"courage, dear heart": When John Wayne Came to Italy

Most people dream of visiting Europe just once in their lifetime.

Most.

But not everyone.

For my mom, well, her European dreams were more like nightmares.

Horrible, horrible nightmares.

You see, her Italian excursion last year was dreadful. Dread.to the Full.

Despite her deceptively cheery photos of frescoed Madonna's and dripping gelatos, she hated (almost) every minute of her three week tour de Italia in the summer of 2015.

It's difficult to pinpoint the precise moment she swore she would never return.

But, if I were a gambling gal, I would wager it was when she contracted whooping cough, an ear infection, tuberculosis and likely, AIDs.

Apparently, that put a damper on her visit while we all were enjoying the seamless military in-processing last summer.

Seamless. Stress-less. Perfect.

Bureaucracy at its very, very best! (To refresh your memory on the drama, click here.)

So with the same reluctant resignation most people reserve for colonoscopies, my mother arrived in Italy for her "necessary visit."

And before you could say "Jet lag," we were off to Salzburg, Austria.

Now, I suppose we could pretend my admiration for Mozart compelled this pilgrimage to his birthplace.

But we would just be lying.

Yes, Mozart was a musical genius. Undisputed.

But, it's the Sound of Music that makes my heart want to sing. Every song that it hears.

The hills were alive in Salzburg.
Seriously, like the hills were everywhere and staggeringly majestic.

Now, let me save you the trouble: What I don't recommend is the Panorama Sound of Music tour.

A smarter girl would have recognized the implied threat of a "four hour bus tour" as a caution for people who don't like bus tours.

For four hours.

With a three year old.

None of these are my favorite things.

None.

Coupled with the fact that our tour guide Fraulein Brumhilde was arguably former SS.
I wasn't sure who would die first- me of boredom or her, of anger and old age.

It was a close call.

Plus, the tour was more like: "If you look out the window on your left, you might glimpse the house from the movie. Might. Hurry. Look now. NOW!" as the bus lumbered past without even a second for a selfie.

With the exception of the darling town of Mondsee which boasts the cinematic cathedral of Maria and Georg's nuptials, the bus tour was anticlimactic (read: crap).

I don't mean to complain. Honestly. Salzburg is beautifully charming and if you like schnitzel and "bier stein" and buxom costumed-barmaids to serve it, you'll feel right at home.

P.S. I actually hate all those things and still loved it. So, there you have it.

After our Austrian adventures, my dad arrived ready to par-tay with my kids.

So, basically, he is the hero of this story. (thus, the title)

Assimilation was definitely not his ambition on this trip. Actually, it never has been.

From his cargo shorts, "HI-Life" t-shirt and tucked in polo shirts, no one was mistook him for a local. Not once.

Even his "thank you" never evolved beyond a Philly-accented "Graz."

But, friends, it's that John Wayne attitude that makes everyone love him.

Everyone.

Even my landlord, Giovanni, whom he greeted each day, "Hey John! *insert hearty American handshake* Nice to see you."

Assimilated? Never.

Acclimated? Perfectly.

To Rome we jettisoned for a weekend with the pope, antiquities, and the Colosseum. Oh and gelato.

Actually, most importantly, gelato. We spent (too) much of our time justifying detours back to Gelateria La Romana.

I may have mentioned it before. Once or twenty times.

And since the last time I saw Rome it was freezing, my wallet was stolen and Colson was my weekend ankle brace, the bar for success was somewhat low.

However, Roma did not disappoint.

Churchill advised "Never let a serious crisis go to waste." And Rome has not- profiting handily by showcasing the tyranny of the old empire.

Way to find the silver lining in all those martyrs' bones!

Fortunately, my parents can still hustle because we toured the ancient capital in under 72 hours. And lived to walk another day.

Well, barely.

That weekend, my mom chose to showcase a pair of heeled sandals.
Brilliant choice for cobblestoned streets. Just. Brilliant.

(Orthotics are at the end of that story).

Basilica San Clemente was a worthy addition to our itinerary. This little known cathedral was literally constructed over a first century church, which was forced to go underground due to violent persecution.

Two thousand years later, gentile Christians from North America pay homage.

I think that's a "win" for the gospel preached by plucky apostles.

Honorable mention goes to our celebrity travel companion, Eowyn, who behaved like a perfect little adult and was photographed by the Asian paparazzi wherever we went.

Which I guess makes me her underpaid agent.

Later, during their Italian holiday, we visited adorable Soave and it's medieval castle and embarked on a day trip to Venice and Burano, sipping Hugo spritzers between smothering, sardine-packed valporetto rides.

Aside: What Europe needs is government-issued deodorant and Jesus-

Can I just say that?

Colson could not get enough physical contact with my dad.

Who hates physical contact. Hates it.
So, that was fun to watch.

Lovely Sirmione, along Lago del Garda afforded us a boat ride and a dog bite.

Both equally memorable.

Col's love for dogs rivals his love for carbs (and cats, if you recall). Within seconds of him bending down to greet this feral dog, he was bitten on the hand.

Blood drawn.

Drama ensued.

He was screaming. And then, I was screaming.

Switching to my (tres) poor Italian, I called for the owner like a classy Wal-Mart mom.

Upon the owner's arrival, she was NOT EVEN apologetic and claimed the dog hated children.

Duh.

Well, obviously. BUT- no one dislikes Colson. Ever.

For the rest of the day, he suffered from PTSD and held his gimp hand in the air like it was a phantom limb.

But the boat ride was great. So there was that.

Of course there were wine tastings at my favorite vineyards during which my parents were impressed by the vineyard vistas.

However, most impressive to me was how many times my father rejected award-winning wines with his standard sommelier dismissal: "Nope, not sweet enough."

Basically, I should have just poured Juicy Juice into his glass. That would have been cheaper.

Each day, my dad played baseball and basketball with my cray-cray kids. He listened to their stories and commended their skills and brought them to tears with laughter.

Each day, my mom listened to my stories, commended my skills and laughed at me.

It was quite nearly perfect. Almost the stuff of dreams. Almost. (Says my mom)