The Treehouse is getting emptier...

Some pix of the house on Paragon getting cleared out. Gauss working in the garage; the dressing room off our master bedroom now that the loveseat is gone—it's basically storage for art; Our closet, after Gauss packed (his clothes were on the top rod); Emilio's basement bedroom minus bed and nightstand; Furnace room minus map file, which I sold on Craigslist.

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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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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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