Sperlonga

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Francesco had been in Rome for a week and hadn't called his grandfather, which meant he was in deep if he didn't go visit him quick. His father rained guilt upon his head when he learned no call had yet been made, and more guilt was rained into his ear when he finally did make that call. It seems the Catholics will always take advantage of a tortured conscience when they can, and being that it had been seven years since Francesco had been in Italy, the family had a lot of ammo. (Yet I found it a little hypocritical of his father to admonish his son when he had a much larger skeleton in the closet. Turns out Francesco's dad had been married to a lady for SIX YEARS and never told anyone!) So two days later, we crammed into a little car that Francesco's "sister" Fabricia lent to us, and we were off to Grandpa's beach house near Sperlonga. Grandpa has two houses, one in Rome and one on the beach. He migrates to the beach when the weather gets too hot and humid in Rome. An hour and a half south of Rome we arrive at the beach house, which was just a few yards from the sand. Francesco's great aunt was staying with his grandpa who took care of his every need and drove each other up the wall. Everyone spoke only Italian, of course, except for grandpa's broken english from 40-ish years ago, which was pretty impressive. Therefore, Francesco got to play translator the entire time. Chelsie was the hot topic, since the other grandsons rarely visit and never bring their girlfriends over, so this was very exciting. Then his great aunt changed to topic to his cousin who was a faillure in their eyes because instead of becoming a doctor, he is becoming a *gasp* discraceful architect. They were both disappointed that nobody in the family became a doctor because grandpa wanted somebody to "cure" him. Cure him of what, I cannot imagine. The man is sharp and mobile and seems healthy . . . he's just old. If someone finds the cure for old age, then yes, I suppose they would be very successful, indeed. When they asked us what we do, Francesco told them I was a biologist, and his great aunt was thrilled about this because it meant I was a doctor. Um, no, I am a field biologist. At this, she laughed and laughed and said "That's not biology! In the States, perhaps, but not in Italy." Definitely pond scum. Chelsie can get away with it because she's the girlfriend. Eric is a boy, so he was ignored.

We broke away before lunch to visit the little historical town on Sperlonga that clings to the cliffs above the Mediterranean. The name comes from the surrounding natural caves, where cave is "speluncae" in latin. Hence spelunking. Hm. With lime-washed walls, the town consists of winding pathways and overpasses that weave a labyrinth one can easily get lost in. This is neat and romantic to us, and advantageous for its original inhabitants if you're defending your territory against pirates. However, in 1534 the architecture wasn't enough to save the village against the Turkish pirate Redbeard. Seriously, they called him Redbeard. Arrr... can't get much more pirate than that, can ya? I bet his favorite element was Aarrrgon. And his favorite socks were Aarrrgyle. That's right. Aarrrgyle. Parrot and all.

The rest of our visit was spent assed out on the beach. It was uneventful and excellent.

Pompeii was also really cool...in a horrific mass-death-plaster-casted-bodies kind of way.

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