How Could You Resist?

I have no idea why anyone would pay good money to enter the museum, but I do know the previous time we were in Volterra, Italy I regretted not going in. 

Although it sounds really sick, I put the museum on the "must-do" list when we returned this time with extra reinforcements. Instead of three of us, me, my sister and her son, this time we had five. My brother CnC and my sister's daughter.  

It was a great traveling group. We are not a drama filled family and the five of us were determined to let nothing ruin our trip. Although it was unseasonably cool and rainy nearly everyday we were there, we all just made whatever adjustment was necessary and plowed on. 

When we reached Volterra, we saw the museum exactly where I remembered it. My sister, Helen was exhausted walking the steep hills and the unending steps in the ancient city.  She also had no desire to enter the museum. 

So the four of us shelled out a few euro and entered the small museum that had this lovely chair outside. 

The ancient town of Volterra has been estimated to be built somewhere between 2000 bc to 400 bc.  Whichever is coreect, those estimates alone are hard to even conceive.  

The Estruscans were some mean dudes that preceded Ancient Roman. 

Each of the torture devices was accompanied by detailed explanations as to how it was used. 

All I can say is those Estrucan's certainly didn't mess around with silly stuff like waterboarding. 

As we progressed along the small building, I found myself involuntarily covering my mouth with both hands as of to stifle a scream. From turning someone upside down and sawing them in half from the crotch and onward to inserting metal instruments inside various bodies cavities and them spreading them out until the insides bursts to splitting open someone's stomach just enough to let the released starving rats have a fresh meal. 

No, we didn't make my sister wait in the chair outside. 

I Know What You're Thinking.

Will she make it five days in a row?

Now you have the answer. 

Here's a picture to look at in case you're getting bored. 

The Tuscano hillside looked like a brilliant green Grand Canyon. 

Jaw dropping. Literally. 

Pass the Butter Please

Mrs. Sheets used to spend the time after recess reading to us different books. Maybe that was her way to calm us third graders down after spending 20 minutes or so releasing our wild energy only children can feel. 

Charlotte's Web and some really fascinating story of a young witch who would mix colorful potions for reasons I don't remember. Maybe she wasn't a witch, cause that seems weird, I need to google what that kid's story might have been. 

But what I remember most was one afternoon was not the class reading after recess, but the recess itself. 

Penny was my best friend in first grade. We were the teacher's pets sitting in the front of the class. 

Yes, I was THAT girl. Not Marlo Thomas That Girl, but the one that never wanted to get in trouble and most teachers liked, at least until junior high. Any wonder why I was bullied a lot?

Anyway, The school decided that Penny and I shouldn't be in the same class in second grade because we were too close of friends.  I have no idea whether that was a good or bad thing.  I just don't remember specifically any kid who was in my second grade class. 

But I guess it was okay for Penny and I to be in the same class again in third grade. 

Penny lived on a small dairy farm about a mile from our house. We would often spend the night at one house or the other. I can still remember her dad milking the cows and suddenly aiming a teat right at me and giving that sucker a squeeze. He even showed me how to milk a cow. It's a little harder than you think. You just can't pull the thing down, there's a bit of a method to squeezing the milk out. 

One day Mrs. Sheets thought it might be an interesting lesson to show the class that cows milk could be turned to butter.  Back in the mid sixties, most households stocked only margarine. 

Since Penny had easy access to fresh cow's milk, she brought a jar of the milk in that morning. She also got to pick three other children to stay in during recess to shake the milk jar until it turned to butter. 

She picked two of the best looking boys in the class and, of course me.  

It takes quite a bit of shaking to turn the fresh milk to butter and I still remember passing the jar around between the four of us and seeing the beginnings of a clump of the milk starting to bind together. 

By the time the other kids came in from recess, the butter was almost ready. We took the white clump out of the remaining cream and let the excess liquid drain just a bit.  All the kids were surprised like I was that the butter was white, not bright yellow like Blue Bonnet. 

Mrs Sheets had brought in crackers and each of us then tasted real fresh white butter, churned right before our eyes. 

I remember thinking it was rather bland, so I would stick with the margarine at home. 

Now I know it was because there was no salt added to it. 

Especially this time of year I buy unsalted butter for the sweet corn. Of course I add salt to the ear before I chomp down.  

I happened upon this brand a few years back. It's the best tasting stuff for homemade bread and sweet corn. 

It's expensive, but well worth it. 

It's Summer

And here's what's going on. 

The local farmers market had Ambrosia sweet corn this morning. 

Oh how I've missed you Ambrosia. 

The beans and taters are pert nigh done. 

Gonna slice some Indiana maters.  

The new potatoes to the left have been boiled, now I'll peel them and fry those little round suckers in some lard until the outsides get slightly crispy and brown and the insides will invariable burn the roof of your mouth. 

The dinner rolls are raising. 

Wood chips are soaking to give the BBQ chicken that wonderful smoky flavor. 

I would show you the chicken but nobody likes to see raw chicken. 

Having our good friends over for dinner. Yes, this is too much food but this stuff only lasts a few short weeks each year. 

And even better yet?

This is my third post in three straight days.   ;-) 

A Record for Me.

I have a couple posts in mind but of course I haven't written them yet.

So what I REALLY want to say is.....

When I grow up I want to be like Joe. But alas. I am a pathetic blogger as he so eloquently details here.

Picture me like this. 

Not Enjoying the Screw

Just got our paperwork and information for our fantastic medical plan that Bob's former employer offers after our COBRA runs out October 1st.

Not only are we wading through all the Medicare options that Bob will then be on, we get my new packet for the Pre-65 plan. 

The brochure is lovely I might add. All these pretty pictures and great narrative.  Unlike Medicare which obviously has the separate prescription plan, the prescription plan is attached to the medical. 

So convenient, right?  

Below is the exact wording for the prescription benefit. 

I love the What's Special section. "You pay a coinsurance or copay. Subject to a maximum for each prescription wth no deductible required".   Especially since the very next page shows what the prescription benefit ACTUALLY is. 

Wait. I have to be reading that wrong.  All the plans say AFTER the deductible.  

So I set about calling about 7 different numbers. After over an hour an a half on the phone, the final conclusion was the prescription plan starts AFTER the medical deductible. Obviously they have a VERY lazy marketing manager that didn't bother to make sure the brochure and website are in agreement with the actual plan. 

The minimum deductible on the plan which rates that increase my current premium 27% starts at $7,500!

And THEN the prescription plan kicks in with my co-pays of either $20, $40 or even $120!   

So in effect there is no prescription benefit to the plan.  

I'm estimating my (not including Bob's) out of pocket expenses will go up close to $5,000 a year. 

And that's assuming the 2014 rates would remain the same. 

Of course they will, right?  

Our fine President said so. 

Welcome to the effects of Obamacare. Not only premium increase but benefit reductions to boot. 

The assholes who passed this monstrosity should be beaten with the huge gavel the scum carried through the streets after screwing the country over. 

How the average middle class family can afford this disaster so beyond me. 

Except these clueless Westboro-like drones. 

The dumbasses have no clue their free mammogram just cost them $5k more a year. 

Wow, who could have seen that coming?

There are thousands of these from fours years ago.

Apparently a LOT of people. 

Wormy - Another He Said, She Said

The two of them came through the back slider that led into our kitchen late one evening. 

My mom and I were still up but we weren't expecting them since they normally were either crashed out in the trailer in our back yard by then or they were out gallivanting around up to no good. 

Since the first one through the door was stifling a laugh behind his hand, neither of us was concerned. Following closely behind however, was his good friend holding some type of rag to his forehead that was obviously drenched with the blood pouring from his scalp and not stopping anytime soon. 

Time seemed to speed up when it was obvious one of these two young and dumb 20 something boys had just encountered a blow to his head that seemed fairly serious. 

It took about five minutes for my laughing brother to explain exactly how one of his best buddies ended up with his head bashed in when they had been doing nothing more than watching TV in my brother's trailer that he lived in during his early adult years. 

Wormy had been a fixture at our house for years. I don't remember when he first showed up, but both of my brothers always seemed to attract several friends who either didn't have any parents in their lives or whose parents just didn't seem to care. 

We never knew who we might find sleeping on our great room floor come Saturday morning. Whoever it might be I think every one of of them today will tell you they considered my mom and dad their parents. When dad was dying 22 years ago, several of them showed up one afternoon and gathered around the bed with dad reminiscing about old times until one by one I could see them leaving the room and finding some private spot to shed their tears. 

Wormy's real name was Ramey. But all his buddies and my family called him Wormy. My dad refused to use his nickname telling my mom that Ramey didn't like being called Wormy. 

Sometimes I wonder why some kids are never cut a break. Ramey's mother was absent, he spent most of his childhood being raised by his grandmother. I really never knew the whole story. I do remember that when his grandmother passed away she left Ramey and his brother $1,000 a piece. Even back in the 70's that wasn't a lot of money, but Ramey's mother was such a bitch (sorry but there isn't a better word for her) that she sued him for it. 

He was a bit of a squirrelly looking character. Short. Skinny. A bit of a Barney Fife but without a sense of arrogance and sadly without much of an innate sense of what was the right path and what was the wrong path. 

Of course hanging around with my brother back in the 70's wasn't going to lead him down the right path back then either. 

The night my brother and Wormy came through our slider, we were used to some crazy stuff from those boys, but knowing they were both safely at home in our backyard we could not have imagined how Ramey ended up with a couple of huge visible dents in his forehead which were bleeding all over my parent's kitchen. 

Finally my brother stopped laughing long enough to explain that he and his buddy were laying down on opposite couches in the trailer quietly watching TV.  From the corner of his eye, Mark saw a mouse begin to run across the room. From his (I'm assuming here) not quite sober state, my Einstein brother picked up a small dumbbell laying next to his couch and heaved it at the mouse as hard as he could. 

The Redneck D-Con didn't hit its intended target, but instead landed a direct hit on Ramey's head. 

This was back in the days of my brother's wildest years. So I will not even attempt to persuade you that there were not numerous fights that broke out in the trailer between the friends. But that night what my brother found so funny was that it was a quiet night and so poor Ramey was completely blindsided as to why his best buddy would hurl a heavy dumbbell at his head attempting to seemingly kill him. 

When my mom and I looked underneath the bloody rag on Wormy's head we saw a couple of severely dented places with blood pouring out of them. 

While my dad slept through the whole event, the four of us loaded up in the car and made our way to the closest ER at the local hospital that was only slightly better than a vet's office. I take that back, no need to insult a vet clinic. 

The waiting room wasn't crowded as we approached the ER desk. I stood with Wormy as he answered the lady's questions. Even I had to stifle a giggle when Ramey explained how he lost his balance and fell against the edge of a kitchen cabinet door.   I have no idea when he concocted that story and I doubt the woman believed it, but she continued with question after question while ignoring the fact the he was losing blood and was becoming dizzy. 

I finally had enough and told her he needed to sit down.  Only then did they bother to actually get him a wheelchair to sit in while he continued to hold the blood soaked towel against his head. 

Although the amateur ER managed to not kill him, I am still angry that they were not crowded yet practically ignored someone with some what could have been a serious head trauma. 

There where other stories too. Crazy ones. Like the night when my parents were out of town and Mark and Wormy came into the house looking for trouble. I was there with my then boyfriend (lets refer to him as X) soon to be ex-husband when they entered and it began to be apparent at least more than one of these boys was looking for a fight. 

I remember being angry. Becoming very angry. It was a battle of the egos and I won't defend one of these boys over the other. Mainly because I could then and now see that nothing good was going to become of the situation and all three of them had some serious issues that I would not and could not ever fix. 

For the four or five of my regular readers might have figured out by now, my brother and I are extremely close.   That wasn't always the case.  It took me 13 years to figure out why Mark hated me. It took him a little longer. And the reason had nothing to do with either one of us. 

So that night I tried to get either Mark and Wormy to leave or get the idiot X to leave in the car with me. 

I was not successful in either case.  So I left the three idiots there and took a drive.  When I returned, my brother and Ramey were gone and X, who was no small guy, had obviously taken a couple of blows to the face. 

Later Mark told me that Ramey and X were arguing and Ramey was standing over him. Now imagine Barney, drunk of course standing over a guy that outweighed him by 50 pounds and stood a good half foot taller.  When Wormy was drinking which was quite often, he was 6'3" and bullet proof, or so he thought. 

When X wouldn't take the bait, that didn't stop Wormy from throwing a couple of punches to X's face.  Mark was wise enough (cough, cough) to step in between the sitting X and Wormy before X stood up. In reality X was actually probably too much of a wimp to do anything anyway,but that's another story we don't need to tell. 

A few days later the subject came up in front of my parents and I remember letting my brother have it. I screamed. I yelled. I told him he had no business coming in the house starting trouble. 

But what I remember the most was finally saying what I had believed for 20 years. That he hated me.  I had believed that one of my brothers actually despised me. 

Which I have always believed was the exact moment my relationship with my brother changed. Maybe he didn't know that I had believed that or maybe because I had finally spoken something that struck him in the heart enough to penetrate that fake rough exterior.  

In either case I do not recall any minute in the last 30 some years after that time where we didn't have each other's back.   As odd as it may sound, I credit that last fight and my harsh words to have slapped him into realizing he didn't actually hate me at all and he shouldn't be acting like he did. 

But I digress(ed). A lot. 

Maybe that's why while writing this I am having such a hard time accepting the news I found out a few Sunday's ago

As is the case in a lot of childhood friendships, Mark and Wormy hadn't seen each other in a couple years. The week prior Mark stopped by Ramey's house to catch up but didn't find him home. 

Some of the old buddies finally tracked Mark down since he is living with our other brother. 

They told him that Ramey had been in the hospital for a few weeks. He had an extremely rare condition called Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease.  It's comparable to Mad Cows disease and is fatal within just a few months. 

Mark went to the hospital on that Sunday with a few of the old buddies who somehow managed to either not end their crazy younger years in jail or dead.  Only the Good Lord knows how. 

Apparently Ramey had not been responsive for several days, but upon hearing Mark say, "Hey Wormy, it's Mad Dog" Ramey responded. The hard ass young guys now balding and aging all began to reminisce about their crazy youthful days, even singing old songs they loved, Ramey included.  

Ramey's awareness lasted long enough for the old guys to spend some precious moments together. 

When my brother posted on Facebook some prayer requests for Wormy on Sunday I was stunned. I called him and we made arrangement to go the hospital on Monday. 

I guess I was hoping we could get a few minutes of lucidness from this boy who spent so many days at my parents house and who loved my mom and dad because they both loved  him more than his own neglectful parents. 

What I found instead was a withered old man, eyes filled with gel because the disease has blinded him and he does not close his eyes even while sleeping. 

I suppose it's a blessing that the disease progresses extremely fast. 

I only wish that I could as quickly find a legitimate reason why some people seem to be destined to never get a break in life. 

I wish I could know that Wormy had some years or some months or even some weeks of happiness in his life. 

Sadly I don't think he ever did. Hopefully he has found some peace in the next life. I pray that's true. 

Ramey passed away early Monday morning just a couple weeks after my brother's visit.  Since I was of town, I was unable to attend the service. It's been fairly tough for my brother, just a few months after helping our cousin during his last days and now his best buddy. 

Prayers are always appreciated. 

I knowd it

"He walk bad too"

When we passed the old lady and her granddaughter I was assuming a few things. 

We were coming out of a restaurant last night after a huge thunderstorm. I was too busy dodging water puddles to pay much attention to the two ladies coming toward us. 

Bob thought the youngest one was mocking his walk. I hadn't looked until the old black lady wearing what we used to call moo moos started talking. 

He didn't hear the old lady's words. So we pieced together what must have happened 

The old lady was hobbling through the parking lot, when (we assumed) her granddaughter was attempting to showing the old woman the old guy in the parking lot was hobbling through on his one good leg. 

A couple of ladies in Italy. 

Bob's limp, leftover from the tumor in his spine has been extremely noticable for a few years now. Yes, we probably should have been insisting the neurologist delve deeper four years ago, but we weren't told of the tumor back then, so we didn't know to ask. 

Here's a lesson I should have known, but didn't apply. 

Every test. 

EVERY TEST. 

Any doc orders, get and read a copy for yourself. The last MRI he had said, "no significant change in the spinal tumor". 

Given that we didn't know he had a tumor in the first place was kind of startling. 

Maybe if we had gotten a copy of the first MRI when his calf muscle was obviously dying we would have sought a second opinion. But we didn't know. 

So he works on getting his coordination back, realistically he never will. It's an uphill battle maintaining the little muscle control on his right leg that he has now. 

So I wasn't surprised when the old black lady hobbling in her moo moo said to her granddaughter

"I knowd it. He walk bad too". 

It was an odd kinship. But it was honest. 

Yeah. He looks good in a suit. Or in a ball cap. ;-). 

A guy that looks better in a ball cap.

Just because

This guy just oozes....um.....stuff. In a ball cap. 

Some men look really good in a suit. But MR just doesn't cut it in a suit.

Am I right? 

Shrimp and FaceTime

Of course one has nothing to do with the other. 

For about a month now, our 7 year old granddaughter has found that her IPod will allow her to FaceTime. 

So we never know when our phones will suddenly get several texts right in a row that read like this:

Hi. 

Want to FaceTime?

Go. 

There is little gap between the texts and what we love is she believes we are always somewhere where we can immediately be at her beck and call. It's quite entertaining. 

Currently we are at our place in Fort Myers. We are installing some permanent hurricane shutters on the lanai (screened porch) and windows next week. 

Our favorite fish market on the bay went out of business last May, so we found a shrimp market and stopped on the way home from the beach. 

I came home, took my shower while Bob went to Costco and then to the pool. I boiled up some shrimp, adding lemon and fresh rosemary to the water.  Cooled off the shrimp in an ice bath and just had four drenched in lemon. I never use cocktail sauce with fresh shrimp. Why hide the wonderful shrimp taste. 

Watching The Five and gonna head over to the island for a bite to eat. 

I'm just trying to imagine what it might be like when/if we actually DO get to come here for the winter. 

This Morning's View

Not Guity

After hearing nearly all of the trial, I am relieved they actually made the right call regardless of the political and personal pressure.

A Little Stroll. - He Said She Said

Continuing our He Said, She Said  Series..

I was determined.

Yes. It was my idea. Although I was rethinking my brilliant idea for at least the first hour and a half. Well it might have been more like the first two and half. 

We were in full trip mode by that Sunday morning. Joints and muscles aching, readying for the next adventure and wondering just how much our poor bodies could take without revolting. 

It was a bit overcast, just a slight threat of a storm.  My poor mind couldn't decide it was happy to see the dark clouds which might threaten our adventure or whether it was upset that we would have missed out on another great memory. 

We spent the morning pondering our itinerary. Our sister stayed back in the room while we went to breakfast with her son and daughter in an adjoining town. 

When we finished the clouds looked less ominous and CnC and I headed toward our destination. 

When my sister, nephew and I were in Cinque Terre, Italy four years ago we hiked some of the trails which spanned the five towns. One of the highlights was a pass between our "home" in Manarola and the next town Corniglia. The cliffs stretching out over the Mediterranean gave us some amazing photos. There was a small suspension bridge that we delighted in crossing while noting that my brother, CnC would have loved and would have provided years of nightmares for our other brother Mike. 

When we planned this trip months previously we were disheartened to find that the path was no longer accessible due to some horrendous flooding which nearly wiped out one of the cinque towns, Vernazza and had washed away some of the trails. 

Knowing how much Mark would love some of the trails, I was determined to make sure he didn't miss out. Upon checking on which trails were open, I found one between the towns but was on a "higher" trail. 

So after some questionable breakfast, we took the train to Corniglia. The previous day, Mark had been "caught" filming the bus driver while he was in a serious argument with some of the men in Corniglia. I'm sure that wasn't the reason that when we got off the train, the driver slammed the bus doors shut just as we approached which would have taken us to the top of the hill where Corniglia sat. 

So we followed a group toward the town to start our hike. Unfortunately the group didn't take the road up, they began waking along a sidewalk which ended with some stairs. And the first landing switched back to more stairs, which switched back to more stairs which switched back to more stairs. And.....  You get the picture. 

This was no small number of steps and switchbacks. See for yourselves. Compare the switchback stairs in the center of the picture to the houses and train station below. 

 I kept falling back from this group that was clearly my age or older. WTH?  They even have a name for this torture, Lardarina. Thirty-three switchbacks with a total of 382 steps. 

Mark had been conditioning for our trip to Italy so he was having to stop several times on the way up to wait on his baby sister. And by the end of the stairs, every person in the big group we had fallen into had passed me.   I later figured out the group that had long outpaced me was actually a hiking tour. At least I felt a little better. 

We stopped at the top for a rest and to figure out where the trail started. No, we had not even started our hike yet. 

After several false starts, I finally had placed our location on the map.  Once we found the trail, it led back to the town and we discovered that we could have cut about 20 minutes from our hike we had realized we had walked past one of the paths. 

So we started up the path. 

In case you didn't know, Italy is old. I mean REALLY old. The ancient Italians had to be some rugged ass characters.   They carved out living quarters in the cliffs and placed stone after stone up and down the mountainsides surrounding the towns. 

We started up the stones steps. The lower path, which didn't seem low four years ago took us about 45 minutes to hike between the towns. This upper path actually started to move toward the other direction switching around the northern backside of the mountain before swinging back south for what seemed like an hour. 

Every time I was certain we were at the top of the hiking trail, the trail curved and switched over to climb even further up. I was constantly amazed that some poor soul actually had placed these uneven stones on this path. Now that had to be slave labor. 

And he delighted in every turn.  That same big brother who used to drag me over to the electric fence when we were little and grab ahold so I could get the snot shocked out of me. He was always about 15 steps up and would look around the next switchback and see another section of rugged stones up and up and up. 

He began filming quite a bit of the trip and my unprintable words when I would see we were never going to reach the top. I threatened to throw his camera off the side of the cliffs. 

He decided to rest while waiting for me to catch up. 

Ok, so intense hiking makes me a bit cranky. 

As we would meet people coming from the other direction, we would ask them how much higher the trail snaked. There never seemed to be a good answer. 

After close to two hours we finally reached the summit. 

You can see the lower path taken last time at the base of the cliff. 

The view was amazing. And discouraging. We could see that although we were at the top, Manarola was a very long way away. It was at this time I was wondering if we might end up stranded on this hike  into the night. 

The trail was the nice and level as we hiked at the top of the mountain. However the occasional steps were carved into stones leaving steps measuring about 6 inches by 4 inches. And if you missed the step, the drop was straight down. 

My legs were good and wobbly by then, but we continued on. As we were letting two couples pass, one of the ladies stopped and asked, "Weren't you guys in San Lorenzo?"  Thinking she was talking about a town nearby, I told her no. Then I realized she was talking about the agriturismo San Lorenzo Podere, in Volterra. 

Before going to Cinque Terre we had spent four nights at a charming working olive farm in Tuscany.   The ancient monastery has five or so rooms and serves the best home made genuine Tuscan meals. The couple had also been staying at the agriturismo when we were and recognized us on a random hiking trail, two hours away and several days later. It was one of those odd coincidences that placed us on the trail at the same time and place as our random acquaintances. 

They continued on. At a faster pace than I could. 

About midway of the leveled trailed, we saw a lesbian couple with a baby sitting on a blanket having a picnic. Just HOW you could hike a trail with a baby is beyond me.  I was struggling with a backpack stuffed with my camera and a lightweight jacket. 

About that time Mark produced two apples from his backpack. Since we started the trail at noon with only a couple bites of a nasty fried egg, that apple was delicious. 

As we rounded the mountain getting closer to Manarola, we found ourselves among the grape farms and the workers tending the vines. It was humbling knowing I was just barely able to make this hike, and here are the Italians who regularly hike the trail to tend to their hectares of grape vines. 

About 45 minutes of hiking the leveled area we came upon Volestra, a place where 200 people call home. It was a quaint little town with a small church.   We were literally up in the clouds. 

At this point we began our descent. Rather than wimping out and taking the winding road down we started down some nice long and wide steps. The thing about Italy is that they don't really want you to know just how many steps await you else you may go mad, they create them to switchback, so you never really know when they will stop. 

I later discovered those wide, ankle breaking stony steps totaled 1,100. When they finally stopped we were still considerably higher than our destination. That is where the trail went cold. Along the way we had found red marks painted into the trail highlighting the red trail on on Cinque Terre hiking map. This was where the painted lines seemed to have stopped.

The trail then split with a sign to Manarola and another one to Scenic Manarola. Mark had remembered one of the hikers telling him to take the Scenic Manarola trail, however the trail looked even more dicey than the dicey areas at the top. 

Away we went, not sure if we were going the right way. Especially since the trail was winding around a hill that was opposite Manarola. We finally began to descend again on some carved stone slick steps that were littered with pebbles. At that point I took the camera off my neck worrying if I fell I might fall right on it damaging it and my ribs. Putting it in the backpack again, we started down very steep uneven carved steps. 

About five minutes into it, I felt my feet slip out from under me, sliding on the pebbles and landing on my backside hard in the stone steps. 

As I was falling, I could tell it was going to hurt, but not be serious, as in I wouldn't be doing cartwheels down the mountainside. It must have scared Mark as I could hear him keep saying, "Ree, Ree" his shortened nickname for me as I was falling. 

When I landed my backside and I decided we were going to be sitting awhile while the pain subsided. 

I emptied my water bottle and couldn't believe just how long we had been hiking. 

Once up again we came upon another sets of signs. One to a church and another labeled something I can't remember. We still weren't sure which way to go and I suddenly realized it was a sign to the church in Manarola. 

Just a few minutes later we were on an easy path with just a few steps to Manarola. 

We made it with only a little bruising. 

All in all it was a great hike. I can't say that I would have attempted it had I known that the trail is considered an expert level and that it would take nearly four hours and weaken my poor ankles for a couple weeks. 

Then again, I would go again. 

My pic of the sunset view of Manarola, taken from the lower trail which is open only to a few more yards from this view.

When's our next trip, Mark?

At least he admits to tormenting me. :-)

Viral is not my desire. Found it. The idiot posted it on CNN website.

Some time around 10 Friday morning, someone must have linked my fake story of Al Roker suing Chef Giada because I am getting a lot of traffic from Facebook on that post.

Knowing how some things take off like wild fire, I would prefer not having my blog among those who create some flash in the pan sensation. I have no idea why anyone would link to anything I write much less a fake story I wrote two years ago. I was sick of getting idiots googling porn on Giada a while back so I added an update before the post to inform everyone the post was a JOKE.

Anyway, I am going to watch the traffic, if it gets out of hand, I will go offline with the whole blog for a bit until I no longer see any visitors from Facebook and Giada.

I swear, men are just OBSESSED with her.