Lollapalooza

We just spent three and half weeks in Italy but this story isn’t about how the pool at our hotel in Siracusa (the venerable Grand Villa Politi, where Churchill once stayed) baked in the Sicilian sun all day and was blissful in the evening like a warm tub of urine.

Or how out of all the restaurants we went to, the very first one at the end of the block was perfect: Italian men with dress shirts unbuttoned to their stomachs; Italian women with revealing tank tops, long flowery skirts, designer glasses, and leather sandals; pizza covered in smoked salmon, avocado, and burrata; fusilli al dente drenched in pesto; arugula salads with fresh mozzarella, roasted red peppers, tomatoes, olives, capers, lemon, and olive oil; soft, creamy pistachio cannoli dipped in a candy coating; and, of course, Aperol Spritz that somehow tastes better because it’s summer in Italy, everyone in the restaurant is also drinking Aperol Spritz, and it’s in a glass that says Aperol Spritz.

No, this story isn’t about how we explored well preserved ruins at Villa Romana del Casale where the mosaics look like they were constructed last week and depict glorious battle victories, leopards, ostriches, and other exotic species from across the empire, and a Roman lady with a great ass straddling her Roman gentleman.

Or how our ten hours in the magical, mountain city of Taormina (part of the 17th- to 19th-century European “Grand Tour”) were the best ten hours of our trip, complete with 270° views of the Ionian Sea from the perfectly situated Greco-Roman amphitheater, cool drinking water from public fountains lodged in medieval walls, three pristine clay tennis courts being hosed down by a leathery Italian geriatric ripping a fag, a ten-minute nap on the rocky beach after 700 steps down to the shore, and an Aperol Spritz-infused dinner al fresco served by a waiter who looked like Carlos Alcaraz on a date but smelled like Carlos Alcaraz after a five-setter.

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No, this story isn’t about how when we got to the Aeolian Islands and our Airbnb with an incredible view of the Tyrrhenian Sea and a TV with Netflix, the kids chose Netflix. Or how our boat trips around the islands were miraculously vomit-free.

Or how after sunset on one of those boats we sailed by the volcanic island of Stromboli while we watched lava stream down its side. Or how after we were served refreshing wine in plastic cups and delicious penne al dente with tuna, capers, and olives on paper plates, we lay down on mattresses on the top of the boat and looked at the stars at which point I allegedly “ruined everyone’s experience” by audibly calculating the approximate distance of the closest star and then mansplaining to “whoever was listening” (Tropic Thunder) how many trillions of miles away it is (5 million).

No, this story isn’t about how it’s kinda cool when 20-year-old Italian locals “roll their own” with fresh tobacco but very sad when 60-year-old Italian locals take desperately long drags from their vapes during a short train stop. Or how I didn’t use the strange Italian bidets that point and shoot water down toward my balls because I prefer bidets that point and shoot water up toward my butt. Or how I hate the Vatican, its ostentatious aesthetics, its excessive wealth, its moral turpitude, and all Catholic people.

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No, this story isn’t about the quest for the holy grail of gelato. Or how we quickly went through two bottles of sunblock mostly for the tops of my feet. Or how my kids are scarred from seeing their father’s glorious naked body more than any child should ever see their father’s glorious naked body. Or how I got over my jet lag in a record three days due to the walking, the touring, the padel, the tennis, the sun, the pool, and, grazie mille, the passionate love-making.

Or how it doesn’t bother me at all that the Boss needs to be the one who decides which train to take to the airport, where we should eat dinner, and when we should get gas. Or how she doesn’t trust me with anything but then doesn’t read the fine print about how the hotel shuttle service costs 40€ and starts ineffectively and emotionally arguing with the hotel lady until I come in and calmly save the day with my conflict-resolution skills and gentle charm. Or how the Boss wanted just the two of us to go out to dinner for our anniversary so I took her out to dinner but brought the kids with us so she and I wouldn’t have to look into each other’s eyes and acknowledge the truth.

Or how Panini and I got fined 100€ for not having the right train ticket (my bad). Or how Panini left her backpack in a taxi (her bad). Or how Panini downed an Aperol Spritz in two minutes because she’s “not a social drinker.”

Or how if OG wasn’t already mad at me when I woke her up each morning with wet kisses and gentle squeezing, she was mad at me an hour later when I relentlessly mocked her for her breakfast choice of yogurt, potato, and ham.

Or how instead of appreciating the majesty of the Trevi Fountain or Spanish Steps, I had to pretend to listen to Broosevelt drone on about all the hilarious parts of Big Nate, Grown Ups, and White Chicks. Or how despite the brutal heat Broosevelt wouldn’t stop squeezing my moobs. Or how Broosevelt broke the family’s vomit-free streak when he barfed on a windy car trip up the mountains behind Positano. Lucky for us, the Boss had a barf bag. Unlucky for Broosevelt, the vomit was so voluminous that it leaked through the barf bag. 

No, this story isn’t about how Broosevelt and Boni started slapping each other in the face as they fought for space in the back seat of the car. Or how Boni didn’t see a puddle in the bathroom, slipped, and fell hard as shit on her knee. Or how she was walking on a concrete ledge above a bench, slipped, and scraped the shit out of her knee. Or how she was sprinting up the Spanish Steps, slipped, and scraped the shit out of her knee. Or how she was sitting sideways on a chair at a restaurant, rocking back and forth, leaned too far back, fell off, landed on her head, and eventually came to rest on her stomach after doing a complete backward somersault down five steps.

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No, this story isn’t about the amazing vacation we just had. It’s about how Panini left Italy more than a week before the rest of us, foregoing a visit to good friends in Pescara on the Adriatic Sea and a few final days on the Amalfi Coast so she could be back in Chicago in time for Lollapalooza.

I repeat: Panini left Italy nine days before we did because she “really wanted to be back for” Lolla-fucking-palooza.

How could this happen? Honestly, I don’t remember. The Boss says I gave Panini the choice and I say the Boss gave Panini the choice. What I can say for certain is that back in April when we were figuring out our summer plans, I immediately went into a fugue state when the mere suggestion of Panini coming back early for stupid Shaboozey was floated.

Incredulous. Shocked. Disappointed. Disturbed. Disgusted. Angry. Homicidal. Suicidal. I think I probably went upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and, through tears of laughter and sobs of hysteria, said to myself with total sincerity, “You’ve failed as a son, a brother, and a husband. And now you’ve officially failed as a parent.”

Why did this happen? Well, here’s a verbatim exchange:

“Why would you choose to go to Lollapalooza instead of the Amalfi Coast?” - Saul

“I have the rest of my life to go back to Italy.” - Panini

Dear patient reader of Saul, what word is coming to mind right now? Spoiled? Obtuse? Ignorant? Horrid? Whatever it is, I feel you.

The how and the why don’t even matter. Panini’s decision to leave Italy early for stupid Luke Combs is a result of the most epic parenting failure ever. Even the Boss’ mother, the kindest, most understanding, most compassionate, least judgmental, least critical human being ever to walk the earth, called me into the dining room a few days before we left and said, “Saul, can I chat with you privately for a moment?” (Come here, asshole. We need to talk.)

“Saulie chamud, can you tell me how this decision came about?” (Saul dearest, what the fuck went down here?)

And I really didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t explain it. The Boss and I somehow allowed it to happen. I think maybe at some point I said something to the effect of, “I mean, if this spoiled-ass bitch seriously wants to bail on the Amalfi Coast to go see stupid Doechii, I don’t even know what to say.”

Could we have forced her to stay the whole time? Of course. But somehow “forcing” a 17-year-old to stay on vacation in southern Italy in July felt even wronger than letting her make the choice. I know, I know. You’re judging me even as you read this. I get it. I am too. I’ve judged Panini, I’ve judged the Boss, and I’ve judged myself plenty. I hate all of us for this whole thing. It’s utterly disgusting. Panini is a spoiled brat with defective values and poor priorities. We’re terrible parents who created a child with defective values and poor priorities. How does the defense plead? Guilty as charged.

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But just give me one more second as I take a quick, and hopefully meaningful, aside: Despite the fact that I am a pedantic, arrogant, and annoying mansplainer, I don’t preach a lot to my kids. I don’t give them a lot of words of wisdom or life lessons. I encourage them to try their hardest, do what they love, and eat their vegetables. There is, however, one piece of advice I often find myself giving, one life lesson I wanted to impart before we got to Pompei and I unsuccessfully tried to throw myself into Mt. Vesuvius.

And it is this: Don’t worry about what other people think.

When Boni asks me if her hair looks pretty, I tell her not to worry about what other people think. When Broosevelt tells me his friends call him a ballhog, I tell him not to worry about what other people think. When OG tells me she’s embarrassed about being the oldest one in her gymnastics group, I tell her not to worry about what other people think. When Panini asks me if she’s fat, I tell her yes, and not to worry about what other people think.

Know who you are. Believe in yourself. Be confident. And fuck everyone else and what they may or may not think. Is it sound parenting advice? Maybe. It could probably use some qualifiers and nuance but it is what it is and my kids know it’s what I believe, how I myself roll, and how I recommend they roll.

So, back to Lollapalooza and Italy. Despite all the criticism, all the disappointment, all the shaming, all the outrage, all the begging, pleading, cajoling, harassment, and judging, Panini stuck to her guns. Despite her siblings, her parents, her grandparents, and literally everyone who knows about this debacle having completely condemned her and her ghastly decision, Panini stood firm. She said to everyone, “Screw you. Screw Italy. I’m going to Lollapalooza and I don’t care what you think.” In some sick, twisted way, I kinda respect it a teeny, tiny bit.

Is all of this one big “juicy rationalization” (The Big Chill) to make myself feel a little better about Panini’s terrible choice and my terrible parenting? Yes. Should Panini reflect on why she wants what she wants and why everyone in the entire world judged her so harshly? Yes. Would my parenting advice perhaps be better suited for a child who is a bit less FOMO-driven, a bit more self-actualized, and a bit less stupid? Yes.

All I can tell you is this: Panini reports that she had an absolutely fantastic time at Lollapalooza, has zero regrets about her decision, and was “thriving by [her]self.” Similarly, I'm pretty sure we had a great time in Italy and the trip was as awesome as we’d hoped. So now I’m left not knowing if this whole thing was an epic failure from which lessons must be learned or if I am, in fact, the best god damn parent ever. I’m gonna go make an Aperol Spritz and think about it.