Nicole
Lusiani Eliott

After getting barfed on yesterday, not to mention the complete washout we experienced on the bus, I thought today would look up. Apparently, not so much.

Rome in July is hot–wicked hot. Now when I say hot, I’m not sure you understand just how hot. Today was 93 degrees. If that’s not enough to convince you, allow me to introduce you to the temperature’s evil twin, 93% humidity.

And then there’s us, standing in line again because July is high tourist season in Rome and that, my friends, is what’s called a double whammy. We stand in line out in the burning sun for the bus, stand in line to see the Trevi (which was being cleaned so by the time we got up there there wasn’t even any water), stand in line to get on another bus, stand in line to get a slushie that ended up being gross…and it’s so crazy hot, in case you didn’t catch it the first (or second) time I said it.

The day was looking up when we stopped in at a local pizza place that had the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life. The. Best. Pizza. Ever. OMG, Margarita, I love you. I honestly thought I might squeal in delight as I ate it.

The pizza and wine and leisurely lunch seemed to have pulled us through our funk and we were ready to tackle the afternoon.

Until we got into the Vatican.

I expected this to be a most holy place. I did not expect the crowds or the heat or the behavior of my young son to be so very unholy. Moving through rooms of precious art like chattel, it was a disgrace both to the artists and to art itself.

We spent only an hour in the Vatican and most of that was just trying to navigate the crowd, not because we had really stopped to look at anything. The entire hour, and I mean the entire hour, Tom complained.

His favorite tirade, “I’M GOING TO DIE OF THIRST, DON’T YOU CARE? DON’T YOU LOVE ME? I SAID I’M GOING TO DIE!” rang through my nervous system until I thought I’d fracture.

In addition to the heat and the crowds is the fact I have barely slept in three days. Couple that with my expectation of holiness and the Godforsaken results, and you can understand my distress.

Finally we got into the Sistine Chapel. I took Tom’s hand, gave it to Craig and said, “Take your son.” Finally, I’m going to have a holy moment. Unfortunately, with easily two hundred other people in this very tiny chapel, all talking and gwaking and bumping into me and the guards yelling, “SILENCIO!” and “NO! No Photos!” well, it’s a wonder I have any recollection of that dimly lit room most people call a masterpiece.

Within three minutes we were out of there. You read it right, three minutes. In the Sistine Chapel. We were all shuffling out when Tom started in again.

“DO YOU KNOW HOW THIRSTY I AM??” Honestly, I had to keep my hands to my sides because if even one got some sense of motion it might have involuntarily smacked that kid.

We finally got out of there and Craig walked ahead, the three of us following. He had had it as well, so I was letting him lead without question. After about 15 minutes I asked, “Do you know where we are?”

“Nope”

“Should I get out the map?”

“Nope.”

Ok. He was an Eagle Scout. The man has a good sense of direction. He wouldn’t knowingly lead us in the wrong direction. In the rain.

20 more minutes go by. I have seen nothing resembling anything familiar since we left the grounds of the Vatican.

“Really, I think I should get the map.” More rain, heavier.

“You said you trusted me to get us home, so do you trust me or not?”

Uh Oh. Keep walking.

Tommy is now perfectly happy wandering around in the rain, cooled off from the heat and away from the crowds. Now it’s Jackson’s turn.

After navigating the Roman Metro (thank you Rick Steves, Italian Language Book, and Kind Strangers) we got on the train and all seemed well. So proud of ourselves, we were!

At the next stop, however, hoards of people entered the train and Tommy was squished in all directions. With his back up against Craig, his face was full frontal in the arm pit of a guy in his 60’s– polyester shirt, dress shoes, balding, smelling of cigarettes and a trace of must. Had I closed my sense of reality and put another face and a bigger belly on that guy, he would have been my Papa, circa 1992.

For Tommy, however, it was all he could do to hold it together. Three more stops and he started to sway. An elderly woman got out of her seat and said, “Bambino, bambino,” gesturing to Tommy and then to her seat.

Are you kidding me, lady? I’m going to be the ugly American who asks an old lady to give up her seat for an 8-year old boy? Hell to the no.

“BAMBINO!” Then I got scared. Ok, Focus. Bambino. I took Tom’s hand and had him sit down. Only she wasn’t done yelling.

“Acqua, Acqua,” she insisted, pointing at my water bottle and gesturing for me to put it on his face. It was only then that I looked at Tom for real. I’m processing all of this–cigarettes, must, polyester shirts and dress shoes, elderly lady yelling at me in Italian–it was like it was slow motion…

“Signora, ACQUA! ACQUA!”

I jarred out of my daze and said, “Tommy, are you going to…”

“BAMBINO VOMITARE! (“Vomit-AIR-ee!”) VOMITARE!”

My eyes scanned slowly from her flailing arms to my son who looked like he just might.

“…barf?”

Barf.

Sweet Jesus.

The teenage girl next to Tom jumped out of the way faster than a bat out of hell. The man next to her threw his newspaper at me just in time for me to catch the rest of Tom’s barf that wasn’t already all over his shirt.

From all around me on this super crowded train, hot and lurching from stop to stop, came tissues and water and soft murmurings. Not one turned up nose, not one huffy attitude. Only kindness.

And the old lady, shaking her head. She shrugged her shoulders, gave a head tilt and the eye brow lift, and then said, “Acqua, Capisce?”

“Capisce. Capisce.”

Although her eyes were gentle and her manner compassionate, she must have been thinking who in the hell is this fool woman who can’t even see her son is about to barf all over this train. Honestly, I can’t blame her.

So you see, I didn’t let Tom out of the house with a dirty shirt, that’s barf you see in the photo. (I put it in black and white to spare you the details. You’re welcome.)

What you may not see is how damp we are. The clouds above us as we sat on this open air bus were so full of rain that the tiny droplets had just started dripping from their seams. In about 22 seconds, the capacity will be reached and the bus that we (I) had to get, no matter the barfing, no matter the heat, no matter the lines, no matter the teams of pick pockets and shady sales people we had to wade through for sub par pizza to sustain us while we waited in line again, would be so full of rain that we could barely wade through it to get to the stairs.

And once down below, we may have been covered by a tarp, but the rain would flood under the tarp and down the stairs in such waves that I feared I’d lose my breath. They took Jackson’s feet literally out from underneath him and he slammed on his tailbone all the way down the stairs into the crowd of people standing in the aisle of the bus’s first level. The tourists on this bus tilted their heads in sympathy, but not one reached down to help him up. Curious.

When finally, finally we were able to get off the God-forsaken double-decker bus we were soaked to the bone and found that even parts of the Metro had flooded because so much rain came so fast.

We didn’t sleep well last night, which actually lead to a bit of sweetness between my eldest boy and me. Tom was playing musical beds following Craig around last night and at some point my bed ended up empty when Jackson wandered in not being able so sleep himself. It seems to be the 230am burden at this point, each of us have been up in varying combinations at this hour every night. Jackson and I decided to read for an hour, during which Craig intended to come back into bed but found his spot taken. We all had a giggle and he went back to the kids’ room and Jackson and I back to our ipads. Thankfully we were able to go back to sleep at some point, but no one woke before 10am.

We started our day with a positive attitude, aided in part by this breakfast at a local bar. (“Bar,” is to Italians as “coffee shop” is to Americans. I’m pretty sure I like their version better.)

Saint Peter’s was the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen constructed by humans. Awe inspiring, truly. It felt holy the moment I stepped into the square (which is actually more of a circle). The line was in the shade and moved quickly, we were in within fifteen minutes and, although crowded, it was nothing–NOTHING–like  the vatican yesterday. For me, the biggest difference was that at Saint Peter’s there was room to move and be inspired, even room to pray which I did with great gratitude. I brought my journal with me that had a photo copy of Rick Steves’ walking tour through the basilica and I learned and saw and shared with my family really interesting things. When Tommy wasn’t stressing about how high the ceilings were, a new fear of heights has emerged on this trip, even he was taken by the beauty of this place, including the gold inlay of the latin words that joined the walls of mortals and the ceilings of angels.

The one thing I wanted to see was the Pieta, Michelangelo’s masterpiece depicting Mary holding her dying son. When I was confirmed my grandparents gave me a replica from their trip to Rome many decades prior, Papa’s handwriting on the bottom now faint with age. Even before I had sons of my own this sculpture spoke to me of the deep and un-fillable hole that I imagine comes with the loss of a child. To me, knowing that loss was coming and choosing to mother him anyway…that is the greatest sacrifice I can ever imagine. It moves me to no end and the original statue did the same. I sat many minutes in quiet reflection and gratitude for what it really means to be entrusted with the life of a child and the great call God puts in the hearts of parents to care for that gift.

Having the opportunity for some quiet that day reminded me that, like it or not, I am an introvert and we are a people who need quiet to find peace and peace to find Grace. We took this family photo outside when we were done and I think it really captures how happy we all were today. Maybe the old adage, “If Mama’s happy, everybody’s happy,” has some truth to it.

(Author’s Note: I’ve since rediscovered where I got the idea for “Mind the Gap.” It’s from Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly, Chapter 5. If you don’t yet have that book, I highly recommend it!)

Paris and Rome are very different places. Both cool in their own way, both fashionable in their own way, both beautiful in their own way, both have kind people who, when they see you in need will come to your aid with their culture’s version of kindness which, while different, is both kind in its own way.

Notice in the repeating phrase “in their own way.” That’s because, while they are similar, they are, in fact, *very* different places.

After ten days in Rome living in the neighborhoods and eating in the restaurants and delighting in the gelaterias of locals, were were feeling pretty Roman. Imagine our surprise when our four American-Roman selves landed in Paris. No coffee on the bus? No old women on the metro? No chain smoking men whistling at me as I go up the stairs? What the hell is going on here?

Another big difference? This city is crazy clean. And by crazy clean I mean, crazy clean. There is no complaint here for gone are the polluted skies and graffiti and trash in the gutters. Everything sparkles like new, even when it’s hundreds of years old. It’s absolutely beautiful. But different.

The metro system is also so different; in fact it took us several days to figure out how to navigate it. We were told Paris has the best metro system in the world but for those few days it just felt like the most confusing one.

And then one day I started to feel like I was getting a handle on it. We had walked for two hours–two hours–the night before because we couldn’t figure the transportation situation in relation to the construction going on at several train stations where we could have transferred.  As you can imagine, my sons just about lost their minds on that two-hour walk, especially considering it occurred after walking all day in Versailles.

Here’s one clear similarity: crowded and hot. No difference there. July in Paris is just like July in Rome with regard to those two little gems.

“What the heck, Dad?” is how our two-hour walk began, but I couldn’t let Craig take the fall. There was construction everywhere and our geographical challenge, this time, was a mutually created problem. As we began the trek home that we thought would be only about a half hour–maps in Paris, different–soon enough we separated into our usual walking pattern. Craig and Jackson head down and leading the charge up front while Tommy and I took in the sights and entertained ourselves in the back.

After about an hour, we started go get punchy.

“Too legit, too legit to quit! Bau, bau!” I was lead singer. This doesn’t happen very often in my family so I was making the most of it. Soon enough, Tommy cut in on my action.

“Too legit, bau, too legit to quit! Bau, bau, ba, ba, bau!”

“Tommy, I’ve told you three times, that’s not how it goes.”

“Well, maybe that’s how it should go,” he responded. “Let’s call MC Hammer when we get home and suggest it. Hey, wait, did his mom name him ‘MC?'”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think that’s AWESOME! I’m Hammer MC Hammer, go Hammer, MC Hammer! Too legit, bau, too legit to quit! Bau, bau, ba, ba, bau!”

It went on like that another hour. Craig and Jackson tried to be annoyed, but they couldn’t because our way of getting through this torture was far more fun than theirs. About a half hour into our show they laughed but soon after got very quiet. We tried to mind our manners, but we just ended up laughing even louder which irritated them to no end. The did manage to keep their cool, though, and when we finally got back to the apartment they went straight to bed without dinner. MC Tommy and I, exhausted and blistered, went back out to get a burger.

The food. Let’s pause for a second about the food. With the exception of the burgers, the food was not so great. Not terrible, but not great. Not even in its own way.

At any rate, this traumatic/entertaining two-hour walk stiffened my spine and the next morning I set out to make the metro work for us. No more is it going to take down my family. I OWN this metro.

Turns out, attitude is everything. We rode that thing like pros from then forward.

Once the stress loosened it’s grip I noticed something new. Every time we get to a stop on the metro a recorded voice asks me to mind the gap. She’s speaking of the space between where I step off the train and where I step on to the platform. I heard her today and felt strongly that I had heard that phrase before, at least I thought I had. I searched Google when I got back to our apartment because I didn’t want to write something that has already been said.

After 3 pages of searching I came up with nothing familiar so I write with this crystal clear notion that may or may not be original: Mind the Gap.

To me (or maybe to this other person) (or maybe that other person is me and it’s one of many things I intended to write about but promptly forgot) “Mind the Gap” applies to everything in life because it’s about being aware.

Mind the Gap between cultures. Recognize that my version of what’s real is not everyone’s and that, in fact, it’s a construct made up by the people who came before me and then was followed by me as gospel. When in someone else’s home follow their rules; when others are in my home, remember what it feels like to be in theirs and cut them some slack. 90%(ish) of frustration is based in one’s own perception.

Mind that Gap.

Mind the Gap between what it means to be 8 and 11 year old boys and what it means to be their parent. Don’t get so caught up in shoulds. Hold a line but do so in a way that teaches, not preaches. That shares, not controls. Keep clear about how my voice is becoming their inner voice and be even more clear just what exactly I want them to grow up telling themselves. Remember there are many gaps between them and me–in age, in gender, in individual personas-–and that they are to become a grown up version of themselves one day, not a grown up version of me.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap between my husband in myself. We are not one fluid being, but the fluidity between two individuals. Remember I have a dam at my disposal that can come up to stop the flow of his frustration before it enters my heart and he can do the same. The gap is a gift in that regard, use it. Just remember to hang on the bridge where the fluidity flows more than the shore where it stops lest I forget that bridge exists.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap between discomfort and joy to be sure one does not invade the other too often. Discomfort has it’s place, but it’s not a place that has to be tenated very long because whenever I choose to leave it there is always a gap over which I can walk back into joy. The inbetween is indifference and never a place I’d like to roam. Or fall.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap between myself and my extended family and friends. It’s good to be on my side of the gap alone to recharge and refuel, but if the work I am doing has me there all the time, take that as a sign to change the work, not avoid crossing the gap. Family and friends remind me where I come from and who I am; they need to be visited often lest I forget who I am and from where I came.

Mind the Gap.