Healthy Travel Tips via Kris Carr

I love Kris Carr. If you're not familiar with this saucy green goddess, do yourself a favor and follow the hyperlink (just click on her name, why don't ya?) to her incredible website and revolution. You will thank me later, I promise you. 

Anyway, this morning I trolled her site to see what she's up to and I found a GREAT video with her tips for staying healthy while traveling.  Watch it here. In it, she talks about the healthy snack mix she takes with her on road and plane trips, essential oils, and other great tips to keep you healthy and strong when you're away from home.

I haven't been posting here as frequently as I'd like, which doesn't mean I'm not traveling, but many of my trips lately have been retreads - to San Diego and to Ojai twice and back to the magical land of Texas. However, we have a big family trip coming up in June (Barcelona and Rome), so I am gearing up with travel tips and packing how-to's. One of my very good friends recently took a whirlwind (and when I say that, I mean 3 countries, 4 cities and lots of museums and sights in a week!) spring break trek with her family and I'm dying to ask for her advice, which I'll post here.

In the meantime, what are your plans? Let me know where you're going this summer and what travel tips have worked for you!

Happiness is a Lit Cuban

This is Raf sitting on the 4th floor solarium of our hotel in Barcelona, having a pre-dinner cigar.

What's unusual about this picture is you can see his teeth. And he's smiling. Laughing, even. Most people rarely see this side of Raf, but in Spain he's been all aglow and a-twitter -- it seems that you can buy Cubans (the cigars, silly, not the people) from any gosh-darn Tabac on any corner. That's right: the same cigars he covets for a truly high price in the US, he can just walk on up and buy for a fraction of what he usually pays. It's so cheap, in fact, that right after I took this picture, we noticed that it was time to go downstairs for our reservation and Raf snuffed out the half-smoked cigar without regret. No worries, he said, I can just buy another one tomorrow.

We saw an incredible humidor room in the tobacco department of the venerable department store Il Cortes Ingles, but the best experience Raf had in buying cigars was with a little old man in San Sebastian, Spain. We had asked the Tourist Information clerk if there was a cigar shop and he pointed us down the street, to a small tobacco shop in the Old Town. It's probably closed, he told us, pointing out that it was already 7 pm. But we had nothing much that we had to do so we decided to direct our evening stroll in that direction.

I'm having trouble finding the pictures I took of the proprietor of the shop -- I must have taken the video and pictures on Raf's iPhone -- but he was a short, older Spaniard, white hair, distinguished beard. Raf asked him about Cuban cigars and purchased a few "run-of-the-mill, but better than I can get at home" cigars, as well as a few spectacular smokes that he's never tried because the cost is prohibitive (and you can't just buy Cuban cigars in the US). For each selection, the man carefully pulled down a cigar box and gently uncovered the outer and inner wrappings, gingerly lifting each cigar from its nest, then ceremoniously showing Raf for his approval before carefully placing them into a plastic bag. Sadly, after Raf had made his choices and was about to pay, the man's fingers slipped and one bag (filled with two cigars) fell to the floor. The man made a pained face, like someone was stabbing him in the heart, but didn't say the expletive that surely he was thinking. Instead, he slowly returned to the humidor and retraced the formal steps he'd already taken to help Raf get the cigars he wanted.

It's ironic that generally it costs Raf so much more for cigars (well, when you factor out the cost of our entire trip, I suppose), and yet the ceremony involved in buying these less-expensive cigars was priceless.

My Kid and Salvador Have a Lot in Common

Marlowe insisted on putting this hard-boiled egg into her silver purse before we left San Sebastian for the Bilbao Aeroporto. She doesn't like hard-boiled eggs, so the very fact that she had one in her purse, next to the play Euro money set we'd bought for her in Biarritz and the stuffed animals she'd brought, was troubling. Why? I wondered. Why an egg, for God's sake?

Perhaps the odder discovery was this enormous egg at the entrance to a massive exhibition of Salvador Dali's work, housed at the Artist's Circle in Barcelona, off Avenida Portal de l'Angel. I'm guessing that people throughout dear Salvador's life were like me, wondering Why? Why an egg? Why bent clocks? Why, on God's green earth, do you wax your dang mustache, Sal?

I'd been dying to see a museum on this trip, even though I know it's not a super-duper museum-heavy excursion. With kids, the expectations cannot be that you'll get to all the wonders of the world -- I'll do a post on toting the kids around Barcelona, too, to show what we actually have done -- but I was aching to see some of this Spanish art. It is so modern and fresh, despite the fact that it's old. I am also struck by how different it is from the art I've seen in Florence and in Paris - it's irreverent and sensual and erotic in nature, but witty and funny and human.

So the very fact that a Dali exhibition was literally down the avenida from our hotel kept nipping at my heels. I asked Raf if we should take the girls, to expose them to the fantastic Senor Dali, but he insisted that I go alone, save the cost of three wasted admissions and enjoy wandering alone among his legacy, so I did.

For 8 Euros, it was a bargain - a warren of cave-like rooms, each curated thoughtfully to give breadth and depth to Dali's many artistic whims and periods. One room showed off his fascination with sparse drawings of mythology, another was dedicated to his packaging and product design, another was strictly nudes. I followed two small arrows on the floor past a small bronze sculpture and through heavy red velvet drapes -- it was difficult to even find the opening -- into a womb-like room filled with small bronze sculptures with biblical symbology, each illuminated by its own spotlight. I was alone in there, which was both creepy and exhilarating. To see the work of a master artist up close like that was breath-taking.

And the exhibit went on like that. I found myself utterly drawn to the small-scale version of a sculpture that Dali had created for the 1954 Fallas de San Joseph in Valencia; by "small," I mean that it took up a small room, but was the model for a large-scale installation piece for a festival in Valencia where, once a year, artists would create a piece of art to show and then blow up with fireworks, letting it burn while the crowd celebrates. It is the ultimate statement of "art for art's sake." (Although, since Dali kept the mini version, perhaps he knew it would be valuable, no?) The black and white photos lining the walls around the model are incredible in and of themselves, with Dali directing a team of metal workers and sculptors in a warehouse, then assembling the model at Fallas, then the darkening sky filling with sparks from fireworks, then the entire crazy thing going up in a blaze of smoke and flames.

Another thing I liked about the exhibit were the simple photos of Dali and his love, Gala, at their home with friends, Dali in a bathrobe or naked while painting, Dali floating in the sea water near his home in Figueres, Dali in his coffin during the magnificent bit of performance art that was his funeral. I read that Dali not only painted and sketched, but sculpted, directed films, wrote a novel... A true Renaissance man.

So okay, maybe I don't *get* the egg, but I like it. And that's "art," isn't it? You don't know what it is -- and you don't have to -- but you like it.

Bewitching, Bewildering Barcelona

Although I am utterly intrigued by it, Barcelona is not an easy place to understand.

We took our girls out for a walk along Avenida Portal de l'Angel yesterday morning around 10 am, in search of breakfast pastries and coffee. As we walked, Raf said, "Check out the guy on my left." As I craned my neck (to the right; sometimes it takes me a moment to process directions), Raf said, "Oh, you gotta be kidding me. You don't see that guy? Quick!" When I turned to the left, I caught a glimpse of an older man, shirtless, with the tattoo of a pair of underwear on his groin/buttocks region. That wasn't the odd part, oh no. *That* was swinging proudly in the front. (You read that right: not only was he naked and "wearing" a tattoo of shorts, but he was hanging like a bull. Raf couldn't stop talking about it. "If I was a short little guy with something like that, I'd probably walk around naked, too.") Of course, Emme saw it, too, and said, "Looks like a big
hot dog swinging around."

That goes into the "Something I've Never Seen Before" category.

Our hotel, the Hotel Neri, is a newly renovated 13th century palace, a tiny jewel box within the Gothic Quarter. It surrounds a quaint, charming fountain-centered plaza called the Placa de San Felip Neri, which is touted in several guidebooks as an oft-overlooked but important gathering spot. I've read that Antoni Gaudi attended the church there, and in non-summer months a school uses the square as its playground. The interior of our rooms is beyond gorgeous and the windows with their crystal-chain curtains beg to be opened. However, the plaza is sort of a hobo village at night (for Barcelo-bo's) and Raf and I watched, spellbound, as an old drunk hobo disrobed and bathed in the fountain while tourists stood by, captivated as we were. He splashed and smoked an old cigarette and reached for a blow-up raft that he'd probably brought as a makeshift air mattress. It was still light outside, not quite sunset time. Hobo bath time, apparently. Later that night, when Raf and I went down to have dinner at the acclaimed and ultra-posh hotel restaurant downstairs, I could see the fountain and its inhabitants clearly from the window by the bar, but no one seemed to even care that there were hobos outside, just went on with their meals.

Full of surprises, this Barcelona.

Erin Cristina Barcelona

There is something about Barcelona, from its magnificent airport (glass-fronted with gleaming marble walkways and the pretties, glittering "mall" that I've ever seen - I could have spent an entire day/week just at the airport, so I knew the city might have secrets to tell me) to the light-filled streets spilling into and out of the Gran Via... from the moment we stepped out of the airport and into the atmosphere of Barcelona, we were in love.

For one thing, the weather is warm, a welcome change from the moody cool/no, warm/no, cool and rainy disposition of San Sebastian. It feels like home (meaning Los Angeles), a dry heat that radiates. The outlying suburbs of Barcelona, between the airport and the city center, are also very familiar, not unlike the views we'd see from the 405 freeway in and around Los Angeles. The traffic, too, was just like home, except with scores of helmeted scooter riders whipping in and out of cars.

But when our driver turned toward the Catedral, which began construction in 1300 (1300!), the one with the spires that poke up at the sky like an old woman's fingers through the middle of the Barri Gotic (Gothic District), I knew we were someplace else, someplace magical. The driver stopped abruptly in the middle of a square and unloaded our baggage. "I can't take you further," he said, explaining that his van could not navigate the alleyways. "But it's on the left. Take a left." He handed me a map (useless when you don't know a city yet) and we were on our way.

We passed several "lefts" that hardly seemed noteworthy, thin arteries that only alley cats could pass through. But it was gorgeous, and even three tired, hungry kids and too much luggage rolling loudly along the cobblestones couldn't keep me from smiling. Each step had something to teach. Gothic gargoyles scowled down at us. Miniscule passageways rose above us like tiny bridges. A guitar player strummed flamenco in a postage-stamp-sized placa. We had to ask for directions three times before we retraced our steps and found our way down a "street" that was crowded with just Marlowe and me -- which didn't stop two taxis from motoring through. Our hotel is a gemstone hidden within the Gothic walls of Barcelona, the Hotel Neri, and I will write about it in another post - it deserves a sumptuous description fit for staying in a dreamworld of art and architecture.

But for now I am too eager to finish this post and enter the dazzling light of Barcelona. The city throbs with excitement and passion and lights and sensual pleasures. It is intense and thriving and Raf and I jumped in with both feet, tremendous joy on our faces and our own Sagrada Familia trailing us.

Ah yes, I am the Penelope to his Javier. This is the place.

Adios, San Sebastian

Pintxos in San Sebastian

One of the pleasures of San Sebastian is its gastronomie. Tapas here are elevated from a simple appetizer to mini-bites of gourmet cuisine called pintxos (pronounced "peen-chos" in the Basque dialect). Because this is a seaside port, many of the offerings feature seafood and fish, as well as peppers and slabs of bread.

Here's how you do it:
* Ask the bar man for a plate
* Fill it up with anything you want
* Pay for what's on your plate (usually just 1 or 2 Euros per pintxo)
* While you're at it, order a sangria... or two
* Sit down and eat
* Repeat as desired, but at a different bar. Pintxos are designed as a movable feast; you eat one or two with a drink at the first place, then move on and get a few more at another spot.

It's kind of a perfect way to stave off hunger before a late dinner OR during late-night revelry, kind of like In-n-Out without the "animal-style" craziness.

Sangria... yum, Mama like!

Our Apartment in San Sebastian

I'm no expert on travel or traveling with kids or traveling with kids in Europe, but I can tell you that getting an apartment here in San Sebastian has been a godsend for our family. Frankly, we chose to rent an apartment in San Sebastian because our travel agent didn't think the hotels would be as comfortable for a family of five and she knows that we're babies when it comes to crappy accomodations. So she sent us a few ideas and we found this gorgeous place literally a block from the main beach, La Concha Playa (or La Kontxa, as the Basques call it) through http://www.emyrent.com/. If you are ever traveling here, look for our apartment listed as "Belle Epoque," it is where Emy (the proprietress) grew up and her family lived here for a hundred years -- the walls are lined with family photos and she's mixed modern Ikea furniture with family heirlooms, creating a comfortable and classy place for tourists to stay. She told me that it's a community landmark and all work had to be approved by an historical society.

We met Emy the day we arrived and she shared lots of insider tips about San Sebastian, like how to eat pintxos (San Sebastian's gourmet answer to tapas) and where to buy groceries for the kids. We have WiFi, a TV, microwave, fridge, dishwasher, stove, washer/dryer (it's a combo here, which is interesting) and a laundry line (pictured above). Unique to most European apartments, we also have three bedrooms and two large bathrooms with showers.

Needless to say, fixing our own meals has been incredibly helpful, both for the kids and for us -- we are loving the pintxos and sangria, but in order to eat "normally" we really needed a small kitchen so that we could wash and cut fruit, prepare eggs, store yogurt and chocolate milk, or have a cup of coffee in the morning while the kids sleep (yes, the apartment came with a French press - oh-so-Euro). Last night, I made pasta and zucchini for the kids and an arugula salad for me and Raf -- I've been feeling like we are missing out on veggies while we're away from home -- and it was so much better than ordering from a menu, not sure what you'll be getting on your plate and paying more for it than it's actually worth. Beyond that, I felt like Raf and I were so cosmopolitan, walking into a Spanish supermarket and buying fruit from a fruteria, relying only on our Spanish (because the ladies didn't speak English).

The other amazing part about the apartment is the little washer/dryer appliance under the counter, which is small compared to what I'm used to and a little unusual because it can both wash AND dry (though the dried clothes tend to smell a little moldy because of the excess moisture in the appliance). Being close to the beach means that our towels are sandy all the time, so it's been nice to wash 'em a little as we go, as well as our clothes. Anyone who knows me well knows that I am a laundry fanatic. I don't really love to fold, but I love the smell of clean clothes and I tend to hang many of our clothes on a line anyway -- a holdover from my last trip to Italy. The only things I don't like hung on a line are towels -- I try to get them at least partially dry first so that they're not crispy -- but I always feel so smug and eco-conscious when I use the clothesline.

After the first day, we all felt very much at home here, where we have to use three keys to get in: one for the street-level building door, another for the outer door to our suite of two apartments, and the last for our own apartment. All of them stick and have their own quirks for opening, but we've gotten used to the formidable sound of the locks. The girls love to race up and down the worn-in marble staircase to and from our 3rd floor enclave (actually 4th floor, 'coz the lobby level doesn't count in Europe), which takes far less time than waiting for the ancient, crowded-with-a single-rider elevator.

More than those things, though, is a sense of ownership and residency. We are leaving today for Barcelona and, though we are set to stay in the "It" hotel of that city(the Hotel Neri -- our huge splurge of the trip), we're all a little sad to say goodbye to our adopted home on San Martin Kalea.

Best Day Ever

The weather was spotty when we woke up, but more sunny than cloudy so we declared it a beach day. Upon arrival onto the sand, I thought it might be too cold to stay all day, even though I knew that was Raf's plan. It was about 11 am and I figured that, since the sun doesn't really set until about 10:30 pm, maybe it was really more like 9 am, weather-wise. So I hung in there... and finally allowed the kids to convince me to go in the water, which I complained about because it felt cold when I dipped my toes in.

After a few waves, I was like a fish and found my sea legs. I convinced Serena to swim to one of the 3 diving platforms around the bay and we slid down the blue slide, jumped from the side into the inner "swimming pool" and then dove off the back so that we could swim and touch the big yellow buoy at the far end of the swim area. As we swam back to shore, Emme waved to us and convinced us to swim back to the platform, then to the buoy, then across the bay to another diving platform closer to the beach in front of the Parte Vieja (Old Town).

Emme said the diving platform reminded her of the movie Mamma Mia! Serena kept saying, As long as I'm here, on a platform in the middle of the ocean in Spain, I may as well dive/jump/slide. Even I set aside a lifelong fear of sharks to just enjoy the moment, swimming alongside my kids to the buoy so that I could truly savor their exuberance, strength and stamina. For every unruly thought about Jaws, I calmed myself down with a deep breath and a new thought that life would not always be like this. The girls may not always coax and cajole me to accompany them on their adventures toward something new, scary and thrilling -- I may not be there to accompany them or they will find new friends and lovers who will be their first choice. But I made a discovery out there as I reached out to touch the yellow buoy: once-in-a-lifetime moments come along every second, if we can be open to them and allow them to carry us in their wake.

After we left the platform, we back-floated on the water, a tradition for the women on my side of the family, toes up, head pointing out to sea. With each wave that came upon us, I'd shout, Float it! and we'd quickly get into position, the three of us lying peacefully on our backs, bobbing along. Eventually, we could touch our feet to the sand again and caught some waves into shore. As I sat down on my towel, I lost sight of the girls and panicked for a moment. Then I spotted them, two little brunette heads bobbing on the waves and swimming toward the platform again, this time with Raf next to them and Marlowe, in her hot pink rash guard, on his back. It's too far for me, Marlowe had said earlier this morning. But the allure of the swimming platform, and the desire to just do it, obviously caught her off-guard, too.

We may not be back here again. It is like a motto in my head lately, a metaphor not for this trip or the physical geography that we're traveling but for the very moments of our lives together. We may not be back again.

We may as well float.

A Raison D'Etre

I love this picture of Raf because he's standing barefoot on La Grande Plage in Biarritz, France.

When I first pleaded for us to go to Europe as a family, I begged for Italy. It's my favorite European country and the place where I tend to feel most "at home" when traveling because I lived there for a few years as a teenager and have been back twice in recent years. It is familiar and easy to get around, comfortable in its chaos, a good place for families, kids, women, romance, art and food. I knew we could find a fabulous villa for a few weeks and rent a car to make day trips. I could guarantee a good time for a trip to Italy: food, wine, gelato, shopping, culture... it's all easily accessible. No one would make fun of our attempts to speak the language. The kids could eat as much pizza, bread and pasta as they wanted. C'mon, I said, it'll be a good introduction to Europe for our kids.

But Raf was steadfast in his wishes. If we're going to Europe, I've gotta surf, he said, citing a few of the famous surf cities that he's seen on his favorite surf docu-reality show Drive-Thru Europe. Kelly Slater and his gang of American surfers set up house in Hosseger (on the southern Atlantic coastline of France) and surfed Biarritz and Anglet. They crossed the border to Spain and surfed Zurriola and San Sebastian. But when they tried to surf in Rome, it wasn't as beautiful, the waves were choppy, the water was muddy-looking. The only saving grace was the food.

Okay, okay, I finally conceded. And then we started to plan our trip. We made Biarritz and San Sebastian our first stops so that Raf could bring his board on the plane and then ship it back home; then, since we're in Spain anyway, we'd see Barcelona. Since it was so close to the South of France, we'd tour around that area next. Paris is the best place to fly home from, so we decided to tack on a few days to tour Paris and see some famous sights with the girls. And then the trip was set. Italy seemed a little too far, a little too "much" to get to this time around, so we didn't push it. Another trip, we decided.

The irony is that Raf isn't surfing this trip. He decided it would be too much of a hassle to bring his board when he didn't even know the waves and could just rent a board here (which was a whole other drama when I mentioned this to him -- it's just not the same, he said, it'll take me days to feel comfortable on someone else's board.). But the trip has taken on a different flavor while we've been here. It's become an experiment in culture, both the culture of European travel and the internal culture of our own little family. How well do we work together as a unit? Can our kids exist on a diet of bread and ice cream? Can we just enjoy the moments as they present themselves?

And so this image of Raf, enjoying the what is-ness of Biarritz, a side trip on our European journey, means a lot to me... When I took it, I wondered if he had been contemplating how Biarritz really brought us to Europe, and whether he was bittersweet about the way that the trip had changed its flavor long before he stepped onto the shell-packed shore.

Turns out he was really just thinking about the Cuban cigars he wanted to buy in San Sebastian later that evening.

World Cup Revelry

World Cup revelry in San Sebastian, Spain from Erin Shachory on Vimeo.

World Cup - Ole!

You may not be able to see the true insanity of the World Cup celebration in San Sebastian with this pix, so I'll upload a video later. Suffice to say that Raf and I have never seen anything like it. If we had been downtown in LA for the Lakers' win over Boston, let's say, the cars would have been turned over and fires started and fights breaking out and police everywhere...

Not so in sweet little San Sebastian. Dancing, singing, pounding on cars as they passed (which they only did because they were using their cars and horns to celebrate, not because they actually needed to get anywhere!), play bull-fighting the cars, jumping, shouting, lighting fireworks, drumming, kissing, stopping public buses, jumping on car hoods, running into the plaza fountain, screaming and reveling.

Our kids rolled with it, through the 2-hour World Cup final game on TV and the passionate partying afterward. At first, the loud explosions from the fireworks scared them (some were zinging past our window and up at nearby buildings, bursting into colorful sparks), but they soon became as mesmerized as Raf and me. We couldn't stay off the balconies, wanted to keep watching what would come next. I had just bought a red and yellow beach towel with a black bull on it, so we waved it from our balcony and got excited thumbs-ups from the people below. Eventually, my tired family retreated inside, closed the windows and grew so accustomed to the sounds of "Ole- ole-ole... Ole-ole!" that we were all able to fall asleep, even as the fireworks, shouting and singing grew louder.

It must have all stopped around 4 am. I'm guessing this because the silence was what woke me up!

San Sebastian's Dirty Little Secret

It's true. Fairies do dishes in Spain.

Parents Love Coffee

Fresh-baked pastelitos + cafe con leche (con mas leche por Mama) = happy parents

Kids Love Ice Cream

Serena with a freso helado (strawberry).

Marlowe, demolishing a txocholate (chocolate).

World Cup Fever

Spain vs. Netherlands tonight. Our apartment overlooks an Irish pub called Molly Malone, and futbol (add the accent over the "u" por favor) fans have been filing in for a few hours already. This guy, draped in a Spanish flag, is heading out to incite fans to honk as they drive by.

Interestingly, we've been noticing so much Basque pride -- from signs and menus, which are always written in Euskara, the Basque language, first and Spanish second, rarely French or English, to a huge Basque national parade and rally last night that passed our apartment -- that we weren't sure if people would freely support Spain as it vies for the World Cup title.

Obviously, they do. I wonder if they'll loot and be crazy like in LA when the Lakers win or if the European sophistication that we've seen so far will override the soccer hooligan-ism...

Men of San Sebastian

This guy's taking care of business in the front, but partyin' in the back. The other one is the #1 entry in Marlowe's just-started list titled "Hairy Dudes in Speedo's" in her European journal... and already he's not the last.

The Sunday Morning Crawl

Woke up too early and have been hanging around the apartment with the kids, figuring out jet lag. When we opened the balcony door, this is what we saw: a parade of young partiers making their way home after a Saturday night. Oh yeah, it's 7 am.

Marlowe to Raf: Are they just going home? When did they sleep?

Raf: They'll sleep on the beach today.

Toto, we're not in the Oaks anymore.

A 10-hour flight with kids, an "after" and "before" story

These were taken en route to Bilbao, Spain, the second leg of our European journey.

For comparison's sake, this was taken before... Before the limo ride from our house to LAX. Before the 2 and a half hour wait for our flight to Paris. Before I watched the first 20 minutes of "Nine" twice and then heard that the audio/video would be shut down for the entire flight. Before the lady next to me moved the arm rest out of the way and may as well have sat *on* me rather than next to me. Before yet another of my kids' iTouches came in fatal contact with water, its dreaded villain. Before our family's near meltdown at the currency exchange at Paris' Charles de Gaulle airport, due to no ice cream stands and the adversarial relationship that the French seem to have with both air conditioning and ice. Before I discovered the reason we hadn't gotten our luggage from the carousel was, heck, we were in the wrong place... no wonder everyone else was gone. Before we realized that it was a good thing I only packed two suitcases because apparently they don't rent Suburbans in Europe (their version is an Audi 4-door with manual transmission). Before we drove an hour through Spain and fell in love with the green countryside. Before we landed at our pretty apartment in San Sebastian, with views of the beautiful bay-like beach, saw a few topless sunbathers , an orange striped banana hammock, and a parade or rally for something or another. Before our kids insisted that we go back to the apartment at 9:30 at night to get bathing suits because the sun was still setting and the waves were warm and the lights illuminating the surrounding boardwalk came on and made the whole city appear to be magically bejeweled.

Basically, before we fell in love with San Sebastian and decided that yeah, we could do that 10-hour flight and 2-hour connection to Bilbao again, if it meant we could be here.

The Summer Me

I love to travel and I love Italy. Though we are not planning to go back to Italy until next summer -- for my whiz-bang 40th birthday -- I saw this article in Conde Nast Traveler about "Beaches in Italy" and my excitement is brewing.

This summer, we're taking the girls to Spain and France, no slouches when it comes to the beach-loving Mediterranean lifestyle. We'll be going from the Atlantic side to the Med side and then up to Paris - it has been planned for months and not even our crazy schedule with moving has dampened our enthusiasm. If anything, it's been good, helping to keep us occupied with "reality," so that maybe we can simply relax and enjoy our time in Europe -- we may even forgo all cultural activities (museums, must-see sites) so that we can merely hang on the beach and eat loads of ice cream and practice the art of doing nothing. It's all so good.

But back to the Summer Me. In addition to getting all my guide books and maps, I have been cutting out images of what I want to look like, seem like in my summer glory. Inspiration for the Summer Me. I'm seeing big hats, big sunglasses, tanned skin, scarves, cork wedge heels. In essence, Sophia Loren on the Italian Riviera.

So what if we're not going to Italy this summer? I may have to unleash my inner Sophia on the other parts of Europe...