In James Bond movies, Monte Carlo is the essence of class.  It glitters, but not in a gaudy Vegas showgirl type way.  Bond girls at the Casino drip with real jewels, the kind handed down from grandmothers or given by wealthy older lovers.  Its roulette wheel is polished, an antique.  It shines gracefully as it spins in a whirring of red and black.  

No matter what the plot twist may be in each movie set in this wealthy city, the implicit message is clear - you do not go to Monte Carlo to win.  You go there because you are already winning at life; you have already won.

Life does not always imitate art!

​Our first impression of the real Monte Carlo revolved around a tall apartment building.  An enormous skyscraper actually, full of luxury apartments.  It seemed at first glance to be the largest building I have ever seen in person.  As we first drove by Monaco a few days ago, along the edge of a high cliff overlooking the seaside town, our eyes were accosted not by a stunning shore or an ancient castle... but rather by this twisting blue building straight out of Dr. Seuss novels - or Miami Beach!  

We later learned its name: Tour Odeon Tower.  The building rises from the center of town in a massive column... and no joke, it dwarfs all of the surrounding buildings, seeming to reach the height of the huge mountain we were driving along.  Have I mentioned more than twice that it was a Miami blue?  Like Colgate toothpaste?

The Sky Penthouse apartment at the Tour Odeon Tower, by the way, retails for a bargain price of only $387 million.  

Really?  I mean, REALLY?!?!?  For that?  

Monte Carlo turns out to be the most densely populated city on the planet.  It is also the main district of the principality of Monaco, the world's second smallest country.  (The entire country is less than 1 sq mile!)

Yet, the town is not overrun with locals... not with lovely Monacans.  Señor Aventura tells me that few of the local people can actually afford to live there.  

Apparently Monaco/Monte Carlo is known for being one of the most important tax havens in the world.  Its inhabitants do not have to pay a personal income tax!  This makes it a super desirable spot for the uber-wealthy.  In fact, I read estimates that more than 30% of residents in Monaco are millionaires. 

To be an official 'inhabitant', you must own or rent property in Monaco.  You must also be able to show the local bank that you can support yourself there, which can be done by placing a mere 100,000 euro in a local bank account. 

At the cheapest end of town, a small one bedroom apartment with parking space will run you approximately $3400 USD.  It just goes up from there.  Most of the advertisements we saw yesterday posted in realty windows (on every block!) involved larger homes selling for between 9 and 20 million euro.​  

With our spirits flagging just a bit, we set off to find lunch.  ​

We gazed upon brightly colored tropical fish and sultry eels, winding their way through manmade rocks.  Alien angel-like jellyfish, flounced and floated in a circular stream. Poisonous rockfish taunted us through gnarled flesh and slitted eyes.  ​

On to the positive!

Prince Albert of Monaco (son of Prince Rainier and Princess Grace) has amazing taste in cars!  In fact, car racing may be one of the most authentic and awesome things about Monte Carlo - a town so famous for its Grand Prix that Chevrolet named its 1970 class after this city.

The kids and I loved Prince Albert's car collection spanning all forms of vehicle from horse drawn carriages to the fastest modern race cars.  His vehicles are all in cherry condition and we took a gazillion pictures.  Each of us had a favorite.  Anyone who knows me well will not be at all surprised... mine was the scarlet 1963 Ferrari.  ​

Here are some splendid cars.  We had a ball checking them out!

The rain in Cannes lands with emphasis.  Rolling thunder echoes throughout the surrounding hills and although it is still morning, the sky is dusky-hued.  Cars and motorcycles plunge through the wet streets below us, on their way to appointments that cannot be missed merely for weather.  In our fourth floor apartment, a door suddenly slams shut.  It sounds like a gunshot, but is only the product of wind.  

Suddenly the sky flashes an electrical white. The sky cracks, and thunder takes command. The depth of the sound overwhelms; its noise is so profound and all-encompassing that for an instant, everything stops.  It is no wonder to me, when we experience storms in Europe, that ancient peoples here believed in gods hurling death from the sky.  Weather is so much more casually violent here than in our San Diego home.  

We relax.  We pull up the covers... just a little bit longer.  Today is the last day of vacation; tomorrow, no matter the weather, we will pack up Chico Suave and drive home to Barcelona.  ​

There will be much work to do.  In just 2.5 days we must remove our belongings and clean the small, sweltering AirBNB apartment in Barcelona (the one we've been avoiding for two weeks with its roaches, mold and unending noise) and move into our new place - if they let us!  

The new Barcelona apartment is still a mess, wrecked from its past Russian tenants. Holes in the walls, light fixtures falling off and sockets destroyed in an apartment that was apparently completely remodeled only two years ago. Purple candle wax was poured haphazardly and it has hardened over the fireplace hearth.  The putrid smell of those scented candles lingers across the dusty and dirty apartment, whispering secrets of its past life.  

(Yes, we WILL sage the place!)

We have a signed lease, but have no promises of an arrival date.  Our rental agent shook his head at us...  "I thought you said you needed to move in by the 13th - trece."

"No.  TRE, not trece," replied Señor Aventura.  (3 not 13)  "We are out of our rental on the third.  We must have a place to sleep at by the 3rd!"

"I cannot say whether this will be possible," Juan replied.  "Our workers are on vacation.  We must be patient.  We must try."

Sigh.  

Here we are though, still in Cannes.  One last day of sultry French sauces that melt in your mouth... one last day of the romantic French coast.  (It's vibrance cannot even be dulled by the irritated bickering of the Aventura children in the next room, their three vibrant little spirits anxious to get out into this rain, into the exciting day - to greet the white lightning with broad smiles.)

Today, thanks to rain, we have decided to attend the Cinema.  When in Cannes, what could be a more perfect rainy day activity?  Cannes is known worldwide for its cinema, music and theaters.  I've discovered a children's film - "Peter et Elliott le dragon" playing at the Olympia theater; happily, there is a delicious Japanese restaurant ("Sushi Shop") not far away.  We also bought crepe mix at the Carrefour yesterday and have decided to try our hand at dessert crepes tonight.  

"Can we fill them with fruit?" asks Soccer Dude.
"I want strawberries!" sings Little Angel.
"I think we should use that crepe pan," suggests The Scientist.
"Let's add whipped cream!" his little sister pipes up again.  
"...and maybe a little chocolate for Daddy," winks Señor Aventura.

My stomach growls happily in anticipation.  
​Despite the downpour, it will be a good day.  

She took him to her vet and he actually went along quietly - a serious miracle!  

​Grumpy Cat was now blind, with massive growths all around his neck and paw.  

“Cancer,” said the vet, “Or a very difficult infection.  He is suffering greatly.”

And so, the impossible decision was at last made.  Grumpy Cat, whose short life had been too hard, was put to sleep.  ​

That we awoke in Cannes, France today could not have been predicted.  

​We find ourselves in an interesting position this month, trusting life to take us where we need to be.  This is perhaps not typical past behavior for the Aventura family... at home we are organized; we have activities; we have meetings; we have PLACES TO GO. We have plans.

(We are usually running late.)

How many times in the past few days have we said to each other with disappointment, "Oh!  It's too bad that this did not work out." 
"That would have been so cool!"
"What a bummer."
"Oh well."

Yet in the end we are finding that by letting go and being more spontaneous, even when faced with challenges and disappointments, we have some excellent strokes of good luck that lead us to a good result.  

For example, when we brought Señor Aventura to the sublimely beautiful Ristorante Grotto Sant'Anna in Cannobio for his birthday dinner and they explained to us that while yes, they did have a table for two, they would absolutely not accommodate our family of five.  

Unfortunately, we had not.

"No," the waiter shook his head at our family.
"Mi dispiace. Non possiamo accoglierli." (I am sorry, I cannot accommodate you.)
"Si prega, signore - questo significherebbe tanto per noi. E ' il compleanno di mio marito." (Please sir, it would mean so much to us.  It is the birthday of my husband.)

He frowned at our three hopeful, slightly wrinkled and very hungry children.  Little Angel smiled at him, hopping on one sparkly golden sandaled foot.
​
"Sì signora, ma non posso fare a voi. Non abbiamo una tabella di questa sera per cinque persone. Solo per due." (Yes madam, but I cannot do this for you.  We do not have a table for five people.  Only for two.)  

"That's too bad," exclaimed Señor Aventura in the kindest way... and for one brief moment the twinkle in his bright blue eyes faded just slightly as he turned and slowly walked back uphill toward our car parked outside of the church.  Our disappointed, hungry children followed behind him.

"Please," I approached the waiter once more.  "Lei parla un po' di Inglese?  (Do you speak any English?)
"Yes," he responded in perfect English.  "I speak a little."
"Sir," I tried one last time, looking around at the many empty tables.  "We come from very far away.  Today is the birthday of my husband and he is so excited to spend the evening at your beautiful restaurant.  Is there no way you can please assist us?"

'No, madam," he replied - now curtly.  "These tables are not big enough.  Good evening!"

I could feel my cheeks flame as I walked away from the group of uniformed waiters in the glorious outdoor restaurant; embarrassed and feeling flat.  Stupid, pushy American woman! I imagined they were thinking.  Who does she think she is? 

"Why didn't I call to make a reservation?" I wondered in frustration, but knew the answer. Making telephone calls in Italian, Spanish and French is so much harder for me than speaking in person.  I hadn't made the call because it felt daunting.

"I guess we could just go back to the touristy restaurants on the promenade. Or, maybe we should just begin our drive home around the lake," my husband suggested.  "It's a long drive.  It would be easier to head home while we still have some daylight."

As he drove us toward Switzerland and through Locarno, I frantically scanned through TripAdvisor on my phone, looking for a solution.  "I cannot let his birthday dinner be a flop!" I thought.

​Yet the phones kept losing internet.  We got lost in Locarno.  Our hungry children started to bicker with each other and the acid in my stomach began to churn.  

There are probably hundreds of good restaurants situated between Cannobio, Locarno and Maccagno - but we were striking out.  Everywhere I called was closed, did not have a table, did not have gluten free options.  The sun was setting, and our children were growing emotional in the back seat.

Finally, just when I felt hot tears pressuring the corners of my eyes, I called the Hotel Camin Colmegna, just a five minute drive from our AirBNB apartment in Maccagno.  

"Si, signora," replied the courtly gentleman on the other end of the line.  "Let us speak together in English.  I fear my English is better than your Italian."  (Ha!  He was right!)  "We would be very happy to create a table for your family in thirty minutes.  Ristorante Tiffany will be delighted to host you for your husband's birthday this evening."

Before we knew it, we were pulling into the hotel's tiny gravel parking lot.  ​When we walked through the doors of Ristorante Tiffany, our jaws dropped a little.  

​This romantic outdoor restaurant on the lake must surely have been the backdrop to a film set in the 1920s.  White tablecloths flowing to the floor, white candles, white table settings, white flowers.  A panoramic lake view from every seat.  Twinkling white lights glittered everywhere.  Had we stepped into a fancy party or wedding by mistake?

"Wow," said Señor Aventura. "This place is really nice."  He sat facing the water, ordered a half-liter of red wine and began to unwind.  

"This restaurant is so beautiful!  I love it even more than the other one," Little Angel piped up.  "It's so pretty, Daddy!"
"I could get used to this," agreed Soccer Dude. 
"I wonder how they cook their handmade pasta?" the Scientist studied the menu, already in Master Chef Junior mode.  
"Look at that view," I glowed.  "How romantic!"

"Good evening, Sir," welcomed our uniformed waiter.  "A very happy birthday to you!"

"Molte grazie," Señor Aventura thanked him warmly.  

In the end, we enjoyed a beautiful meal (my treat!) of savory handmade pasta, fresh fish, vegetables and salad... desserts for everyone, a small after-dinner espresso... and only a five minute drive home.  Life had brought us a better option after all. 

​On Señor Aventura's birthday we learned that the week of soccer camp our boys have looked forward to all summer had just been canceled at the last minute... much to their disappointment. Apparently Soccer Dude and The Scientist were the only students enrolled.  This left us unexpectedly with almost two more weeks of summer.

If we had an apartment in the city and friends to play with, nothing could be more delightful than a bit more holiday fun.

Yet we are told the property management company cannot repair, clean, paint or prepare our new Barcelona apartment until after September 1.  Nobody seems to actually know when we can move in.  All of their workers are on vacation.  (This is widely understood in Spain.  Our handful of Spanish friends are also traveling.)  

Without a home to return to, and nothing to do in the hot city, the drive home lost its urgency.

We decided instead to take the slow road home, extending our vacation to spend a few days along the French Cote d'Azur.  We left our lakeside Italian village without even choosing a specific destination - letting destiny and AirBNB take a hand in charting our course.

The five of us zipped through Italy in Chico Suave, flanked on both sides by gorgeous Italian fields and forests.  We passed several castellos and lots of little northern Italian hamlets along our way.  Every radio station had more sad news reports of the recent "terremoto" - the tragic central Italian earthquake that claimed nearly 300 lives in Amatrice and surrounding towns.

As we drove, Señor Aventura narrowed our options. 

"Right now it's either the Mediterranean or a lake, those are our options," announced Señor Aventura.  "It's 32 degrees Celsius (90F) outside and we don't need to be trapped in a big, sweaty city!"

We'd just enjoyed eight blissful days on Lago Maggiore, yet the Mediterranean Sea did sound promising and even exciting.  Something new!  None of us had ever seen this part of the Italian or French coast.

Yet as the hours passed and we drove through Genova, Sanremo, Ventimiglia, Monaco and Nice, nothing worked out easily.  Many AirBNB hosts declined our last-minute requests to stay, and other options were simply too expensive. The narrow streets in each beach town were crowded with tourists and as soon as we'd arrived, we were anxious to leave.

Finally, we got lost in Nice and found ourselves all turned around in a very industrial part of town, surrounded by massive run-down apartment buildings and women spraying our car windshield to try to make income as we waited at the stoplight. It felt a lot like hanging out in downtown L.A.

Señor Aventura and I had both run out of charge on our cellular phones. 
"It's like we are traveling again in the 1990s," he laughed. "We will actually need to read street signs, rather than relying on Google Maps!"
"Back then, we would have been driving with an actual map!" I sighed.

At last we found a freeway onramp and followed the blue signs toward Cannes.  The sun was starting to set. 

After seven hours in the car, our children didn't have much remaining patience. 
'What is for dinner?"
"Are we there yet?"
"How much longer are we going to drive today?"

"We will sleep in Cannes tonight, no matter what," their dad and I agreed.  "Even if we have to get a hotel room. Or two."  

Yet as we exited the freeway in the vieille ville of Cannes, all of the muddiness of our long drive came swiftly into a sweet, clear focus.  What a sublimely beautiful city!  Flanked on all sides by hotels and the most darling shops and restaurants, the famille Aventura drove deep into the heart of Cannes and felt infused with renewed energy and joy. 

"It's SO beautiful here!"
"I LIKE this town, mommy!"
"Let's drive toward the water!"
"I see an underground parking - let's take a stroll!"
"That restaurant looks good.  Let's eat!"

In the end we dined al fresco at Le Mistral and found the most charming apartment rental on the Rue Chabaud.  Madame Marie, a hearty and no-nonsense blonde grandmother in her sixties, drove an hour down from the mountains to let us into her Cannes AirBNB rental at 10pm.  She greeted us with smiles and kisses on the cheek, clean sheets and a detailed house manual itemizing every dish, blanket and piece of furniture in the place.

​"The people who live in this building are professionals who work - and so you must try not to make noise after 22:00," she advised sternly.  "But DO make a little noise - after all, you are on vacation!"  she added with a grin.

Madame Marie was rosy, friendly and bossy all at once... like the grandmother who takes care of you when you've been ill, nursing you back to health with equal parts of love and no-nonsense discipline.  She bustled around the apartment showing us how to work the gas, the lights, the laundry.  

We slept beautifully on Rue Chabaud, windows flung open to the crashing of the surf; dreaming against the ambient sounds of motorcycle traffic, pop music and the midnight laughter of passersby.  

Once again, we'd found our way to a happier ending.

At fourteen I broke away from childhood at last, diving headlong into a sea of black fingernail polish, thick eyeliner, Depeche Mode and The Cure. I got my first curfew (12:30!), went out to exciting backyard parties full of music, beer and boys and fell in love with love.  Moods were up, moods were down... and my grades began to sink like the Titanic, fast and low.  

A wise teacher then handed me "A Farewell To Arms," by Ernest Hemingway and it could not have fit the bill more perfectly.  

For those that don't know the story... You have this handsome young American ambulance driver - Frederic - just a teen himself. He patriotically volunteers for the war being fought in Italy and becomes completely disillusioned with what he sees and experiences there.  

Disillusionment!?!  This fit my teenaged angst perfectly!
Italy?  Sounded beautiful!

And then to top it off, Frederic falls gradually into starcrossed love with Catherine, a nurse at the hospital where he's been sent to recover after getting wounded.  He doesn't mean to fall for her, but it happens.

The two of them go through separation, drama, and real horrors of war. Finally they get a tiny reprieve from their grim life in the little town of Stresa, where Catherine has been sent to work - and before Frederic can be arrested (for a violent act he committed during a moment of rage).

They hook up for a few months; Catherine gets pregnant, and then they try to escape into Switzerland so she can have the baby and they can really be together.   

Things don't end well.  (Fourteen year old me was devastated; but also a tiny bit validated.)

I mean, really?!!?  What could be a more PERFECT book for any emotive girl at that age?  This novel gave me all the proof I needed to be fully convinced that, as I told my beleaguered parents all the time, "Life isn't FAIR!"  Embracing my darker side seemed a very reasonable choice, and Ernest Hemingway promptly became my favorite author.  Opposites attract, and his clean, simple prose flooded my hormone-ridden teenage brain with a deep yearning for places and people far away and long gone.  

I went to the library and brought home every book I could find about World War I. I resolved to go to Italy, a land I'd never seen.  I daydreamed about Stresa, the place where Frederic and Catherine had been happy for a brief time in the novel, and especially of the Grand Hotel Des Iles Borromees where Hemingway himself had stayed in Room 106 while recovering from shrapnel wounds he'd received while saving an Italian soldier.  For this, he'd earned the Italian Silver Medal of Bravery.  

I wanted to take a boat to the nearby islands where he'd fished, and try my first dry martini at the hotel bar where he'd spent most of his time at the hotel.  I longed to sit on the beach where he'd swum. 

Hemingway had been dead for nearly thirty years in 1990, but I fell madly in love with his writing as though I could step back through a keyhole into time.  I stared into the quiet Point Loma nights and swore that someday I'd get out of San Diego... I'd go to Stresa, and find myself.

Of course, nothing ever quite goes according to plan :)

I did finally make it to Italy five years later at 19.  I even lived there for four full months in the exquisite city of Firenze (Florence) where I made lifelong friends.  We drank wine and ate salami and peccorino along the Arno River, and went out late at night to dimly lit clubs in basements entered by descending cold stone steps.  I'd studied Italian for three years and improved quickly once living in Italia.

By then, I'd forgotten to wear black and my hormones and emotions had mainly settled.  I still loved Hemingway, but with slightly less ardor.  My taste in books had expanded to include most of the authors in the Southern American pantheon... and my taste in boys had evolved to include real live human men closer to my own age.  

In all those months, I never traveled to Stresa though.  Not that year, nor in any of the subsequent trips to Italy I took with friends or family.

In the end, it took 26 years for me to arrive. 

...but today, TODAY, we took a two hour ferry ride from Maccagno to the elegant Stresa shoreline.  I then walked one kilometer with my rugged husband and darling kids to the Grand Hotel Des Iles Borromees.  We stepped casually through the same doors that Ernest Hemingway entered for the first time in 1918, at the age of nineteen. 

And though they've closed the bar where Hemingway once sat drinking dry martinis, we smiled at his photograph on the wall, next to the framed signature he left in their hotel register ("Ernest Hemingway - An Old Client").  He gazed upon us with Ryan Gosling-esque eyes.

Tonight, while hiking back up from the ferry landing with my nine year old son to our mountain apartment in Maccagno, Soccer Dude noticed a memorial in front of the church dedicated to local soldiers lost in World War I.  It was dated 1918.  

"Is this the war we were talking about today, Mom?  World War I?"

I nodded and we spent a few minutes reading the soldier's names out loud - names like Giovanni, Antonio, and Giulio.  

"Mom, why do so many of these guys have the same last name?"
"Honey, it's sad.  This is a small village, so if two or three people on this list of dead soldiers have the same last name, it means that they were probably related.  They might have been brothers, or father and son, or possibly cousins.  They died fighting for their country.  They were very brave."
"That means some families here lost three sons or brothers, mom!  That's so sad."
"Yes.  War is awful.  They were fighting to defend their country."

We turned again into the street to hike up the now-familiar mountain path.  I happened to notice the street name.  "Via Alfredo Cuccuini."
"Wait - that's one of the names on the memorial!" 
We came to the next corner.  "Via Francesco Baroggi."
"That's another one, Mom!  Francesco Baroggi was one of those soldiers that died, too!"
"Wow.  I think they named all the streets around us for those boys that died in the war.  Their sons.  Their brothers."

We trudged uphill silently, contemplating those Maccagno boys who died so young.  All must've been near Hemingway's age.  They were the lost generation he immortalized in his raw stories of war.  

I am now 40, a mother with deep lines creasing my forehead and around my eyes and mouth.  Watching my athletic, vibrant son climb 600 year old steps, I can no longer relate to that brooding 14 year old girl who once found wartime stories dangerous and romantic.  

Instead I hurt for the mothers of those boys; mothers who kissed their sweetest treasures goodbye and then lost them to the ravages of an Austro-Hungarian army.
​
I think of Ernest Hemingway who saw too much death up close, drank to drown his post-traumatic stress, and finally shot himself at 61.
​
I look with new eyes at Maccagno... and pay my respects to this small lakeside community that boldly placed the names of its dead children on every street so that they will never be forgotten.  

This will be our fifth night in Lago Maggiore.  By night three, we'd fallen so much in love with the locale that we decided to stay here for our full August vacation rather than moving forward to La Spezia and Cinque Terre, as we'd originally planned.  

"The biking here is incredible!" exclaimed Señor Aventura, who has been an enthusiastic cyclist ever since The Scientist was born in 2005.  My husband is passionate about seeing the world from the seat of his bicycle.  He is committed to the pursuit of cycling - along with the emphatically good health it brings - and tries to get in a ride of at least an hour nearly every day of the year.  Señor Aventura can cycle 40-50 miles in just a few hours (terrain depending) and often does.  

My husband is also what they call a 'climber'. Bicycling on flat terrain has zero appeal to him, as it does not give him either the challenge or the workout he is looking for.  He prefers to ride up mountains... the steeper, the better.  "I've done at least 4,000 feet of elevation every day we've been here so far," he shared cheerfully, like it was no big deal.   

We were so excited about staying longer in Lago Maggiore, we decided on Sunday to celebrate by taking a drive north around the lake to visit Locarno, Switzerland and then Cannobio, Italy.  On Sundays, Cannobio hosts un mercato 'molto tipico' (typical Italian market) that was recommended to us by MariaLorna when we first arrived... we thought it might be a special farmers market.

The children and I were anxious to see Locarno, a lovely Swiss town Señor Aventura had visited by bicycle earlier in the week.  After regaling us with his story of enjoying an expensive coffee and decadent apple cake in Locarno after his long ride up the mountain, we were eager to see it for ourselves.  Señor Aventura agreed to take us there by car, on his way to cycle in the mountains behind Cannobio.

The road around the lake from Maccagno to Locarno is a single lane in each direction.  The journey from town to town is really quite short, with a single border guard looking into cars as they enter Switzerland from Italy.  He did not speak to us or ask to see our papers... just waved us through. The entire drive took less than 30 minutes, yet I could feel an immediate difference in the homes and villages as soon as we'd crossed the border.  For example, the streets become wider and nicely tended, and there are two lanes in the road.  All of the houses on the Swiss side looked recently repainted.

​Here are photos of our introduction to Switzerland taken from inside the car.  L-Top, you see the way Italian buildings are a bit more run down with paint wearing away from rainfall.  T-Right, you can see how Swiss houses just beyond the border look perfectly maintained.

When we arrived in Locarno, Señor Aventura stopped to get a quick panino and our kids played in a little lakeside park with many play structures.  The Scientist was really impressed to see a 20-something male jet skier taking jumps off of a water ramp, right in front of the jungle gyms.  "Europe is actually pretty COOL, mom," he told me.  

It was such a relaxed Sunday morning, everyone in the Muralto neighborhood of Locarno seemed to be out walking along the water in their sundresses, shorts and sandals. American pop music sounded out across the water from boats anchored right offshore (as it does everywhere we travel) and in many ways it felt just like home.  

We noticed a few differences though... the boardwalk had no litter and smelled like flowers; voices all around us chatted and laughed politely in German, French and Italian; and the Swiss children around us played so quietly even on the jungle gyms and swings that if we'd been at home, they would have seemed eerily silent. Cars, cafes and apartment buildings around us exuded a general sense of wealth. Señor Aventura's coffee cost twice what it would typically cost in Italy.  

​Everything seems to cost more in Switzerland - and the Swiss might argue (with good reason) that due to a surplus of funds, cities are pristine and run with greater efficiency. 

We spent somewhere between 45 minutes and an hour enjoying the pleasant waterfront scene in Locarno, but Señor Aventura grew a little antsy to go on his fun new bike ride in the mountains above Cannobio... and Little Angel began to ask for lunch in a myriad of ways. "Mommy, what are we having for lunch today?"/ "What time is lunch, daddy?"/ "Mommy, I was wondering where you wanted to eat - I'm really hungry. / "How do you say 'lunch' in Swiss, dad?  How do you say it in Italian, mom?"  

In truth, 45 minutes in such a perfect place made all of us a little itchy to get back to a slightly grittier place that felt more real. From Cannobio, Italy, the children and I would be able to take an inexpensive ferry boat back across the lake to Maccagno while Señor Aventura conquered his new mountain OR we could stay in Cannobio for the afternoon, get to know its special market and beaches, then drive back with him in Chico Suave at the end of the day.  

I'd imagined wandering the quaint streets of Cannobio, popping into churches and shops and then relaxing on the beach while the kids swam on a sleepy Sunday afternoon.  I was not mentally prepared for the throng of tourists flooding its small streets, or for the intensity of the sun/heat/light reflecting off of the lake.  Our children were too hungry to be very interested in the town itself, other than its myriad of gelato shops lining the shore.  

Cannobio on 'market day' was very different than we'd expected.  Most notably, it was filled with the scent of car exhaust from the long lineup of vendor's trucks.  Shopkeepers, vendors and waiters addressed us automatically in English, without even looking up or waiting to see if I would speak in Italian (as I always try to do here).  Most people who come to Cannobio on a Sunday for the market are not actually from Italy, so there is an immediate assumption that you are some kind of tourist.

Since Señor Aventura had charged up the mountain on his bicycle with gusto, the children and I sat down to enjoy a delicious - although pricey - meal of authentic pasta, pizza and chilled acqua naturale.  I managed the entire dining experience in Italian (per piacere, grazie mille, il conto, etc.), and so felt chagrined when one of the two waiters replied to me in English. "Do you want a to go box, Madam?"

"Does she get irritated when travelers try to speak her language?" I wondered.  "Is she practicing her English?  Or is she trying to be kind to us by speaking our language?"

The ferry ride was so cheap, relaxed and beyond beautiful... it immediately opened up a preferred mode of travel for our family.  As much as we love Chico Suave, driving in any car doesn't hold a candle to relaxing on the top deck of a summertime ferry with a gentle breeze.  We look forward to taking boats around the lake to visit new towns all week!  

A shout out to Señor Aventura who just stepped out of the front door of our Italian AirBNB humming The Hills Are Alive from "The Sound of Music" as he pointed his bicycle toward Switzerland.  

It's an incredibly lucky thing in life to share your biggest dreams with someone you love.  I've wanted to move to Europe since long before I met my husband... and it never would have occurred to me that plenty of people don't want to get out and see the world beyond the United States.  

"Why would I want to go see other countries when there is still so much of my own country I haven't seen?" asked a swimmer I knew in college, as a group of us talked about spending our junior year studying abroad.  

I'm sure that boy was not alone in his sentiments.  The United States is a vast, beautiful country with such excitement to enjoy.  There are truly so many inspiring views and warm-hearted people to meet there... and such welcome diversity. 

Still, it's a blessing beyond measure that I fell in love with and married a man whose sense of adventure and thirst to make new discoveries in other parts of the world matches my own. 

Today we awoke in Maccagno, Italy.  

Actually, we awoke into the middle of a postcard!  The vistas are ridiculously breathtaking here... so much so that it feels a little unreal.  As we walked up the steep hill to our AirBNB cottage last night, Soccer Dude and I passed below the garden of a house above us.  Its owner, a woman in her perhaps mid-seventies, was sitting out in the garden enjoying her magnificent view.  

"Buona Sera," we called to her.  

"Buona Sera!" she smiled at us.  

I realized that for her, this gorgeous paradise is her everyday life.  She wakes to this view, she sleeps to this view.  She lingers in her garden to this view.  How must it change a life to be surrounded by such constant breathtaking beauty?  Is she sated by its loveliness, to the point that she feels no need to travel? Or, does she take this all for granted and dream of someday seeing a desert!

Barcelona is one of the best cities in the world, and one of my absolute top favorites.  That said, it's still a big city... very densely populated.  

Since arriving in Spain, Señor Aventura has been eager to hit the road and find some more rugged, natural beauty.  

Now that we finally have our AdventurMóvil, Chico Suave, we are free to roam!

The Gracia Festa was a lot of fun at first... but after three days, bands playing until 3am outside our window got a little old because everyone was tired and cranky from lack of sleep.  We still saw some very interesting things though... for example you would not see this (ever) at home: 

Obviously, this was super cool.  However, it was also super crowded, humid and hot.  Our children were languishing for a cool breeze and some beach time.  We understood why everyone in Europe travels in August.  We were anxious to join them!

So as soon as we'd signed our lease for an apartment that will open up for us in September, we knew it was the perfect time to travel.

My sweet cousin just celebrated her honeymoon in Italy and posted the most amazing photos on Facebook from Lago di Lugano.   I showed them to Señor Aventura, who took one look at the verdant mountains and crystal clear waters and proclaimed without hesitation, "Let's go there!"  Switzerland turned out to be a bit pricey, so we chose to stay on the Italian side.  Maccagno is a tiny village only 26 minutes from the Swiss border, and we found an inexpensive AirBNB home there with world-class views.  

Si, Italia!

Señor Aventura and I seriously considered living in Italy for our year abroad.  We share a passion for Italy... the people, food and sheer beauty of the place (and the warmth Italians feel and demonstrate for Americans) make it such an attractive destination!  

In the end though, we chose Spain so that our children (and I) would become fluent in Spanish.  I think this was a good decision... the four of us are definitely becoming more proficient and conversant in Spanish by the day.  Our children have begun trying to initiate conversations in Spanish... muy valiente!

Two days ago, Soccer Dude ordered his meal in Spanish (speaking to the waitress without prompting) for the first time!  His dad and I cheered for him.  

So, it was a good choice.  Still...  Italy would have been a heavenly place to live.  

Luckily Italy is less than 10 hours by car from Barcelona... a bit like driving from San Diego to San Francisco... and ​Lago Maggiore was attainable in a little less than 11 hours.

​On Wednesday we drove from Barcelona to Avignon (4.5 hrs), stopping for lunch at a cafe we love in Girona.  Yesterday, we got an early start from Avignon and drove through the rest of France (6.5 hrs), trying not to make too many stops.  

The drive from Spain to Italy is exceptionally beautiful.  The south of France is visually magnificent, and it was so much fun to see it by car (up close, at our own pace) rather than by train or plane.  There were also many toll roads and tunnels along the way, so we will calculate the cost of tolls into all future road trips we plan.  Señor Aventura estimates that we spent 80 - 100 euro in tolls and tunnels in total.  

Here are some photos taken along our drive, out the passenger window... as you can see, summertime weather shifts swiftly from sun to pouring rain to full sun again!

We explained to the children that they must not touch the pigs.  
"But they are SO CUTE Mommy!!!" exclaimed Little Angel.  "I can't believe we have PIGS!" Her seven year old face lit up with pure joy.

After observing the baby pigs, we hiked down the steep hill to the lake where Señor Aventura and the boys took a dip at dusk.  The sun had almost fully set but there was still just enough light to make swimming fun after a long day in the car.  ​

Such a lovely, perfect way to unwind after seven hours of road travel.  

On the walk home, Señor Aventura stopped by a pizzeria where he ordered "una pepperoni pizza" while the kids and I hiked on.  LOL!  He brought home a pizza full of spicy peppers.  Lessons in Italian have now commenced.  :)

​We slept very well last night.  

And now, off to a new adventure!  As Señor Aventura discovers the mountain trails of Lago Maggiore and Switzerland on his bicycle this morning, the children and I will explore the quiet beauty and treasures of this tiny lakeside village.  

On August 15, the good people of the city of Barcelona turn out each year in droves to celebrate La Asunción - also known as The Assumption.  La Asunción commemorates the day that the Virgin Mary was, according to the Catholic faith, taken up into Heaven at the end of her earthly life.  This big religious (and bank) holiday coincides with the first day of the annual Festa Major de Gràcia... a HUGE, LOUD, VIBRANT, CREATIVE weeklong neighborhood party unlike anything we have ever seen. 

The party (called "festa" in Catalan) kicked off "for real" this morning... with almost every street in Gràcia decorated according to its own theme and celebrating throughout the day with a schedule of parades, fireworks, performances and (in the evening) live music.  Each street.  Sort of like a block party... but where every block inside a massive radius is having its own individual block party.  There are literally bands and DJs still playing on like 20 streets around our AirBNB apartment as I type this... at 1:37am local time.  In fact, the music, whistling and cheering are so loud on our street, it feels as though we could easily be at a nightclub in the San Diego gaslamp district.  

"I've never seen anything like this," Señor Aventura texted me this morning as he was walking with our kids.  "Come down to join us - it's worth it.  This is really, really neat!"

Indeed as the day wore on, we could not believe the intensity and creativity of the full-day event... which will continue from Tuesday all the way through Sunday night!

This photo (above) perfectly captures the vibe of the festival during the daylight hours... everyone in sandals and flip flops, reggae bands performing on various streets... extremely relaxed families and children flooding the streets.

​After all this fun, we'd walked enough to work up a bit of an appetite.  Soccer Dude suggested sushi... por que no?  :)

In the middle of the day, the temperature soared to above 90 degrees F with 31% humidity.  The festival wound down for a few hours, likely so that most people could go home to get some rest!  However, by 6pm it was back in full swing... and by 11:30pm live bands were playing on every block around our apartment throughout the entire neighborhood of Gracia.  

Toward the end of our walkabout, The Scientist stopped me and said, "Mom - check out that poster.  It's so cool!  That's my favorite part of tonight."

He showed me a banner on the side of a stage where a band was playing... it translates approximately to "Refugees, Welcome.  Any person could be illegal..." or, (perhaps in a less literal translation) "We are all illegal."  I'd seen this sign before in Barcelona, and it stands in such stark contrast to what we've experienced in the USA.  This was The Scientist's first time noticing it, and it meant a lot to him.  

We are slowly getting used to living in a country where gun violence is not a daily issue, a city where refugees and illegal immigrants are (at least for now) officially welcome... and a neighborhood where music and creativity fill the streets at all times of day and night.  

Le Encanta, Barcelona!!!

We've welcomed a new member to the Aventura family - a 2014 Volkswagen Touran!  It's a zippy, tiny 7-seater that they don't sell in the USA for some unknown reason.  

Our new car is small in stature but has a decidedly masculine vibe and so we've decided to call it "Chico Suave".  Like his name, Chico Suave is smooth.  Riding around in the car feels exciting!  He's essentially our tiny James Bond mobile... if James Bond was a married man in his 40s, with three kids :)

Chico Suave gets 36 mpg - about 20mpg more than most American SUVs - and Señor Aventura is already talking about how much he wishes we could take this fun diesel car home with us to the USA someday.  Apparently it's really hard to do that though, due to rules about emissions and other car import regulations.  It would take mucho dinero to convert Chico to the American way.  Bummer!  

The car is perfect for our needs.  It's very compact yet still has seating for the full family plus friends (or luggage).  Taking both friends and luggage would be a squeeze... but with creativity, not impossible.  

We didn't happen onto such a cool ride through blind luck... we were actually given one of these models as a rental car two years ago when traveling in Italy and we drove it around for about eight days.  Even back then, we knew it was love... which made looking for a used Touran an easy decision once we decided to live in Spain.

As it turns out, Chico Suave was also a rental car in his pre-Aventura life... but the car is in seemingly good shape with no prior accidents, and had only 52,000 KM on it; which equates to roughly 32,000 miles.  Not bad!

In order to buy this special car, we first had to find a car dealership that carried used Tourans in our price range.  None of the dealers in Barcelona had any in stock... so we ended up heading out to a nearby (more industrial) suburb called Sabadell using the S2 metro train.  

The Sabadell car salesman, "Vito," picked us up at the metro station.  He wasn't too different from most car salespeople we've ever worked with... although there was perhaps a bit less "shmooze."  Vito is a native Catalan in his 50s or 60s with graying hair and a gray beard.  He was professional and informative, if not exactly warm and friendly.  He shared with us that his wife is originally from Mexico, and also made a few off-the-cuff remarks about nearby St. Cugat being a more self-important town than Sabadell which is a working-class community. Vito clearly took pride in his blue-collar roots.  

Unlike US car salesmen who rarely stop talking or leave you alone to inspect a car, Vito went off to help another customer and left us alone with Chico Suave for about 20 minutes to sit in the car, open up all its compartments and panels, check the engine, etc.  

Señor Aventura test drove the car and I test drove the passenger seat :)  The kids really liked sitting in the back and The Scientist especially loved that he will still have his own small row in the very back of the car, rather than being crammed into the middle bench with his younger siblings and their mandatory car seats.

In the end, Señor Aventura provided Vito with his passport, his empadronamiento paper, and a copy of his brand-new NIE (more on this soon) and then completed the transaction with a bank transfer.  Car dealers here are not allowed to accept cash for a car, which we thought was interesting.  

"You obviously must have a bank account to buy a car here," mused Señor Aventura.  We decided it must have to do with the Spanish government keeping track of its residents for both taxes and national security. 

Before we could take the car anywhere though, it was crucial to get the mandatory car insurance.  If you're caught driving without insurance there are heavy fines (many thousands of euro!) and you could even go to jail.  Totally not worth that risk.  Señor Aventura and I began to search for a good insurance company right away.

We thought this would be easy/fun as Señor Aventura has much expertise in the field of auto insurance.  

It was harder than expected!

Señor Aventura and I had to call around and do a lot of online research to figure this part out.  Most insurance companies would not accept us as clients because they require their applicants to have a Spanish driving license to purchase insurance.  Señor Aventura holds an International Driving Permit (from AAA) that is valid for our first 6 months here.  He will ultimately get a Spanish driving license but it will take time to achieve, as that will include scheduling, taking and passing the Spanish driving exam.

Ultimately, Señor Aventura discovered that a major Spanish auto insurer called Genesis would allow him to apply for insurance using a combination of his valid US driver's license and his International Driving Permit.  He was so relieved!  

Now that we have car insurance, we are free to hit the road!  

To celebrate, we took our first "road trip" from our possible new apartment building to the kids' school.  We wanted to time the trip, to find out how long it would take to drive there from door-to-door.  We haven't signed our lease yet... but hope to do so today or tomorrow!

​(Answer = about 16 minutes, without traffic.)

Their school, Agora Sant Cugat, is outside of the city on the outskirts of St. Cugat, and to drive there you have to go through the Túnels de Vallvidrera - a series of long tunnels that pass through the mountains around Barcelona.   

We were driving at dusk, so the light in these photos isn't that great... but essentially this is what the school and the drive home look like in the early part of a summer evening. 

Our boys will attend school in the stone building with the flags (top photos) and Little Angel will attend the 2nd grade in the brick building located nearby.  

Beyond the outstanding education we hope they will get this year, the real selling point for our young gentlemen when we toured the school was this large turf fútbol field right here. Por supuesto... A boy has his priorities!  

​After cruising swiftly back to town thanks to Chico Suave, we picked up more groceries (so easy to do when you have access to a car) and the children were thrilled to discover a chocolate paradise at the grocery store.  

We celebrated a very good day!  

"I'd like one of everything please, Mommy." - Little Angel

Since we'd run through the groceries from the El Corte Inglés, the kids and I went grocery shopping yesterday in our neighborhood.  In contrast to the supermarket, this is what it looks like to shop in one of the traditional Gracia markets. Most of the signs are posted in Catalan (not Spanish) which is a little intimidating... I was nervous about how I would speak with the merchants.  It went well though, and the sellers were kind about teaching us the words for different fruits and vegetables in both Spanish and Catalan.

The kids were really upset to see these raw chickens with their necks still attached in the shop case, and insisted that we go somewhere else to buy chicken.  Ironically, they had no problem at all five minutes later watching the fishmonger use a massive blade to de-spine and fillet our salmon.  
​

Every day the locals make more and more progress getting Gracia ready for its Festa next week. They are painting, soldering, sawing, glueing and sewing with great heart and concentration, all around the neighborhood.

There are parks in all sizes, everywhere.  The kids have noticed this and commented happily about it.  
We've walked so much, and it really helps to stop and play every now and then.

Sometimes along our walks, we see surprising things: 

We find ourselves, every day, somewhere in Barcelona :)