Eiscreme bitte

My parents sent Phillip a box full of travelers' necessities for his birthday. I waited patiently for him to open it with a pair of scissors and an exacto knife and a stud finder and a level and a razor blade so heaven forbid he wouldn't make a mess of the box, then he started pulling things out one by one. "An alarm clock!" he cried. "Luggage tags! A guide book! Learn German from a tape!" He looked at me with a frown. "Do we even have a tape player anymore?"

My little late summer Italian vacation has turned into a full-fledged Whirlwind Trip for the last two weeks of November. Alaska Airlines couldn't stop me from finding a way to use my gadzillion frequent flyer miles, so we've got a direct flight in and out of London. From London we fly to Venice. We'll hang with my parents (and by "hang" I mean "recuperate from our transatlantic flight with many many cappuccinos") for a few days, then we'll fly up to Germany and spend the holiday plus a few days with my aunt. (I have MORE relatives in Europe! Lucky duck=me.) We'll go back to Italy for a day or two before heading back to London where I intend to stay in a swank hotel and see a show (suggestions? I want to see 'Wicked', I think.) before heading home on the 30th.

We thought about going straight from Germany to somewhere in France before we go home (Phillip is rather distraught over the fact that I have been to Paris and he has not), but to be honest, I am missing Italy with every little piece of me that still remembers living there. Which is mostly my tongue. I have already informed my parents that we shall spend most of our time dining out. It's not that I want to spend more time with my folks (GOD, they're already coming back for CHRISTMAS, how much family time do we NEED?)- I just really really really miss Italy. You know how you remember something from being five or six years old? Like, you just loved that toy or your Grandma made amazing cookie dough or you had the best time in your backyard? That is how I miss Italy. It's not necessarily realistic, but it doesn't matter at this point. I just need some pizza margherita.

Phillip, however, wants to go somewhere DIFFERENT. Germany is different, all right. Can you say: 100 different kinds of schnitzel? My aunt lives very close to France and Switzerland and the Rhine River whose banks are dotted up and down with castles. We'll have a load of sights to pick from, although I'm imagining a lot of World War venues with my dad and Christmas markets with my mom. It will be fun to be there with Phillip. The last time I went on an actual European sight-seeing trip I was alone, and everything seemed so lacking because Phillip wasn't there. And after seeing him speechless in the most average of European cathedrals, I can't wait for him to see a German castle.

The German tapes made me laugh. When I was nine and my parents were psychologically preparing their five children for great upheaval in the form of moving across the world, they told us we were going to Germany. Later I found out they said this because they planned to turn down any teaching assignment that was not in Germany; England maybe, Spain possibly, but they would not even consider southern Italy as they'd had to pay protection money and live in flooded run down apartments during their last southern Italy experience. My dad bought me a how-to-learn-German book at Costco. It had a bunch of stickers in the back that you could put on things in your house. Soon my room was covered in stickers: the German words for door, lamp, closet, bed, desk, chair, book, wall, bratty little brother, doll. I learned how to say "I want an ice cream cone" and, when I found out we were moving, was terribly and prematurely proud of the conversations I would have with my new neighbors. We were not going to Germany, however, we were (surprise!) going to southern Italy. But learning all that German was hard work and I had no intention of learning an entirely new language. I'd have to wait for awful Mr. Gravina, the mean and boring host nation teacher, to fill up his eight (eight!) blackboards with notes about Italian agriculture and Roman ruins to start learning anything new. (Although I'm sure we all learned "gelato" right away.)

I will not be re-learning any German this time around. I barely know any Italian. And is it terrible that 99% of the things I want to do involve eating? I would kill for a big ole pizza margherita right about now. With a half liter of wine and a side of french fries and chocolate profiteroles for dessert. Auuuggghhhh I am killing me. Must go eat lunch.

(This is the second post I have ended with me going off to find something to eat. Read nothing into this. It's just inopportune posting timing, not the fact that I am so far from The Beach I am in the Alps.)

Comments

[Maureen]

I worked as an intern in Germany for one summer, even though I speak no German. Well, before I went I spoke no German. Now I can say, "I speak no German," "Where is the bathroom" "How much does this cost" "I'm sorry" "Do you speak English" and "Excuse me." You know, the basics. "I'm sorry" and "Excuse me" came in particularly handy, especially when followed by "I speak no German, do you speak English?"

My husband saw the title of this post and said, "What does that say?" I said, "Well, 'bitte' is German for please," and he said, "It looks like it says, 'Ice cream, bitte." Just one of those times when German and English are pretty much the same, I guess.

[Courtney]

Your upcoming trip sounds glorious...and when I think of Italian gelato, mmmmmmmm! Very jealous of you indeed!