As promised

J left for home this morning, and while this is sad for a number of reasons, the least of which being that I never uploaded his pictures to my Flickr account, well, the fact that I never uploaded the pictures is too bad, I have to admit. Luckily we live in an advanced technological age and I can probably get my hands on them. I did, however, upload some of my mother's pictures and thought I'd at least post a couple, and will post more soon. J took about 3,000. I'm only sort of kidding.

My dad and Gianni, who owns a restaurant nearby, and who we were calling "second Papa" by the end of the night.

Nora in her stroller, which we are beating to death on these rough, cobblestone streets (visible in the background).

Nora with Enzo, who sang for us at the Roman "nightclub" in both English and Italian, including a special song for Nora and traditional Roman songs, our company singing along at times. One of those unforgettable nights that can only be attained by traveling many miles from home and fully immersing yourself in a foreign culture. We went to the club last night with our new Italian friends - for Flavia's birthday - after dinner at a local restaurant. where we discussed many subjects in two languages, ate seafood and drank many bottles of wine.

Italian with an O

My parents have been here for almost three months. So you would think that they would have picked up some basic Italian. You would think that my father, especially, might have learned a few crucial words and phrases. My father, who headed the National Italian American Foundation for over 20 years and who traveled often to Italy for work. My father, whose father was an immigrant from Calabria. My father, who grew up in Scranton, Pennsylvania, in a town where Italian culture thrived. But no. The Italian isn't sinking in. My brother, who speaks Italian fairly well having spent a semester here a few years ago, informed me that my father has been making some seriously funny errors. Ordering "doubtful espresso" for instance, instead of a double.

Even worse, my dad has taken to adding O's to the end of English words, and speaking his own little warped dialect. For instance, he'll tell us that he's "made the coffee-o." What?! I've got to be kidding, right? I'm not.

He does this so much and so insistently that Vinnie and I finally confronted him, explaining that it was one thing if he said those things to us, the family, but he certainly couldn't go around saying words-with-an-o to Italians. It was insulting. Hadn't he fought against Italian American stereotypes for years? What the hell did he think he was doing?

Our plea didn't do much good, however. I think it's too ingrained in his mind now, he's gone too far and I'm a little afraid that there's no turning back. On our way to Naples the other day, he was muttering in the train station.

"What, Dad? What did you say?"

"Nothing. Suitcase."

"No you didn't say suitcase."

"Yes I did. Suitcase."

"SUITCASE-O. I heard you!"

At a nice shop that sold reproductions of antique figures, I overheard him informing the owner, who spoke little to no English, that they would need their items shipped. "Shippo," he said, loudly, right to her face. "Shippo?" she replied, trying desperately to understand. I hid outside, shaking my head.

So I guess we're going to have to deal, although I sincerely hope this new habit dies down when he's back in the states. At least there are some memorable moments. Upon arriving back in Rome after our overnight trip, my father walked through the door of the apartment and announced - gleefully, in a booming voice - that he was home-o.