Moments That Matter

Welcome to our blog, yours and mine. I am happy to meet you and so glad you have stopped by.  Perhaps you should pour yourself a cup of coffee or brew some tea, because I have a feeling that once we begin chatting, we may be here awhile.  That’s what happens when friends connect, when like-minded souls bump into each other and find solace in the simple act of sharing life’s joys and complexities.  

I will begin simply.  Years ago I was introduced to the power of the written word when used to share a slice of life that mattered.  My parents were moving out of our childhood home after thirty-two years.  As a tribute, I recorded it in an essay and sent it out as a Christmas greeting.  The emotional response to that essay was unexpected.  Tears were shed, second copies were requested. It seemed the readers found themselves with two feet firmly planted in a moment that mattered. And it felt good.

I walk through my days much like everyone else, but once in awhile I am treated to something that stirs… simple kindness, a helpless look, unbridled laughter, a simple exchange between strangers, road rage, a comedic fumbling of words, an elderly man with red eyes brimming with tears.  Moments that say to me…this is what it means to be a human being.  Moments which reveal the soul at a depth where words are often inadequate to capture its essence.

Those of you who have read Halfway to Each Other will recognize that the story of our year in Italy was written in this manner. A string of moments, like knots on a rope, that enabled me to climb above my own limits and end up perched at the top with a new view of life as it spread out gloriously below.

Opinions and circumstances come and go, life moves in streams around us, TV news and journalists blur together as I try to keep up with it all, but give me a moment of pure humanity, give me a glimpse of raw innocence or yearning or naked anger and I will stop and give you my full attention. That is why I read:  to give words to my aches, permission to my longings, and action to my reticence. That is also why I write.

This blog will be an experiment.  I will begin by posting the chapters of the book that were cut for one reason or another.  After that, I will pack a journal in my handbag and record the moments that tug deeply. Moments that matter.  We’ll try this thing together, you and I, soul to soul.

Traveling for the Book

Tonight I am starting a new category for this blog.  I am calling it Traveling for the Book. When one spends an inordinate number of hours alone, in a dark room, hacking away at a manuscript, it is only natural to daydream about what it will be like to actually sell your story and then go on a book tour to wonderful cities to meet like-minded readers.

Unfortunately, book tours, unless you are an established author or someone like, let’s say, Marcia Brady, are not a given.  It is expensive to fly authors around and put them up in hotels if only a few dozen people show up to listen and buy a book. So the book tour is not actually panning out. They are sort of a thing of the past.  However, I have been very lucky to find a supportive publisher (Guideposts Books) who has hired a great publicity firm (Phenix and Phenix) to help market Halfway to Each Other.

It is thrilling to have this sort of support, and I am doing my best to contribute to the process by writing articles for papers and magazines, calling in to be a guest on radio shows, and traveling when asked.

Brand new to the world of publishing and marketing, I am loving every minute of it and am learning more each day.  My favorite parts have been unexpected.  In these pages I hope to recapture some of the magic along the way.

So, this is my book tour.  Thanks for stopping by.

The Taxi Driver

I sat in the back of the taxi cab, counting the fuzzy braids that flayed out beneath the cabbie’s knit cap, a huge black spider with crazy legs.  Slumped down in his seat with one lazy arm guiding the wheel, he looked like he was parked rather than barreling down the highway at breakneck speeds.  I tightened my seatbelt as I started singing War’s Low Rider in my head,

“All my friends, know the low rider…”

The Mapquest directions I handed him had landed on the floor of the passenger side of the front seat.  I craned my neck so he would notice that I noticed.  Since I did not know my way around Austin, I was hoping that he would take me to my hotel and not his favorite crack house.

“So, is the Austin Motel nice?” I asked with my polite, yet firm, voice.

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“The Austin Motel on South Congress?”

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“Because I didn’t want you to confuse it with another Austin Motel, because, you know, since we’re in Austin there might be a few.” I added with my still polite, yet firm, voice. “I think my directions fell on your floor.”

“Don’t you worry, Honey, I got ya.”  You got me? And I am hardly your Honey, Mr Taxi Driver.

“Low Rider knows every street, yeah…”

I studied the ID card that hung from the rearview mirror.  The mirror that he did not seem to need as he wove through traffic.  Okay, Jeremiah.  I’ve got your name and number. I’m writing it all down right here on my hotel reservation sheet.  I’m sure that will make the drug dealers at the crack house nervous.

There’s something unnerving about taking a cab when I am traveling alone; willingly stepping into a stranger’s vehicle and assuming he/she is of sound mind and body.  I hate the fact that I have to take the taxi at the front of the line at the airport.  I think one should be able to size up the drivers beforehand and choose the one with whom you want to risk your life.

“Car 2547 do you read? Car 2547?  What’s your location?” The shortwave radio crackled and spat. He reached for the hand mic and held it to his mouth.

“Hey Baby,” his voice suddenly deeper, Barry White-ish, “yeah, uhmmmm, who-ooo, oh yeah….Airport run then I’m done.” Giggles on the other end.  Very professional.

“Low Rider is the one to meet, yeah.”

He replaced the mic and smirked sideways at me.

“She digs me.”  Digs you?  As in Susan Dey digs Keith Partridge?

“I’m sure she does.”

“Just moved here from Houston. Gots ta keep the ladies happy.  Good for business.”

“Of course.” He leaned over and turned the volume knob to the left, muting the female voice and revealing long, yellowed fingernails.  Nice.

“This is just a side gig.”

“Really?”  I asked since I felt that humoring him would keep those fingernails on the wheel. “On the side of what?”

“Music.” His eyes lit up and his lips curled into a smile.

“Austin’s a great place for that.”

“My band’s in the line-up for the festival.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he turned his head and looked me square in the eye. “I ‘precciate that. I do.  It’s a lot of work, you know?  Followin’ your passion. Puttin’ your heart on the line.”

“I do know.”  I sat back and relaxed as we chatted about taking risks and chance meetings.

He veered onto the off ramp and turned left.  As we wound through the city streets I took in the sights as he threw out a few historical facts. He even filled me in on the Austin Motel, how it has been a family run business for over 60 years weathering good times and bad.

“Take a little trip. Take a little trip with me.”

Before I knew it, my Low Rider taxi friend pulled up to the Austin Motel.  He jumped out of the car and opened my door with a deep theatrical bow and a wave of his arm.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said with sincerity as I pulled out a few bills and handed them to him. “And good luck with the concert.”

He gave me a sideways smirk and slid in to the driver’s seat. I watched for a long moment as he eased his way back into traffic and joined a sea of red tail lights snaking toward downtown.

Media Training

This whole business trip thing is new for me.  I am feeling very grown up all of a sudden,  and I am practicing striding through airports with purpose.  It is an entirely new walk.  I pretend that people secretly know who I am and are just averting their eyes to give me much needed privacy.  ‘Please, please, no autographs. Steps to the side folks.’ I am getting a kick out of the whole thing; cracking myself up.  I have always loved how the reality of a situation never quite matches the anticipation of it.  It is the wellspring of great humor, and it helps me practice my constant stream of inner sarcasm.

The day Halfway to Each Other officially launched I feverishly worked through the evening at the computer recording student grades. All alone in a darkened classroom was not the way I envisioned celebrating, but I had accepted a new job and it needed my full attention. I remember glancing at my watch and muttering ‘Yeah, congratulations, Bigshot, now get your work done so you can go home and go to bed’.

My first trip took me to Austin to meet my publicist.  The thought of a quiet night in a pleasant hotel with a good book sounded lovely until I checked into the low budget chain with its striking view of the business park in the pouring rain about 8 PM.   I assumed that the place would have a restaurant of some sort, or at least one nearby.  But the can of beer and the bag of M&M’s from the tiny snack area in the lobby worked out just fine.

Touring the publicity firm and meeting my publicist the next day was great.  The place was filled with trendy clothing and young, creative minds strategizing ways to infiltrate the marketplace.  Other than the fact that I got that I am the oldest one in the hair salon and all the stylists are young and hip feeling, I was more than impressed and delighted to have them marching into battle with me.

I met three other new authors, and we all hunkered down for media training, cheering each other on through mock radio shows and TV interviews. I left that day with renewed respect for politicians and talk show hosts who have mastered the art of Speaking into a mic and making sense. I spent years working on my manuscript and know every sentence by heart, but when they asked me to discuss it on camera, it all turned to jibberish.  How does one take an entire book and express its richness in two minutes?  I left with a page full of interview questions to practice at the outside chance I might actually have an interview one day.

The Ballerina

 I boarded my connecting flight late on purpose. It had already been a long travel day, and I dreaded another two hours on a crowded plane. As I made my way toward the one vacant seat in back of the aircraft, I could see a frazzled, older woman standing in the aisle. She clutched a maroon tweed carry-on bag that was not going to fit under the seat no matter how hard she wrestled with it.

 “Oh dear.  I thought this would work. What was I thinking?” Mumble, mumble. “No room in the overhead.”  More mumbling. “Gosh darn it.”

 Her words, squeaked though the air as passengers all around pretended not to notice. Flustered, she looked past me toward the flight attendant who was motioning for her to bring the bag to the front of the plane so it could be checked. There was something about her exaggerated movements that didn’t feel right. Something was left of center. I didn’t have to look up at the seat numbers to know that I would be her lucky seat mate.

 I stood to the side as she bustled past me, nervous and sweating, in her sea foam sweat suit worn thin by too many washings. I scanned the plane for another empty seat as I was in a not willing to converse with weirdos mood.  Unfortunately, the plane was full, so I pretended to check and recheck my things in the overhead until she returned and plopped into the window seat, exhaling loudly.

 “Sorry,” she said.

 “Nothing to worry about.” I wasn’t sure why she was apologizing.

 “I don’t fly often,” her doe-brown eyes were magnified by the lenses of her glasses. Light brown curls framed her face.

 “Hmmm,” I murmured as I pulled the flight card from the seat pocket and pretended to search for over wing exits. I was too tired to encourage her.  I wanted to take off, fall asleep, and wake up in Austin.

 She buckled her seat belt and sat upright, her beige leather purse perched on her knees. “Do you?”

 “Do I what?” I asked.

 “Do you fly often?”

 “I guess so.”

 “For your job?”

 “At times.”

 “I am going to see some relatives.”

 “That’s good.”  I could see that my short answers were not deterring her.

She continued to pepper me with questions while she took a small brush from her handbag and began to brush her hair. I hate it when people groom themselves on airplanes. I hoped she did not pull out some nail clippers next.

 “Don’t worry, I’m not the type that will talk your ear off on the flight,” she said as she brushed the back of her hair with sudden intensity.

 “I didn’t think so,” I said as I gave her my best fake, yet friendly smile. I put my head back and closed my eyes. I had a big day tomorrow.  Media training.

 A few minutes later the plane accelerated down the runway and lifted into the air. We both glanced out the window as the ground shrank below us. Her hands wrapped around the handles of her purse. A deep breath. She began to hum.

 “What do you do?”

 “I’m a teacher, eighth grade. And a writer. You?”

 “Oh, I don’t work.  Not anymore. I stopped before… How old are you?”

 How old am I? Like that’s a normal thing to ask a stranger.

“Older than I want to admit,” I fake laughed. I pulled a novel from my bag and began to read. I would nip this in the bud right here.

 She opened her purse and pulled out a Zip-Lock Bag of candy. She unwrapped a few Hershey Kisses and smacked her lips as she enjoyed them.  It was sort of making me queasy, all of these mouth noises and finger wiping. From the corner of my eye I saw her carefully, almost reverently, remove a photo from her purse. She slid it across my tray table.

 “She was thirty-seven.”

Was.

A lovely ballerina stared up at me from the photo.  I picked it up and my heart wobbled.

“She was a serious dancer.”

Was.

“She’s beautiful,” I said as I studied her poised on the tips of her satin toe shoes, auburn hair pulled taunt into a bun.

“You would have loved her,” the woman added as she touched my arm. “She taught extreme sports in the off season.  Anything to pay the bills. Spirit.  That’s what she was known for. People loved her spirit. Filled the room.”

I slid the photo back in her direction and looked into her wounded, magnified eyes, expecting tears.  There were none, just the far away cast that said she was remembering. My insides ached as I realized what was happening.

Of course I didn’t recognize right away what made her different.  How could I when my own daughter was safe and happy. Grief can rearrange a person. The weight of sorrow can pull anyone left of center.

Shame crept in. I had to stop judging people so quickly. “I have a feeling we would have been good friends,” I said.

“It’s been three years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Breast cancer.”

“Awful.”

“Now, I told you.  I’m not one of those types to talk your ear off.” She proceeded to tell me all of the disturbing details.

We settled into our respective silences.  I could concentrate on my novel about as well as she could concentrate on the prayer cards she kept pulling from her purse. How does a mother let go of her baby girl?  I prayed with all of my might that I would never have to find out. After awhile she pulled out a carefully folded newspaper clipping and slid it across the tray table. “Since you’re a writer. You’ll appreciate this.”

I unfolded the paper and proceeded to read a lovely tribute to her daughter, indeed an established dancer in Los Angeles.  The same photo she had handed me earlier adorned the piece.

“This is wonderful.”

“We couldn’t afford a proper obituary by the end.  All of our money was gone. The church supported us through so much of it…but her friend, John, he knew the writer.”

She took the clipping and carefully replaced it.  A few more Hershey Kisses disappeared.

“You know.  The worst day…”

I braced myself.  I was not the strongest when it came to emotional pain.

“…was the day she lost her arabesque.”

Her arabesque? What about her breasts? What about the day she lost her life?

“That was the day we looked at each other and knew.”

“I am lost for words,” I said, my eyes watering.

“A dancer needs her arabesque.”

We nodded at each other. A nod between mothers paints far more than a thousand words. We settled again into a comfortable silence.  She watched the fiery sunset through the clouds, and I watched her watching it.

“I hope I can be the kind of mother you’ve been,” I said to her as we landed. “Your sharing this with me gave her one more performance.”

“What do you mean?” her eyes lit up like I was the director of the Joffrey Ballet Company.

“Your sweet ballerina danced right into my heart. And when a writer says this, it means that one day, she will dance across a page… and into readers’ hearts forever.”

We looked at each other a long moment, and she blinked back tears. Then she stood with her purse. “She had a spirit, you know? The kind of of spirit that would fill a room.”

The Garage Sale

This was the first and last time that I would be traveling three thousand miles for a garage sale.  My parents had finally sold our family home of thirty two years and wondered if, perhaps, we could come home and help them with the sale.  It could not have been coincidence that each of us decided, quite on our own, to leave our spouses and children for the weekend to travel back home. It would be the last time we could sit together the way it started: two parents and six children in a four bedroom house in a pretty N.J. suburb. 

I spent much of the day on the airplane wondering how I was going to feel when I walked into 26 Ardsley for the last time.  Being the sentimental type, I feared the worst shedding my first tears as the plane touched down in Newark. I quickly reminded myself that I had sworn not to make this a weekend of “lasts”—The last time I fry an egg in this kitchen, the last time I daydream on this front porch.  I wanted to approach this as the mature adult that I usually am, positive and strong to help my parents through this emotional transition as they prepared to retire in Phoenix.

When I drove into the driveway I was flooded with relief to realize that sadness was the furthest emotion from my mind. I greeted my parents and five brothers, shared a joyful meal around a wooden table worn smooth from years of dinners, homework and school projects, and then helped my parents price the various family treasures that were now being relegated to the sale.  We laughed about some of the items, reminisced about others, and each of us ended up with a pile off to the side of those things that happened to tug too strongly on the old heartstrings. I mean, you couldn’t exactly let some stranger walk off with the infamous ice cream spoon that worked better than the scoop ever did. Surely my parents would have made a lot more money had we not come home to help.

The sale day dawned bright and clear. We manned our stations and the people began to trickle through. It was clear from the start that David and Kevin were the best salesmen while the rest of us practically pushed things into people’s arms just to get them out of the yard.  At one point I needed more masking tape, and since I couldn’t boss my younger brothers around anymore, I ran into the house to get it myself.

That’s when I heard them.  The voices that is.

 The voices of children were coming in giggles and whispers from every room.  Knowing that I was alone in the house, I shook my head and started up the stairs only to stop again momentarily and listen. Yes, the voices were unmistakable and I recognized every one.  I heard them sitting around the dining room table dyeing Easter eggs, sorting Halloween candy on the living room floor, and gathered around a decorated fireplace guessing what treats might fill their stockings come morning.

 Swallowing hard to push the lump from my throat, I took a deep breath and continued up to the second floor landing.  Standing in the center of the hallway, I looked from door to door. As I half-feared, the voices overflowed from every bedroom.  Not surprisingly, my brothers’ rooms were the noisiest.  I was intrigued however, to find my room completely silent.  Being the only girl I lucked out with a room of my own, so I guess it stood to reason that I did a lot more listening than talking when I was in there.  As I took a step toward my room, I heard the backdoor slam and my older brother, Tim, wonder aloud about what had happened to me.  Knowing the silence of my room would speak volumes to an already breaking heart, I happily turned and trotted back down the stairs, not caring that I had forgotten the reason I had come inside in the first place.

 Laughter, old friends, and a little bit of work saw us through the rest of the day.  We all agreed that the sale was a success and found comfort knowing that our childhood memories had found new homes.

 Later that evening during a party that our neighbors were throwing for us, my brother, Todd, came over to me and announced that the camera needed a new battery. He suggested that I go home and get the spare.  Being the good sister that I am I told him that he could probably handle that job all by himself.  He quietly urged me, however, to go across the street and spend a few moments in the darkened house alone. He told me that he had just done that an hour before and the experience was unnerving.  One look in his eyes told me that he had heard the voices, too.

 Back I went to get the battery and to finish what I had started that morning.  I let myself in the back door, walked reverently across a kitchen floor that held a million footprints, headed up the staircase and stood outside the door to my room. I turned the glass door knob that I always swore to my friends was a real diamond and stepped in. It had been redecorated years before, but it was still mine.

 As I stood in the darkness, I had the strongest urge to lie down on the bed.  After years of experimentation I knew that if you lay on your back in a specific angle and hung your head over the edge just so, you could get the most expansive view of the night sky that this room had to offer.  This was an important piece of trivia to a seven-year-old on Christmas Eve.  So, what the heck, I lowered myself onto the white bedspread, lay down and assumed the magic position. Pushing aside the curtain, I scanned the stars once more for a glimpse of that tiny sleigh.  And for a moment my heart found peace. When I felt the blood rushing to my head I closed my eyes and thought to myself, ‘What is a thirty six year-old woman doing searching the sky for Santa Claus on a warm night in June?’ I sat up straight and let the tears run down my cheeks and onto the chenille that had collected them over the years.

Many thoughts passed through my mind in the following minutes, but only one has stayed with me and will continue to inspire me for years to come. I realized that after thirty some years what still came to life when I entered this house was the holiday magic. A sense of peace, joy, belonging, and shared excitement found expression through those annual traditions that our family held dear.  These moments were the treasures.  I would not miss the family knickknacks that I could hold in my hand.  I would miss the moments that I held in my heart. Somehow I knew that when I left this house for the last time, I would not hear those giggling voices again.

There were other giggling voices that I would hear, though, in less than twenty four hours. Those, of course, would be the voices of my own two children now sleeping soundly a continent away. So I said a silent prayer as I slowly walked back to the party across the street.  I thanked God for parents that understood what it took to build a home and fill the hearts of their children with priceless memories.  I thanked Him for parents that took the time to watch us dye the perfect Easter egg, trim the perfect Christmas tree, and put together the scariest costume in the neighborhood.  I told Him that I knew that it was my turn to pick up the wand and sprinkle the magic into the hearts of my own two precious babies.  And, finally, I asked Him for the wisdom and patience to do it well.

I left the next morning, and when I drove down that tree-lined street for the last time, I did not look back.  This chapter in my life was coming to an end, and, actually, it felt right.  Sure, I would suffer pangs of homesickness now and then, but I knew that a piece of me would be revisiting that old house with the passing of every season. I now understood the depth and worth of tradition in our lives and I was anxious to get home and share these realizations with my husband.  We have but a short window of time to shape and mold the traditions that will someday define our children’s childhood experience.  It is an immeasurable responsibility to be sure, and our success will also be measured in the giggles and whispers that echo throughout our home for decades to come.           

         Dedicated to the Powers Family

In honor of Ralph Powers (1926-2009)

Christmas Shopping

Katie and I got off the bus at Via XX Septembre. Though downtown Genoa was a little overwhelming at first, I had grown comfortable with it and loved walking up and down its grand thoroughfare.  Like too-big jeans that finally shrank after a few washings, I was starting to feel as if the fit was just right.

            “Did you make out your Christmas list?” I asked as we crossed the street.

            “Yes. Did you?”

            “Of course. Where should we go first?”

            “Look over there. That’s new.”

A grassy area near the train station had sprouted an outdoor market.  It pulled us across the street like a magnet. Though these markets were just ho-hum affairs for the Italians, I couldn’t get enough of them. 

“Let’s see who can find the most unusual gift under ten euro,” I said as I walked to a booth filled with incense holders and oil lamps.

“Why does it always have to be a contest?” Katie laughed as she picked up a small, pink ceramic hand that sported a long stick of incense from each fingertip. She tipped it just far enough to reveal a price sticker of 16 euro.

            We combed through booth after booth of candy, meats and cheeses, shoes, counterfeit perfumes and handbags, underwear, colorful scarves, gloves and hats. An occasional booth sold handmade arts and crafts. One large tent was filled with an extensive array of nativity scene makings where you could mix and match to create your own interpretation of Christ’s birth. 

The Christmas season here was not commercial. Since there was no Halloween or Thanksgiving, there was no race to be the first one stringing up tinsel stars in October.  The décor, minimal and tasteful, appeared in December when I was emotionally ready to see it.  It felt joyful, not rote.

Italy did not do Christmas cards. People generally lived near all of those that they knew and saw them frequently.  Greetings and good wishes were done in person and few felt the need to send pictures of their family to people they saw constantly. 

People scurried about buying gifts, but it didn’t seem to reach the “frenzy” mark.  The whole experience felt completely doable for the average Joe.  I was so relaxed about it that it worried me.

            “Bingo!” I heard as I was searching through a mound of mittens and matching scarves.  I turned to see Katie across the way holding up a pair of huge furry bear feet complete with toenails.

            “Slippers!”

            “How much?”

            “Five.”

            “You win. As a matter of fact, I will buy them for you as one of your presents.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Just act surprised on Christmas morning. And grab a second pair for Veronica.  It’ll cheer her up.” Veronica and Thomas had just moved into a furnished apartment in Sori, a small town down the coast.  The paperwork for their new villa was taking a long time and neither of them was happy about it. They had hoped to be settled by now. 

Leaving the market, we headed up the street through a sea of fur coats.  A few weeks ago, while it was still warm, the fur appeared as if an announcement was made on the news that it was time to take them out of summer hibernation. Anyone who was anyone, or thought they were anyone, was now wrapped in mink. 

It appeared that all of the women who had reached a certain age or social standing wore fur and carried a Louis Viutton handbag. A real one, knock-offs would cause a stir.  The look was very conservative, retro even…according to American fashion.  I remembered photographs of my Nana in the same style back in the early 60’s.

The next step down from the Upper Fur Class was the quilted jacket. The Upper Middle quilted people had their little quilt squares filled with down.  The Lower Middle quilted people made do with such filling as wool or the dreaded polyester.   And the handbags at this level were definitely knock-offs which was expected, and, therefore, did not cause a stir.  And everyone wore scarves.  It was all about the scarf. 

A cool wind whipped past us and Katie pulled her denim jacket up around her ears.

“You should have worn your new jacket.”

“I’m not even cold.”

Tim and I, thinking we were smart by looking ahead, invested in some winter coats just a few weeks ago.  But now I could see that the choice was all wrong.  Knowing that we would be doing a lot of traveling during the upcoming winter months, we opted to buy everyone big billowy down jackets.  I could picture it now, the four of us, in four different colors, like a rainbow of Michelin men bumping our way through the quilt and fur. 

Katie and I linked arms and walked the avenue with our eyes upward, pointing to the carvings, gargoyles and ornate columns on the ancient buildings.  Though darkened with age, they were majestic and imposing.

As we waited for a red light to change, we took out our short Christmas lists and compared them.  It was all for show though we didn’t admit it.  Because really, we would end up just shopping for ourselves. 

The light turned green and we crossed the street with a horde of other shoppers.  Then the window-shopping began in earnest.

“Look at those cute black pants!” 

 “That silk shawl. Beautiful.”

“The scarf in the corner?  It’s the same shade as your new down jacket.”

“I will never wear that jacket.”

“Let’s just go in for a second.”

And so it went until we canvassed the entire length of the avenue.  Soon our hands were filled with bags so we decided to stop for our traditional gelato.

We sat at a wrought iron café table in our favorite coffee shop/restaurant.  The one with the rich dark wood that contrasted with the brightly lit pastry cases and polished coffee machines behind the counter and the black and white checked floors. Frequent customers, we felt at home enough to pile our purchases all over the floor.

“Let’s check our lists,” I said as we waited for our order. We fished them out of our pockets and laid them side-by-side on the table.  Not one item was crossed off. We burst out laughing.

“There’s plenty of time to get this other stuff.”

“Christmas is five days away.”

The waiter set down two bowls of straciatella gelato, two spoons, and a cappuccino in a creamy white cup. We recounted every facet of every purchase as we ate, adding another layer of reasons to our already elaborate list of rationalizations for why we needed each of the items.  By the time our bowls were empty, any trace of guilt had been wiped away.

            “I’m just going to use the rest room real quick before we leave,” Katie said. She rose from the table and headed to the back of the shop.  Suddenly, I saw her in slow motion, her 15-year-old spirit oozing from every pore.  Her lanky body finding its grace a little more each day.  There wouldn’t be many more Christmases where we would shop alone together in this easy innocence.  She would fly from the nest soon enough.

This day was my gift from her.  Christmas the Italian way.   Being together without all of the trappings.  I wished that I could wrap up that afternoon and put it under every tree for the rest of my life.

We collected our bags and headed out the door. The sun was setting and we turned our thin denim collars up against the cold.  Decorative lights appeared here and there along the street as we walked. It felt like Christmas.  It really did. The #17 bus turned a corner and sped toward the bus stop.  Weighed down with our loot, we ran like crazy through fur and quilt in order to catch it, laughing all the way.

The New Muscle Beach

 Tim and I are gym people.  It had been part of our regular routine since college.  I think it is safe to say that Italians, on the whole, are not gym people.

The two of us came over with the agreement that we could and would immerse ourselves in the culture. “When in Rome”….and all that. We had no intention of joining a gym. All of the walking and all of the hills would be more than enough to keep us fit. 

So how could I break it to him that I craved a real workout? That my American-ness was slowly raising its hand, demanding to be heard?  I hated to be the first to weaken.

I peered over at him from my chair as we sat, side by side watching the news. The mid-morning sun streamed into the room through the sliding glass door and danced off the polished wood floors. I started to drum my fingers.  Then a quiet toe tap.

He looked over.  “Too much coffee?”

“No, I’m good.” A loud exhale.

“What?”  He looked me in the eye.

“Well I’ve noticed a few of those…what do you call them?  Palestras. Yeah, those, you know, gyms.  They’re kinda hidden. Tucked away. So they’re hard to see.”

He slowly took a sip of coffee. I detected a twinkle in his eye.  “Me, too,” he finally said after watching me squirm for a few long minutes. “And,” he stood up, “as a matter of fact there is one right next to the kid’s school.”

A short bus ride later we were standing outside a basement palestra that proudly called itself “The New Muscle Beach”. 

“Nothing about the place looks new to me.” Tim muttered as we walked down the ramp and inside a door that had been propped open with an ancient barbell.  A fit, middle aged man with black hair and restless dark eyes stood behind the counter in a red sweat suit that bore the name of the gym.

“Buongiorno,” he greeted us with curiosity.

“Buongiorno,” we answered in unison.

“We’re interested in joining,” Tim said to the man’s confused expression.

“Uhh…palestra? Noi.” I motioned to the two of us. Could I please learn some more Italian? 

“Si, si, si.  I am Maurizio,” he put his hand out to shake ours. “Follow me. My English is little.”   He showed us around.  Located in the basement of the building, the place was small and dingy with neutral colors and just a few high windows. But it was clean, and Maurizio was quite proud of the improvements he was making to two tiny rooms that would soon hold Spinning bikes. 

The cardio equipment was eclectic and rickety. Nothing matched and some of the pieces had handmade signs that said they were “being fixed”.  I felt like Rudolf in the Land of the Misfit Toys. 

“Is there a water fountain?” I asked.
”No,” said Maurizio. “But we do have that.” He pointed to the communal espresso machine.

“What are your hours?”

“The gym opens “around” 9:00 AM.”   I had been around long enough now to know that basically meant whenever he finished his coffee and morning cigarette at the coffee bar next door.

“Closed Sundays.” Of course. 

Tim jumped in, “In LA the gyms open around 5:00 AM.”  Maurizio stopped abruptly and looked at us like we just told him that we were there to plant a bomb and hold him hostage.

“Why would they do that?” he demanded like it was the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

For the first time, I could see the absurdity of how much we used to cram into our day. I didn’t know how to answer him.  “I don’t know why,” I finally managed to spit out, “To fit it in, I guess.”  He shook his head.

We signed up for an initial three month membership and then started our work out.  Tim jumped on one of the bikes, and I chose a treadmill despite having already walked two miles that morning.  Just as we were settling into a good pace, billows of cigarette smoke started to waft by us sucking the oxygen out of the air.  We looked around and saw that Maurizio was standing just outside the door, puffing away.

Tim started to choke.  My contacts started to burn. We looked around but saw no windows to open.  We laughed and took a deep breath of smoky air. 

“Well, when in Rome,” Tim said.

“Exactly,” I answered as I picked up the pace.

Death’s Door

The flower shop down by the Port of Nervi was a sea of color undulating in the salty October air.  Its outdoor pavilion overflowed with giant chrysanthemums in gold, rust, and deep maroon.  I have always loved mums in the Fall.  They signified the passing of summer and the onset of cooler days and frosty nights.  The florist and her two daughters helped me pick out two yellow plants that were so bushy and full that I had to call a taxi to get them home.  As I sat, centered in the back seat with my arms around each plant, I smiled as I visualized how they would look gracing our barren front stoop.

I am a sucker for an inviting front door with a pretty wreath and flowers or plants to welcome friends and neighbors.  I consider it a basic ingredient to a happy home.  The effort had been an ongoing project since our arrival. Italians don’t do the “door” thing,   which made it very difficult for me to find a wreath.  Their front doors are plain, with no windows and one oversized doorknob smack dab in the center that doesn’t turn.  After weeks of searching, I found a suitable wreath and hung it with care using a pretty ribbon that my friend, Kim, had shipped all the way from Michael’s craft store in LA.  Now I could plant the mums in two of the empty pots from the terrace, and arrange them on either side of the door. 

I arrived home, dragged them up in the elevator, and proceeded to go about potting them. A few neighbors walked by and studied me with concern, not one of them returned my friendly waves. Oh well, new kid on the block.

Soon enough the sunny yellow mums were in place and I stood back to admire our door.  It was cheerful and homey.

I opened the door and called, “Hey, guys! Come check out flowers!”

Tim, Katie and Matt put down their card game and came outside.

“Mom, it looks so pretty.”

“So…it’s only flowers,” Matt added but then laughed at his own weak attempt to be sarcastic when it was clear he liked them. Everyone agreed that it lifted our spirits just to walk through the door. 

“Want us to help clean up?” asked Tim as he surveyed the layer of dirt that didn’t make it into the planters.

“No, thanks. Go ahead and finish your game. I’m enjoying this.”

They disappeared inside, and I found myself humming as I grabbed the old broom that looked like Alfalfa’s hair and began to sweep.  Every few minutes I would stop, lean against my broom, and admire my handiwork. Joy.

“Susan!” I heard my name called from the street behind our building.  Annalisa was walking by.

“Oh, hi Annalisa,” I waved and smiled.

“Why you are doing that?” she demanded with a curious edge to her voice.

“Doing what?”

“That.” She motioned to the wreath and the flowers.

“Isn’t it pretty?” I straightened up with pride.

“In Italy, wreaths and mums…they are only for the cemetery.  They mean death.”

“Death?” I started to laugh. Once again, I had run right into another cultural wall.  But, since I was getting used to it, I didn’t really care. “In America,” I explained, “this means life…our life… behind this door.  And you are welcome to share it with us.”

We stared at each other for a long minute. I could see she was processing the English I had spoken.  She slowly nodded, and a half smile softened her features.

 “Besides, Halloween is just around the corner so it fits right in.” Her blank stare reminded me that Halloween was not celebrated here. Maybe I should quit while I was ahead.

“Crazy Americans.” She waved a good-bye and headed back into her house.  I continued to giggle to myself as I finished cleaning. Funny how something can symbolize death in one country and life in another. 

We made a family decision to keep the door decorated according to our own custom.  Though we knew it turned us into the “Munsters” on Via Fratelli Coda, there was just something about chrysanthemums in the Fall.

Milano Marittima

I had to edit this down to fit as a blog post, but I think you can get the gist! 

Though it was only May, Milano Marittima, a lovely beach town on the Adriatic Sea just east of Ravenna, was packed.  Sitting at an outdoor café on a snazzy strip it was apparent that everyone who was someone, or just looked like someone, was out in full force.  We were, of course, the five “fashion don’ts” in the midst of a thousand “do’s”.

I didn’t care.  I was used to it by now and casually ignored all of these beauteous people in their body hugging fabrics and Gucci sunglasses. I had more important things to consider, like our current Crazy Eight’s war.  Katie’s friend, Amanda, traveling with us again on this trip, shuffled the cards and dealt them with the seriousness of a casino employee. 

Ravenna is home to some of the most radiant and captivating mosaics in the world. Basilicas, baptisteries, and mausoleums blend classical construction, marbles and mosaics so magnificently that we spent two days standing in awe with our mouths open. None of us could believe the colors, still brilliant after many centuries.

I had dreamed of going to Ravenna since my art history teacher from Fairfield University expounded on its hidden treasures. It was a class I took only because I needed some random credits, but it was the one class in four years that took my breath away and opened up my tiny world. I had never been exposed to Art in such a way, and the passion of this teacher was contagious.  I wish I could remember his name.  If he were still alive I would call him this minute and thank him.

Tim, Katie and Matt had graciously accommodated my dream of coming here and admitted that they were pleasantly surprised. And then there was the added bonus of happening upon Dante’s tomb.  Who knew he was buried here?

            “Is anyone else hungry?” asked Matt as he put a King of Hearts on the discard pile.

            “Ummmm,” murmured Katie and Amanda.

            “I guess so,” I added throwing down a ten. “Why don’t we go find a cheap place to eat?  These café’s are too pricey.”

            “Perfect timing,” said Tim as he put his last card down.

            “Ahhhhh!” We chimed in unison, his sixth straight win.  Katie stacked the cards while Matt figured the scores.

            “Well?” I asked Tim.  We glanced at the beauteous bunch on the left and then at the beauteous bunch on the right.

            “There’s no elegant way to do this.”

            “You’re right.”  I said.  We were a little embarrassed of our mode of transportation.  And with good reason.

When we got off the train this morning, we were directed by an amused conductor toward the beach area to look for a hotel.  Little did we know that we had a long trek. He neglected to mention that it was more that two miles away.  As we walked and walked, we became a little tired, a little agitated, and a little desperate.  So when we saw those cute little pedal propelled surreys with the fringe on top lined up in a row, it seemed like a good idea.  Before we knew it we were speeding down the main thoroughfares in a mighty, apple red five-seater, dodging cars and scaring pedestrians. Our legs were like pistons. Poetry in motion. And, because there was no place to put our heavy backpacks, we piled them on top of the canvas roof.  This, of course, caused it to droop like a hammock and sit right on top of our heads.

It wasn’t graceful.

The waiter took our payment and the five of us walked over to the curb where the surrey was padlocked to the streetlight with a huge link chain (that came free of charge). 

          “Mom.” Katie whispered hoarsely.

          “I know. Nobody make eye contact.” I handed Matt the key and he unlocked the padlock as we took our seats.

           “Feet up!” Tim cried as he pushed the huge red monster out into the street.  From the beginning we had deemed it much easier than backing up with five sets of legs peddling at the same time. A distinct murmuring arose from the scores of onlookers. 

Tim leaped into the driver seat and yelled for everyone to start peddling with all of our might.  We were giggling so hard that I was glad that Tim was in charge of steering because any other of us would have crashed immediately. 

          “Go that way!” Amanda shouted and pointed.

Tim steered the surrey down the crowded street as people laughed and waved to us, shouting things we didn’t recognize.

           “What are they saying?” said Katie.

            “Probably curse words,” said Matt.  

We turned right into a lane of steady traffic. Unfortunately, most of the restaurants were on the main drag which was downright dangerous for us to be on with cars zooming by at forty miles an hour.

          “Pedal faster!” yelled Tim above the traffic.

           “That’s as fast as my legs go!”

            “Do you think those cars are honking at us?”

             “Tim, be careful!” I yelled as he smiled and pointed to a string of cafés on the right.

We veered sharply to the right and pulled up to a few restaurants and asked if there were any openings.  Everything that looked decent was booked. (We were a little suspicious since they didn’t even let us look inside to see if there were tables. They seemed to be sure, just from watching us pull up, that they were full.)

Being the kind of people who could take a hint, we decided to just go back to the hotel and get a burger from room service.  With much ado, we made a huge looping u-turn and headed back.  The sky was now black, the stars twinkling, and a half moon was peering out from behind shreds of clouds. With a cool wind on our smiling faces we pedaled in earnest.

And just when I thought that life could not get any better than that, Tim broke into a rousing chorus of, “Flintstones. Meet the Flintstones…” and the five of us were suddenly singing at the top of our lungs feeling more American than we had in a long time. 

The whole scene was so ridiculous that we were beyond the point of redemption and decidedly the most uncool people in town that night. The image of Americans abroad was plunging downward with the push of every peddle. But we were having fun, and that was all we seemed to care about those days.

We pulled into the hotel parking lot at warp speed feeling reckless and alive, weaving in and out of the open parking spaces in huge figure-eights, happy that no cars were parked to hamper our movement. 

Tim looked over at me and yelled, “Hold on, everyone! And feet off the pedals!”  Before I could respond he went for a full donut skid pulling on the steering wheel with all of his might.  The mighty red surrey spun in a circle as we screamed with delight until it came to rest two inches from a steel pole.

            “Nice move,” I said gasping for air.

            “That was close,” said Katie.

            “Good one, Dad,” said Matt.

Tim took a deep breath, reached his hand and pushed against the steel pole to move the surrey away so we could maneuver around it.

            “Feet on the pedals!”

            “Onward.”

            “From the town of Bedrock…” Matt began and with little coaxing our chorus continued all the way to the hotel.