break

    Winter here is not that great. I thought winter in Davis (central California) was pretty bad and I thought moving to central Italy would help brighten up my winter months. The winter darkens Davis in a dark, damp ground fog that protects the city from the warming sunshine and keeps it at a constant two or three degrees (centigrade) above freezing. In addition it helps keep the town moist so that any hint of warmth is eliminated by soaking everything, including your clothing and firewood with a moisture more profound than the most rampant downpour. An afternoon glimpse of blue sky overhead heightens the effect with the realization that anyone living 100 meters up is clothed in bathing suits and suntan oil. It's a tough act to follow.
    But central Italy gives it a good try. Needless to say, I got it wrong. For some reason, not only did I spend, of my own free will, some 30 years of my precious life suffering Davis winters, swearing I'd never do it again; but I've somehow managed to spend 10 more suffering central Italian winters in the same condition. And I love to ski. I love snow. Hard to believe. Anyway, when winter comes I like to pretend I don't live here. It's cold inside and out.
    This fall the lovely November sunshine failed to sustain itself. We didn't even bother to harvest the measly olive crop. Sure we had our warm days, but on the whole it was pretty wet. Early on, we received an invitation to visit southern Portugal for Christmas from Alex's aunt Janet and uncle Martin. They were trying to entice my parents into a visit and I have a feeling they might have been using us as a bargaining chip. We had spent Christmas there once before and I remember it as being absolutely marvelous. Warm. Plenty of free time. Lots of good food. Good wine. Good talk. And Sun. OH! Sunshine! In winter. Bliss. Airfare is steep for four of us, but when I heard two families of cousins were also invited, I insisted we go.
     Twelve days of mooching, eating, christmas shopping, trekking, sunbathing, eating, wine drinking, beach combing, meal planing, wine buying, reading, eating, orange squeezing, sleeping in, hill walking, cooking, christmas celebrating, gift giving, more eating, .... how good can it get? It was that good. Here's an indication. Normally our girls love getting back to school after they have been away on vacation. In the past, we have taken them to London and London, and London, and London. They've been everywhere. Once we took them to America but I wasn't there. When we returned from Janet and Martin's this Christmas, they looked like an ad for Prozac. When it was time to go back to school, they were quiet and depressed and unable to face their homework. They had had the best time with their second cousins. They had found children they could talk to and play with who behaved decently and were educated and well spoken. They didn't have to watch TV to communicate but they were allowed to watch several movies together. They played on the beach, they swam in the sea, they played with the dogs, they minded their manners, they ate with their knives and forks, they said goodnight properly, and they thanked everybody properly, just like they watched their cousins do.
      Now it's been a few days since we've been back in the old routine. The kids and I get up in the dark every morning and shuffle about getting ready for school. I'm not sure how much they miss the sunshine. While we were in Portugal, they were able to get into their swimming trunks, but now they don't seem to mind their puffy winter jackets. But I do. I hate the damned things. I also hate the dank air and the lack of hot water and the frozen hands in the dishwater. I hate the damp clothing every morning. I hate the stiff plastic and rubber. I hate the fire that won't light and the tea that cools too soon. And I hate facing the work with the wet cement and ice-cold tools.
     But the winter break doesn't end until Alex's birthday on 13th Jan. I'm going to get her something special. Like a ruined shack in the south of Portugal.