Lechy Lech

Day four in the mountains; two of them sunny, two not. But we are now old hands at this. When it is sunny, we fly into action: we walk long distances and sit outside and engage in many other frivolous activities. When it rains we walk less, sauna more and nap like old people.
Best of all, we are getting more comfortable here. The butcher for example knows we come in July "that California girl and her husband who reads the Bild" a very, very cheezy publication that Thomas, under duress, was seen reading. (It was either that or the mustard jar). He was somewhat perturbed to hear this description of himself (it was only once!!!) and is marching in every morning with well worn Kafka. But there are no secrets in this town, and once is enough.
We have also been staying up late...Thomas was even seen two nights in a row drinking schanpps past midnight. It is like Maine here...cocktails flow easily and new people in town are swept up and asked to parties they have no business attending.
We were asked to come over to a very special house built by a well known Austrian architect for a barbeque. (see below) But we could not come that early, so we said better not...they would be eating already. K was having none of it, and needed refreshment. So she grabbed us by the hand and dragged us in..accepting champagne for herself and a very red faced Thomas.
He thought we were gate crashing, which we were...but K (god bless her) does not listen to him that much and besides it was 7 o'clock already and a girl gets thirsty.
And the girl has been cooking. mon dieu. For dinner we had risotto...as promised, but before that came a parade of cheese drizzled with pesto; beets cooked to perfection, salad, cheese  I think, oh and for each a half an avocado with god knows what on it, but even Frederick ate like a starving man. Then lunch...just a little lunch in the middle of their work day. Again pasta (she knows her Thomas), but also at least 5 other little dishes as well...AND a top secret Schneider recipe of ice cream and coffee and no one will tell us what else, but it was insane. All on a tuesday during the work day. We are presently watching the Olympics with the very cute son of the concierge here...German kid who is here visiting his mother and will attend the soccer camp with F.
The picture below is of a device the owner (friend of G and K's) designed to protect the house against avalanches (!). Their house is in a so called yellow zone (red the worst) and there will come a time when the weather is so bad, that the planes that bomb the mountain (and thereby set of mini avalanches, reducing risk of larger ones) directly in front of their house cannot fly.  In that case they will simply pull up this thing below and make a cup of tea. G is skeptical...but his friend says he could theoretically stay in his house as it is engulfed in snow. Hasn't happened yet...stay tuned.

avalanche barrier

private fish pond

Side view of house

first Wiener Schnitzel of season

Greetings from the Mountain Top

I wish I could say the tournament was epic or hilarious or dramatic. Alas, no. Basically there were only very large, very good 15 year olds or teeny, tiny Indian kids with tiger mothers. So Frederick creamed or was creamed all afternoon. It was kind of relaxing, actually. He did meet pinkie dinkie -but the kids just played a tie break (first to seven points), and you guessed it, the mighty Englishman won 7-5. The only excitement was when LPG played pinkie in the semis. And it hit me: PInkie Dinkie is in love with LPG (of course)...he beat her last year, but this year she looked like she was having none of it. One point lasted forever: PD constantly making her hit one more shot..but then she prevailed, and he (god it was sweet, because he has no chance with her) clapped his hand on his racket like the pros do....killed me.
I miss him; Tricia told her children that "people like that don't go far in life"  But Thomas and I see it exactly the other way. This is someone who suppresses his ego for a goal. He looks ridiculous, but he wins. He is not motivated by the roar of the crowd. In fact, F says that when he inevitably makes it to the finals, every day, of around-the-world at the end of class, there is a collective groan from the crowd. But on he goes..marching, lurching rather, toward victory.
We would hire him now actually. For anything.
Anyway, I did not see the end because my crew wanted to go to the ocean. I'm sorry fans! I am not a worthy.
Below are pictures at least... We are now in lech where the sun is shining and French/Swiss friends come tonight and we saw beloved k on our way into town. She said we must save the date for a dinner at a  restaurant in the woods with people from Rome and India (she says things like this often.. speaking really quickly...words running together...) ..."and perhaps a buddhist monk who has taken a vow of silence, but don'tworryheunderstandsmime and there will be a mime artist there too. So don't worry.
And I guarantee she has learned a little hindi. This was the woman who could not just pass the group of Orthodox Jews who came to Lech (I know, I know incongruous does not begin to describe...) by shouting SHALOM!! across the street. There is no one she does not speak to in his native tongue-often while hacking apart an animal with one hand and mixing her special herb butter thingie with the other.
How I love her.
We are invited chez Schneider tomorrow night with the french/swiss couple (the ones who own Amondans, Mom). K wrote me a text before I had gotten out of bed today to say:
It will be Risotto.
And God willing, so it shall.

Frederick and the Sellies and little Sophie

Isy and Sophie at beach restaurant

Faro

Faro

Castle in Loule

Dead end with cafe

Loule

Me and F 

LPG's little sister: we call her LLPG

P Dinkie

Ok back again....When I last wrote, we had not gone carting, and we had not yet faced the English Dinker. So, so much to report.
The carting involved putting the children in go carts that go 80 KM an hour around a track. Our man Oliver spun out, to my horror, on the first turn....recovered...but on his way out burned two of his fingers on the engine. It won't surprise anyone that he rallied in the face of great pain...playing paddle tennis with a bag of ice attached to his wrist (I am not kidding). He could still hit a backhand even with the ice dangling from his fingers. Do not ask me how. That is just how Jollie he is.

Now to the tennis tournament. Oliver was chatting with his competition before the match, during warm ups....chat chat..charm charm. F was all business, not a word to anyone: for all I know he was mumbling some German fight song.
Frederick faced the dinker first....(his code name is now Pinkie Dinkie to reflect his English skin and his style) After two points, Thomas turns to me and says: Frederick will lose very quickly. And he did: they play best of three games...Pinkie Dinkie 3, Frederick 0.
And then Oliver stepped up to face the great, pale one.
People, I cannot tell you hard Thomas and I were laughing from our perch under the tree. It was, and I am not exaggerating, the single most spectacular dink-fest of all time. Oliver took Andrew's advice and got down and dirty. I told Thomas that experts will be studying this game for generations to come....the lobs, the pushed shots, the spectacular slow motion of it all. Both Oliver and this kid actually play beautiful tennis, so this was just bare knuckled-in-your-face gamesmanship. Frederick would like me to remind you that among Pinkie's more infuriating mannerisms is his ready position: hands on hips...and this is the worst part: with the palms out (!) Only at the very last minute does he pick up his racket. It is like he is a rather gay english nobleman looking at a pile of dog doo. That is what he thinks of your serve apparently.
But one exchange summed it all up: Oliver hit a drop shot dink..Pinkie Dinkie (who cannot run well) lumbered up the the net, Oliver lobed a heroic shot over his head (this, in point of fact, does not count as a dink...a lob is legitimate); then PD somehow got to it, and with the racket in two hands, he hit the ball back over his head with one foot flipped backwards up in the air....like some modern dance move...racket over his head, foot in the air. It went over the net, somehow, and our hero was rattled...I mean how did he do that???!!
Big O took it to the edge..very nearly beating him and saving our family name. I think he just could not swallow Andrew's advice 100%; also he might have forgotten that Pinkie is a leftie and he thought he was hitting to his backhand, when in fact it was not. I kept trying to make gestures to him, but alas.

The last shot is being disputed much like the grassy knoll in the Kennedy assasination: Thomas and I say O hit a hard forehand shot (one of extreme anti dink rage-very common trap) into the net: F and O say it was a backhand. No matter. Pinkie Dinkie wins 3-2. Below is a picture of him. He is almost too pale to capture on film...and avert your eyes if you do not want your tennis ruined. I am not kidding, I have not been able to hit a forehand since i looked at him. (also I tried to video him, but I was far away. He is in the far court and he is hitting his legendary second serve. He has never missed.)

Luckily we have sailing down. No one beat us there. Oliver told F he had many sailing lessons and would be taking the helm. Good. F likes to be commanded. But at the first turn, Oliver says: "Turn". F says, tack or jibe? Oliver says: "I don't know what those mean. At the French sailing school they just told us tournez".  Budding German sailor is incredulous: "The French did not teach you the difference between tack and Jibe???!!!" Oliver says who cares?, we want to turn, we turn.
Now they have a system...if Oliver is the captain, they go casual, more French like....and do not bother with the official system where the captain asks if the crew is ready, then they turn. He just turns-. it is more exciting, really. If F is the captain, he specifies exactly which kind of turn they will make with the official: Ready to Jibe?, and this is my favorite part, Oliver responds by saying: Kanichiwa.
"Ready to Jibe?""Kanichiwa". All around the lake.

(Perfect, except for the fact that Kanichiwa means hello and not yes.
"Ready to Jibe?"
Hello. )

God they make me laugh.

In the game where they picked people alive or dead that they would want to have dinner with, Oliver picked Julius Caesar, assorted deceased relatives including the first person ever with his family name, Babe Ruth I believe, and others. F picked the first human ever, Opa Charlie, Hitler, Einstein and Michael Jackson for the entertainment.  Thomas and I both went with Jesus and Hitler and Einstein with Dalai Lama and Steffi Graf thrown in for laughs. Eva wanted marilyn monroe, arafat, and the first Russian in space. Claus: Hitler, Einstein, Jesus, Anyway this was just first round..we are still working on it. But the amusing part is my family kept asking if the people would be required to tell the truth. Yes yes, this game is a fantasy..you get to ask them anything and it will be true. They can't lie???! no. Also Frederick's reaction was I am worried they won't get along.

Anyway the Sellies as we call them are gone and we are so sad. Our only consolation is there is a chance for a grudge match between PD and Frederick Claus August Wehlen. Thursday. Be there.


PS we have so many nice photos from Tricia, supreme traveler, that I will post next time. xx

Feast your eyes on the greatest of all time

J-Ollie Hockey Sticks

We have been hit by a tornado of the Jolliest of Jolly Hockey Sticks: one Oliver S, one of Frederick's oldest friends, and the son of the famous Tricia and Chuck: part-time Parisians, world famous dinner party givers and ski buddies exraordinarie. Their kid is simply the greatest house guest of all time. People around here call him Oilie; we call him Jolliie. He arrived the other morning, after traveling for more than 24 hours, and stayed awake until 7 30 that night. Since then he has joined in every tennis lesson, golf lesson, and swim in cold water we have offered; in addition he is now the captain of their little sailing team of two. We were worried he needed just a tad more sleep because after the first night he woke up at 3 am and did not go back to sleep: he simply waited politely until F woke up. So that afternoon I said, what do you say to a nap? it will get you out of math homework (long German story-Thomas is making F do extra, and his mother, gaily said: perfect!! Oliver will do that too! as she hopped in her car to her little three day surf camp). 

Oliver  enthusiastically accepted my nap idea, as if I were offering chocolate ice cream. He only said: if anything happens that is fun while I sleep, then you should wake me. Don't worry about waking me!

Then when I went to wake him, he rolled over, saying "I FEEL LIKE  A NEW MAN!!!" and went outside where my father-in-law was reading and waved his hat in his direction: Hello MR WEHLEN!!! He asked me: Do i look tired Ellie? No Oliver, not at all. I KNOW!!!! I DON'T FEEL TIRED!!!

So far their schedule is tennis, then sailing, then golf, then cake, with various baseballs tossed around in between. Thrown in is a little math and/or German homework. Oliver even wanted to crash Frederick's german lesson with his grandmother. I'd LOVE TO LEARN GERMAN!!!!

The sailing is the best. Thomas said if they could convince the people to rent them a boat, they could sail. So the guy asks: can you sail? (CAN WE SAIL???!! WE WERE BORN SAILING!!!!!)  and off they went...and you know what? they are not bad. Thomas was amazed. They of course want to go in the larger catamaran, but T bonged that idea, saying he had to see how they did on the Laser. Today was much windier and they capsized a few times, but righted it in good order. 

Oliver is speaking with an English accent because there are so many kids in tennis that are English boarding school types...buck teeth and all, and he thinks it is all just so great. I LOVE THEIR ACCENTS! (F is not so sure...he thinks they sound ridiculous). But Oliver sits next to them, asking them to say things, and delighting in it all. ToMAto!!!! I love it!!!  He also asks them if they can speak with an American accent. You know what ELLIE???!! THEY CAN'T!!!!! 

On the horizon is the dreaded (for parents) carting day, when they get to drive in very fast go carts with engines and no waiver, as well as the tennis tournament for which Oliver is woefully under-prepared mentally. These English kids, beautiful accents aside, are world class dinkers ....it is terrible...some of them have won many matches without hitting a single backhand. Oliver is a highly athletic child with, unfortunately, pride...so he is loathe to adopt the only possible recourse against English dinkers, which is to dink back. "But I don't want to be a dinker Thomas!!! Then you will lose Oliver. 

Silence. 

Because of the gravity of the situation, I brought in the big guns, and called Andrew to discuss his strategy for playing an English dinker. God he was funny. He listened only briefly before he interruped with some urgency: "They simply must give up the dream of beautiful tennis if they want to beat anyone. If the other kid starts dinking...the gloves must come off. You must get in their sandbox!" (he actually used both metaphors back to back) gloves off in the sand box. got it.......

He continued: They must dink every, single shot to the other kids backhand and they must try to run around their own. Every serve, every shot to the backhand!!! Do they have time to read Winning at the losers game? It is a book about investing but the first chapter explains that until the PROFESSIONAL level, tennis is won, by not losing the point...it is about avoiding unforced errors....Steffi Graf can beat a dinker by smashing, but not them! 

Poor Oliver, I feel bad for the kid....this might have burst his bubble I told him that we knew this was unpleasant, but what can one do when faced this this kind of terrorism? Andrew was as athletic and competitive as any kid ever; and to win at tennis he said he would get in a zone of simply getting every stupid ball back until his opponent tried to stab him with a sawed off racket, or lost. 

Lots more...but Thomas is now down to one good elbow and one good calf. The therapist said she thinks he lost too many electrolytes, exercising in the heat..and gatorade won't cut it. So we have to go into town to find something fit for Germans to drink while they leap around. He is now playing golf waiting to go for a walk with me in the nature reserve along the beach. Like old people. 

Had an amazing conversation with the children at dinner: if you had to pick 6 people that live or have ever lived to have dinner with, whom would it be? stay tuned

F, is his pre Oliver position, at his grandfather's elbow

F, Oliver and sister Isy on their arrival (before they graduated to sail boats)

Thomas and his taping...injured arm and leg now

Ellie watching the sailing action from restaurant (with pool!)

Post sailing practice

Dreaming of the bigger boat

photos

LPG

LPG with Frederick (her next victim), n the next court

Cathedral in Faro

Ellie down one on the many mysterious paths

In the nicest possible way, it was suggested that I post more pictures (i.e talk less); so here you go
....Like the stalker that i am, I got photo of LPG without her realizing (I took zero photos of my own kid, and just one of her). Frederick got the first two games off of her (they play first person to four games, so she could have been in trouble) . But then, as Frederick said: "she woke up Mommy". Yes she did....four two. But F did manage to beat a little Scottish kid who looked so good. Little Scot really smeared the ball. Trouble was, a lot of them went out. After he beat him and F got second place (out of four....oh well) the Scottish kid asked for a re match. F said ok, as long as I still get second place. Fine. Whatever. And the next thing we know they are playing for another hour in the crazy heat..both sets of parents were wondering what the hell was going on. Finally at 6 all we said we had to go, they could play the tie break the next day. F won 8- 6....somehow he keeps his nerve that kid. All this was very boring except for the fact that the Scottish father was so into it. Nothing I love better than chatting someone up when they clearly want me to go away....I prattled on about the weather, the news, the beer. "Tell me more about the rain fall in Scotland!!!! I am sorry, but how much kids' tennis can one person take? and LPG was gone, so it was kind of boring.
F told us he had analyzed his friends weaknesses the weak before (!) so he felt prepared. I am telling you there is a German gene.

Oliver S is being delivered tomorrow....F is so excited. Parents and sister will come back in a few days which will be most enjoyable. Tricia's husband says something always kind of adventurous happens when they vacation with  the Von Wehlens.
..I think he still has not forgiven me for hiring the mentally retarded ski guide who took us off piste without our peeps.

Happy Belated Higgs Boson Day!

Great excitement here: a God particle. I think it was Einstein who said the greatest mystery is why there is something rather than nothing. In fact this is a toast F gives (it is his only toast); "Here's to there being something rather than nothing!"
So there are bosons and some guy named Higgs postulated that there would be this one kind, and  thanks to the European (not American, alas) research, it has been found. The thing that somehow created something from nothing. The match lighter. The magic wand.
I have been hearing snippets of conversation in German that remind me of questions from a very young child, i.e. the very best questions of all: the ones we cannot answer.
"What exactly is nothing Papa?"
Thomas is doing his best, but he took physics a long time ago....and as he said to me with great seriousness last night in bed: there are some things that we are just not capable of understanding.

Yes, I say, Yes there are.

But I am thinking: How long did it take you to figure that out??!
A lot of us realized this many years ago, and have been having a good time ever since.
God did it!!!!!  Now who wants to play ping pong?

July Fourth was not very American: we ate fish at the beach restaurant; but the boys played baseball and I listened to that incredible song by Paul Simon: American tune. I have said it before, but I will say it again: If all we Americans do is give the world Paul Simon's and Bob Dylan's lyrics, we will have done a lot.

Today is the first children's tennis tournament.....yes the one where we almost lost to Cindy Lou Who. The one that makes me want to drink during the day. But here is the twist. Last year, there appeared this Little Polish Girl (like in Charlie Brown-the little red head girl). She is almost two years older than F, and last year she was very good. But time has been kind to us, and she and F are not that far apart anymore. She always beats him, but at least this year she has to work for it.

I cannot tell you the pleasure I get from watching her. She is just the kind of girl my brother Andrew fell for time and time again when we were young: this little jock with blond hair in a blue hat.  I particularly love it when, on occasion, F smashes it to her, and he gets lucky and she can't get to it. Then you can see her wake up; and when she does, I know it is over. The next ball is in her sights, and she is a gazelle, but somehow moving in slow motion.  Slowly, powerfully, beautifully, she winds up....And time stops, and I see everything: her parents' love in that little blue hat, and all that giddy human joy wrapped in the act of swinging a tennis racket.
Bye Bye little ball.
I am on my feet whooping for a child I do not know.
Bye bye little boy.
Next time maybe, but not yet.

To his credit, there is a reluctant happiness to Frederick's posture. He almost smiles as the ball goes past him. Indeed. what could be better than losing to that?

I am not sure what Higgs Boson has to do with that shot; with that little hat, with Paul Simon's tortured mind.
But I am grateful for all of it.

A Bed of Nails

Happy Fourth of July! Poor Frederick has never been in the US for this day, and has no idea of any of it: hot dogs, fireworks...nothing. Today we might try to find something vaguely American to do. Or we could just go into an English pub and scream IN YOUR FACE ENGLAND! (see trash talking section below).

Anyway, back to me and my problems. The inevitable has happened: both Thomas and I have sore backs. We are leaping around so much, and we do not have our normal pit crew of massage therapists and pilates instructors: people we see an embarrassing amount of in SF. So I went to the doctor and physiotherapist, both of whom were Dutch women. Now a lot has been written in this blog about the difference between Protestants and Catholics...garlic vs onions; butter vs olive oil; soft beds vs hard. But as anyone who has been to a doctor in France will tell you, the biggest difference lies in their reaction to pain. In France, with a sore back, one is given a pill fit for a horse....and then something really strong for the night. I believe the prescription states it should be swallowed with a nice Bordeaux. My lovely Dutch Protestant doctor prescribed tylenol (sigh), and gave me something like a muscle relaxant, for night. But she warned they are "very addictive" and I should " throw the extra ones away".  ( HA!!!!..) Then the physiotherapist: She told me that I need to eat more alkaline, or less...lord only knows; and this is the best part- I should buy a thingie with nails on it and lie upon it. "Best thing for the back! "
Nails? I ask...but really I am laughing because I am sure that this time a camera crew will come out and say HAHAHA just giving you grief....little gullible California girl. There is no such thing as a bed of nails for the back. But she just keeps writing the name down for me.
Sure as hell you know we will buy one...Thomas is (predictably) very enthusiastic.  My little Protestant- you could just see his mind at work: Oh please Santa Please !!! bring me a bed of nails!!

So there you have it-if your back goes out on vacation: do not ask where the doctor went to medical school. Ask if they believe in transubstantiation.

We went on a really long drive to the edge of Europe, to the southern tip of Portugal: a place called Sagres. It is where one can surf...though it is a sort of forlorn place, not at all like a happy go lucky surf town. It has a fortress that used to be a sailing academy hundreds of years ago (see below). I believe all the great Portuguese sailors were there, including a visit by Christopher Columbus..and yes I know he was was not Portuguese. It is spectacular.  And of course I thought of my father and how he would have loved it: all that maritime history, all those dangerous rocks, all that untamed ocean leading away from home.

 It was really windy, so we didn't stay too long, but skedaddled to a nice dinner of chicken piri piri and plenty of beer. Thomas had this long discussion with the waiter about substituting french fries with rice. On and on it went..rice and fries? no thank you. just rice. yes just aroz. yes....thank you. no french fries at all. right none. thank you. Obrigado. ....the waiter is writing things down....crossing things out....all good. And then out come two huge plates of chicken and fries, no rice. We were laughing: it is like when one tries to put Parmesan on top of pasta con vongole. Sorry little tourists: chicken piri piri goes with fries. ( a bit like the time I asked old Italian B friend if I could have a cappuccino after lunch. And he said, yes you can have one, but the waiter will sing the Star Spangled banner when he brings it).

Speaking of bitter disappointment.....by now you may have heard Spain beat Italy by a resounding 4-0 in the finals. It is hard to know whom to root for: the team that beat you, so you can say you were beaten by the best? or the sour grapes version...I'll call it the Schadenfreude path- the path that makes you root for the enemy of your enemy. But here is the thing: I do not know anything about soccer, and even I can see Spain is such a ridiculously good team. Their two best players did not play (injured), and another-who is so good he would be the most insanely good player ever on a US team..a man whose last name is very close to the word goal in German...he only went in after they were ahead 2-0 and with 20 minutes left he scored with his first touch. So as I told Gianluca, what are you going to do? They are beyond the pale.
What I find most amusing is how easily the Spaniards could figure out the Italians, whereas the Germans are so flummoxed. You can just see their confusion: all those knee bends, all those vegetables, all that organizational prowess and they are consistently beaten by these long haired beauties who are given massages before penalty kicks.

Fortress at Sagres

Little Chapel to visit before your journey. 

Stretching on a 500 year old canon

But in light of my love of all things (except soccer) Italian...I changed my home answering machine to reflect the German defeat. I also did it to show the Italians how smack talking is done: how one must flap ones lips a bit before, and then Man Up and do something humiliating if one loses. It is an American tradition of course...the art of trash talk. I mean, think of the giants we have in this area: that guy Bill Johnson who won the down hill ski race (first ever for an American) after doing nothing but saying he would win beforehand; Mohammad Ali; Babe Ruth pointing to where his home run would be... the glorious list goes on and on. So on this fourth of July, don't let anyone tell you we are number two. 

Finally, someone asked about the level of chic here, and the word is: low. We are in an enclave of almost all English and German golfers. Lawn mowers and pool cleaners are the sounds of Portugal from my bedroom. But Thomas and I get into the spirit of it: We are presently driving around in a 10 year old white mercedes of Claus' with approximately 12 miles on it (they keep it here), and we look like Florida retirees. (see photo of me in hat below) . Unlike Sardinia, where one is dressed up all the time, here any old paper bag will do. Best of all, if your body mass index is anywhere below pretty f ing fat...you are a goddess among the golf crowd. I don't mean to brag, but I have options.

Finally, Finally in other big news, we bought new lounge chairs for around the pool. I cannot tell you what a subversive act that is: E likes things to stay the way they are. But Thomas and I do not want to sit  straight up while by the pool  anymore (I am not making this up) so we did it.  I will let you know what happens when the parents get here. But before they arrive we have to turn off the air conditioning (protestants hate it) and get rid of the garlic. 

Maybe we will bury it, like a dead body. 

Thomas in new Roman orgy like position by pool

I actually wore this hat out....the right side is not meant to be dented. 

Old Chairs

Germany 1; Italy 2

We left Sardinia just in time to watch Germany lose to the Italians in a rather convincing fashion. Thomas, in a never ending effort to get his parents' house into the present century technologically, bought a new flat screen, high definition thingie which his parents looked at as if they were cave men looking at a bicycle. We all squished in to one cave room to watch - even though Eva said she doesn't think would be good if Germany won because it would be " bad for their character." Winning at trivial things apparently softens people: And to Germans nothing is worse than soft, as evidenced by their suspicions of ice cream. Also, as we all know from Black Adder,  there is no word in the German language for fluffy. (Seriously. There isn't. I have spent many a dinner extolling them to think harder: " a little baby chick!? A cotton ball? A bed ? Chocolate Mousse? think!!).

The Italians seem to beat the Germans all the time in World/Euro cup match ups....and to remind me of this,  the Italians have been sending  all kinds of adorable and hilarious things like a vintage photo that says : "We only lost when we were allies with you". (a world war 2 reference? seriously? you are going with ww2...) Thomas took the news stoically-after all it is a pretty good comeback...and after a classic Thomas-like pause, said: "We simply asked them to deal with Ethiopia and Greece. That's all. We would handle Russia, the US, Britain, France, Holland, Sweden, Belgium, Norway, Australia Canada....But since they could not subdue a country with an army equivalent to Vanuatu, we had to come help" (thereby postponing that whole Russia trip. ) and this is from one of the great pacifists.

Anyway, we are in Portugal now...Wehlens follow us on Friday. Tennis tennis golf golf port port. Unfortunately Italy is funnier than Portugal, so I fear the blog tales will suffer.