Hand Gestures and Blessings

I was doing some more bawling today while running thru Borghese Park. First, this park is magical. Second, the weather is great here with much sun and warmth. Third, I am alive and my core family unit is well and prospering each day. There is much to be thankful for I think to myself while hearing the pattern of my feet beneath me. The pounding rhythm falls under the radio DJ's voice who is going on about Italian music in my earphones.

I made arrangements to see Il Papa this week. (In this photo he is the speck of white from afar.) I have been waiting to see him for weeks. The 'General Session' that I attended, I thought would include me and about thirty other individuals. Instead it was me and about 500 individuals. But it was a very special experience with persons from various Nations recognized, standing up and even singing to Il Papa. After each Nationality was introduced, Il Papa hand gestured to the standing group with their flags and hands waving. He then said something in their native language while reading from a script. He waved again to acknowlege and to bless. And while I tried to get in direct line with these blessing gestures coming across 400 persons or more (to me in the back of the room) I was reminded of my 102 year old grandmother who has the Pope hand gesture down and frequently uses it to address her fans while celebrating her birthday. A celebration that lasts all year.

At the end of the 'General Session,' that lasted around an hour and a half, we were asked to get out items we wanted Il Papa to bless. We said a few words of prayer in unison after which Il Papa gestured to us, again, blessing us and our loved ones. I grinned and look up to the ceiling. (Because when you look up, bawling tears of joy tears don't fall out of your eyes. A little trick I've learned...)

I am also happy that yet another nightmare of being locked in a bathroom is over. Yes, the ceremony with Il Papa lasted approximately 1.5hours but for me a little less as I found myself, once again, locked in a toilette hell in the auditorium's restroom. This is no coincidence I think as I do not believe in coincidences. It is just sheer madness. I am trapped for so long that finally a woman on the outside of the stall is trying to help me by pulling on the door. The walls begin to close in on me. Will I faint? NO, there is no time! I must get free! I continue to pull and turn the knob. This way, that way with the knob... nothing happens. After about 7minutes (which felt like three days) the woman said she was going to get a Carabinieri to help. I am all for this! I am eager for the help as well as the fact that most Carabinieri look like Versace models.

While awaiting my handsome help, I continue to pull and pull on the door. For no particular reason (and certainly not because of anything I have done differently) the door releases. I mention, in Italian, how afraid I was during this experience to the ladies in the bathroom who are waiting their turn to enter my watercloset jail. I wash my hands and vow never, never, never to lock another bathroom door in this country. I'd rather have someone just walk in on me by accident, I think, than go thru this yet again! Uncanny.

The other day I was trying to decide where to have a nice leisurely Sunday lunch. I wandered through a tranquil neighborhood near the Vatican and got lost within the cobblestone streets. I then started to look for restaurants that were crowded with natives. I found one and sat down. I ordered wine and rabbit, coniglio. After about 30minutes a group of three sat down next to me in what (in America) would be sitting directly at your table but in Italy is, 'the next table over.'

Because of the close proximity the four of us began to parliamo. Five hours later...yes, cinque ore dopo. I was saying goodbye to my new friends and thanking them for such a lovely time. 'Johnny' native Roman and his wife from Rio, Gloria, and their friend Luc from France all spoke very good Italian. Johnny who looked like Marcello Mastroianni, I was sad to learn, was 'married' to Gloria. Actually 'married' seems to be a relative term in Italy from what I have observed. Johnny was married for years then divorced...'divorced' can also mean separated. He then gave Gloria a very nice Tiffany ring, which I spotting immediately and commented on as she did with my Tiffany ring which is several notches below hers in price. Still our Tiffany spirits were one as she recounted Johnny's proposal which included that you say you're the wife and wear a ring but no official ceremony takes place. Luc, I learn, is gay and it appears after further discussion that we are looking for the same qualities in a man. We laugh and I am happy I can keep up with the conversation in Italian as well as interject frequently.

The five hours fly by and are very interesting. Johnny is a lawyer in town. Gloria is involved in historic restoration. Luc runs his own boutique and is also an Architect. They call the restaurant owner on the phone and invite him to join us. Apparently, they are regulars to the restaurant. The owner, Paulo, is happy to meet the Americana, he says, but not today. Today he is sick at home just a few flats away. Luc brings his own wine from his boutique (neighboring next door) and we sip on dessert liquor and smoke cigarettes after our four hour long, multiple course meal. I choke on my cig and think European thoughts. What would Sofia Loren do right about now?...she would probably not squint and hold back a cough. I stop squinting and swallow my impending cough. 'Marcello' ignores the spacial rules we Americans prefer. He is practically nose to nose with me as he talks. Smoke circles his face and it's like a 1950's movie. Of all the gin joints in all the world...(or something like that runs through my head)... I change it up a bit and think, of all the hidden Italian restaurant gems in this town you had to end up next to me and be 'married.' Gloria is taking our space, or lack their, of in stride as Johnny and I discuss Rome, Rio, Family, Amore. Italian converstions eventually circle around to amore. It's a favorite topic. I like Gloria. She is smart and a go-getter and confident and good with people and I think...good fortune for her to have Johnny as her 'husband.' Some day my Marcello will arrive. But today...is not that day and this is not my Marcello.

They are all very special people and how great it was to spend an afternoon with them. That was my good fortune for the day. This will always be a fond memory for me.

You know those times when you're laughing so hard that you cannot even speak? Well, I'm happy to report that I had one of those experiences yesterday at my work. Yes, I am working Roman now. (free labor internship) This experience has been phenomenal for my language skills and I have really, really enjoyed the experience. I have worked, the last two weeks, for an Architectural Firm here in the city helping three Architects translate their marketing pieces. The firm designs and builds homes with only ecofriendly, natural materials and this is, in and of itself, very interesting to learn more about. But I digress...so while working yesterday I am listening to a coworker complain on the phone about unsatisfactory graphic work. She frequently says, 'scusa.' The Italians say 'excuse me' even when they are 'arguing.'

As she and I later recalled the conversation we were laughing uproariously about certain aspects of the graphics that were needing desperate change. As I recalled some of my coworker's better arguments and statements...we were giggling away, and so much so, that I could barely continue talking. It was only later, as I was walking home, that I again giggled and reminded myself that I had had this experience completely in Italian. A very promising milestone.

Why did I think about Sofia Loren during my five hour lunch? Well interesting you should inquire. I thought of her because a few days before, I was standing on the street corner near a hotel and a limo pulled up next to me at the hotel entrance. As I waited for the light to change

and to cross the street, the limo door opened and out stepped Sofia. We were about a foot away from one another and I recalled a quote of her's I read in a restaurant not long ago. She said, 'Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti.' Spaghetti has treated her well I thought as she hustled with her PR people through the hotel doorway. I wondered at the time what my statement would be as Polizia encouraged an emerging crowd to move on...

I think my statement might be:

'Everything you see, I owe to being a product of the free and the brave.'

Ciao tutti! A dopo!

'They're the people that you meet when your walking down the street...they're the people that you meet each day.'

Just like the, 'People In Your Neighborhood Lyrics' from Sesame Street so are these days in Rome for me. There are many people to meet here in Rome as everyone, I find, is very friendly. On a Friday night the odds of meeting people naturally increase.

There is Angelo who makes his own wine. Terre Rubre, Cesanese di Olevano Romano. He lives outside of Rome where he has a vineyard. He tells me about a wine he has at a nearby wine bar that is two years old and exceptional. It is worth the walk to go there and sample it. I am to meet with Marco when I arrive and tell him Angelo has sent me.

I sampled another wine he had at a nearby restaurant last week (2006). It was strong I tell him but I liked it. He tells me he already knew I made this purchase because Roberto (who owns the restaurant) told him La Americana bionda was in the other day.

Angelo introduces me to GiamPiero who is his avvocato. (Lawyer) GiamPiero tells me how much he loves Coca Cola as if I have something to do with the product's success. I agree it's good and refreshing with lots of ice and/or served really, really cold.

I also meet Frederico who is from Venice and in town for a convention of entrepreneurs. He is in the ceramic business selling products all over the world, including NYC and San Francisco to companies like Crate and Barrel and Pier 1 Imports. He thinks I am Italian and immediately speaks rapidly about his work and travels. I make out about 70% of what is said and enjoy his enthusiasm.

I talk chocolates with Maria. She is from Germania and happens to love chocolate she tells me. She knows many languages and has what another friend of mine, calls 'rossa menapausa.' (bright red hair)

The creator of the phrase 'rossa menapausa' is Alessandro. He is a fiesty 50 something hustler who represents the school in which I study. 'Rossa menapausa' he explains, is his term for a woman who is older who wears bright red hair dye. In addition to being a philosopher and comedian, Alessandro knows a lot of people in the city and is forever in 'sales mode.' We tour around town in his Mercedes as I try my hand at interviewing for internships. He's quick to point out his vehicle is nice but he feels he would prefer a smaller car now. What kind of a car do I drive he asks me. When I tell him it's a Honda he's not familiar with the name. I mention it's similar to the Toyotas I see on the street here. He scoffs at this inferior product. Most italians drive BMW's (pronounced here B, M, Voo) Mercedes, Audi's or motorinos. (vespas/motorcycles)

My first interview goes well and I have molto acqua and cappucini during it. Once in the car I am regretting this decision as traffic is thick and there is no bagno in site. Next stop an interview with two impressive women who are architects. Here we talk skiing and Aspen, mostly, during this meeting. Third stop, hot milk drinks with our next interviewing victim. This gentleman runs a promotions company and appears to heavily promote naked women sitting on limos. I look at Alessandro like... Really?... And send him a telepathic message across the room of - 'Let's finish our latte calda and andiamo.'

Next up, interviewing with an Editor of a magazine. Our day has been long and this interview is taking place at 8pm. The men talk politics while I try to interject questions I have about the magazine. How many writers are on staff? Do they work from home? What is the workload like? How many stories a month, for example, would be required? These questions are answered but each time the conversation goes back to politics and in particular, Signore Berlusconi. Alessandro finally mentions he's ready for bed and I take this as a sign that 'the interview' is over.

Then there is Roberto. He works at a coffee shop near my school. He tells me that he has always wanted to be a barista since he was a small boy. He is good at what he does making it look easy to wait on six or seven persons, getting them sandwiches, coffee, juice, and other assorted drinks all at the same time. He's distingiushed looking with graying hair, slight build, tan skin, glasses. The kind of glasses that make anyone look intelligent. I vow to find out where he bought them and get myself a pair.

Next up...Cesare. Sure I know the name. I'm sure you do as well. But what if it's said to you like this, 'Buon giorno...mio nome e Chesaraaa.' (long emphasis on A at end and 'ch' at beginning.) Would you maybe say, 'Ciao Chesaraaa, tuo nome e interessante. Che e significa?' (Your name is interesting, what is the significance?) To which the reply is, 'Cesare, Cesare, certo Cesare!...cosi la citta!' (Cesare, Cesare, of course Cesare...of the city.) Oh...the light finally goes off in my head. This man's name is Cesare. Yes, I have heard of it I reply.

After these awkward beginnings, I learn that Cesare works in Public Relations in the city. He speaks no English, or so he tells me. Would I like to take a walk to Piazza di Spagna with him? I tell him fine, as I know it's not far and the weather is nice. During our walk Cesare shows me famous restaurants like Due Ladroni. ('Two Thieves') I make a mental note to return. He also shows me some fine antique shops and asks me if I like 'antiquing.' Not so much I reply but add that I enjoy the information he's provided me on the subject. Cesare is older and works here part of the week and commutes to his home in Bologna part of the week. I find him most interesting and think of my grandmother as he resembles Omar Sharif, her favorite.

Then there is Ursula. With wild curly hair she is a tornato spinning thru school halls with fury. I wish I had her hair, I tell her. She wishes she had mine. She prefers straight hair to wild curls. I say...no way...the wild curls are great. She bikes to work and has a slim figure though is probably one of these women who can eat anything and never get heavy regardless of how she commutes. I admire her style. Her fashion sense is great and I memorize her clothing combos, daily.

Hello Fabrizio. Fabrizio was born in Rome. He tells me this is different than just being Italian. It is special. I nod in agreement. Seems true. I heard this in Venice too when the Venetians said this same thing. Fabrizio is hyper active and sharp as a tack. He knows some Chinese, Japanese, English, Spanish, Swedish and Italian and he interchanges these languages when talking with people without hesistation. He has a quick wit and a comment for just about everything. He is in constant observation mode. I laugh and laugh while he reports on everyone around us and gives me tips on trying tiramisu fragola. (strawberry tiramisu) It's much better than the regular kind, he seriously informs, but unfortunately it's only properly made by his sister. So I will have to wait until she makes another one.

Ciao Alessandra, who shows me her new posture enhancing shoes. These are shoes I have seen before and thought they were just 'Euro Weird.' Now I learn they are rounded at the bottom on purpose and are quite popular. They are designed to help with your mosture as you walk or stand. People experiencing back problems or other ailments apparently swear by them. So I find out more...

The shoes are designed for the whole body, from neck to foot. They are based on the Masai Warriors and their ability to walk long distances in bare feet without discomfort. The rounded edges help with strengthening calf and buttocks muscles as an added bonus, I learn. Alessandra is on her feet a lot and has experienced knee problems previously. With her new MBT shoes she's loving the difference. She tells me where I can purchase a pair nearby. I decide to think more on this and pay her 14euros for a small piece of bufalo and five sardine strips, she calls filets, in her sushi like creations. I am getting ripped off I think on the food but the company was worth the experience. I bid Alessandra 'Arrivederci' knowing I will not be returning to her restaurant but may see her again walking briskly through town in her MBT's. (Masai Barefoot Technology)

Ciao tutti! A domani.

Yesterday night I tried working in a well known restaurant near the Vatican. The owners, upon hearing that I am a writer in America, were concerned I might let their behind the scenes secrets slip. So I will not devulge the name of said restaurant but will say that it is within walking distance to the crowds that flood St. Peter's Basilica and is therefore frequented by many locals and tourists who wonder in.

Repeatedly, last night, I heard...buono! buono! The food here is exceptional and many persons feel this way. I, in turn, was frequently saying 'ecco qua.' A phrase used when presenting plates and delivering dishes to patrons. Translated it means, 'here, here' and would be in the States more like 'here, you go...here it is.'

When I entered the underground establishment, it was just myself and one another man at the bar waiting for our shift to begin. Salvatore seemed calmo while washing bar glasses. I asked where I could put my purse and bag and he showed me a back room that resembled a men's lockerroom. Shortly, thereafter, others arrived. Like Evano, who explained to me while introducing himself that if I called him Ivano, 'he would kill me.' I initially surmised Evano was still a hyper type at the age of 48 but eventually found common ground with him. I looked like a California girl he quickly added and he'd like to take me out. He was familiar with America, he continued, and was an entrepreneur doing this job on the side. Infact, many seem to be doing this job on the side. Stefano then arrived, to apparently mimick those around him but not to work. I did not see him do anything other than joke with coworkers, eat, smoke and watch calcio (soccer) on the TV. Later I learned he is an actor. He consistently made fun of Marcello who is referred to as Hannibal Lecter/George Clooney. He is Direttore and we know this because he is the only one wearing a tie. The Hannibal part comes from, I later learn, the fact that Marcello sports almost no upper teeth. He is friendly and acts the Casanova role as do a few others. The kitchen staff then began to filter in Antonio and Antonio, (grande e piccolo) Giovanni and Pepe. Throughout the course of the evening, I see this foursome transform blank white plates into beautiful straccetti, pizza and pasta dishes and soups. Fortunately by this time, the staff has already eaten so I am not hungry when delivering this artistry of food.

Seems the customary protocol, when everyone has arrived for their shift, is to sit down for a meal. When we do, I count ten men and me at the table. A bit too much testoterone, I think, but am determined to learn a thing or two this evening and put this notion aside. While we eat, I join others in drinking wine, reading the paper and socializing about calcio games (soccer) they've bet on that evening. We dine at a large table and the talking back and forth is good for my language skills. I am corrected often but everyone seems genuinely interested in helping me to learn to speak properly. This atmosphere helps me to better commit corrections to memory as we continue our feast of pasta, sausage and vino.

During 'our dinner' I learn that Evano loves America and thinks all our holidays fall on Mondays. I chime in with, Thanksgiving always falls on a Thursday. He switches gears to tell those interested about American turkey and fixins'. His arms encompass a large circumference of space as he tells the other men how big our turkeys are on this holiday. It appears to me Evano has been eating turkey the size of five turkeys put together wherever he has been enjoying Thanksgiving. But I laugh because often the Italians like to exaggerate and I find this fun. Makes for good storytelling.

I also learn that, in general, men feel nuns are bad luck. I compare them to a black cat walking in front of you...and they confirm...yes, it is like this...only worse! The men, they elaborate, have to cup their private parts when seeing or crossing by a nun. The luck is this bad. The younger men and I laugh at this while the older men wait to see how I will respond to such information. Then they too join in with laughter.

I also learn, fingers held together and pointed upward is a gesture that means - wait. When moved about this gesture takes on a whole new meaning. I believe it means to question something, if my translation serves me. In addition, I learn that brushing ones chin with ones fingers means...you don't care. An example I am giving is - A man says to his wife. I am going tonight with a very lovely, young girl. The wife gestures- (fingers to chin) I don't care. This could come in handy I think and try to use it but ironically find at no point that I do not care about something enough to try it out. I am disappointed. Maybe tomorrow, I think, something will present itself where I can use the gesture.

Then it's time for my head to be on the chopping block. I can feel the atmosphere for pranks building as others are repeatedly hastled and joked with. (Jokes galore run amock with this group.) I am told that the owner (who is sleeping in the back room) wants his espresso, dolce and Sambuco shot now. I can sense I am being 'punk'ed' but have little words to combat the situation. So I load up my tray, acting none the wiser, and head to the back room. Stefano is lying down with sleepy eyes. I tell him in Italian that Antonio insisted he have his coffee now, adding 'ecco qua.' I hear uproarious laughter in the background as Stefano says...'No... no... no grazie. I sleep now.' Good that was relatively painless, I think, while exiting. Now maybe my time being 'the joke' is over. And fortunately it is as we soon start to get busy with patrons.

Time for another smoke break for many (there are several of these it seems) and the rain falls in sheets outside. I join Angelino at the door to beckon potential customers in. He is suprised by my willing, outgoing nature, he says with strangers. I tell him I'm used to sales but I don't think he quite understands what I'm trying to say.

People begin arriving steadily around 8pm. (The Italians eat dinner, typically, much later.) By 9am we are booming and I am happy to be finally hustling not sipping wine and reading the paper. The cooks teach me how to carry three hot and heavy plates at one time. I am nervous I will spill everything but they load me up and shout me out the door. 'Via! Via!' they say. (get going!) I pretend I have a book on my head, walking calmly and slowly but not obviously so... and vow to not drop anything. 'Ecco qua,' I say as I reach my destination in relief.

I watch Antonio make pizza after pizza, help Angelino get the customary bread to his tables, hustle dishes back to the kitchen for Evano and Salvatore and talk drama with Attore, Stefano. We all watch calcio on the TV and comment on the game throughout the evening. Evano is quick to place himself as the waiter of all women's tables while Angelino and Salvatore are more serious in working hard. I help bartend at one point learning that beer needs to have 3inches of foam at the top or it is not served at this establishment. I think this is a cool trick and like learning how to do it. I also think the beer looks better with the three fingers rule so I make sure my beers are adequately made. In America however, it seems we complain about too much foam. When in Rome...

Angelino shows me the finer products that go out to tables while we snack on these cheeses, sausages, olives, desserts. It's been a good experience and the time has flown. As the last stray patrons pay their bills, I put on my running shoes and more comfortable clothes and head out the door as I hear the men talking about who is going to be my 'companion' (they say) for the evening and take me home. While picking up speed to the door I wish all a, 'Ciao e Buona sera' and head home happy for the fresh air, exercise and alone time.

Yesterday was my grandmother's 102 birthday!!! Having grown up in Rio de Janeiro she is a pistol full of vigor even to this day. A true Carioca. Buon Compleanno La Mia Nonna!

Ti Amo Tanti!!

Ciao tutti! A domani!

Delicato

I was born in Napoli on December 7, 1598 and departed this life in Rome on November 28, 1680. During my time here I was most known for my painting and sculpting abilities. My father was also an artist and our name has gone down in history. I had a greatness of talent and enjoyed instant fame. My most notable works included the Baldacchino di San Pietro, Piazza San Pietro, Davide (Museo Borghese), Fountain of Four Rivers (Piazza Navona), Triton Fountain (Piazza Barberini), Apollo and Daphne & Pluto and Proserpina (Museo Borghese). In pictures I have an unassuming look, a gentle, delicate, humble demeanor it would seem. My works, even viewed up close, look life-like.

If anyone on this planet was to find their niche in life and do the most with the talent they were given, it was GianLorenzo Bernini. (JohnLawrence Bernini) Some of his sculptures, I recently saw, at the Borghese Museum and like Michelangelo before him these works manage to take your breath. Expressions, fingers gripping flesh, limbs transforming into leaves, motion found in marble. It's all there and it is fascinating!

Everytime I have gone to the Borghese Museum they have been sold out. (I have been three times) The first time I bought a ticket for the next morning. I was running late and missed that opportunity. The next time, again the museum was sold out. The third time I knew exactly what I was going to say in Italian and didn't pause or stumble with my phrasing when inquiring about a ticket. I was determined to get in. Ironically, the desk offered me a ticket for the next available time which was one hour from then. With anticipation I purchased my ticket and headed to the gift shop. I bought a poster of Bernini who now blankets my wall in my flat. This is a self portrait he did, oil on canvas.

Sometimes I think his expression in this painting is saying- something shy and not confident. Other times he looks to be to be exhausted. Then some days the painting says to me - life was difficult. Other times it looks like he enjoyed the finer things. Certainly his contacts in this city of Rome and his celebrity like status would have opened many doors to the 'finer things in life.' But like Michelangleo who was said to be obsessed with his work spending tireless hours on his craft, forgetting even to remove his shoes, (thus his skin began growing into the leather) perhaps Bernini was also an obsessed overachiever. He certainly accomplish a lot in his life and this city is teeming with his incredible work.

I think today if we were to run into one another on the street. My assumption is that JohnLawrence would be quite gracious, as all Italians seem to be. I would naturally speak at the level of an infant explaining my appreciation of his talent, in Italian. And I believe he would humor me, thank me, and move on. As one ragazzo (beau) put it to me weeks ago...'Parlare con te e stanchezza, ma provo perche mi piace tu molto.' Translated this means: 'To talk with you is fatiguing but I try because I like you a lot.' After I got over the initial moment of learning that the word 'fatigue' was being used to describe spending time with me, the overall message I realized was one that was positive.

Which brings me to two points for today. 1. Go to the Borghese Museum of you haven't yet. Enjoy a long walk in the beautiful Borghese park on your way there. There is no finer park in the world, secondo me. (in my opinion) 2. Many Italian boys are spoiled and that's fun to watch. But my latest theory on the matter is perhaps, in turn, this creates problems when they are men. And why I seem to see so many women yelling at them on the streets. But I do so love watching them being spoiled when they are little. They seem to have the finest clothes, the upmost care, everything at their disposal. When I ask grown men if they were spoiled (because I can see it in their eyes now as adults as well as in photos of them as children) they are quick to answer...yes. Some even add that they are 'delicato' delicate men, now, because of it. Which makes me giggle as such a description. Signore Bernini looks as if he was forse 'delicato' anche.

And I think to myself, I wish I would have been spoiled...

(To those reading this who might think that I was. I then have to say, I have a different definition of being spoiled. It's the 'Italian spoiled' I would have loved basking in.) :)

Sto vivendo il mio sogno... (I am living my dream...)

Bella Borsa

I have been down, literally, with little movement for the past 24 hours. This is not good and I do not like it. Muscles and nerves e i problemi con loro (and problems with them) take me out of the game of life immediately.

Being in a foreign country and not feeling well naturally brings about the added discomfort of trying to communicate your needs to persons making faces at words you are using that quite frankly you maybe making up as pain envelopes you.

Yesterday in my quest to find ben gay...a favorite ointment of mine in such cases. There was none to be found in several drug stores and pharmacies. Nor did many persons know this product. Instead I am given Artro-Aid which does nothing for me and muscle soreness medication which I later learn is not a muscle relaxant as was 'communicated' when I whimpered my need for it. So after smoothing on what basically felt like thick lotion and taking what seemed a placebo pill, I was struggling with a plan B.

With no roommates available during the day to turn to for help or advice on the matter...my upper back was in so much pain I was beginning to lose the feeling of my right arm and a few fingers. I ventured out yet again on a mission (plan B) determined to find a hot water bottle. Translated literally is bottiglia di acqua calda. Nowhere was a hot water bottle to be found as well. Until I reached an obscure road in a little hidden neighborhood with a pharmacy sign blinking out front. I almost didn't bother, assuming the larger pharmacies didn't have the 'bottiglia' so this one wouldn't either. When I approached the counter I said a small prayer for impending success. The Signora looked at me with kind eyes. She was going to take the time, her eyes said, to help and to understand me not rush me off as others had that day. In addition, her eyes suggested, she would not grimace at my garbled Italian descriptions of my current pain. (Even if these look of hers was in my imagination I was ok with this.) I, in turn, looked at her with eyes saying - yes...together we will get me well again. I began describing my need for a bottiglia di acqua calda. I motioned the size and general usage of this item for what felt like the 100th time that day. I could see la luce (the light) go on above la testa di Signora. 'Ah!...borsa?' she said.

Now, I know what a borsa is. It's a woman's purse. But at this stage in the game I was willing to agree to anything, any word, at all. 'Forse una borsa, si?...' I said hopefully. (Maybe a purse, yes.) I waited...and waited...and waited as Signora diappeared in the back farmacia catacombs, finally returning with A HOT WATER BOTTLE!! Clouds cleared, rays of sunshine fell upon us, angels sang!

At that point, I would have paid $1000 for that borsa. But fortunately for me, it was 6euros.

In case you are ever in such a predicatment, I have since learned that a borsa is also a term for bag. A bag of relief for me. I am still not 100%, far from it. But I am able to move my upper body around a bit today and that is a vast improvement from yesterday where the only thing that was moving were my legs while the rest of me stayed stiff and inactive. My only motivation, willing myself to find help.

This morning I figured I'd have to bite the bullet and see a doctor. The night had been bad and I had finally decided a doctor was necessary. For those who know me well, this takes a great deal for me to want to see a doctor. I am not crazy about doing this even in the States when I know the language but here the idea was making my pain greater as I tensed up at the thought. I vowed to remain calm and search online for my doctor options. As I started out of bed I heard what sounded like a pop...a car backfiring outside my window? No it was coming from my shoulder, possibly. Half asleep I thought... could this really be the knot releasing it's hateful grip?

Seems whatever that sound was...I am feeling better now, less tight and in less pain. I do not currently have plans to see a doc and hope this continues.

I still cannot feel some of my fingers but I have managed to type this which yesterday would have been inconceivable. I have also managed to get better advice regarding pain relievers in this country from Raffaele my roommate. Seems I have indeed been taking muscle soreness drugs not pain relief meds. I am given pain med information from Raffaele while he hustles on the phone to contact a good friend who works in a hospital. I am told when to take certain meds and what to not mix together. I am grateful for the information which is in Italian and which I understand. Killing several i uccelli (birds) with one stone.

The water bottle, however, did remain consistent in all this and did do as promised. Oh how I love it! Seek and ye shall find. In my case seek for many, many, painful hours but as promised relief you then shall find.

Enjoying The Moment + Thinking Less = Happiness

I'm talking with a Roman Contessa at the Excelsior Hotel on Via Veneto and she is giving me tips on what jewelry she likes best on herself and what would, in turn, look good on me. She speaks English, (attended Oxford) French and Italian. I find her stories fascinating and her fashion style most noteworthy. She seems to know everyone at the hotel and the staff is quick to mention she frequents the establishment. I enjoy her molto (a lot). She gives me pointers on my Italian and how best to learn it...'parla, parla, parla con le altre persone sempre'...she advises. (Always be speaking, speaking, speaking with others) She calls me 'La Americana simpatica' and I add that she is 'La Italiana simpatica,' anche. (Nice American woman and nice Italian woman) My Aunt has given me the idea to head to this hotel. She stayed here awhile ago and you can sense it in her voice that when thinking on the place, it always brings back fond memories. Once I walk in the door I can see why. It is very special.

As I sit and enjoy a Prosecco this evening Luca who works at the Excelsior tells me, 'If you don't stop thinking, I will have to cry.' I ask him why he says this and he says I seem to him a person who is very sensitive and that he thinks I am very sad because quote, 'You think so much these things become you.' The translation is a bit awkward but I think the observation is an interesting one. I vow, at that moment, to try and stop thinking so much ...and just be... The Italians are great at 'just being' and enjoying the moment. The very best thing I could learn from them, I think, is this.

On Sunday, I headed to St. Peter's Basilica for church. The whole way walking with a spring in my step while thinking...I'm going to church today at the Vatican. Life is amazing. Once I arrived, with a thousand others, I made a spot for myself outside and watched the 2hour and 45minute mass on large video screens set up around the Basilica key. Then for approximately 15minutes towards the end, Il Papa addressed the outside crowd. Pictures I took of him show him as a speck underneath an elaborate awning. I made out some of what he said during his lengthy ceremony and laughed when he added, 'Vivi i Italiani!' (Long Live the Italians...) The crowd roared with approval and for one of few times in three hours Il Papa granted us a broad smile. 'Ciao Il Papa!' (I yelled out in my head...) The moment was just so very exciting!

I have made arrangements to try 'to meet' with Il Papa later next month. This is called a General Audience for those of you, like me, who didn't know. In addition to being provided tickets one receives instructions on what to do if the Pope acknowledges you and/or approaches you. You are to accept his presence by kissing his ring and bowing. My hope is that he and I can meet and while I kiss his ring I can slide some marketing/PR ideas into his robe pocket for further discussions...

I was enjoying some pasta for dinner a few nights ago -pasta and Fior di Capperi. (Flower of the capers) I recommend trying this as it is delicious! While stuffing my face, yet again, an Italian woman approached me and said that she had heard that I was studying Italian. (I frequent this Osteria) I nodded. She said she just wanted to tell me that she really appreciated me trying to learn her language adding that not many Americans do. I get this comment quite a bit. It's an interesting notion and brings up a lot of other discussion topics, thoughts and ideas...but I am officially not thinking so much anymore and so will not pause here to do so.

My roommate Giovanni ... I just love. Mostly because he is always trying to feed me. No matter what he is eating- he has a slice, piece or chunk ready to serve up to me too and he won't take 'no grazie' for an answer... or 'i prefer to not take on those calories,' as an answer either. He just laughs as if this is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard and it just may be because his delectable treats are devine and should never be missed.

So while Giovanni keeps me well fed, Raffaele (another roommate) makes sure I am warm at night with well stocked winter blankets. Matteo (yet another roommate) enjoys talking about his hometown in Palermo and Laura (roommate number four) shares her artwork and creative side with all of us. She is very talented.

This week I notice I feel less self conscious about speaking around my new 'family foursome' and am finally being a bit more confident when speaking during everyday interactions around the house. I surmise that learning the Italian language is like a doing a puzzle. There a many intricate ins and outs and the whole picture isn't always visible to the speaker. Slowly, slowly you grasp concepts and slowly, slowly the bigger picture reveals itself ... somehow tying together. I was never very good at puzzles however. Potential disadvantage?

So talking at home, in the kitchen, sitting around watching TV, doing everyday, simple interactions and being comfortable doing so (something one takes for granted when living in one's own country) is just a grand feeling while living here. Yes, this phase in my learning has been a long time coming, I think to myself, and I am grateful.

Ciao tutti! A domani.

Our insegnante (teacher) in Italian language school tells us to go to a very famous cafe in Rome located near the Pantheon. Il nome (the name) is Il Caffe Sant' Eustachio. When I enter the quaint caffe I don't get far as the place is packed with people bellying up to the bar with their espressos and others waiting in line for their turn to do the same.

The espresso is strong, here, but I like it. It is served in a teeny tiny cup but packs a very big jolt. Two baristas ask me where I am from. As of late, people have thought I am either Italian or Russian. I usually get French and always American when I am wearing my running shoes because the blisters on my feet, from walking everywhere, prohibit any other shoe choice.

I have been looking for George Clooney as the film festival has been going on this week. It seems plausible that I could spot him and or enjoy il vino rosso con Lui (with him) as we happen into the same Osteria. Alas, I don't see il uomo (the man) nor do I see Meryl Streep who is also said to be here.

I do meet a professor and his Cuban girlfriend while enjoying the view atop the Hotel Bernini. The city from this roof is beautiful and one of my favorite sites. Also why I frequent the establishment. I'm told by regulars that Rome's government officials do as well. I see 'many suits' relaxing and or talking business and assume they are 'governo.' The professor invites me to his table inside where he and his girlfriend are celebrating her birthday. There is cake and singing and candles and stares from nearby 'government officials' looking like they wish they could let their hair down and sing a few bars of Happy Birthday also.

Next I head to the Capuchin Crypt on nearby Via Veneto. This is the crypt of Capuchin Friars. A cemetery, under Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini church, housing the bones of 4,000 Friars now 'decorating' the walls and ceilings. There are many rooms and in the last one I make out a design on the ceiling of what appears to be the skeleton of the grim reaper, complete with scythe and balance. Nearby, a sign I missed but that friends told me later, says: ''what you are, we once were too and what we are now, you will be.'

I am glad I missed this portion of the tour and when birthday cake seemed to not be sitting well in my stomach during this little adventure, I was happy to be making my exit.

Days later I speak with my roommate, Raffaele, about the crypt ... frequently breaking up my Italian phrasing is the word 'ick' as I describe my experience. Raffaele tells me that the crypt is po strano, si (a bit strange, yes) but that the arrangement of the bones is very interesting, creative and 'bell arte.' Once again, I think the Italians always see the good in anything.

They appreciate life, always.

So do the Australians. I'm finding they appreciate a good time. And a good time was had by all last night as several of us went out to play under Roman stars. We were soon howling and laughing and enjoying some refreshments at a hip place they have regularly gravitated towards, off the beaten path.

You know those times when everything becomes funny and you just can't stop laughing? This is the sort of time you have with the Aussie's. Rachel, Luisa, Santo. Roaring with laughter about our Roman findings and experiences these past few weeks, we take pictures, generally goof off and discuss favorite topics which of course includes, 'amore.' Rachel and Luisa have been in my Italian class for three weeks during which we have mixed our Italian with our English and I have even learned a bit of the Australian slang which may come in handy someday. 'This bloke is clearly a tossa,' I learn and nod my head thinking this description feels accurate of the man. There are other quick Australian quips...something about porcupines and peanuts, prompting even more laughter. Beyonce plays in the background and we sing a bit and bargain with a Bangladesh vender for white roses. It's clearly a case of, la bella vita!

Ciao tutti! A domani.

Roman Holiday

The renter of a piccola casa in Toscana says to his Italian landlord/maintenance guru, 'There is no hot water in our shower,' and the landlord/maintenance guru says, 'I'll take care of it.' The renter says, 'How soon?' The landlord says, 'Today or tomorrow.' Renter replies, 'Today would be better.' The landlord states, 'Today is impossible.' (Doran's- 'The Reluctant Tuscan')

After reading this passage in a book by Phil Doran who, along with his wife, came to Italy to purchase and fix up a house in Tuscany, I laughed out loud. I have been in Rome now two weeks and one day and can see this way of 'getting things done,' is both frustrating and hilarious. If you can manage to not let this style get the better of you, you can see the humor and general simple pleasure in the fact that, in Italy, sometimes nothing is more important than enjoying a nice long passeggiata, a great cup of coffee or il sole on your face. Coming to this country as a general type A personality, I maybe leaving a lesser intense type. And for this, my heart and health thank me in kind.

This weekend had the making of Roman Holiday with one of my favs Gregory Peck and one of my Dad's favs, Audrey Hepburn. On date two walking around the awe-inspiring Pantheon, this dome to the heavens, I learn, is the largest of its kind in the world. With a center opening in it's roof welcoming the weather. Rain escapes through small drains in the marble floor and as with all things Roman, this building is simply amazing. Giampiero (date for evening) and myself sneak a peak thru the slightly ajar, enormous, bronze doors as the structure is closed at this hour. I press my cheeks on the cold, antico, (ancient) surface and think how many people have gone through them. GP shows me, near where I am pressed, what looks like large dents in the bronze. He thinks they are from military personnel during WWII. And 500+ years ago Michelangelo is said to have stood perhaps where I am standing when he proclaimed the building was of, 'angelic and not human design.' AMAZING!

We exit from under the darkness and surrounding granite columns and head in the general direction of the cafes, nearby, where Peck and Hepburn sat for a drink in Roman Holiday. I sip a red wine and Giampiero, Prosecco. And like Peck's character, Joe Bradley, Giampiero is already scheming. We have walked too far he says and we need to take a taxi. He begins to talk with a cab driver nearby on the street and before long the two appear to be arguing, voices raised. Some time passes while I pretend to be none the wiser until the two Romans seem to finish with their bravado and have become fast friends. We are then off in the taxi with this 'new amico.'

Next stop, Piazza Navona, one of my favorites. It is here that I can gaze for hours at Bernini's "Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi" or "Fountain of the Four Rivers." The incredible detail of the man who respresents the Nile, with towel over head, is incredible. I never tire of looking at him.

Then onto nearby Campo dei Fiori for 'cin-cin' a toast with Prosecco. (from Valdobbiadene, which I'm told is the best - produced in Veneto) Tastes just like champagne! Topped off with delectible snacks like mozzarella, oregano paste and tomatoes in a glass. It's delicious and nutrious?

We run into some of friends of Giampiero and I struggle to remember their names, beautiful and Italian. Nowhere else in the world, I think to myself, can a very handsome, masculine, man be called Ameliano (Emily in the States) and have it sound and seem perfectly fitting and natural.

Last stop, overlooking the Tiber on a bridge near Castel Sant'Angelo where GP tells me the Italian pronounciation is, Tevere. I commit this to memory.

When our date comes to an end GP asks me, for the fourth time, why I sometimes don't answer my phone when he calls. He is not happy with this and I can see where the Roman man is used to getting his way. I tell him, for the fourth time, that I rely on expressions, body language and eye contact a lot and that talking on the phone, without these things, in a language I'm not used to puts me at a disadvantage. (Or at least I say something equivalent, I hope, as GP speaks almost no English.)

Like the renter in 'The Reluctant Tuscan...' Giampiero tries to confirm once again, 'Will I try to answer the next time he calls?' 'Yes, I will. Tonight or tomorrow,' I answer. 'Tonight would be best,' he adds. 'Impossible,' I reply.

Maybe I'm turning a bit Italian, afterall?...

Ciao tutti! A domani.

Mamma

It's been a long day and I am walking home from school. I take the back roads like a confident native. A car pulls up next to me and two gentlemen stop to say, 'complementi a tua mamma,' (compliments to your mom) then they continue on their way. Ciao Mamma, the Italiani here are thinking of you.

On the subject of Mamma, I am finding that I am acutally using the term 'Mamma Mia,' in sentences and it's not even sounding odd to me. I have carefully calculated when this expression seems to want to escape from my mouth. It appears to be most often when food is being enjoyed. Yes, the food here is as devine as anyone has ever said. The spoons are rich with delights and I am eager to always try another sample of this or that. Ciao, Mamma.

Hand gestures are also beginning to flow naturally for me while I inhabit this gorgeous part of the world. It surprises me, but again doesn't feel odd, when I sport the 'closed fingers gesture' (like holding a peeble on the tips) with my hand simutaneously going up and down waving in the air to imply, in my case, again great pleasure in food. This has been known to happen when struggling with class homework as well...with a Mamma Mia or two also slipping out. Ciao Mamma.

Caprese with buffalo mozzarella...forgetaboutit. It's just my most favorite! Hand gestures running amuck. Don't even get me started with my reaction to cannoli! 'Mamma mia' races out before I can silence myself with this filled dream. Ciao Mamma

Today I go jogging in my neighborhood. I head a different way and get lost within minutes. Every corner literally looks the same as every other corner. I walk around until something looks familiar. "Hello Tiber, grazie...si, sono molte felice a vederti. (I am very happy to see you.) Hello Peter, anch' io." (I am also glad to see you, Peter, there in your Basilica key. Now I know where I am and I have wondered far from home.

I reroute myself and when I am nearing the Colosseo I know I have almost reached, home sweet home. The most increbily large man (he reminds me of an even larger Fabio) decked out in Roman attire stands near the Coliseum and beckons me to take a photo with him. I may have been recently lost, I think, but now I am found and I am no first timer to the old, 'photo with the hunky Roman who will grasp your 'ars' trick' hoping for the surprise reaction that will forever be your photo with him. Dopo (later) he'll then tell you how much you owe him for this experience.

When in Rome...

(insert hand gesture here and add a 'Mamma Mia' for good measure)

Ciao Mamma. Mi manchi! (I miss you)

Il Ginocchio

Il mio ginocchio (my knee) hurts a lot during my latest trick but it's worth it. The pain is part of the experience. I am at Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano and I am crossing the street to 'Scala Santa.' These steps, I have read, are steps Jesus sauntered across during his time. I love this 'posto' (place) because it makes me slow down and think. Each step, here, you have to take on your knees. And each step you pray and spend molto tempo li (much time there) on your knees until the person in front of your continues ... which is usually not for awhile. I take my rosary beads and pray a similar prayer each step. There are approximatey 15+ steps and each step I am in pain. My torn ACL that I do not want to get repaired, just yet, reminds me of pain, pain, pain. But I continue...

At the end of this experience I am reminded of when I, and my sister, did this two years ago and how great I felt afterwards. Today, I am telling some Australians in the neighborhood to try it out and am giving them directions to get to the scala. I tell them that it's great...but I'm not sure how much of it is great (I add when talking with them) because the painful experience is over (suppose to be painful simulating Christ's pain on the cross) or because it's an overwhelmingly great experience. I am honest with them. They comply and will try to go there, they tell me.

Then I am off to near the Colosseo. Here I encounter at Royal restaurant the most fun le ragazze (le donne) I have found in Roma. These women working at this restaurant are hilarious! I stand at the bar and order a white wine and they immediately change the music to Lily Allen. We start bopping to the beat until it changes to Lady Gaga, also a favorite of mine. Does life get any better than this, I think to myself, as I stare off into the distance at the Colosseo across the street?

It's funny to me what you miss most about the States when you are not there. For me it is people and music. Andrea, who I call buffo (funny) and am quick to be corrected is 'divertenti' (a better word for a person who is funny) ... loves 'Poker Face' by Lady Gaga, as do I. She dances in place, as do I, and we laugh. As I think...it's the little things in life that make it fun and tie us all together.

Little things are grand when you think of the troubles you've overcome. Minor troubles today included... I thought I was locked inside my appartamento because I had to figure out which of my three 5 inch long keys were going to release me from the four locks on my ancient door lock. I had to breath and not panic to figure this task out. Tutti e difficile. Then I went to class and everything that was said I had to review in my head several times before I knew what the assignment was, let alone how to do it correctly. Tutti e difficile. Aspetti, (wait)... then I thought I had locked myself in the bathroom, earlier, and that experience still haunted me. Anche, tutti e difficile. (I am forever getting locked in bathrooms. In ristorantes, in il mio appartamento or elsewhere.) Locks and me are not friends. But just before I panic the lock works. So, when I find the little pleasures in life that come easy, they are a treasure to me and I try my best to enjoy them!

Having a white wine and laughing with Andrea and some of her friends that work at Royal while looking at a copy of Michelangelo's work, his Judgement Day, on the restaurant walls. I think how great the little things in life are. I like the music, the Michelangelo copy, the company, understanding what the wait staff are saying about the tourists sitting outside and what they say about the neighborhood, 'Il Padrino.' Apparently, I get off easy as a non native by not 'recognizing' this gentleman. Next time, however, now that I know who he is...if I don't say buon giorno or recognize him as such, it could be curtains for me. I'll take my chances as I'm not sure I completely understood and translated this portion of our dialogue correctly. Ciao Padrino.

Until then it's a great life, I think, and cheers to you 'divertenti Andrea' and others like you that I have met. I am very lucky and thank the heavens again. A good prayer for la scala when I return for more pain.

Ciao tutti. A domani!

Well I had my first date here over the weekend. You know how this goes a friend of a friend. This was a nice time and plenty of laughs. It always amazes me, however, how jealous the Italianos get. In this paritcular scene, I haven't even lived minute one with this uomo (man) and he's already asking me who I was speaking to on the street when he pulled up. He also becomes upset when I say, "buona sera," to someone as we passed them...also a man. And is curious if my camera (bedroom) is a single room and how well I know my roommates? This conversation takes place within the first 20 minutes of said date. I obviously refrain from telling him that one of my Italiano roommates frequently 'forgets' which bedroom is his and barges into mine every other evening. To which we then converse and I pretend the mistake is just that, as does he. I've decided to help my roommate with this in the future and now lock my door.

The Italianos are always quick to add after asking you such questions that they are molto geloso. (jealous) My response after having been around some, certo. (of course) As this geloso seems to come with the territory. But I think it's just one negative in a lot of positives regarding dating the Italiano. 'The date' was a nice time and a long passeggiata around the city and to many city hang-outs that the locals enjoy, not the tourists, which was a pleasant insight. One thing I learned that is useful, I am walking way too fast for the common Italiani passeggiata. The Italians go very slow and enjoy the walk. I am still doing the American 'get to my destination as quickly as possible' style. Learning to go slower and enjoy one's surroudings has been good for me.

Tonight I headed to a little restaurant right across from the Colosseo. I love this little place because I can watch the sun go down over the Coliseum. It's a beautiful sight. While sitting there I enjoyed a spirtz (popular drink in Venezia) con Compari and Prosecco. And got drawn into a conversation with two French couples sitting next to me. They thought I was Italian, though how this was their conclusion is a mysery. They spoke a bit of Italian and were sad to learn I spoke no French. In the bit of Italian that we did speak together, one of two gentlemen in the group (a still very handsome older man) showed me an art magazine that chronicled his family's history in Rome. This family was apparently here 100 years ago before immigrating to France. A few individuals in the family were famous painters and this gentleman had their memoribilia with him as well which he proudly displayed and talked me through. While I 'ooh and ahh'ed' over his family heritage and talent, the gentleman's friends made fun of him being a Casanova even at 76. I thought is was interesting and could see where quaranta anni fa (40 years ago) me and many other women at the restaurant would have been vying for his attention and the information he was presenting. Life is funny, isn't it? Father Time is always nipping at our heels.

But for now, Father Time...I say basta cosi di te. (enough of you) I am living it up for today!

Ciao tutti. A domani!

The heavens opened up last night and thunderous rage echoed the city sky. The gods are here and they are very angry, I thought while still somewhat asleep. My next thoughts- I wonder what people do here regarding mud slides or floods? I then quickly prepared a few escape routes in my mind. Another loud boom, the loudest I've ever heard, followed by sheets of rain and then no power. As far as the eye could see down either side of my street nothing but total darkness. City sirens began to sound.

I waited to see what the natives did in such a situation. Many where looking out their windows like me. It had to be about 3am. Moments that followed were a bit tense and disconcerting until all of a sudden there was the sound of a gentleman screaming at the top of his lungs while running through the streets..."Che Bella Piove! Bella, Bella, Bella Piove!" (What beautiful, beautiful rain!) After this display of pure joy, anxiety ceased. I returned to my bed and lay in the pitch black thinking this is in a nutshell what I like most about Italy. It's people. They love every moment to the fullest. They truly enjoy life. A potential problem ... they see as pure pleasure. A good way to live, I think. Si, il mio amico...e bella, bella piove quando in una bella vita. (It is beautiful rain when in a beautiful life.)

Soon the power returned and lit our ways back through neighborhood streets and alleys and the light in me, to remain always positive, did too.

The next noise to wake me was church bells ringing at 8am. They were clearly chimming out, 'you should be in church, you should be in church.' I should have been but my bed was also coaxing me at that same time with what sounded like, 'rest my darling.' And I love it when my bed sweet talks me.

Yesterday evening I met Gilberto who was happy to spell out his name for me as well as draw me several maps to good locations he finds to jog, 'most pleasureable,' he said. One place he finds is Circus Maximus. (Circo Massimo) Yes, the very one... where '6th Century BC ago' the fifth king of Rome built the track where chariots raced in circles and that is visible today between the Palatine and Aventine hills. Where the history of Romulus, the first of seven kings in this city, is also intertwined starting these events for his pleasure. Yes, the same Romulus you read about who was nutured by the wolf mother and who killed his brother Remus. The very same bambinis you see in store windows every day con il lupo. (with the wolf) Yes, this is the exact same history that you are now thinking about making your present. INCREDIBLE!!! Of course amazing history is everywhere here but sometimes it just creeps up and hits you in the face when you're not even expecting it like this...well, maybe I'll go jog around that famous 'Circus' area over there. Meraviglioso!

So while drawing maps and telling me about his life and where to jog, Gilberto also toasted sandwiches, prepared drinks, performed intricate tricks with his tonges and, overall, was like watching a play in motion. He went in and out of different characters acting out people he knew that the regulars, standing there, also knew. We all laughed at his immitations. Perhaps Signore Gilberto missed his calling to be an actor. I can easily see him on stage playing a comical version of Hamlet using his tonges as his sword.

A gal nearby I notice simply because her outfit is bellisima. Though she is a bit older she is dressed to the nines in white fishnet stockings. They go beautifully with her assemble and are tastefully complimentary. I make a mental note, I will still be wearing fishnet stockings when I am her age too.

Ciao tutti. A domani!

Va bene...

'Just roll your eyes back in your head and pretend you're invisible.' This is what I say to myself when I am jogging or walking the streets of Rome and am crossing six lanes of oncoming traffic. It's obviously not so much that I think I'm going to be invisible as it is a mantra I repeat in my head that helps me to be calm and do what I now call 'The Dance of The Streets,' con le macchine. (cars) The dance goes something like this: I make a move, they make a move, they get closer, I get closer and just when I think I'm going to get hit ... we gracefully pass one another and it's like the dip in a dance and I sigh. ... Then it's onto the next lane ...

Va bene. (It's all good.)

Jogging today and doing the 'Dance of The Streets' several times in order to get to my destination, Il Colosseo, I was thinking it maybe time to rethink running this course. I carry il mio appartamento keys with me and they are proving good weights for my arms but the cobblestones surrounding The Coliseum forever want to reach out and grab my ankles with the promise of spraining them. Potentially

pericoloso. (dangerous)

I notice another blonde in the crowd near il Colosseo. Since we are a rare find around these parts, I go over to parlare. (speak) Biondi, it turns out, reads tarrot cards and there is something about biondi Stephania that makes one think she comes from a long line of psychics who have read for Nero himself. Perhaps my imagination. Stephania reads my cards and tells me nothing surprising but I enjoy her company and give her a few euros as she also looks like she might be homeless. If her predictions work out ... I will be living permanently in Italy with a certain Italian I've liked for some time and I will have great, ongoing, fortune. Clearly, I think to myself, Stephania rarely picks a bad card during her reads. Tutti positivo! Everything is positive and polite which is good but may not be an accurate view into the future. Va bene.

I stop at a fruit stand and buy some frutta fresca. I try, for the first time, franghe. When I google franghe the only thing I find is that it is toxic to house pets. However, I find it delicioso. The fruit is bigger than a plum but similar in texture and taste and has a necturine's coloring. When I say to the vender, 'Che cosa?' (what is it?) He says, 'Franghe !...' as if, of course it's franghe! Hmmm. I guess I can say 'of course I know it' next time someone asks me about franghe. Va bene.

Time for coffee with thousands of others. Italians frequently stand to receive and enjoy their coffee. I have since learned that there are many ways to order this favored liquid and Italians are very picky when it comes to how this drink is prepared. In addition, the bartender is on display and seems to forever be performing while making drinks. Dishes and cups are flipped showing tricks of dexerity and know-how. Milk is poured and more tricks are on display for entertainment. (Entertainment for me it seems as few Italians barely notice.) I yell, "Bravo!" Italians do notice, however, when their coffee is not prepared correctly. One man next to me, complains his caffe normale has milk in it. This is non giusto. (not correct) Normale, I learn when I ask him, means without milk. Just plain strong coffee. Caffe lungo, is also a popular request. One gentleman complains his 'short' lungo (long) is not lungo enough! This is not acceptable he tells me, as lungo means with more latte. This error sets him off as if the world is ending and I note, along with him, that clearly the drink has been made too short. The bartender is quick to pacify him with more milk. As the latte 'lunghes' ... the gentleman's face relaxes into a smile. He is happy once again. I glance at a ten year old next to him ordering his coffee with confidence even though he can barely see over the bar's top. He shoots his coffee and is out the door. Later when I ask for il conto (my check) the manager gives me a free coffee and his phone number. I notice he is wearing what appears to be a wedding band but chalk it up to the Italian way. Va bene.

So two nuns are at a crosswalk near St. Peter's Basilica and one says to the other ... something I can not hear. The other replies. Sounds like the beginnings of a joke but it is my life. As the two penguins converse, I approach. I am on a mission. But how to phrase what I want to say ... words run through my mind as I try to pick the right ones before I get to these ladies. Finally, I say Buon giorno le sorelle (this means 'hello, sisters'). They do not look happy I'm talking with them. I continue. I ask them about classes they may know of where one can convert to Catholocism. Do they know where I would go or how I would find out more information? One nun decides to look straight ahead as if I'm not standing there. The other responds by saying she only speaks Italian. Since I am speaking in Italian, I have to surmise that either she does not want to speak with me and wishes I would leave or I am speaking poor Italian. Since my sentences are short and facile (easy) ... I think it is the former. Will I leave? No, I decide. I continue. There must be classes they teach or even know of that I could find out about? The final reply by speaking nun (as silent nun continues to stare off into the distance) is ... 'buy a watch.' A sister with some attitude. I like it. The spunk in her is good, although I do not find the information very helpful regarding my original question. Va bene.

I'm always big on the experiences this life offers and feel I am rich in these. So, I figure if I happen to drink caffe lungho with too little milk and do not get noticeably upset and raise my voice about this devastating error, or if i do not turn Catholic right away while here, and/or if my fortune telling does not remotely resemble my actual future then, va bene. It's ok because I am rich in these experiences and will treasure them. That to me is what really counts!

Ciao Tutti. A domani!

Rome Beginnings

After consulting with Piero, my cab driver who had a Roman sculptured face and looked like a runway model, I was off and running in city traffic headed for the address of my flat. As Piero zipped in and out of traffic like an autobahn expert, I felt too tired to care. It had been three flights, two days, and around 14hours flying time with intense motion sickness throughout, so Piero's race car driving style was barely of concern.

I had purchased a phone that, naturally, didn't work when I arrived in Italy though I specifically mentioned that's where I was headed two days prior when I bought it and was 'assured' it would. In my broken Italian, as Piero spoke very little English, I asked the runway model/tassista professionale if he could kindly make the call to my roommates who were aware I'd be arriving some time that night. Piero agreed and phoned and the locked door to a building of many flats opened to one smiling Raffaele. My new roommate.


I bid adiu to Piero who asked if I would join him for dinner, adding he would pay. Pago, "I pay," he said, his gladiator-like stature looming high above me. I thanked him and said I'd think on it. Seemed the right thing to say since, without him, I would have been abondoned on the street waiting for roommates to arrive home, that I'd never met. My luggage would have given me away as a potential roommate candidate but as I see it, Signore Piero saved me a potentially long wait in the cold concrete streets. For that I was grateful.

Raffaele quickly showed me around the flat and gave me a lengthy and thorough demonstration on how the locks worked. I was then given my own set of keys that appeared to be made for giants. I laughed but Raffaele didn't understand. Raffaele speaks very, very, little English which is good for me to practice my Italian. However, until my Italian is better I can see where there are going to be many awkward moments durante la nostra conversazione!

So, I just smiled and took my two five inch long keys and headed to my room to unpack.


The next day the sun shined warm for an October morning. and was welcoming. I walked to school from the flat touring thru Rome's train station that seems to buzz at any hour but particularly in the morning with commuters. Italian 'beefcake' is everywhere, here. I notice in a quick glance of the terrain, a gorgeous guy snuggling with his sweetheart, another clearly scoping out the scenery trying to figure out his 'approach strategy', while yet another enjoys an espresso standing at a nearby, open bar. I shuffle through the area and enjoy this people watching opportunity.


Once in class I meet with Gianni, my professoressa. She is spunky, frequently hand gesturing to get her points across, (as many Italians do) and with firey red hair that matches her personality. She is also a tiny, petite signora with zero body fat...also as many Italians are. Lean and stylish. Gianni hands me an assignment and just like that I am paired up with two Ukrainians Petro and Oli and the three of us begin to converse about the Italian task at hand. I am also surrounded by three Brasileiras, beautiful and young they seem to know Italian very well and speak it, velocemente. Very fast. Juliana, Bruna and Lucia make the language sound the way it's suppose to, bellisima, not like the wide mouth sounds that keep percolating out of me, regretably. (I intend to work on this.) Rounding out the class are two lovely and fun Aussie women, I immediately take too because of their zest for life. Luisa and Rachel. Followed by a young gentleman from Switzerland, Eric. And lastly, Raffaele and Monica #1 from Sweden. Monica #2 from Germany. I do not see any Americans and am told that the school has very few. This is not surprising as I experienced this scenario also when in Venice studying the language. No matter. I enjoy getting to know the different personalities and cultures our classroom pulses with.

After class I begin my passeggiata. A common phrase here in Italy as many Italians frequently go on long walks. On the way to the Colosseo I am stopped by a gal who speaks Italian to me mumbling something I don't quite understand. As I reply she adds, in Italian, 'do you speak English?' I laugh while nodding as she says, 'Thank God!' She needs directions to the train station and though I have been in the area for little less than 24hours, I am happy that I know where to direct her.


Lastly, I am proud and therefore must note, within, that I was able to set up this blog via the Italian instructions. That gets a mental gold star in my mind. As such a task originally seemed very daunting. Brava!



Ciao Tutti! A Domani!

Day One in Rome

My first day to start my blog and chronicle my experiences in Rome have melted into three days that have gone by now. And I am just getting to this portion of my 'to do list,' as I create a new home in Rome for tre mesi. Three months to the non speaking Italian, of which I am one, trying to lose the title.

This year I decided to do one of those things I've always talked about doing, 'live in a foreign country and learn the language.' So earlier in the year I found myself floating on a vaporetto bound for my Venetian school. Skipping the waves from the island of Giudecca (my home, a renovated convent, complete with monks or 'cappucini' as the locals referred to them with their brown robes and white belts) to the island of Venice. I was grinning from ear to ear and frequently felt the urge to cry out of sheer joy, something I had heard others talk about but, myself, had never experienced and chalked up as mere myth.

I have found, however, there is no myth to this when it comes to Italia and me. I am now back to continue my schooling, this time in the dynamic and overwhelmingly delicious city of Rome. Delicious in so many ways not just in it's food. The arts, the traffic, the vivacious natives, the churches, the history, the culture, the vino... Yes, I quickly felt my eyes welling up again when my toes touched these Roman quarters. It was truly a case of, bawling for joy in Italia once again.

As my sister has pointed out, the following quote seems to sum me up best when I am in Italy and I would have to agree.

In 1920, after marrying Zelda and publishing This Side of Paradise, Fitzgerald wrote, “Riding in a taxi one afternoon between very tall buildings under a mauve and rosy sky; I began to bawl because I had everything I wanted and knew I would never be so happy again.”

I use this quote, as the theme for my blog, as it mirrors some of my own feelings as well as to reflect the type of joy that is here within my recordings, memories and experiences, a Roma. Ciao tutti! A domani!