A Map of the Bay Area

Little green arrow shows the location of the cottage in Menlo Park. Gauss' office is about 12 miles north in San Mateo. Click on the map for a larger view.

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When in Rome...

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Gauss and I had been through Rome only once before following our ill-fated flight from Sri Lanka to Italy in 1982. My memories are hazy and few. Back then we landed at Da Vinci airport and had to get to Milano. Nerves jangled, we were not about to board another plane just then, so we took a bus to the train station. I recall rolling past the coliseum and being a little surprised that it was right there , although I was unable to muster anything resembling enthusiasm. This time we vowed to pay attention. I planned only one thing in Rome—a visit to the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican Museum. I made an online reservation a month in advance so that we would not miss it, printed the entrance voucher (NOT TRANSFERABLE printed across it in bold letters) labeled it with a Post-It, and added it to the folder of important travel documents. We had another aim for the day as well: to get Italian SIM cards for the cell phones we'd purchased in anticipation of the trip. Despite the seve
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Italy, On My Own This Time

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In this blog I've covered past trips to Italy. This one is different. Since Gauss died last June, I've thought I should come back here, for several reasons. The first is to immerse myself in the language and force myself to speak it. Before he got sick, Gauss and I had planned to spend some time here after he retired. I'd been hearing him speak Italian with his parents for so long that I understood much of what I heard. But I've had difficulty generating speech on my own. He told me, "If you spent three to six months here, you'd be able to speak." Well, Gauss is no longer with me. I don't have him to lean on, so it's up to me to get around. And I'm happy to report that I've managed. In the ten days since I arrived, I've become more confident (or maybe more desperate!) so I just launch in, knowing that my Italian is lousy. But people are understanding me. Pasta with the Papagnos, first night here. Costanza had to reple
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A Crappy, Crappy Day

The morning started with a bomb—a stink bomb, actually, at about 5:00 a.m. Gauss and I were awakened by some kind of wild yowls outside (not Spicy, he was asleep on the sofa) instantly followed by the pungent aroma of skunk. It was worst in the bedroom and kitchen, almost nauseating. We went outdoors to see where the smell was coming from, but out in the yard...nothing. Inside...BAM! STINK! Since I was up, I opened my emails, and the first one was a panicked message from the Paragon tenants—they had no water, hadn’t had it for a couple of days and now they were at the end of their rope. I made emergency calls to the well drilling company and to a neighbor, asking if the tenants could come by to at least get water from her hose. $1200 later, there is water again. Gauss had taken the train to work. I was going to give the car a rest and take the train to my well-deserved appointment with a massage therapist, but just as I was leaving, the phone rang. Gauss’ boss had forgotten to tell h
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