Worst. Ever.

We finally got on a bloody plane! Nearly 3yo took a solid nap, and I think I might have as well, not as long, though, because others were awake.
I finally started reading The Wind Through The Keyhole and am nearly finished, I LOVE Stephen King. It kept me sane after I finished watching After Earth, because 6.5yo refused to nap until much later and my other movie choices were too much for a little sausage, and he had been sneaking glances at my movie as it was.
We alighted in Rome, what a ruckus! No lines, no cordons, no passport checks or customs! America would have a heart attack. We walked through the tunnels with anyone and everyone, including a Franciscan monk! Roped belt and all. We walked forever with our trolleys and troublesome bambinos to the hotel a long time after finding our luggage because one of our car seats had not made it onto the plane; showers and naps ensued.

“In some european countries, they don’t use toilet paper, they sit here and wash their bums.”

Waking them up afterwards was pitiful, especially when we had to wait an hour to get our il camper, because Husband is not so hot with the phrase book and the il camper la genta had no english. Meanwhile, there were typical italian senors wandering around in trendy leather la scarpa and la fumo, nasty! Husband also left some bags on the curb!
Finally in I’ll camper and everyone has to use the on board bagno, nearly 5yo says it is the best bathroom ever, Husband is already counting down the hours until we need to find a dump station.
Then, to really cement those days as the Worst Holiday Ever, cattivo vacanze, we had un poco accident, involving narrow roads, parked cars and a wing mirror (insert italiano swear words). I’ll senor was not upset and with the phrase book, a lot of non-committal but apparently universal noises and the requisite hand gestures, all was taken care of, Worst Ever!
Cut to the fuel station, pump grande benzina, the credit card was declined. That could have been catastrophic, thanks to Husband for bringing an alternative.
Cut to dinner time, il figlio do not like the rustic (authentic) pizza, but they like jumping around the van while we aren’t driving. Husband and I – of course- love the stinky formaggio. Then we get back on the poorly lit roads and peer at the small signs, take a few adventurous turns and eventually find a nice agriturismo, where we can settle for the night. The la genta were very accommodating and understanding with our then stunted phrase book conversations. Eventually il figlio settle down in their beds so simpatico marito and oi can bere our vino. We spoke briefly to the farmhouse husband and practiced our phrases on him, but I don’t think he understood us moltissimo, our pronunciation was poor, I’m sure. We tried to ask him to teach us some swear words but he didn’t understand. Since then, the best I can come up with is “il cavallo fondo”, horse bottom.

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