformed station employee standing around and asked him.  He looked at our tickets and uttered some words that were probably English, but we didn’t understand them.  We proceeded to get in line for the ticket counter, but the man said “No,” and repeated the words he’d said before, pointing outside the station.  If you’ve ever played Mad Gab, trying to figure out what he was saying was somewhat akin to that – the syllables were all there; it was just a matter of figuring out exactly what English phrase matched them.  Finally, it got through to us: news stand!  Kris asked him, “Metro or treno?” We didn’t really want to take the bus.  “Treno,” he assured him.  But why did we have to go out to the newsstand to buy the tickets?  Nevertheless, we went outside and across the busy street where Kris approached a man at the newsstand and was indeed sold tickets from Genova Brignole to Genova Principe.  The whole process was somewhat unnerving, but we have found that people are in general quite willing to help us even when there is a language barrier.  We made our connection to Bordighera in plenty of time and settled in for the 2-hour trip. About 60% of the trip was through tunnels, but the rest of it followed right along the Mediterranean coast, a feast for the eyes.

The train station in Bordighera was right next to “Bagni Kursaal,” the beach front property owned and operated by Sofia’s family.  If I haven’t explained this already, I met Sofia last October when she was an exchange student living with friends of ours in Indiana. We had planned this visit to Bordighera specifically to connect with her and meet her family and also to enjoy a nice relaxing day on the beach. 

Our hotel, Hotel Maligure, was about 3/4 of a mile west of the station, not too hard to find.  There’s only one main drag in Bordighera and everything is on it.  The lady at the desk didn’t speak any English, so our broken Italian is getting a little more of a workout. 

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After getting all our stuff put away, we put our suits on and headed back out to the beach, hoping to find a beach-side restaurant at which to have lunch.  As expected, the area is replete with one eating establishment after another.  San Marco’s it is!  After having a wonderful Greek salad (with almost no lettuce, mind you), we wanted to make our way back to Bagni Kursaal and see if we could connect with Sofia. 

Once we got there, I texted her and as we began looking over the price system for renting beach umbrellas and chairs for the day, she found us and introduced us to her mother, Ombretta, and some visiting friends.  Sofia speaks excellent English and Ombretta’s is pretty good as well, so we were in good hands.   Their friend, Simon (a young man of about 20), explained to us that in the 1990’s Italian schools started requiring English study, so people 30 and younger will tend to know English fairly well and those who are older don’t speak it at all.  Sofia’s mother learned it in a special school for language study, but Simon’s mother (who was also there) didn’t know any but the basics, which put us on equal footing with her. 

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The first order of business was to get the daily gelato and it turned out that they were all just headed to a gelato shop, so we tagged along.  Mission accomplished!

Once back at Bagni Kursaal, Sofia said that we would not be renting umbrellas or chairs since they had set a couple aside for our use during our stay, for which we were very grateful.  Sofia also gave us a couple towels to use and after a short chat, left us on our own.  She has to take some entrance exams for her fifth and final year of high school and needed to study and we were free to lounge, read, doze (in Kris’s case) and take a little dip in the ocean.  Swimming in the ocean was a new experience for me; the waves were really big and intimidating.  The water was actually not very cold, but still quite refreshing.  Ten minutes was all we needed. 

Toward the end of the afternoon, Ombretta came back over with Sofia to set up a lunch date with us for the next day (today).  She said she would make it an early lunch, since Sofia had insisted to her that Americans don’t wait until mid-afternoon to eat lunch.  We’re on Italian time now and reassured her that it didn’t really matter to us; we hadn’t eaten lunch that day until 3:00 p.m.  However, she wanted to do what we were used to, so we set it up for 1:30 p.m. They had a dinner engagement and went on their way and it was starting to get late in the day and cooling off a bit, so we went back to the hotel to wash up and go out to find a place to eat supper.

That’s a wrap on Part 13! Next: Adventures in Italy Part 14

This blog is replete with deleting in the morning.

I’m still trying to organize the family history documents and photos chronologically. These are all things that my mom passed on to me well before she died, along with more things I came into possession of after she died.

Usually there are just the barest details known about some of the “ancient” antecedents – birth, death, children’s names, some military service records. Later on, a few photos begin to make their way into the narrative as the invention of cameras created a photography industry. It’s enough sometimes to imagine a story about these people who contributed to my gene pool. But mostly all I have is a small amount of data and a large amount of conjecture. I’m very good at conjecture, as it turns out.

Recently, however, I found my mom’s accumulation of information about my Grandpa’s older brother Harvey, who went by the nickname Red. (In a surprising surfeit of “Red’s” in the family, my grandpa later also went by the nickname Red – that’s how I knew him). Here’s a story I didn’t have to depend upon conjecture for – it was all written down by his wife, Lucille.

When Red and Lucille met, he was 28 going on 29 and she was 16 going on 17. They fell in love, but she was too young and he was in the army. They wrote letters to one another for a time, which are also in my possession (not the originals). In August of 1927, Lucille wrote to Red with the worst possible news for him to hear. I’ll share some excerpts:

Dear Red,
…Red, I’ve a terrible confession to make. Do you remember that nite? You asked me if I’d consider marrying and I said yes. I’ve decided that I’m too undecided. I want to work and go to college and help my folks.

Please forgive me and try to forget me Red, Dear. I know you love me. I thought I loved you, too, but I guess if I’m so undecided about it all, I really can’t love you like I should. Also, Dear, I couldn’t settle down. I’m too much for variety. You are older and ready to settle, therefore, you should find one more your type than I.

…Will I be a liar in your mind if I break my promise? You know people have always broken engagements.

I have no ring, therefore, it isn’t really binding. It is terribly hard to write this to you, but I’ve decided it is fairer than trying to make you believe I will someday be Mrs. Red.

…You can easily forget me. I’m a little devil anyway. …Red, Dear, you stop and think and you’ll decide you really would hate to know you had to live with me for God knows how many years.

…You go out with other girls and I’ll do the same with others. We can still be friends and a year from now, I may decide that you are absolutely my Man. If I do, really love you, I’ll come back and so will you. Don’t you think so? Answer this, if you wish, but I don’t suppose you’ll want to. I may regret this letter someday. Your unfaithful sweetheart.

P.S. Use lighter stationery cause I’ve had to pay postage on your letters and they tease the life out of me.

Lovingly, Lucille.

I don’t have Red’s reply, so I can only imagine the distress this missive may have caused him. Years later, when Lucille was very old, she decided to write the story of her life down, part of which I also have. The story picks up with her remembrances all those years later:

What a life. I was 17 years old, gainfully employed in a wonderful job, and I was rich, rich, finally rich!

And…I was in love. How much better can life get than it was for me in 1927? On September 2, a month before my 18th birthday, I married my love. My groom, Harvey (Red), was twelve years my senior and a veteran of the First World War…

Well! It appears that less than a month after Lucille sent that heartbreaking letter to Red, they got married! Red and Lucille drove to St. Louis, Missouri where he took a course in aviation and she found work in the office of the Universal Aviation Company. She got her first plane ride while there and said it was an “indescribable thrill.”

They drove from there to California and Red got a job as a mechanic, being unable to find a job in aviation. Lucille found work as a stenographer and wrote, “It was an exciting, educational and fulfilling life that I led.”

In June of 1930 they had their first baby, a boy named Patrick and ended up returning to Grand Rapids, Minnesota. Red traveled to southern Minnesota and bought an airplane, which he flew to Grand Rapids. However, when landing the plane at the fair grounds (no air strip available there yet), he hit the grandstand with one of the wings and severely damaged the plane, thus ending his career in aviation.

Sadly, Red became ill with a kidney ailment he’d contracted during the war. He went to the Veteran’s Hospital at Fort Snelling for treatment. Red called Lucille from the hospital and begged her to come get him, so she took a bus down from Duluth, checked him out and they took a bus back to Duluth. As she said, “That trip was a harrowing, frightening experience. He was so very ill and I was so young, scared and inexperienced.”

He was admitted to the hospital in Duluth. I’ll let Lucille tell the story of what happened next:

I arrived at the hospital very early in the morning and went directly to Red’s room. The sign on the door stated, ‘No admittance. Inquire at desk.’ I waited patiently instead of inquiring immediately, assuming that the nurses were busy with him. …After a while, when no one came in or out of his room, I timidly checked with the nurse at the desk. Perhaps they had moved him during the night. The nurse looked up and tersely informed me in five short words, ‘The patient expired last night.’ What a terrible shock it was to hear those words. I was not yet twenty-one years old. I was a bride, a mother and a widow – and I was still only twenty…”

Poor Lucille. Although her life seemed to be over, she went on, got a job to provide for their son and eventually got remarried.

I got quite engrossed in this story; suddenly somebody from my past had come to life! At least for a short time. I only have one photo of Red and Lucille. It makes me think they knew how to have a good laugh and must have enjoyed their short married life very well.

I hope you enjoyed this journey into the past with me.

I’ll probably do something with this in the morning, but I’m leaving it up to conjecture.

When a robin goes a-bobbin’
In the shillow shallow seas
He splishes and he splashes
Until everyone agrees
That his fithers and his feathers
From his beak down to his toes
Are as squeaky peaky clean
As a newly watered rose

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I’ll prilly prolly delete this in the early pearly morn.

Yes, I’m still plodding away at the poinciana project. I’ve done two rough drafts with colored pencil and decided it was time to try a small watercolor before attempting to do a larger one.

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The jury is still out on whether or not to add color to the background. I have mixed feelings (more negative than positive) about how it looks with this one. I’d love to get your feedback!

If you want to see the previous post with the original photograph and rough drafts, here you go: Another Poinciana

I’ll poinciana delete this in the morning.

(To start at the beginning: Adventures in Italy Part 1)

Camogli August 2016

The beach was covered with beach umbrellas and lots of tanned bodies. There were a few other pale-skinned people like us, but not many.  🙂 We had seen an intriguing castle-like building on the other side of the beach that we wanted to explore, so we made our way over there.

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Kris went out on some craggy rocks so he could sit down and put his tootsies in the sea (a phrase that should be familiar to some of our children). I had to assess the danger value first; this is why I’m not much of an adventurous traveler and need someone else to lead the way. It looked like tricky climbing, but I eventually picked and crawled my way over to where he was and stuck my own tootsies briefly in the sea. As we sat there in the sun Kris felt something occasionally grazing against his leg in the water. Suddenly he realized that it was a little creature of some sort and yanked his feet out of the water to investigate. Sure enough, there was a little crab hiding in the rocks just under the water. He stuck a longish piece of grass in the crab hole trying to entice it out, but it just clipped off the end of the grass and stayed where it was. 

 We still hadn’t found the right approach to the castle (although we were directly under one side of it), so we went back and around to the other side and up the stairs.  It turned out that the castle had been in this place for hundreds of years – since 1130.  It was located on what used to be an island of sorts, called  “L’isola di Camogli.”  The castle itself was named “Castel Dragone,” named after a “savage Ottoman pirate…known as Dragut.”  The building served for a time as a prison and there were still bars over the windows.  There were also a couple cannons outside. 

 On our way back down, we realized that we were passing a large old church with a very grand interior, so we popped in for a quick look around and a photo.  Everything you see here makes you want to capture it on a camera.  I wonder if before the advent of photography, people were more naturally observant and better at retaining visual details. We don’t really look at things, we take pictures of them, which I can’t help but feel is a little bit different. 

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 We found a nice place to sit for a while and watch the world go by.  The buildings are of many different pastel colors and appear to be all brick siding.  As we sat there looking around, I began to observe that the building in front of us didn’t have the textured appearance you would expect from bricks.  I went over for a closer look and discovered that the bricks were painted on!  Cheaters!  It looked like a lot of trouble to go to for a brick appearance, but I have to admit the effect was quite striking.  (Note: later we read something about Camoglie and found out that the town is well-known for this type of art, called “trompe l’oeil.”  Go figure!)

 We had purchased round-trip tickets and knew that we could catch a train back to Genova just before 6:30 so we got to the station about 15 minutes early (after an exceptionally long walk up thousands and thousands of stairs; I’m not going to tell you the exaggeration factor – you just need to know that it seemed like thousands and thousands).

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The platform was already fairly crowded and as we stood there waiting, it filled up until we were a mass of humanity crammed together.  This didn’t bode well.  All those swimmers were going home, apparently.  The train came right on time and everyone swarmed en masse to the doors.  People were packed in tightly and it seemed hardly possibly any more could fit in each train car, but people pushed their way on.  This was looking like it was going to be a horribly uncomfortable trip, so we elected to wait for the next train, which, according to the schedule, would come by at 6:51. 

 Sure enough, at 6:51 a train came zipping up to the station and zipped right on by without stopping.  Uh oh.  We had apparently misunderstood something about the schedule so we went back in to study it to see if there was any clue as to why it hadn’t stopped. This was an important detail since there was to be another train at 7:24 and we began to be a little concerned that that train might not stop either, for reasons unknown to us and it was one of the last trains out.  We walked in and out of the station multiple times double checking the schedule, but the information window itself was closed and it appeared that station personnel had left for the day.  By God’s providence, the last time we went in to look at the schedule, an employee of the station came out of a locked door, presumably on her way home.  We enquired about the train that didn’t stop, counting on her to know enough English to understand us.  She did and pointed out a little teeny tiny notice at the bottom of the schedule for that train that said “festivi – Sabato.”   Relief flooded us as we realized that the 6:51 train only stopped in Camogli on Saturdays during particular holiday weekends.  She reassured us that the 7:24 train would stop and lo, it came to pass. 

 After we got back, we headed out on foot again to find a restaurant.  Giovanni had given us the names of a couple nearby that were open on Sundays; most restaurants are not.  We found one less than 10 minutes away and I’ll spare you this time of all the details involved in the menu, ordering and eating.  Suffice it to say that we got our daily pesto pasta fix and finished the meal again with tiramisu. 

To be continued! Adventures in Italy Part 13

The blog train will drop this post off in the morning.

This is a test of your imagination. Don’t feel bad if you fail it, like those 3-D illustrations that ran rampant some years ago.

Do you see the toad’s face in that set of rock formations? You do? Phew! His mouth is easy to see, but you have to squinch your eyes a bit to see his eyes. My impression – and this is completely up for debate – is that he’s a little on the curmudgeonly side.

The curmudgeonly toad
Protrudes from the rock
His eyes are crossed,
His mouth is locked.
If he could talk,
He’d probably grumble
”Why am I stuck here?
Mumble, mumble…”

By the way, I feel like “squinch” should be a word, but I am informed by my computer overlords that it is not.

I’ll probably mumble mumble this in the mumble.

For the beginning of our Southwest Tour, start here: Arches National Park

We left Sanders for the 30-minute drive to Petrified Forest National Park. We’re getting our money’s worth out of Kris’s lifetime membership card for seniors. PFNP was pretty cool – lots of painted desert stuff at the beginning (North Gate entrance) and the petrified wood towards the end (South Gate). Lots more photos and a few mini-hikes.

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We stopped at the Historic Inn and had the pleasure of getting some fun intel from the lady running the cash register. She was really a hoot – local color at its best.

She noticed me standing around looking at stuff and pointed out some tiles on the ceiling that were done in the style of Pueblo art. After giving me the background on them, she said, “But they were made in the 1930’s and have lead in them so you can’t lick them.” I thanked her for the warning and said, “I suppose when you looked at me you thought, there’s somebody whose first move after hearing about the tiles will be to jump up and try to lick them.” We had a nice chuckle over that – she had a fun sense of humor. The tiles were painted by CCC artisans, which surprised me. I had kind of thought that the CCC workers of the 1930’s were all doing basic construction jobs and grunt work.

She told us about the petroglyph of a coyote that was in the same room, pointing out that the coyote’s tail was abnormally angled over its back. Since coyotes keep their tails straight behind them when running (which this one was doing), she said her best guess as the why the tail was in that odd position was that the person making the petroglyph was trying to best utilize the space on the rock. Ha ha! That’s as good a guess as any, I suppose.

The Petrified Forest is the only park in our system of national parks that contains a section of Historic Route 66, by the way.

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When we stopped at the Puerco Pueblo and walked the short trail to see everything, I noticed that “Stay on the paved trail” signs were numerous. I told Kris, “I’m thinking about walking off the trail – do you think anyone would mind?” He got right into the spirit of things and replied, “I’m wondering when I visit you in prison if it will be an open room at a table or if you’ll be behind glass.” I answered, “I’m guessing that for the severity of the infraction, I’ll be behind glass.” That’s how we roll.

The Puerco Pueblo contained ruins from a large Pueblo compound that was probably inhabited 800-2000 years ago, so it was interesting to imagine people occupying those spaces that were just bare vestiges of the original homes. We also stopped at the “Newspaper Rock,” which contained a large fallen boulder of sandstone that had lots of petroglyphs carved into it. Very interesting! We saw small petroglyph markings in other places as well.

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We skipped the separate loop for the Blue Mesa area, figuring we could see all the blue mesas we wanted right from the road we were on. Kris posited that when we told people about our visit to the PF, someone would invariably say, “Did you take the Blue Mesa loop? It was BY FAR the best part of the park!”

Our next stop was the Jasper Forest, our first glimpse of the actual petrified wood of the petrified forest. Kris said, “When we get to the overlook, I’m going to make an announcement to the other tourists: ‘We’re all going to take a piece of petrified wood and not tell anyone else.’” He’s a fun traveling companion! We did not, however, make a secret pact with the other tourists (nor did we take any wood, I hasten to point out). More’s the pity.

Another display of petrified wood was called the Crystal Forest, a place where much of the inside matter in the wood had turned into quartz and sparkled in the sun.

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The final stop was the Rainbow Forest Museum and Gift Shop. The phrase “millions of years” was evidently required verbiage on every display.

We walked around a little loop that they had with plenty more petrified wood that you could actually touch and sit on. We did both. And took a selfie. Oh, and I spotted a little lizard that we each got nice close-ups of.

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On our way back to the car to eat lunch I spotted another little critter crawling along the sidewalk in a strange manner. I stopped and took a photo, but wasn’t quite close enough to figure out what it was.

I was thinking to myself how good I am at seeing things that others don’t see, patting myself on the proverbial back as it were. I walked slowly closer to the odd looking little critter and when I got close enough I saw that it was a scrap of black plastic from a bag that a breeze had been moving along on the sidewalk.

The good Lord always knows when I need a little humbling.

Next on our Southwest Tour: The Grand Canyon! Grand Canyon National Park

The vultures are circling this post – might not be here in the morning.

About thirty years ago, my mother discovered bread machines. It was a happy discovery for her – she was so thrilled with hers that she bought one for each of her six children as a way of sharing the joy. We promptly named ours “R2-D2” (Artoo-Detoo) for obvious reasons.

Mom also instructed us in the liturgy of the machine. There was a recipe for chocolate chip bread in the accompanying recipe booklet which instructed you to wait until the machine gave out a number of beeps after the second mixing, your cue to put in the chocolate chips. I don’t think Mom ever actually made the chocolate chip bread, but every time the machine uttered its programmed beeps, she would crow, “TIME TO PUT IN THE CHOCOLATE CHIPS!” Yes, just like that in all caps. Soon, we were all saying it in a very liturgical manner:

“Beep beep beep beep beep”
“TIME TO PUT IN THE CHOCOLATE CHIPS!”

We enjoyed our bread making robot and tried a lot of the recipes (probably even the chocolate chip bread because why not?). But the day came when one little loaf was not enough to feed our growing army of boys. I learned how to make five loaves of whole wheat bread at a time and we retired our beeping friend to the storeroom in the basement where it sat uncomplainingly while gathering dust.

We ran out of bread recently and I haven’t had time to make any. Today, my husband remembered R2-D2 and brought it back to a place of usefulness. It had not forgotten how to bake a tolerably good loaf of bread, and when the beeps started in, I blurted out “TIME TO PUT IN THE CHOCOLATE CHIPS!”

Ah, bread is good; liturgy is good.

“The Lord be with you.”
“And also with you.”

Beep, beep, beep beep, beep
DELETE!

When we were traveling in the Southwest, I discovered that my camera has various effects, so I did a little experimenting. The one I enjoyed the most is called “vivid.” I used it a lot at the Grand Canyon (of which I have not posted yet). It definitely feels like cheating, but is it? I’ll let you ponder the philosophical gravity of that question on your own.

Here’s one photo I took of the evening sky by our house recently, plain and unadorned by fancy camera effects.

Here it is in “vivid” mode.

It’s fakey looking, but quite striking, no? I took a few more before retiring the camera that night.

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The next morning, I came out early and the grass was all dewy and alight with the sun. No special effects from my camera were needed.

Behold, how good and pleasant it is
For brethren to dwell together in unity!
…It is like the dew of Hermon,
descending upon the mountains of Zion;
For there the LORD commanded the blessing –
Life forevermore.

But not blog forevermore; it’s gone as the dew dries up in the morning.

(To start at the beginning: Adventures in Italy Part 1) Also, hallelujah – what was lost has been found: our digital photos from this trip! So, no more pictures of photos in a book. Phew!

Church in Genova, then to Camogli – August 2016

 We’re sitting on a train that will take us to Bordighera, so I have a chance to catch up my travel journal for yesterday. Make yourselves comfortable! I never make a long story short, as you know – it always goes the other way. Someday I will be boring all our grandchildren to death when they ask a simple question and I launch into a 30-minute answer that includes what time I got up, what I had for breakfast, and how my bones and joints feel that day. 

We found an English-speaking Anglican church in Genova called “Church of the Holy Ghost.” We set out on foot for the 15-minute uphill walk and although we took one false turn still managed to get there on time.  It was a beautiful old building, built in the late 1800’s.

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We were greeted by an older lady named Liz in the British accent that never fails to charm. She seemed so very pleased to see us and asked us if we were the type to join heartily and loudly in the singing. Looking around at the sparse attendance, I could understand why this might be important. She explained to us that they wouldn’t have a priest that day. She also told us not to be alarmed if the service didn’t start right at 10:30 – “we’re on African time!”  It turns out that about half of their members are from Africa and tend to meander in at different times after the service starts.

We met a fellow named John who was visiting that day also, having been on a cruise ship that stopped in at the Genova port for the day. There were no hymnals, just words printed in the bulletin, so sitting by John ended up being a key part of being able to sing along. He knew the tunes and sang loudly and confidently in a wonderful baritone voice. I thanked him afterwards for “leading” the singing. The service itself was liturgical and in that sense was very familiar to us.  The woman who led the liturgy got a little off course occasionally and the order of service went somewhat cattywampus, but we all managed to figure out where she was eventually. Instead of a pianist, they had a violinist who played beautifully. Halfway through the service a little boy (3 years old?) came running up the center aisle and went over to say hello to her. It was a sweet moment that made us all smile. The father followed closely behind to retrieve the little escapee. 

We were invited to stay for wine and cake after the service, so we stayed briefly and chatted with a few people. We met a fellow named “Mondey” who was from Nigeria and had been in Italy for a year and 4 months and was still waiting for documents that would allow him to work. It’s hard to imagine how discouraging that would be!

We walked back to Il Borga di Genova (our B&B) and had some down time. It was already very hot outside so we turned on our room air conditioner and did some reading and writing. We didn’t have a firm plan for the day so we decided to go back out and walk over to the super marcato (super market) to see what it was like. It was smaller than most American ones but other than that, not very different. 

My only goal for the day was to do a lot less walking. Our host, Giovanni, had told us that we might enjoy a trip to Camogli (CAM-oh-lee) just up the coast to the east, which would involve a train trip. We really were longing for more than a glimpse of the sea (didn’t see much at the Genova port) so rather than spend more time walking aimlessly around Genova, we took the leap and went to go find a train to Camogli. We are getting better at reading the train schedules and navigating our way around the train stations by now, so it wasn’t long before we had found a train going that way and settled in for the 30-minute trip. Almost as soon as we were east of Genova we began to see the wide blue expanse of the Mediterranean. What is it about being by bodies of water that is so soul filling? The view was occasionally obscured by tunnels and trees, but was a thrill each time it broke through. 

 We got off in Camogli, made a quick phone call to Sam (3:30 our time, 8:30 a.m. at home) and then set off to get close to the water.

Kris’s instincts did not fail us and within a few minutes we had walked down steep flights of stairs and were sitting at table beachside, ordering salads for lunch. We have steadfastly tried to use the Italian we learned on Duo Lingo, but most people answer us in broken English that is better than our broken Italian.

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After lunch we strolled to the Cremaria next door so I could get my daily gelato fix. I’m still supposed to be avoiding dairy and eggs, but on this trip I have entered an alternate universe in which those things are allowed, my own deus ex machina.

Did we go down to the beach? Did we go swimming? Stay tuned for the next installment. Adventures in Italy Part 12

This daily blogato fix will melt away in the morning.

Hello, friends! You may recall that my husband and I have decided to visit one Minnesota attraction per month in 2024. We didn’t think of the plan until February, so January was a bust. In February we went to the Spam Museum and in March we went to the Bell Museum of Natural History. So far, so good!

We traveled to our nation’s Southwest in April and visited 6 national parks while we were there, which will have to take the place of our Minnesota Meanderings for April. I’ve been slowly posting our travel adventures at those parks under the title of “The Wanderers.”

And now we come to May. Or rather, May is behind us now, but we did, in fact, squeeze in a Minnesota Meandering at the end of May: Como Park Zoo and Conservatory in St. Paul.

Como Park has been around for over 100 years and countless parents have brought their children there over the years. Both Kris and I remember being brought there when we were young; I couldn’t find our family photo there, but do have this charming one of little Kris wandering in the conservatory.

However, neither of us remember going there since then, and to our shame, we never brought our children there when they were growing up in Minnesota. We should have our heads examined. For one thing, the park is FREE. Yes, you read that right. There’s a suggested donation of $4 for adults and $2 for children (that’s so cheap now that it’s hard to imagine what it was 50-60 years ago when we were young). This is how we remember the cages looking way back then:

Como Park Z&C is owned by the city of St. Paul and operated by its Parks and Rec department. It’s been around as a destination since around 1900, the 300-acre property having been purchased by the city in 1873. In addition to the zoo and conservatory, there’s an amusement park, carousel, Lake Como, a golf course and more.

The conservatory was renamed “Marjorie McNeely Conservatory” in 2002 after her husband, Donald, donated $7 million (she had died in 1998 and was apparently an avid gardener). As an aside, good old Donald McNeely was one of the original investors in the Minnesota Vikings!

Okay, that’s enough history. The day of our visit was absolutely perfect, weather wise. We went through the zoo first, skipping the show at the aquatic animals area. I happily engaged my camera in the excessive manner to which I am accustomed, so I will prune through my photos and share some of the better ones here, but there will be lots, even so. I got quite distracted at the gorilla exhibit and could have stayed there for hours. Anyway, buckle up!

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After we had sated ourselves with the animal viewings, we made our way to the conservatory. Oy, was it hot and humid in the first part (ferns and such). Don’t expect a lot of learned discussion about the plants, but do expect more photos.

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Oh, I should share a story I read when doing research for this post. In 1963 a rare Agave American plant unexpectedly bloomed – this caused quite a stir at the time. One of the shoots from the plant grew up to 35 feet, requiring the removal of one of the roof panels! The stalk bloomed into over 300 flowers. I suppose it’s possible I got a photo of this plant – who knows? I’m fairly lazy about identifying things; I just take photos of the things that delight and interest me, including my husband.

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Next up: Fort Snelling

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