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.

When the tough want to get going, tough sh*t happens. Murphy’s law? Conspiracy? Or just life? Minor disasters (that could stop your trip and ruin your day) come in many forms. Here are the latest three that impart reminders to take nothing for granted, especially a big trip prep…

• Strike 1…Weather woes. 3+” of rain fell last night, and a few more today. So bring on: Clogged gutters; wet basements; muddy messes; thunder all night that makes the 9-year-old wake everyone up; delayed soccer and baseball games with indeterminate reskeds.  The drought is over! Long live the flood!

• Strike 2… Work loads. The good news is this self-employed household has left the recessionary, debt-laden last three years behind, and income flows (though not floods) again. The bad news? Work = stress, responsibility, and travel that, this week, makes me a solo dad for 2 too-busy kids.  Help! Alice?

• Strike 3…Injury happens. My all-star son got hit with a baseball in the scaphoid (wristbone) two days ago. After pain, ice, and angst, the x-ray revealed only a bad bone bruise—in a place where a fracture often requires surgery. Lucky break, no break! But lady luck first was not fair, not nice, and threatened to blow the entire game plan.

The busy-ness of contemporary survival keeps most of us juggling glass balls too much of the time.  But rarely does it feel as fragile as when you just want to exit with style, grace and a passport.

Of all the challenges that a traveler must face, packing might be the most burdensome. Pack light—and you’ll regret having no heavy coat. Pack heavy—and you’ll schlep countless things you won’t need. In an attempt to avoid last-minute meltdowns, here’s the short list of beasts I’m wrestling with today…

11 Packing Quandaries

• Food. This one’s all about the kids. If they ain’t well-fed, they ain’t happy—and then nobody’s happy. Cram in about 555 granola bars and dried fruit bags. Visit overpriced snack stands often.
• Musical playthings. Beaches, bonfires, BreakAways: There’s no better time and place to play the guitar.  And the mini Martin makes sweet sound and straps on your back. Still, are we crazy? And what about harmonicas, djembes, and pianos.
• Sport. The young man needs to keep his arm in shape for more baseball when we get home. 2 gloves and 2 balls? But he also plans to play basketball in Copenhagen—and she needs a soccer ball and I need a frisbee. Duluth pack, anyone?
• Luggage limitations. Even the airlines can’t agree—no surprise there. So we face different rules and regs, while still have unrepaired damage from the last time the airline orangatuns got hold of our baggage.
• Ponchos. The last one wore out.  Yep, it just started leaking like cotton amid the nonstop storm that hit during last summer’s U2 concert. Can’t find a worthy replacement yet. And a poncho gets used for warmth, picnics, and more.
• Weather variations. Sunny Italy and then northern Denmark (by the sea) in June? Yes. Possibly 95 and scorching and then 45 with wet nor’easters? Yes. Bring layers, I guess.  Prepare to shop. Sweat. And shiver.
• Tech wreck. Just about every dang one of us needs a computer, phone, iPod, and (in a few cases) game device. Each comes with its own baggage, chargers, and risks. Welcome to the electronic age.
• Shoes. Ever since the heel shatter + surgery, my left foot must live on an orthotic insert—and in New Balance tennies. But what about those stylish Italians all around? That ravishing ristorante? The night at the opera, and the day at the beach?
• Cameras. The SLR with the uber-large lens is a must. So might be the little Lumix with the widescreen video recorder. The 4GS takes okay shots, but not always. Each of these requires chargers, batteries, cards. And that’s just my gear!
• Backpack(s). The small daypack for sightseeing has holes and rust. The larger carry-on option remains elusive. You could go nuts trying to find the perfect solution.
• Pillows. Just kidding, but sheesh—those 9-hour plane rides and unpredictable hotel beds make a guy miss his pillow already.

Oh well, you CAN go home again. And home looks pretty good right about now.

There’s no time to enjoy it, though—too much packing to do!

Yee gads!  The BreakAway bus leaves again in just 19 days–this time for 5 weeks in Europe with the whole famn damily of 4.  We are, of course, in a calculated state of denial, which, when turned inside out, resembles measured panic.  Although we’ve traveled a lot, everyone prefers blithe ignorance regarding planning, preparing, packing, ETC!

• Enter the agitated task-master

As my family’s chief chef, bottle-washer, errand-runner, schedule-maker, general contractor, list-steward, and task-master, this particular phase of travel brings me as much joy as a colonoscopy.  I’ve lived through one of those now, and thus know all things must pass—including this pain-in-the-ass prep stage.  Thank God!

Still, the first digit on the clock is one number earlier when sleep abrubtly stops each night.  Soon, there will be no need to go to bed at all.  Funny.  The mind can’t stop agonizing over countless tedious tasks in the middle of the night.  But in the middle of the afternoon, it lacks the mental competence (and time) to attack said details.

• Let us all praise Doug Mack

Lucky for me, a copy of Doug Mack’s Europe on 5 Wrong Turns a Day graces my bedside.  He’s a friend and a heckuva funny writer.  And during last night’s insomnia, I found desperately needed inspiration as he trashed Amsterdam and Belgium.  He made me smirk at stoned tourists, aloof eateries, and the pissing-boy statue.

In other words, in the dark of night, Doug lightened up this BreakAway blogger.  Arthur Frommer’s Europe on 5 Dollars a Day is dead!  Long live wrong turns, long lines, tourist traps, and the bloated Euro!  Bring on jet lag, busted luggage, and whiny progeny who will prefer iPod games when presented the wonders of the world!

Doug’s memoir confirms that travel is both a nightmare and a dream.  Many pursuits will disappoint, yet serendipity will abound.  A sav-trav attitude is in order, yet even veteran bon vivants confront disappointments daily.  They key is to keep your sense of humor, self, and place.

Doug’s bold storytelling also gave me the guts to get back on my blog-horse and, maybe, log this ride.  After all, his journey brought him a book deal!  And if that doesn’t work out, well, nobody reads most blogs anyway, right?  I mean, not even my mom.  So what have I got to lose, other than time?

Time?  I got time—or soon will.  That’s what BreakAways are all about:  Making and taking time for what matters.  Capturing the moments from a once-in-a-lifetime European family adventure.  This stuff matters.

Besides, writing and picture-taking take on more meaning when you fly away from your already-seen scene.  And you observe more mindfully.  If nobody views my stuff, so what?  It gives me literary license to say whatever the hell I want with no risk—which may be its own reward.  So thanks, Doug (I think).

• Can we get there from here?

The itinerary, in brief, features Tuscany, Denmark, and Sweden.  Tuscany offers a place we know, and have even “lived,” plus a two-week extended family group-grope gathering that, one hopes, will be good for the kids.  Think: Cousins.  Grandparents.  Goats.  Soccer in mountain pastures and village piazzas.  Daily gelati.

Then we bid the rellies arriverderci and head north to Scandinavia—praying to the Pope and anyone else who will listen that the unglorious Nordic cuisine doesn’t head too far south, breezes up there are not too northerly, and the stoic Scandi-hoovians serve up some sort of la dolce vita.

The Big Idea here stems from wanting to show the kids “where they came from.”  That we are “more than just American.”  That the family lore and fading lingo that somehow live on here are alive and well there.

Years ago, on BreakAway #1 (one whole dang year off in the Caribbean and Europe), visiting Scandinavia was a coveted vision for me—and, yes, it DID live up to the heartfelt vibes that pulled me there.

Will it for them?  Can we get there from here?  Should we just stay in Italy and soak up sun and vino and study la dolce far niente?  Naah.  Let’s give our children wings and roots.

Today’s Washington Post announces that, for the first time in history, the majority of  babies being born in America are minorities.  In other words, minorities are the majority now.  It’s a timely twist as I show my offspring where they got their (increasingly rare) blue eyes and blond hair.

But we also aim to wander in ancient castles, build short-lived sandcastles, dance around a ginormous Midsommer bonfire, and bask as a family in summer days that are so long the sun barely sets.

Rain or shine, may those days dramatically differ from the multi-sport/traffic-jam/laundry pile-ups /homework & concerts/dates and playdates/alarm-clocky/Subway-in-the-SUV routine that life can become when two parents, a 15-year young man, and a 9-year-old girl get lost in Modern-Family America.

So let’s get lost.  It’s about time.  And let’s take that time, while we still can.

Care to join us?  Please do!  It gets lonely telling tales when nobody listens.  But I’ll do it anyway—knowing that the stories and scenes that await are truly priceless, and they will only appreciate in value as the years fly by.  We’ll be glad to have these keepsakes, someday.

Someday.  There’s that word again.  In 19 nerve-racking days, sweet Someday will arrive again…

This vagabond has vacationed via all kinds of vehicles and means: planes, trains, autos, buses, helicopters, hovercrafts, ferries, fishing boats, sailboats, mail boats and more.  But a big, fancy cruise ship?  That’s a new one.  So the time finally arrived—in this winter of climatic discontent—to set sail on a vessel featuring a shameless menu of amenities on board.

A good time was had by all.  In fact, one week later, some cruisers are probably still recovering.  Yet amid the remoteness and soothing blue Caribbean water, the one wave that kept splashing salt into my eyes was the absurdity of escaping into a never-neverland of indulgence while so many in the world are hurting.

• In Japan, millions suffer from an earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown.
• In the Mideast, millions march in the streets fighting for basic human dignity (and sometimes, their lives).
• In the US, millions remain homeless, hungry, or unemployed while surrounded by enough riches to provide plenty for everybody.

I blame TV.  As one who watches no TV news at home, and edits other sources, I couldn’t resist the odd thrill of channel surfing while floating far away from reality.  The fresh images of unheard-of hardships everywhere else provided ongoing, sobering, reality slaps.

You can sail away, but you can’t hide.  Life on this complex planet includes both the amazing sea and the anguished masses.

No wonder we need to “get away from it all,” or at least try, now and then.

Sometimes, a week far away seems hardly worth the toil, though most Americans rarely do that any more.  Other times, like this time, a week away feels like a mini-Sabbatical.  Mazatlan served up a healthy helping of sunshine and sass—just when winter Up North was threatening to become a living hell.

Mazatlan has been an important port and escape for millenia, yet it feels timeless.  When did it lose all sense of time?  Perhaps when brave explorers landed the endless beach and—if they had any sense—hunkered down for a while.

Or maybe it happened whenever the natives started settling.  And who wouldn’t want to stay?  Even in January, the sun shines warms the land to a balmy 80, while night falls to a cozy 50.

Might the development of the 60s and 70s been when time stopped?  Resorts and hotels shot up like beach weeds—while one young entrepreneur hatched Senor Frog’s.  All those cool cats made millions.  And Mazatlan became one of the world’s hot spots, at least for a while.

Time stands still in a place like this.  Nobody seems to care what day or decade it is.

The livin’ is easy…

The Pacific makes for a frigid bath in winter, but cool water never hurt anyone (at least not like ice).  And explorers, settlers, and vacationers must have one thing in common:  The desire for easy living.

Today, Mazatlan looks like the glory days may have come and gone, over and over again.  One one hand, dated and shuttered hotels and villas line the expansive Malecon promenade.  “Narc lords who got busted” go some stories.  Other abandonments, who knows?

On the other hand, giant luxury resorts and condos keep shooting up—as if they expect masses of loaded tourists and retirees to fall from the blue sky.  Clearly, money still flows, and Mexico is full of untapped potential.  Too bad most residents barely have running water in this third-world conundrum.

But maybe it’s better this way, at least for us visitors.  Parking is a snap.  Great restaurants are half-empty on a weekend night.  The service people offer competence and curiousity, as if they never expected to get rich quick anyway.

What they say is true:  Mexicans are happy people, more interested in pleasure than work.  They have much to teach their jaded neighbors to the north.

• So much to see, so little time

As always when on BreakAway, reality calls all too quickly.  A week flutters by like the crazy frigates in the sky.  Tan vacationers reluctantly board the same airplane that plopped them here seven days ago; the same aloof flight attendants give glances that say, “You again?”

In my case, a reunion with some lifelong friends also celebrating 50 birthdays makes the city backdrop superfluous.  Could we have forseen that our mutual adoration could last so long?  That we could still talk (and party) nonstop?  That our giddy  laughter could still make strangers stare?

That said, this place merits more attention.  Like, maybe, five months a year.  Just ask the smart Yankees and Canadians that smugly stay here—and look mostly fat, smart, and happy.

• Comin’ back to the cold

Even the tires scream when they hit the Minnesota ground, which remains covered in unyielding snow and ice.

But for a few days, and maybe longer, the mind’s eye sees not frozen urban sprawl, but Pacific waves.  Smiling Mexicans of many generations.  Art tucked into beloved boutiques and erected beside the sea.  Seafood so fresh it might jump off your plate.

On the plane, an elderly gentleman who now has a second home there reflects,

I thought I was just smitten with the vacation fun, and life couldn’t be better than it is in America.  But after all these years of living in both places, I’m sure of it now:  Life is better down there.”