A son finally gets his parents to Italy

My parents were in no hurry to take their first overseas vacation, so I was in a hurry for them. "Rome is like one big PBS special," I enthused to my documentary-loving, Italian-American dad. "You have to go."

Parents don't have to do anything, of course, and mine were wary of such a trip: the long flight, the language barrier, the risk that my dad's Midwestern stomach would die if exposed to seasonings. My parents were pushing 60, and they would never cross the pond -- unless I took them.

By explaining that ham sandwiches are sold on every Italian corner, I thought I had 'em. But my dad declared that he would only go overseas if he could see London and Cairo as well. Such an itinerary was out of our reach, so I surrendered. We'd all love each other more if they just stayed home.

But I was nagged by thoughts of my French-Canadian grandmother, who dreamed of traveling overseas while spending her life caring for relatives. Finally, at age 89, she got her first passport and joined a pilgrimage to Portugal. She hinted afterward that I should take her to Paris, but by then her health was in decline; it was simply too late.

My father eventually retired, relaxed and discovered that he could survive flights as far as Hawaii. Still, when planning to travel to a friend's wedding in Florence last year, I invited only my mom.

But Dad said yes too.

I was overjoyed at the chance to repay them both for my many childhood trips. The role reversal was instantaneous, as they barraged me with are-we-there-yet-type questions: Do we need traveler's checks? Have you found a place in Naples? Can we drink the water?

My sister, who had escorted my grandma to Fatima, declined to join us. "Have fun," she winked. "Call if you need to vent."

Upon arriving in Rome, my parents used their first-ever ATM cards to extract euros with ease. And they were delighted, after a lifetime of motel chains, by the hotels I'd found: hillside villas near Florence and Naples and a quirky firetrap of a three-star in central Rome. I had reserved single rooms for myself, in the hope of clearing my mind at the end of each day, but I found myself busily reading guidebooks and making plans -- I didn't want my charges to miss anything or get bored.

Thankfully, boredom is illegal in Italy -- operatic drama can even pop up in a supermarket, where on our first day two men nearly came to blows over who was next in line. My parents had long referred to this kind of tantrum as an "Italian moment," and they marveled at seeing actual Italians perform one.

I had only a few such moments myself, the biggest coming after we all got separated in the Rome airport. "Stay with me!" I snapped at them -- something they'd no doubt snapped at me on countless occasions.

Mostly, though, I tried to be a good parent and not keep too tight a leash. I let Dad learn his own lessons about cashing traveler's checks near tourist landmarks. Mom got to decide whether to attend mass at the Pantheon or St. Peter's (St. Peter's, of course). I gently offered an alternative venue the night my father suggested dinner at McDonald's.

Their good-natured cluelessness sometimes worked in our favor -- my dad's loud, English-only approach got our gas-station questions answered faster than any of my halting Italian, and his ever-present tennis shoes marked us as Americans in need of advice as we boarded a Naples subway. Once seated on the correct train to Pompeii, however, my mom and I could have used some cultural guidance, as we found ourselves across from a young couple energetically kissing.

"I'm not sure where to look right now," my mom said, as we tried not to giggle.

Later that night, a few glasses of wine inspired my mom to reveal that, before my father came along, she herself had once made out with a guy on a train. Dad had never heard the story either; you learn so much about people when you travel with them.

Even without Chianti, Italy worked its magic, from my parents' hand-in-hand stroll at the Trevi Fountain to my dad's endless History Channel factoids about Pompeii (teachers never really retire). The wedding, with its reception in a castle, was a stunner.

Perhaps the most poignant moment was when tears came to my mom's eyes as we stood before Michelangelo's Pieta -- even with my father rambling on about how the sculpture's protective glass was thwarting flash photographs. Realizing his faux pas, he said, "I'll shut up now," but of course he never really did. He was a little Vesuvius of enthusiasm, and I couldn't have been more pleased.

At the end of our nine-day adventure, he thanked me for "the trip of a lifetime" and said he'd seen everything he'd ever wanted to see. My mom had a great experience, too, but she's ready to cross the Atlantic at least once more.

She wants to see Paris. And we will.

Jim Foti is at

foti@startribune.com.