We "send" plenty of routes at the donkey wall

It's our second and last climbing day in Arco, and I still haven't roped up myself. We're supposed to be training for Mallorca. We fly there in two weeks to see friends from New York who are living there for a year and already in great climbing shape. Yesterday we got a late start, and then I sat in the car for two hours while Parker napped (and finished Dave Eggers book), and then it was too late... and well it just seemed less and less likely that climbing was going to happen for me this trip. I'm okay with it. Timi's not. Frankly, he's irked. I suggest that maybe I'll go to the climbing gym next week. He groans. "Yes, but we're here in beautiful, sunny Arco now." Good point, but it still didn't resolve the toddler issue.

We stumble on the "Donkey Wall" where kids can climb. "We need to build a boulder like this in Fort Green Park," says Peter.

Peter scrambled up like a goat.

I'll just practice belaying some more.

Going down took some convincing. "Mom you want me to let go of what? I'm pretty sure I can't do that?"

Peter waltzes up a couple more routes, and Parker can't stand it much longer. "Parker turn mountain cwimb. Now!"

"Need Mama cwimb too pwease."

I escort the Guppy up a ways. Well I guess I did manage a bit of climbing after all, then.

Scamps on the loose

Parker wakes up from his nap, and Timi and Peter finally join me back at the car. It's time to zip back down to Arco and find a pizzeria. We meet up with the rest of the climbers in town, and after much discussion over where to eat, we followed our nose to a quaint pizzeria on one of the backstreets. Too bad the staff wasn't as inviting as the aroma.

By now it's 9:30 and we really should all be home in bed, but my brood is still too fascinated by the square to leave. Parker discovered that he could carry his bike up the steps to this old church, and then...

...soar down the ramp on the other side. I couldn't take my eyes off of him for fear that he'd crack his head open, but instinct told me there was trouble brewing across the square too.

Yep. That's Timi. He's, uhhh, yes I do believe he's dangling from the column of that 4oo-year-old building.

At this point, I'm not sure who to wangle first: Timi, who encouraged by an audience of twelve teenage boys, is moving rapidly to the next story. Or Parker, who is now biking through the legs of the waiters in Cafe Centrale. Oh, and that reminds me, where did Peter go again? Maybe I should stick out a hat because I'm absolutely certain these Italians would love to pay for our train ticket home.

Some days are like that, even in Italy

It's gorgeous and sunny, and I'm hopeful that I'll be able to rope up and at least jump on one or two routes.

We traipse up to a crag called Carva, a half-hour walk up a steep grade to meet up with friends we'd seen in town in the morning. Peter spies a lizard and becomes happily sidetracked from his upward ascent. Timi retorts, "keep marching, we're not here to hunt for reptiles."

I'm doing more reading than climbing. These Austrian boys are so starved for entertainment that they're absolutely thrilled to listen to me read about a giant sandcastle in English. I look longingly at the sun across the valley and wonder how we managed to wind up in the shadiest spot in all of Northern Italy.

Peter's hanging out. Don't hit Agatha! I'm out of picture books and Parker is screaming, "back home, back home." I hike down to the car to give Parker his nap. I hadn't even so much as touched the rock. Ahhh well some days are just like that, even in Italy.

Welcome to Arco, Italy, the sport-climbing capital of Europe

We spent the rest of the night in Innsbruck. The next morning we stopped by to have coffee with Müch, one of Timi's oldest climbing buddies, and his girlfriend Marianna. Then we rented a car and headed to Italy, or, as the Austrians say: South Tyrol. (They can live without Hungary and Romania, but they're still not over the loss of Northern Italy, hence it'll always be Tyrol to an Austrian.)

We arrive two hours later in gorgeous, sunny Arco. Timi immediately sees three climbers he knows. It was obvious the place was packed for the holiday weekend. My concern that we wouldn't find a hotel (we hadn't had time to make a reservation) was unfounded. Among European climbers, it's customary to sleep in the car, so we snagged a quaint little place right away.

Timi's busy chatting, and the boys are pooped from traveling and whining for food. By way of distraction, I explain that it's a pedestrian town, and they can ride wherever they want. Big miscalculation. Parker manages to wheel through two cafes within thirty seconds.

As I'm chasing Parker in and out of Cafe Piu, I glance up and see an old friend, Gudi.

The last time I saw her was five years ago on a bouldering trip in Hueco Tanks, Texas when Peter was 4 months old. She now has a 18-month-old daughter herself and another on the way.

Too bad I can't hang out and chat. Parker is on the lam again. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see several Italian ladies cross themselves.

I hand the bike over to Peter, so I can talk and look around.

What a beautiful clock tower. I really hope Timi isn't planning on climbing it.

This is Castello di Arco. I'd love to hike up there, but Timi pooh-poohs my suggestion: "We're here to clip bolts, not mess around with hiking. We can do that anywhere."

The rock and mountains are outstanding for climbing.

Timi is eyeing an old manmade facade too.

Peter is back on the scooter. So where's Parker?

Ahh...here he comes. Somebody gave him a balloon.

We finally sit down for some paninis.

I try to check email, but my phone doesn't work. Ah well, nothing to do but relax and enjoy the day.

Timi came home and announced at 4pm on Friday: "Pack your bags. We're going to Italy. Train leaves in 1 hour 22 minutes."."

Good Lord. And Mom you think I'm impulsive! He wanted to go to Arco to climb and meet up with old friends. Okay, why not. It's supposed to be 75 degrees down there, and you know with Timi's work being ummm sort of optional and mine being sort of "all in my head" as I'm frequently reminded, we hardly had an excuse not to go. Oh, except for Parker's preschool teacher, who told me in the morning that Parker is overly attached to me because of all the trauma we've put him through--moving to Vienna, new babysitter, new school and so forth. I almost told her that we're actually raising our children to be gypsies, and therefore he's really quite used to it all--but I bit my tongue.

By the way, my German classes have been delayed indefinitely. Instead I'm going back to preschool. I'm under strict orders not to leave the classroom until Parker agrees that Mommy can go, and he can stay. So I sit there twice a week for two and a half hours with my legs draped over a little toddler chair and read my New Yorker (yes they deliver in Wien, phew!) while Parker practices his knife skills on playdough frankfurters. At which point, I start chanting the mantra that I made up on the 14th day of rain at Attersee last summer: "what doesn't kill me, makes me drink the neighbor's plum schnaps."

After some discussion, Timi convinced me: to heck with preschool. Let's go. We stashed a bunch of clothes and gear in some bags and ran pell-mell to the U6 so we could get to Westbahhof in time to catch the 5:30 train to Innsbruck.

There's the Zug! In fact, we missed the first train, but luckily another one was leaving 40 minutes later.

"Wait Parker! That's the wrong train. We're going to Innsbruck not Rome!"

I'm still skeptical of this journey, but Peter and Papa are super excited.

Did we forget anything?

Who is on Parker watch? He's cruising down the platform on his Laufrad, a birthday present from Tante Gucke.

"Mama, when do they bring us the hot chocolate with whipped cream?"

After dinner and hot chocolate, I'm feeling hopeful that I can catch a few z's...

...it's my fifth round of "home on the range." Still no sleep.

The train is due into Innsbruck at 11am.

Why is it that I thought trains were never tardy? It's almost midnight, and we haven't gotten in a wink among us. Hey Babe, did we bring the schnapps?

Our journey to Naschmarkt (part one)

Guess who's coming to dinner? The in-laws. Peter spent Friday night with Omi and Opa, so tonight they're dropping him off. Around 3pm, Timi, Parker and I skip out for a shopping mission at the Naschmarkt, one of Europe's great open-air food markets. (Note to anybody thinking of visiting us: You can eat and drink there aplenty!)

On the way to the Strassenbaum.

Parker helps me pick out some beans.

Get a load of all that fresh fish.

Think Opa would eat one of these tentacled guys?

Timi's ready to start snacking. Sure, we'll take a half-dozen to tide us over until the next stall.

The fish monger shucks these fellas on the spot.

Hunca-Munca. I hope they give me a knife to cut it with.

Whaddya say we move on to the salami?

Of course the Comte is impossible to pass up.

Oops, Timi asked if Comte is from Spain (come on babe, you're a New Yorker you know this stuff!), and the cheesemonger guffaws and says he's not licensed to sell to the ignorant.

Nevertheless he carves a bit of meat off of some animal's leg to give us a taste of something that is from Spain. Timi tries a sliver. Our man pats the animal's hoof as he explains that we're trying Pata Negra, the leg of black footed pig. Yep, it's a black foot alright. Parker pipes up: "Parker try patenegu too."

Not being one to forfeit the last word, Timi asks if perhaps some of the merchandise isn't perhaps a bit overripe...

I feel parched. It must be time for wine shopping.

Not sure how we wound up doing a tasting at Gegenbauer instead. They make 70 different types of vinegar.

Here's where we learn (in two languages mind you) a little know fact about fruit vinegars: most aren't made from real fruit. If it says raspberry vinegar, it's probably just wine vinegar flavored with raspberry. Gegenbauer's vinegars are all made from fermented fruit juice, (not just wine), so they have a true fruit aroma and taste. (I can't help but thinking that a glass of wine might have really helped me concentrate.)

This guy is like the Ph.D of vinegar-making. Timi tunes in as Mr. Gegenbauer explains how their stuff is aged in old barrels that they store on the roof of their building. In summer the barrels get hot and the water evaporates through the wood. The older the vinegar, the sweeter.

I'm skeptical, but why not give it a try. He whips out his dropper and proceeds to give me a lick of the precious fluid on the back of the hand. I feel like I've gone back in time and am now under the influence of a peddler of miracle tonics at the county fair.

The black currant really does taste like fruit, but sweeter. I take a bottle for 12 euros, but at 32 e's a pop, I decide I can probably risk a few more weeks without the 10-year-rooftop-barrel aged balsamic...

...besides I smell truffles. Now that's something worth shelling out for!

Well maybe on the next visit. We still need something for tonight's dinner. On the way out we grab two whole Rotbarsch (red perch) from Norway, about 1 1/2 each and some crab legs for an appetizer. Time to beat a path home via the Underground 2 and Strassenbahn 37 and start cooking.