One Mission of this BreakAway: Show the kids their heritage. Like all good writing teachers preach: Show, don’t tell. So we’re here—not just listening to Grandma’s tales or eating lefse at Christmas. It’s working, mostly, if by osmosis; they see the blue eyes and blond hair and fit right in. They like the Danish salamis and ice creams.

We’ve made it to Hornbaek, Denmark—a beach town about an hour north of Copenhagen. One downside of multi-destination BreakAways becomes the days that get wasted by moving from Point I (Italy) to Point D (Denmark). So after a 12-hour migration that took us from hot sun to cold gray, we moved into a comfortable house a few blocks from the beach.

Danes love their little country and carry a national pride evident in everything from extraordinary cleanliness to ubiquitous flags. The people are quieter than Italians—especially in the countryside and, for that matter, the towns. Still, Danes live it up too. Edginess sometimes lurks.

Yet one rarely sees a cop, a posting of rules, or a threat of any kind. Denmark rejects wars and violence. “All for one, and one for all” works here in a way that’s refreshing when you come from America—always in conflict, evermore a police state.

What you do see: Homes and farms and hills so quaint and cute you wonder if you’ve stepped into a Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale. Ancient castles, churches, and neighborhoods that make you wonder if you awoke in a former life. Jauntily dressed individualists with bikes and bags going about their business amid an exceptional quality of life.

• Kids rule

In America, dogs are often elevated to aristocratic status. And in some circles, shops, and settings, kids are viewed as a nuisance. Here, children are not only welcome most anywhere, amenities for parents abound, kids’ discounts (to age 15!) are common, and some spaces (libraries, parks, museums) are so kid-centered you wonder if adults are allowed in on the action.

My offspring have assimilated to that notion quickly, while also, being kids, being oblivious to it. For example, they’ve gotten lost for hours in two engaging, well-equipped public libraries now; how often does that happen at home?

• “No fear!”

At the local Solstice bonfire on the beach they call “Sankte Hans,” one worldly young Dane sensed my incredulity at the remarkable safety and trust. No one locks doors. Or bikes. Or cars. Or, usually, anything.

It takes people like Americans a long time to grasp that much trust. “Imagine: A world with no fear!”

he proclaimed with wide eyes.

No one checks for tickets on the trains. Many people scan their own groceries on the honor system. When you wander museums and attractions, a security guard occasionally appears, but you’re more likely to find yourself lost in a castle dungeon so dark and treacherous you’d  have to sign waivers to see it in the U.S.

• Ikke alle kan snakke Americansk!

It’s easy to chat up a Dane. You may have to take the first step. But after that, it may be hard to step away. Most will beam—or at least smirk—at the notion of a foreign tourist. And though they’re often demure (even kings were expected to practice modesty), they’re particularly delighted to meet an American visitor.

Their English has been less than scholarly so far, though. This surprises me, and is not how I remember it from my last visit. But they probably still can handle three more languages than the average American. And we’re in the country now; Copenhagen’s city-folk will probably be more westernized.

• Self-Service

Though every vista and setting gets tended to the point of super-tidy, the Danes don’t work all that hard. Oh sure, there’s that aimless European economy. And both entitlement and unemployment run deeper than the fjords here.

Yet as a suburban American, the service methods can be maddening. An upscale restaurant will be so short-staffed you’ll be tempted to help out. The supermarket lines will be so long you may opt to go hungry. No one’s in a hurry (except at closing time); steeples have clocks that stopped working centuries ago. It’s relaxing at times. Other times? God bless America!

• Green, green

Denmark makes the green movement look like no movement at all, but simply the right (and only) way of doing things. Some of the roofs are even green—as in, covered with live grass!  Bikes are certainly more common than cars, and given the best parking spots, easy access to trains, and the right of way.

One word: Plastics. If you believe in their future, you’ll pay dearly—for picnic goods, your basic zip-lock, and even a grocery bag . And garbage gets sorted so thoroughly that when I threw a soda can into a nonrecyclable garbage bin by a train station, someone had reached in and taken it out within seconds.

Wild little daisies and clover are welcome in lawns here; pesticides are not. And though some prices run high (Pringles may run you $4 and a large soda in a café may set you back $10), you can buy fresh produce for way less than the states.  The message: You want to live unhealthy? Fine. But you’ll pay. Anyway, many prefer to grow their own food.

Food? That rumor that Scandinavia is gastronomically challenged has been officially disproven here. In fact, some items (laks, mussels, pickled veggies, etc.) are as good—and healthy—as any I’ve had anywhere.  And THE best restaurant in the world? It’s in Copenhagen. It serves delicacies you’ve never heard of, and that they pick in deep, wild woods. It’s Nomo. And it will set you back about $800 if you want the full multicourse tasting meal with accompanying wines.

By the way, they’re booking October 2012 right now. So plan ahead, as in 3+ months ahead!

• A country with heart

Which is to say, Danes put their money where their mouth—and their heart—is. And this country has a lot of heart. Of course, the weather may cloud things up; they say it rains one-third of the days, and my experience is it’s cloudy on most others.

And yet, there are 21 hours of daylight this Solstice week.  And peace, love, and integrity fill the clean air.

Serious sunlight seared mercilessly from above and sweat glowed on everyone’s brow. But because this was our last day in bella Italia, my heart was stuck in a Minnesota snowstorm. The intense mid-June light had to penetrate a thick cloud of melancholy.

When traveling large, the day before departure means unwelcome hours of reality checklists. You’d rather wander, ponder, and soak in history (the world’s and your own). But instead you do laundry, finagle logistics, and clean up the mind-boggling mess that a family of four makes when habitating a foreign home for 14 days.

Luckily, I did break away from the grunt work and head to Barga below to run errands (an ubiquitous curse), take the kids swimming at Barga’s picturesque pool (a cool bonus), pick up a prepped dinner for 6 (an unusual challenge in Barga), and—most important—meet up with Keane.

• Meet Keane

Keane.  He’s a BFF who landed in the valley from England decades ago to make art. That he did; his installation of hundreds of umbrellas painted with faces and positioned all over town was one of the first things I noticed on my first visit, long ago.  He has also made a life here, replete with wife, 3 children, and an ancient house in Old Barga.

Keane is the kind of friend you make only rarely, and even less so when on tour.

We’ve shared countless happy hours and adventures together—and solved nearly 95% of the world’s problems through the years. On this last day in Italy, I was stunned by how busy we’d both been during my two-week stay. We had run into each other, and certainly chatted, but barely squeezed in a string of complete sentences.

So we’d arranged an hour—one measly, literal happy hour—to sit and sip and catch up at a table outside Aristo’s Bar, the place where we first met.

That hour was to begin at 6. By then, I’d miraculously found my dinner solution—“take-away” roasted chicken and sides from a new rosticceria nearby that would be ready for pick-up at 7. I sent my kids off to meander the walled confines of Old Barga and have their 555^th gelati.  And at 5:59 I arrived like a Swiss train, including ample puffing and steam.  And at that moment, everything was right on schedule.

That minute lasted exactly that, and then the hour evaporated like spilt wine on Aristo’s hot cobblestones. Naturally, Keane didn’t show. And the deafening duomo’s clock tower reminded me of that every 15 minutes—when the bells tolled a time that had passed 30 minutes ago.  The bells, like Keane, were not on time. Italy still has its own (or is it no?) sense of time.

• Aristo’s: World’s Best Bar

The sign on the door reads, “Da Aristo: From wine what sudden friendship springs.”

I sat alone at a table outside that legendary place on this quiet, sweltering evening, while everyone else hid from the heat.  The slow-motion chisel of change kept carving in front of me. You can go back, I contemplated, but it’s never the same. One image of proof: In the late 90s, I’d given Aristo a a nicely framed, 11” x 14” perfect B&W picture I took of him tending bar. For years, it hung proudly on the wall directly behind him, surrounded by his collection of antique booze bottles.

For me, knowing my artwork stood behind him was like always being there. Now, that portrait is hidden away on a distant shelf; it’s still in the house, but a challenge to see.

Aristo has gone away too; he died 4 years ago—and I can guarantee you that, during that funeral day, every shop went shuttered and the Duomo filled with mourners. At the bar now, the next generation, his son-in-law, has taken over—the 6^th generation to run the joint!

My favorite bar on the planet remains uniquely amiable, and given the chance, I would drop by routinely, like back in the day. But today the soul there is harder to find, rather like my picture.

When Aristo passed on, much of the bar’s joyful noise, music, passion, and crazed combustion went with him. Old patrons and neighboring proprietors have died too, or moved on from their own serendipitous stay in Barga.

Aristo loved running that bar as much as he loved his people, hospitality, and life. If there are saints, as Italy insists, he is playing piano among them.

Aristo’s evening hours were approximately 4 – 7, though that usually meant 3:30 until, oh, 8? Maybe 9? Sometimes later? Until the musical instruments had broken strings or his 94-year-old momma had called him to supper? You could buy a liter of vino locale to-go there for about 50 cents (if you hadn’t had enough, or were one of the moms and grand-moms heading home with fresh goods to make dinner for husbands and sons).

I occasionally left that place so giddy and tipsy that I was literally bouncing off those Roman walls which, fortunately in Old Barga, are only about as wide as a horse.

• Still solo on the piazza

As I sat in the shade sipping, journaling, and secretly cursing Keane, those Aristo memories emerged in my head.  But I realized that, with the absolute inevitability of change, it’s impossible to relive even the simplest of life’s moments. So just be there—I suddenly remembered writing in a semi-profound post prepping my mindset for this trip.

Indeed, here I was—there!—counting down minutes on this precious piazza, alone with my ghosts and demons and saints, but surrounded by emotion and gratitude.  And feeling completely human. Italy isn’t better than the rest of the world. But it may be the most human culture around. And Aristo, a pleasant, peasant bartender, was my high priest and mentor. My friends there were apostles.

To drag me out of my thoughts, a red-faced, clammy couple trudged by toting a fat camera and a Tuscany guidebook in English. I averted their eye-contact. They looked lost, lonesome, and curious, but they wouldn’t understand.

• Sad, sweet songs

Then, through one of the dozens of open windows that overlook the piazza, some melancholy Italian melodies came blasting out, echoing off the stone walls—right on cue. Perfect. Italy, you see, plays mostly American music, and mostly that one song that’s getting played to death everywhere and now feels rather like a death threat, “Tonight, we are young; so let’s set the world on fire…”

Tonight? Young? Sure. But tonight, thank God that song was nowhere to be heard. Instead, the soundtrack was bittersweet Italian schmaltz—an authentic genre that, even under normal circumstances, can shift me into a state that may involve loss of body control, shut eyes, and leaking at the edges.

Today, sitting solo, the songs worked that special effect as if Mr. Coppola and his masterful film scorer had arranged the whole scene.

• Keane enters, stage right

When Keane did show up, brusque but witty as always, I blurted (like an blunt American would),

Dude!  You are 45 minutes late?!!”

“I woke up 45 minutes late,” he retorted in his Brit accent with palms to the sky, like a veteran Italian.  “And I’ve been 45 minutes late all day.” Okay, I thought to myself. That’ll do. I decided to pick up the food (and the kids) 20 minutes late, so Keane and I could catch up for a whole 35 minutes.  In Italy, that’s nothing.

So we did. We talked, straight from gut and heart, with little time for the small stuff, for exactly 35 minutes. It was frustrating, of course, yet perhaps worth the trip to Italy. Maybe you can go back. But only for 35 minutes. Every decade or so.

The whole point of this website is to encourage people to make and take time to step off the treadmill and see the world, realize a coveted mission, and spend quality time with family and friends. To Break Away:  for a whole year, if possible—or months, or weeks, or days if that’s what you can muster. Admittedly, sometimes 35 minutes is all you got.

The air was cooling off, so the piazza begin to buzz, and the people who could be my new friends joined our table. Everyone knows Keane, so I became briefly connected again. A police car pulled up; two officers lazily got out and started joking with we revelers. The bald, mustached guy, I forget his name, popped in with a jovial “Ciao!” on his way home from work—like he does every day. Then it was time for good-bye.

Keane and I did the Italian two-cheek-kiss that real men do there, and embraced each other and the past, and, God willing, a future reunion that lasts more than 36 minutes.

Then I raced to the rosticerria.

• Up the mountain, then up in the air

The food was ready (and the salad had wilted). The kids had temporarily sated their gelati fix. And my coveted gathering had come to pass, if only for a moment so short-lived you must ask yourself, “Did that really just happen?”

I drove like a mad Tuscan up the skinny, zigzaggy mountain road and brought food by delivery—an extreme rarity in these parts—to my extended family. We enjoyed a Last Supper outside—delicious, luxurious, poignant.

Fine wine flowed, an apricot sky cooled the terrace, and the lights began to twinkle in the other mountain villages and valley below.

Then the party ended, and thus began the packing, the early morning alarm clock, and the drive to the Pisa airport (with a requisite stop for a photo opp at that one iconic landmark).

It’s no fun leaving Italy, but Denmark awaits. On the plane, I watched outside the window as the leaning tower, the terra-cotta rooftops, and the verdant hillsides of Tuscany faded into cloud vapors.

Years ago, I sauntered through Viareggio on a dreary fall day. The place was a ghosttown—so deep into its hibernation that the term “life support” came to mind. There was an empty shabbiness that suggested get-outa-here fast!  But also a fading stateliness and Coney-Island patina that evoked (and promised) brighter days.

Mamma mia, what a little sun and heat can do! This time, the hot winds had whisked the ghosts away. And the early summer frenzy became more palpable by the minute. There must be one million beach umbrellas in Viareggio. And based on their bright, perfect symmetry alone, I’m guessing as many warm bodies will be chilling under them by July.

• Beach clubbing

No doubt night clubs happen soon too, but the cool thing to do is check into a beach club, get escorted to your amenities (3 chairs, one little table, one big umbrella for about $35 per day). Our club, The Excelsior, also offered changing rooms, swimming pools, languid lifeguards, and a cheerful bar with chirpy help and surprisingly fine fare.

• I mean, is there any bad food in Italy?

This beach stretches for, oh, about 30 miles. And in Viareggio alone, there must be hundreds of beach clubs—to match the hundreds of hotels.  On Day 1, each club’s lifeguards agreed that a red flag (high seas) and yellow flag (riptides) was in order.

Okay, the surf was up. But after a few dips in the water—in which one must walk for a few futbol fields before it reaches your shoulders—I sensed a conspiracy.  After all, any time a “swimmer” got out to knee depth, the lifeguard would slowly rise from his comfie chair and yell you closer to shore.

Then, they’d go quickly back to their tête-à-tête, fishing-net-fixing, or cigarette rolling. Another thing they didn’t like: If those “riptides” (or frisbee games) moved you to another guard’s beach, he’d call you to his chair, look up from his cigarette, and sternly state, “Your beach is over there!” Perfect English. How did he know?

Anyway, one soon learns to mostly ignore the salvataggio, as they do you. In fact, it became impossible to discern which ones were actually working and which were simply enjoying the day.  If there are job openings, I aim to brush up on my strokes.

• Vendors, vendors, everywhere

Like most of Europe, Italy remains pretty provincial with only a tiny minority population of immigrants. That said, it’s possible that all 4 million of them were on our beach selling sunglasses, imported thingies, cheap jewelry, and various shtuff.

The coconut man had a chant that brought back Caribbean memories, and the umbrella man’s operatic tenor and multi-lingual song would make Pavarotti proud. Otherwise, I played deaf and they left me alone, although I did succumb to the magic fingers of a zenny Asian lady’s foot massage—the best 10-Euro value ever.

So while most were pesty as mosquitoes, a few simply made the setting more sweet. And while beaches from Mexico to Grenada have tried to sweep away random renegade peddlers, Italy doesn’t seem to be much into enforcement of anything  (except, perhaps, Catholic hierarchies).

Moreover, when the merchants would gather under an umbrella (for free), take a break, and laugh in about 55 languages, I couldn’t help wondering if they were snickering at me.

Ha, ha ha! Stoic white boy probably paid more to spend two days here than we make in a year, but in a month, he’ll be back in frigid Minnesota, and we’ll still be on the beach!”

• Good time had by all

If you want to make your kids happy—and not work too hard at it—go to the beach. Our gaggle of 5 ran and splashed, played soccer, built castles, and exhausted themselves to the point of near-coma before sundown. Bellisimo!

This allowed some adults to sneak away to one of Viareggio’s best eateries (as per TripAdvisor) where the tourist-foodie’s best phrase, “Mangia bene, spende poco” was redefined yet again. And when we were the last lingering table, Luca (the ubiquitous chef and proprietor) paid us a visit, refused most of our tip (“You silly Americans!”), and sent us home with a bottle of chilled house Prosecco.

And to think some on TripAdvisor describe him as surly. Twinkle, twinkle, little star; what you say is what you are!

On the other end of the spending spectrum, we splurged on the hotel. When you want a seaside room for four and another for five—near each other, with a view, breakfast and rooftop pool—it is not easy to find.  Unless you follow the stars.  All the way up to *****!  Of course, this kind of indulgence doesn’t happen often for BreakAway families.  Sunny Viareggio may be once in a lifetime.

But ain’t life grand when you chase a complex vision, throw cash to the salty wind, and get more than you bargained for?

My kids are angels. Usually. But being kids, they’re often little devils too. Thus parenthood survival often requires more than patience; it also calls for the occasional manipulating, bribing and hiding—as in, hiding the truth. They’ll find out soon enough, right?

This list is far from complete.  But now that we’ve been here 6 days, here are 11 suggestions on how to sneak your offspring to a foreign place without scaring them away before you even land…

Don’t tell the kids about…

• Time zone changes. We’ll move the clocks ahead 7 hours when we arrive in Italy—and it may take a week (or 2) before your body understands. Your brain never will.
• Flight funk. When you’re a kid, flying is fun. For an hour or two. Then you grow up fast, and the body aches, the stomach churns, and the legs won’t fit (just like your carry-on).
• Language barriers. When we visit Denmark and Sweden, most people can speak English—can; we’ll see if they will.  In Italy? Few do—so you’ll have to learn some Italian. Or do like they do:  speak with your hands.
• Junk food. Sure, they have it here, but with different names. Tell them they won’t like it, or that the label says “Made with boar guts.” Oh and by the way, there are no hot dogs, hamburgers, or Subways. (Not to worry: Pizza is omnipresent.)
• Boars. They’re here. People eat them. And by the way, there are quite a few running around in the woods right below our casa. Hear that grunting noise? That’s not the honeymooners next door.
• Blood sausage. They eat that, too. And you just did! It’s been on every salami sampler plate, and you don’t want to know how it’s made!
• Whole foods. Tiny birds are a delicacy—and served with the head attached. Most fish comes plated whole (you’ll learn to filet); on the coast, they eat whole tiny fish in one bite. And that big roasted head at the rosticceria? Is it a pig? A boar? Or a kid who misbehaved?!
• Dining protocol. Breakfast barely exists. Lunch is late and lasts 2-4 hours. Dinner is way after 8 and can last even longer. And tomorrow morning, we’ll get up and do it all over again.
• TV. Most of our temporary residences have none. And if they do? You won’t underword a stand it says. See: Language barriers.
• Digital sabbatical. That’s right: No texting; we didn’t fly to Europe to stare at 2” screens with 2-syllable communiques. Allowed, maybe: Photos, translation help, music.
• Music mix-up. They play lots of bad American 80s music here, just like home. They also play zippy Italian pop. And lots and lots of opera—O Sole Mio!

To paraphrase our good friend Garrison Keillor, “It’s been a pretty quiet day in Barga, Toscana.”  The sun rose early.  The stalls of the Saturday market were stocked and rigged.  And here and there, in the narrow sidestreets and jagged corners, a little action occurred, though most locals wouldn’t notice it.

• Sabato market

We lived for months on these streets many moons ago, and the loud trucks made Saturday mornings restless, yet exhilarating.  Not much has changed.  The Rosticceria truck still has cranky ladies that make the best porketta ever.  Fresh seafood from Viareggio swims in.  And you can buy bras, shrooms, or socks.  Cheap, yet priceless.

• First day of summer

Schoooooooooool’s out for summer!  Round here that seems to mean one thing mostly:  The water war that began yesterday on the last day of school continued all day today.  In the streets of Barga, NO ONE was safe.  Naturally, my kids got involved, and brought the game home to Sommocolonia. The upshot?  Everyone gets wet!

• Gaggles of teens

God bless ‘em.  Those elder waterwar kids seem to be digitally free mostly, and prefer to hang out in large crowds til the last bus takes them home.  Today, they were noisy, obtrusive, obnoxious, and cute as kids can be.  Some of them took a fancy to my ‘Merrkun offspring.  Which is to say there was no stink-eye, only googlies.

• Cast your cares…

The hot spot in Barga is Scacciaguai, which means “cast your cares to the wind,“ though we preferred to pronounce it Sacajawea, until we went there, and then we were just numb and happy.  Chestnut pasta?  Check.  Salmon in pastry with tomato pesto?  Si.  Tuscan sushi with risotto for rice and 6 kinds of seafood on one platter for 6 Euro?  Perfetto!  TripAdvisor:  Take note!

• The cool pool

Ah, summer.  Barga knows how to make the most of it at their sparkling pool with mountain views, Prosecco on tap, and a staff that asks, “May I help you?” rather than, “Stop running or I call the cops!”  We can dump the kids there—and a soccer field, ping-pong table, and melone con proscuitto await.  (We’ll pick them up next Thursday.)

It’s too easy, sometimes, for those of us who love long-term travel to have our anticipation tempered by memories of concussions, train strikes, and mean-ass border police.  This time?  Piece of cake.  Or should I say dolce.

The Tuscans are still among the sweetest people on earth.  And for a short while, our job is to smile back and eat their cake.

Dorothy Parker’s notorious quote,

I hate writing, but I love having written,” adapts well to, “I hate traveling, but I love being there.”

On this Tuscan travel adventure, the first leg of a lite-gonzo Euro tour, the cast includes our family of four, my wife’s brother and his wife, and three of their kids. That’s five kids, four adults, and enough baggage to sink an aircraft—all traversing for 20+ hours from MSP to deep Tuscany.

The upside includes camaraderie and commiseration through jammed airports, plastic food, and a sleepless night that takes you seven hours into the future. At moments you might ask yourself, “Is this hell?”  No, it’s just modern-day travel.  But landing—at last!—in bella Italia with giddy kids and a glass of vino transforms everything.

In fact, you might now ask, “Is this heaven?” No, It’s Italy! And it’s enough to make you believe again.

• Flights of frenzy

Back in the day (or was it once upon a time?) flying was posh and plush. My first flight as a 6-year-old took me and my older brother, sans adults, from Sioux Falls, SD to California to visit an aunt. Never mind my youth; those flight attendants were gorgeous, and showered us with flirtiness, playing cards and treats.

I fell in love with one; my brother—the other.

I can still see her face, and, uh, the way she fit into her tight little “stewardess” uni.  While maybe not my first true love, she certainly gave me my first wings. And I’ve wanted to fly ever since.  But she’s retired, it appears. And her replacement is underpaid, overworked, and surly—and hip-checks you with her ample carcass when she waddles down the aisle.

Yep, the airlines went bankrupt, got bailed out by the government, slashed their staff’s wages, and now make billions making us uncomfortable.  How did $500 flights become $1,500 flights? That’s how.  And where did the wink and a smile go? Don’t ask; just remember that if you can get past those gnarly gates, a nirvana may await.

• Mission:  La famiglia

My nirvana waits no more: It’s here.  Our first Mission is to simply lounge in Italy with 2 grandparents for whom the vision of an Italian family reunion has finally become a reality.  And once the wine washes away the jet-lag, a little bella Italia and famiglia soothes the soul like fresh pane soothes the stomach.

I’ve had the good fortune of spending months, over four trips, in Italy. But this time, I don’t need guidebooks, Rome, Venice, or to discover latest, best trattoria. No, the goals are much simpler. Unplug—and try to make the kids to the same. Yet let go of the kids—and let them get lost in this mountain village (Sommocolonia), where the Roman road leads to Barge below, and another (better?) way of life.

Soak in the culture, the nature, the warmth and the light. Hang with old friends, and make some new.  Now that there has become here, the goal is just to Be Here. That’s a blessing.  And that’s enough.  Because Italy is even more enchanting than its superlative reputation.  And la dolce vita tastes sweeter every time.

The Literary Committte had bigger topics, and the family blender was on puree.  But the day came down to a cat.  She put up with the transfer like a real gamer, but you could see in her eyes a certain displeasure.  I blame myself.  She knew the that she was moving, but I could have done better explaining.  My bad.

The daughter cried, of course, upon finding an empty house after school.  I keep checking for Ms. Feline around corners, though of course she’s not there, and God knows we’ve had our kerfuffles.  But she’s away.  Now we go too.  And so we’re all crawling around moving stuff from piles into receptacles and none of us is really any the wiser.

That’s why we must go:  Wisdom.  From family, roots, European culture, plants, cats, people, and even Venus crossing the sun.  Daisy will understand.  Maybe we will too.

• DAISY:  Thanks for understanding.  Be a comfort to your temporary owners and enjoy the respite from your ordinary life.
• ITALY:  See you in a few hours. Thanks for the invitation.  Get us out of here before we go cat-sh*t.

Bless their hearts; all our friends, colleagues, and community cronies have a question or 5 about our impending trip.  In fact, they’re usually the same ones over and over—something like this…

All packed up yet?”

• This trite query actually begins months before take-off, and provides a precursor to the most popular (and equally vacuous) question upon return:  “What was your favorite place?”  Both warrant a full-on scream, but a simple “No!” or “Stockholm!” will do.

Are you really going to miss out on…?”

• Sports enthusiast parents especially bark about this, as if to suggest that my young athletes will never play again if they miss this summer’s traveling team, camp, shooting clinic, team picnic, and more, more, more.  Problem?  Not.  But I resist rebutting, “Are you really going to stay hog-tied to sports forever?”  Or, “Doesn’t your future Magic Johnson deserve a break?”

Who’s taking care of…?”

• Good questions, indeed—that serve to soothe little, and amp up stress lots.  Fortunately, an answer always emerges, eventually:  A friend, a neighbor, a landscaper, a house-sitter, a contractor, a lawn-mower, and a whole team of good people.

Why aren’t you going to …?”

• Rome?  Been there, done that.  Paris?  Not even near our path.  Norway?  Too hard to get to the amazing places (with kids who have limited patience); and it’s perhaps the most expensive country in Europe.  Hey, our itinerary makes sense—to us.  As did yours when you went to Rome, Paris, or …

Anything I can do to help?”

• Now THAT one is music to my ears.  While one must actualize ambitious journeys alone, it does take a village to get out of town.  Thanks to all those who help and will help—even if you don’t know it yet.

You’ll be hearing from us soon!

Watching my daughter’s 3^rd grade “Field Day” provided 11 metaphors for the packing, purchasing, and panic that were running through my mind while the children ran events on the playground.

With only five days until take-off, one needs a bucket of aphorisms and upselling self-talk to keep from falling like a tweenie in a gunny-sack race…

• You won’t win every race, so just do your best.
• Others will get in your way, so move around them (or mow them over).
• If you fall down hard and can’t get up, take advantage:  Take a nap.
• If the anticipation of the race makes you sleepless, maybe you’re trying (or thinking) too much.
• Remember:  This is a race (that will end), not life or death; the dust will settle—and we’ll all return to dust someday.
• If dizzy and winded, it’s okay to sit a spell and remember the long haul.
• If parents, teachers, and colleagues disapprove of your trip or tactics, ignore them and move on like you have the rest of your life.
• Since travel unfolds like a long relay race, choose good partners who won’t drop the baton.
• The crowd will get noisy and disruptive, but march (and sprint) to your own drummer.
• If you fall while doing the gunny-sack race, ask yourself: Why am I hopping in a gunny-sack—and what is a “gunny,” anyway?
• To minimize disappointment or dehydration, know how to make lemonade.

You don’t want to think too much about $ when planning a BreakAway for four people. But you can’t ignore it either. And you’re guaranteed to have some snags get into your face. Today’s short list (which might confront any international traveler) features…

• Chips ahoy

I’m told that in much of Europe, and for sure Scandinavia (where we’ll be 3/5 of the time), credit cards have a chip. No swiping. American banks don’t like these chips—there’s a security risk (as usual), so this methodology may not take over here. But some merchants there will refuse your card and be unable to swipe—never mind that they are under obligation to take the card(and enter numbers by hand, if need be). This is classic, small-time Euro scaming: trying to obtain cash and avoid taxes. Cash is still king!

• Cash mash

How many countries use the Euro now, 27? (Soon, maybe less, right Greece?) So how odd, then, that my itinerary has only three countries—but appears to need three currencies (Italy’s Euro, Denmark’s kroner, Sweden’s kroner). What a pain in the butt.  But hey, it’s good for the kids’ math lessons!

• Budget, schmudget

This Family CFO oversees the trip’s budget. That’s like being a sherriff in the wild, wild west. 3 currencies? Unknown transporation needs? Gas prices over there? And best of all, the tip from a friend who just returned from Stockholm (our last destination):

My cousin and I had 2 appetizers and 2 glasses of wine…and the tab was $90.”

So I advise myself as I would any schemer:

Add up the biggies like planes and booked accommodations, then guesstimate a per diem, then add 10%, and hope to come under (but don’t bum out if that’s impossible).”

Then, adapt “It is what it is” into “It’ll cost what it costs” and let the chips (not swipes) fall (like your net worth) as they may.  DO NOT THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU ARE SPENDING (often) once you are living your dream. Dreams are dear.

• But do the math

Yet before you go, yes, see how things add up. Digest those numbers—no matter how many Rolaids it takes. Accept that some Italian restaurants will bring you “la tourista” menu with no prices on it (and walk out). Prepare for the espresso shop that sells you “bottled water” from their tap. Get ready for $20 beers (and just saying no).

When the dollar remains so weak and Europe’s prices can be steeper than Mont Blanc, just pay the man, the woman, and even the gypsy child who will somehow sneak her oily little fingers into your pocket and snatch your cashola.

Not to worry: They got money that comes out of machines over there. If, that is, the machine honors the swipe. And assuming you still have any left in your US bank account.