Having to take a trip for work back to our site in Italy right after my bride and Ella came to the UK last week, I figured it would be fun for them to come along with me. After all, few places are more beautiful than Tuscany in the summer. And it was a great trip - pictures to be inserted here as soon as I have the time. However, actually getting back to the UK was a bit of a challenge. We flew Air France into and out of Florence. After we had checked in for the return flight, it was announced that all traffic from the Florence airport was being cancelled or diverted because of 'bad winds.' (I've had bad winds before myself, I can understand.) Would all passengers please line up at the gate and stand there for 30 minutes while we pull a bus up where the plan would normally go? We are driving you to Bologna, where your plane has now landed. Once in Bologna (north about a 2 hours by bus), we had to sort our luggage off the bus, then stand in line to check in again. Now we know we've missed our connection flight in Paris by this time, but right next to the Air France check in desk was a British Air desk - showing a direct flight to Manchester. Hey! That's where we want to go! Unfortunately, that flight's sold out, and no, we can't tell you what connection you're actually going to catch in Paris - you have to wait until you get there. So we get to Paris one tired 2 year old later. We find the Air France customer service desk and they book us on the 9:30pm flight to Manchester - a 4 hour layover. Could be worse - the American family right next to us wasn't able to get a flight back to Washington Dulles until 4:15pm the next day. And Air France gives us some refreshment vouchers for our trouble. We took Ella to the food court to tide her over - our refreshment vouchers turn out to be good for exactly one can of soda apiece. Such overwhelming generosity... At any rate, by the time we get on the bus to go to our plane (oh yes, the Europeans are very fond of parking their planes about 2 miles down the runway, rather than docking them anyplace like convenient), our 2 year old had lost all patience and was shaking her finger at the bus repeating over and over "No bus, da-da - airplane!" We did manage to get back to Manchester at about 11:30pm, relieved to at last be home. Except. See, that 4 hour layover in Paris caused the French to be confused. Our bags didn't seem to make the plane. Oh, oui, Mr Grady, I can see in my computer that your bags will be coming in tomorrow afternoon. But not tonight. We will bring them to you, do not worry, monsieur Oy. Update: As of now, 2 out of the 3 bags have arrived. We're not exactly sure where the last one is (actually, it's not a bag, it's Ella's stroller). They're 'working on it.' Note to self: Do not make jokes about California eclipsing France's place in the top 5 global economies in front of French people and expect to get away with it.

Giuia and Ella have joined me in the UK. Pictures to come soon. In the meantime, I'm just happy to have all the Gradys on one continent again. Our (British) landlord threw a 4th of July BBQ, complete with American flag napkins, red white and blue treats, and lots of beer and grilled meat. There's one other American family (from Wisconsin) living at Catton Hall - but mostly it was an excuse to get together and hang out for the afternoon. Still, there are always those reminders that you're living in a different land. Like when you order something off the menu that you recognize, but what you get isn't something you quite what you expected. For example, Giuia made a beautiful peach cobbler to bring to the BBQ - I proudly presented it to the hostess and said, to her question, "It's a peach cobbler!" "Oh...hm... thanks." You could just tell she'd never heard of this strange 'cobbler' thing before. They make shoes, right? And adding to my list of things it's hard to find in the UK:

laundry baskets

day bed

popcorn

corn meal

But they do make the good Cadbury's...

Up until this past weekend, my trips to the village grocers were limited to one of those small hand-carry baskets in size. Afterall, Liverpool has a Costco, so all my mammoth-shopping needs were taken care of. (As an aside, I'm particularly proud of my recent trips to the mega-warehouse, as, in general, Costco makes me stupid. I'm not sure how they do it - I think the guy at the door checking your membership card also shoots an insanity dart into my ass as I enter - it's the only explanation I can come up with for insisting to the Bride that we really need a gross of frozen jalepeno poppers. And the 20 pound block of jarlsberg. And my body weight in spaghetti sauce.) Anyway, as this was my final trip to the grocery store before the Bride and daughter join me here in the UK, I decided I needed an actual cart this time. I had noticed on previous trips that the carts all seemed to be chained together, apparently to fend off the village cart theives. I went looking for a loose cart to no avail, and returned to the chained aisle of carts. Each chain went through a little black box attached to the handle, and then linked to the next one in line. I stood there for 10 minutes pushing, poking, squeezing, tugging, and doing nearly any other thing I could think of to figure out how to unhook the end cart before a woman walked up and told me I had to put a pound coin in the little black box's slot (see the slot? Yeah, I didn't either) and it would release the cart - when you return the cart, it gives you back your coin. Apparently it's some sort of immigrant IQ test that no one warned me about.