Italy #10: Bologna and Tuscany

Our last trip out of the country was back in May, when we explored northern Portugal. Some, um, issues arose after that trip, preventing further travel; we didn't even make it to Buenos Aires in August, for the second year in a row. But those issues are now resolved and we are ready to once again fly way up in the air, heading to Italy for the tenth time. Have I mentioned that we like Italy?

Our ninth trip to Italy was in December 2011, when we visited new places and old favorites in the Veneto and Emilia-Romagna. This time we'll fly into and out of Bologna, a regional hub with convenient connections to Madrid.

We're looking forward to seeing our friends Cinzi e Sergio in Bologna, where we'll spend the first few days. After that, we'll be retracing some of our earliest trips: several days each in Florence, Siena, and Arezzo. I'm excited just thinking about it: tagliatelle alla bolognese anywhere within a kilometer or two of Piazza Maggiore, bistecca alla fiorentina at Buca dell'Orafo in Firenze, risotto at Il Biondo in Siena, the fabulous Piero della Francesca frescoes in Arezzo, maybe even a quick side trip to Sansepolcro. And since it's the holiday shopping season, there will be lots of open markets to make the evening passeggiata especially enjoyable.

While we head off to the airport, you can read about my first trip to Italy, on our honeymoon in 1999.

At First Sight

And no blog post would be complete without a picture. In 2005, I happened to catch the light of the setting sun on the Florence Duomo using an antiquated photographic medium called 'film':

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Next post and snaps will be from Italy!

Reflections on Veterans Day

I'm uneasy if someone thanks me for being a veteran. I did not join the Army to serve my country, to keep my fellow citizens safe and free, or to bring democracy to foreign nations. I joined because I didn't have a girlfriend and ran out of money for college; my new draft card marked me as 1-A. Joining voluntarily might let me avoid the infantry and become a pilot. Surely, I thought, pilots had lots of girlfriends.

In October 1967, at the age of 18, I was shipped off to basic training at Fort Polk, Louisiana. By January I had started flight school at Fort Wolters, Texas, near Mineral Wells, and then finished at Fort Hunter-Stewart just outside Savannah, Georgia. By October 1968 I had my wings and my bars and was headed to Vietnam.

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Even then, as young and naive as I was, I had no illusion that I was helping the Vietnamese people or protecting friends and family back home. There was no feeling of pride for participating in a noble cause, only relief at being alive day to day. Flying helicopters was fun and exciting but even in a war zone military rules and regulations could be silly. The most popular acronym was FTA, F**k the Army.

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Looking back after all these years, I could try to convince myself that I had done something worthy of thanks, that I had served someone or something, but I must be honest with myself. I was an aimless kid with few options who could pass a flight physical. The war, like virtually all wars, was cruel, senseless, and unnecessary. Along with thousands of others, I was swept along by events and actions beyond my ability to understand or control.

Welcome me home if you'd like. (This can be important to Vietnam vets.) Perhaps congratulate me for being lucky enough to make it back. But thanks? Save that for when I buy lunch.