This morning I awoke to that most typical of CMC sounds: the grounds crew collecting empty beer bottles and red cups from the Beach below. There was also the cheerful chirping of birds - far friendlier SoCal birds than the squawking horrors that plagued our time in Italy. Bluejays hopped aong the walkway outside. Squirrels ran across the paths. I likely slept through the bunnies morning feed out on Pritzlaf Field.

I managed to pry myself out of bed in time to run the morning 5k. I was the only member of the Class of 2001 to do so. If, at graduation, someone had asked which graduate would be most likely to be the only member of the class to run a 5k at our 5-year reunion, I can guarantee whose name would never come up in the list of possibilities. . . . It's an insignificant accomplishment to the world at large, but for me it illustrates how far I've come in 5 years. It's a good feeling.

Or at least, it was when I first finished - right now my legs feel like lead.

I'm sitting in a desk chair - not quite the good plastic loungers we would've had during school - on the balcony staring at South Quad just like I must have done a thousand times when I was here. The peace on this campus is marvelously calming. I can't help but think, again, how lucky I was to receive my bar results here - where I gained confidence in my abilities before law school took it all away. It's good to be home and remember who you are and what you did do, and can do.

In a few minutes, I'll go listen to President Gann describe cheerily how she plans to rape CMC of its originality by growing the student body. For now, just a few hundred more - but we'll get to 1400 soon enough. Incrementalism is fantastic like that. Once we're an over-extended Pomona clone, once we've fully complied with US News & World Report's requirements for an easily assessed educational system, she will be happy and will likely leave us for another victim. I am not a fan.

I've been talking to current students who have drunk from the Gann-ade. I don't have too much hope of clamping down rampant CMC growth. I don't have the money to withhold to really make my point. It kills me to think of a dual-dining hall, 1500 student, average liberal arts college. I chose CMC because it was small - if I'd wanted Pomona I would have - and could have - gone there.

But I suppose mourning should be limited. This place made me who I am. But if it changes, I'll fight my best, and then figure out if it's worth sending my kids here or not. It'd be like mourning the Roman Empire, right? It was glorious while it lasted, but things change. CMC might not end up worse, but it won't be mind anymore.

For now though, here on the sunnyside of Green, overlooking the Beach, I am happy and comfortable. The Claremont sun awaits.

I've written and will soon post more details from my Euro-travels. For now, though, come with me on a journey through time and space, during which I begin a love letter to my alma mater, my dear old CMC.

It's 11:09pm. Five or so hours ago, I found out I passed the bar. I've had about 2 beers and several glasses of wine. I've also had a bottle and a half of water. At 8, I am supposed to run a 5k. I am jet-lagged and drained - so, in a way that is sort of fitting - I am in my room, Green 204, listening to the bustle of partiers below.

Green 204 is next door to Green 203, my home for nearly two years and home to my friends Maria and Marlena, both of whom transfered after freshman year.

Green's been renovated since I was here. Dropped ceilings conceal heating - maybe air - ducts and obliterate the high, high ceilings we used to enjoy. The closet in this room has moved - but I doubt any student today appreciates the difference. There's no more over-closet storage either. There's a large, pink stain on the carpet in the center of the room and I wonder for which party the residents of this room were preparing when they spilled their drink. Monte Carlo? Sunset Boulevard? Impossible - that doesn't exist anymore either, gone the way of our ceilings and, soon, Badgley Gardens.

For brief moments, sitting on this balcony - this balcony where I decided where to go to college, where I called my parents and boyfriend, where I studied, where I drank, where I napped, where I laughed, cried, sang, and danced - it's easy to slip into believing that I'll awaken from the past 5 years and be back here at home. I can hear the familiar voices of friends outside. The room is as hot and stuffy as ever. The sun was warm and the keg is full.

Of course, I wouldn't trade these past 5 years for anything. The joys and the heartbreak made me. But the dream is there - as I dangle my feet in the Flamson fountain, dry them on the hot brick paths, and stand, red cup in hand, talking with friends I've known nearly a decade. Maybe I'll wake up on Mars and back in Claremont with the whole future ahead of me - which, of course, it still is.

This school gave me life. I'm glad I checked my bar results here while looking out through the same windows that framed so much of my collegiate pondering, staring at the same duplo block buildings across Parents Field.

I know I'm leaving the party too early - just like I did in college - but tomorrow I will awake here again and love CMC some more, as its sons and daughters do . . . .

Around the Cinque Terre, residents seem to have a love/hate relationship with Rick Steves - who, it would seem, single-handedly created an American tourism boom on the otherwise sleepy section of Ligurian coast.

So imagine our slack-jawed shock, when, running to catch our train, I looked up to see the man himself chatting with employees at the Blue Marlin (a joint to which Steves devotes much ink). Deciding to ditch my normal Angeleno aloofness when it comes to celebrities (no, really, in the travel book world, he's up there) and nerd out with a photo.

More on Rick Steves and his books in a later post . . . .

Who needs postcards . . .

We're finally here in Vernazza in the Cinque Terre. It's amazingly crowded for such a small town - especially with rowdy school kids. We have our accomodations and as soon as the rain stops, it should be lovely here. Am working on getting more photos uploaded, but visit my flickr page for the very small selection I've managed to get up on this costly connection. Ciao for now, more to come . . .

(this is an unedited, doesn't include links, first draft post. more to come)

The first thing I noticed about Rome was how much is felt like home. Not only in the ancestral sense – and surely those feelings come straight out of your mind more than some great cosmic umbilical force – but rather, the air, the warmth, the atmosphere felt like California in May, a welcome change from the perpetual almost-spring English weather.

Had there been a patch of grass available outside the airport, I’d have rolled around in it like a puppy immediately. Exercising restraint, however, I spotted our shuttle bus and off we were to central Roma and our hotel.

A Rick Steves suggestion, Hotel Nardizzi Americana is on sleepy yet centrally located Via Firenze. It’s a quick walk from the central Termini and juts off Via Nazionale, a bustling thoroughfare that runs from the Piazza de Republica down to the Vittorio Emmanuale monument, sort of. From a family history perspective, our hotel was ideal. Assorted cousins grew up at Via Nazionale 89A – a sprawling and impressive penthouse from which they could see the VE and the Colosseum. Not a bad way to spend a childhood, I imagine. My father visited often while growing up. After the deaths of my Zia and later my Zio a few years back, the 3 daughters – my second cousins – divided the unit into 3 apartments. We also learned that the family business, a uniform and hat supplier for the government and police types, was housed right at the corner of Via Firenze and Via Nazionale. The storefront is now a McDonalds.

Our hotel was perfect – from the location to the amenities. At € 115/night (plus a 10% discount for paying in cash) it was a bit more expensive than our lodgings in other countries – but there was free breakfast and a breezy terrace on which to enjoy it and other meals we brought in after long walks. There was also a free computer terminal. The sign said 10 minutes free after which additional time could be purchased from the front desk. I interpreted this to mean 10 minutes free at a time and used it to schedule tours and investigate logistics for the next legs of our journey. Immensely useful.

Rome is a fantastically walkable city. After reading warnings about pickpockets and petty thefts on all modes of public transit, I had steeled myself for the bus or metro, but we never stepped foot on either. We took 3 cabs over the course of our 4 days, one to and one from dinner after a very long day on our feet and one when we were running late for our Vatican tour. The rest of the time we hoofed it. From the Vatican back to our hotel, from our hotel to the Piazza di Spagna and the accompanying Spanish steps, from the hotel to the Villa Borghese, around the park, back down the steps, over to the Piazza Navona, around a maze of streets, over to the Colosseum, back to the hotel – you name it, we walked it. I liken the leg fatigue at the end of each day to about a 10 mile training run. This morning, my legs pleaded for a day off, but the only break they’ll likely get is this train trip from Roma to Firenze.

Rome is a sensual city. Each building deserves its own photograph. There are smooth marbles and rough obelisks, cool water fountains, warm park benches, and ancient bronze doors over which you can run your hands. There are about 800 kinds of police forces with wailing sirens, there are awestruck tourists, there is the music of the Italian language which, for me, sounds like childhood and my own history. There is the intoxicating smell of citrus blossoms which hovers in garden air and along streets and from apartment windows – that also smells like lazy college evenings and alnighters and walks back to the apartments. There is gelato.

The Rick Steves book provided a wealth of good advice and information – all explained to me in the way in which I would explain things to others, conversational, practical, and a lot more trustworthy than the clinical, boring tone of Fodors – or other books for which I can’t help but think places pay for inclusion. The only disagreement I have with its Roma chapter is that Rick thinks Roma is tough going for tourists – a hard town, fast, noisy, exhausting, a bit rough. In these first warm days of spring though, before the high season really gets high, it seems like heaven – the best a European city could be – historic, helpful, polite – in an Italian sort of way – energetic, yet balanced.

It’s hard to leave Rome and imagine there’s anything comparable, but I know that other cities await that will give Rome a run for its money – if not its history. Where England was once impossibly old, a few days hanging around in true antiquity has once again altered my appreciation for human history.

This is a short post with no photos - think of it as a check-in post. We're killing time before dinner at an internet cafe we stumbled on here in Roma, just off the Campo D'Fiori.

Roma is beautiful. Perhaps the most perfect, lovely, complete city I have ever seen. The perfect weather helps - it's warm like home and the air in the gardens and along a few streets is heavy with orange blossom and fresh grass.

There is plenty to post about, that's for sure, but it will have to wait.

Tomorrow, we leave for Florence, but I will thank Rome eternally for a crash course in art history, philosophy, religion, and, of course, la dolce vita.

Ciao!

This is a close up of the May Pole ribbons, pre-dancing. We thought we'd be watching others dance around the May Pole - but it was audience particpation day at the Museum of East Anglian Life (or "meal") in Stowemarket, just a few miles up the road from Ipswich.

And so Rob and I grabbed a ribbon - mine was green, Rob's was blue - and off we skipped. It's kind of complicated. And unbraiding the thing is even harder. The only thing I regret about the dance was that there was no time to grab the camera and get some shots of the woven strands.

Tomorrow we fly to Rome for our great Italian adventure. A few weeks back we booked the cheapest fare we found and thought, though it was early, the savings were worth it. Now, however, our 6:10am flight (add hours for check-in, getting to the airport, parking) seems kinda dumb. But, Italians operate on afternoon naptimes - so when in Rome . . . .

The title is from a line from The Office . . . .

This is a scotch egg - it's a hard boiled egg surrounded with sausage and coated in bread crumbs. It's a tasty lunch treat - typical picnic food. We enjoyed this one while watching the Morris Dancers at a local May Day celebration.