In Which She Finds the Dream Position

I went with the family to the mountains near Monte Bianco, Valvaraita, for a few days' repose in a hostelly cabin. We happened to share the weekend with a first place European outdoor someoneorother (Olympic mountain climber?), a young couple of fresh polenta-cooking newlyweds, and some scruffy sweatered locals who spoke not Italian but a fascinating language called Occitan. They apologised to me, in Italian, when they would lapse into their own language in front of me, but I waved it off because I like trying to guess what they're saying. I will miss Italians' hand gestures, as they make eavesdropping so much easier.

In the early morning of each of the three days we stayed there, I awoke with the final words of a dream on my lips. I've found in recent weeks that sleeping on my back with hands crossed over my stomach, aside from making me feel like an old man, encourages fast and furious dreaming, often of movement and contentment.

The mountains were moody when we arrived, all crags and fog, driving us indoors to play cards and Forza Quattro (Connect Four). I read aloud from "The Indian in the Cupboard," and to their parents' amazement the stircrazy boys stayed quiet for a solid half hour! They love it. I'm pretty good at imitating the different voices. They especially love the cowboy Boone's Texan accent, though I'm sure they only understand 29% of what he says.

On our last day the blue sky won out over pouting clouds, and set the background for a long wander up into the painted scenery. The boys complained of thirst and boredom, until we started to spot marmots and their outlooks changed from whiny to alert. How spoiled I've become that I don't think twice about how cool it is to read about Obama in the Italian newspaper with a focaccia sandwich in one hand, sprawled upon the grassy lawn beside a ruined stone cabin, nestled between snowy hills! One of the boys contented himself to build a dam in the snow runoff creek; the other fought unseen enemies with his walking stick. Dad walked off for a good half hour with his binoculars to birdwatch/moosewatch/marmotwatch, and came back unsatisfied. Mom stretched out in the sunshine, tanktop straps pulled down for maximum sun and minimum proof. These photos haven't been retouched.

On other fronts, I've run into that funny Hawaiian au pair a few more times in and around the neighborhood park, and each time I envy anew her carpe diem attitude, her freckles, and her sweet leather shoulder bag. She's one of those people of whom other girls always say, "Oh, no one could pull that [obscure fashion item e.g. sailor hat, buttoned gloves, leiderhosen] off except whatsername." Her regular videoblog updates reminded me that I should strive for diligence in documenting these last four weeks at Corso Galileo Ferraris, 67.

My dad asks, "Doing OK?" I reply, "Yeah. Racing time." He says, "Believe me - you lose every time." Listen to this with the lights out and you will see the saddest, brightest bits of your life montage before your eyes.