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.

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.

Pamplona

“Ok, everyone.  Look at me and smile!”

I snapped a picture of Tim, Katie and Matt standing at the exact gate where the bulls would be released during the upcoming San Fermin Festival in Pamplona, Spain.

“Everyone ready?” asked Tim.

“Yes.”  And thus our trek down the cobblestoned route of the famous Running of the Bulls began.  When we planned this trip to Spain, our last for the year, we decided to make Pamplona a featured destination.  Due to the large size of the country and the small size of our now severely depleted finances, we chose to stay in the North Eastern area.  When we told the kids that we would get to see where the Running of the Bulls took place, we were greeted with blank stares.  They had never heard of it. All the more reason to go, we insisted. 

“Let’s pretend that we’re wearing white clothes and red neckerchiefs and sashes,” I said. 

“Why would we do that?” Matt glance at me, appalled.

“Because that is what everyone wears. See?” I said pointing to a shop window that displayed the ceremonial dress.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  They just do.”

“Well I’m not wearing that.”

“Matt, this is pretend.” Katie sighed.

We started up Santo Domingo St. and found it surprisingly narrow.  I had a hard time imagining six angry bulls charging through here with throngs of men running nilly- willy to get out of the way. Then I wondered if perhaps some forward thinking women of ages hence had designed this course with the advancement of their local suffrage movement in mind.  

Regardless of who started this whole business and why, it was thrilling to be there. To place our feet upon the same worn cobblestones that the bulls’ hooves had echoed upon over the centuries, and to rub our palms across the scars that crisscrossed the heavy wooden barricades that had been permanently erected along the sides of some of the streets to protect the onlookers. To smell the musty aroma of the old buildings and the centuries of fear and bravado swirling through the alleys like a steady wind.

I squeezed Tim’s hand and began to expound, mostly to myself, about the excitement, the passion and the glory of ritual. How I could feel it hanging in the air like a haze. Though I was greeted with eye rolls, I couldn’t stop myself from the need to be poetic and dramatic.

We crossed the Plaza Consistorial which was much smaller than it had appeared on TV.  Majestic and historic, it commanded our respect so I gave it the finest American salute I could think of.  I strode to the center of the plaza and twirled around a few times, arms stretched wide like Mary Richards before she threw her hat in the air at the start of the Mary Tyler Moore show.

Soon we were making our way along Mercaders St and took a right turn onto Estafeta St. which became even narrower. And then, suddenly, we were standing at the end which consisted of two wooden fences that form a funnel into the bull ring. From start to finish it took fifteen minutes as it was only about a half of a mile. According to the townspeople that we spoke to along the way, it takes just four minutes for the bulls to make it from one end to the other. 

I used to think that this tradition was ridiculous. Every July I would see a clip on the news and wonder, “What is wrong with these people?”  But travel has deepened the well from which I now draw meaning. 

As a family, we are changing.  We have begun to view our world from a new, less ego centric vantage point. It’s one thing to learn about humankind through a textbook, but placing our feet in the exact footsteps of other cultures has humbled us. We have been reminded that America is but one of the beautiful colors in the kaleidoscope.

Now, my reactions to such cultural events are not statements and judgments, but questions.  I am once again the student rather than the teacher.  I seek, in each culture, answers to deepen my understanding of what beauty is to them, what constitutes courage and valor, what instills pride and compassion.

“Let’s head over to one of those tables.” Tim pointed to an open square filled with restaurants. 

“I’m thirsty,” Matt said.

“Me, too.” added Katie. “Can you order us a Coke while we check out that souvenir shop?”

Tim and I sat for long time drinking in the sights and sounds Pamplona.  A band began to play at the far end of the plaza, and Katie and Matt returned with t-shirts and a key chain commemorating this event that, until today, they knew nothing about.  They stood proudly and shared with us their purchases as well as the local lore that the shopkeeper revealed to them.

Tim and I exchanged knowing glances because we saw it, again, in their eyes.  That spark that was becoming a regular thing now.  The one born of the excitement of being a real traveler on the open road of life.

September 11

This found its way out of my journal and onto this webpage in hopes of inspiring others to pray for those who mourn this week, and every week.

9/11/08

It has been seven years since I stood in my California living room, in body numbing shock, and wondered if my brother, his wife, and my nephew were dead.  All three of them worked in or next door to the Twin Towers.  I remember willing myself not to entertain such a reality as all of my reserve was needed to shuffle my feet toward the kitchen to call a cell phone that I hoped was still working. It took six tries before my shaking hands dialed the proper number.

Our family was lucky that day.  Thousands of others were not. 

This morning’s paper held fewer headlines to remind us of this anniversary. To be honest, I won’t ever need a paper to nudge my memory, but I fear that the families that lost a loved one are afraid that the lack of headlines is equal to the lack of remembrance.  I want them to know that this is not true, at least in my case.

Like every other 9/11 these past few years, I found myself heading toward church as afternoon made its way toward the dinner hour.  Helpless to ease the pain of our country, I felt the least I could do was to make a visit and pray for the victims and their families.  To pray for all of us.

I entered the chapel, glanced at the flickering candle above the door, and took a seat. The room was empty, and the afternoon sun through the stained glass window cut a mosaic path on the floor. Privacy, cool silence, a deep breath.  I closed my eyes and prayed, hard, for each and every hurting soul that was doing whatever it could to make it through these twenty-four hours, yet another year gone by.   

As expected, my stomach began to churn along with my feelings. When I return to that day, when I uncork those memories, my whole being reacts with a sense of deep repulsion. I don’t know how to do this. How to understand terrible acts done on purpose.

How can such evil exist?  Why do human beings inflict such pain on each other?  These questions are too big for me. I can’t imagine how they gnaw at those who are mourning family members and cherished friends today. How do we ache for our loved ones and handle the paralyzing anger at the same time?

Reaching for a bible sitting on a nearby kneeler, I decided to play the old ‘point the finger game’, where I fully expect God to use the bible like a celestial Ouija board. Rarely does it work, but I always attempt it with great optimism. The idea is to ask God a burning question and point my finger to a random page in hopes that the chosen passage will speak to my heart and calm my fears.  The last time I was desperate for a divine whisper my finger pointed to a passage that detailed the lineage of David.

With eyes closed I fanned the pages a few times until I felt the urge to stop and run my index finger down a section.  It took my breath away to see that the passage, Sirach 27-28 was about malice, anger and vengeance.  My heart pounded in my ears. Maybe there was something to this little game of mine. Maybe it was not a game at all. 

The message of surrender?  Even here?  Even with these heinous acts?  Leave the vengeance to God, it said. He in His own way and His own time knows when retribution will be most effective.

That’s a tall order if you ask me. Sometimes anger is the only fuel you have left.  Maybe the key is that it doesn’t need to be done all at once.  That it starts by handing it over to God for five minutes, then an hour, and then a day.  Letting Him fill those vacant spots in our hearts with the kindness of others.  He may want us to leave the anger to Him, but the comforting we can handle.  Americans are great at compassion.  And remembering.

When I finished, I sat quietly.  Counting the wall tiles, listening to the hum of the air conditioner.  It didn’t matter that none of the victim’s loved ones knew that I was sitting in silence praying for them.  I imagined solitary prayer soldiers like me all over the country saying prayers for families they will never meet. It is not a small thing to wish God’s graces and deep peace to those who are suffering.

Perhaps it is true that evil never sleeps, but neither does goodness.  Kindness and prayer are life giving and powerful. That we can handle. Americans are great at that.  And remembering.

May God bless us all.

Bogliasco

I ordered one scoop of chocolate and one vanilla.  Matt ordered the same.  I paid for our gelato and we moseyed out the door of the tiny café in Bogliasco.  It was well into intervallo on a blistering hot day, but the cafe had remained open for desperados like us. 

We plopped down on a worn wooden bench in the town square of this tiny village on the coast between Nervi and Recco, where Veronica and Thomas had moved to recently after their lease had run out in Sori.  This morning Matt and I decided to hit the beach here since we had nothing else on our agenda.  I called Veronica and Emil to join us but she declined explaining that they had an appointment with someone about a new loan for the villa in Busalla.

Our snack was a welcome break from the scorching sand and sun. We ate it slowly and savored every bite.  We had gotten into the habit of examining and describing our gelato indulgences in detail. 

“Oh, my goodness.  This is soooo delicious.”

“Can you taste the vanilla bean?”

 “The chocolate is unbelievable.”

“Take tiny bites and just let them melt on your tongue.”

 “Oh no, it’s almost gone.”

“Stop eating it so fast.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I only have two bites left.”

“I only have one.”

“That was soooo good.”

Contented sigh in unison.

 “Can you throw these cups in the trash over there?”

Matt slowly walked over to the trashcan in his navy bathing suit and silver-framed glasses.  He was on the brink of adolescence, and I could see his handsomeness looming on the horizon.  He was teetering on the official “awkward stage” but Matt was one of the lucky ones.  He was adorable, and he didn’t know it.  And that was not just his mother talking as I had been informed that Sonia, an older girl in school, was hot on his trail.

I loved that he still thought that it was a wonderful idea to ride the train to Bogliasco with his mother to go swimming. And I loved that I didn’t have to fit this in on alternating weekends. 

We had found a spot on the beach and laid out our towels.  I stretched out with a book, and he immediately went to explore the water’s edge and climb the huge rocks and boulders that hugged the coast.  He was not one to sit still, but I was.  It was enough for him that we were in close proximity of each other. 

He deposited the trash and came back to sit on the bench.  He smiled and stretched his long limbs. 

“So what do you want to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

 “That gelato was so good.”

“I could eat some more.”

“Me, too.”

“Seriously.  Wasn’t that the best vanilla and chocolate you ever tasted?”

“Definitely.”

“Two more scoops?”

Matt’s face lit up like I just promised him a million dollars.  We got up and hurried back across the street. The shop owner’s eyes twinkled when Matt told him what we wanted.  He filled two more cups and handed them to us.  This time we sat inside the shop at one of the tables. 

“Oh, my goodness.  This is soooo delicious.”

“Can you taste the vanilla bean?”

 “The chocolate is unbelievable.”

“Take tiny bites and just let them melt on your tongue.”

 “Oh no, it’s almost gone.”

“Stop eating it so fast.”

“I can’t help it.”

 “I only have two bites left.”

“I only have one.”

“That was soooo good.”

Contented sigh in unison.

Being in the Middle of Life is Hard

This chapter is a bit long for a blog post.  I hope you will forgive me.

Veronica and I scurried along the dark path that bordered the dormitory style building in our matching white terry cloth robes and wide, black hair bands to pull the  hair out of our eyes.

 “I think we look like angels,” I whispered.

“But our halos are black,” she giggled.

“That’s probably fitting.” 

The ominous clouds had turned the sky to a pool of ink and the breeze through the vineyards was sweet and heavy with unfallen rain. We carried armfuls of toiletries as the villa had only a group bathroom and we, at midnight, had finally decided to get ready for bed.  We giggled our way down some stairs and across a driveway toward a light that shined though a window.  A beacon in the night. We had had enough wine to choke a horse.

We had returned to La Madonna for a few days.  Veronica’s friend, Annika, whom we had met the first time around, had brought another group of women here on retreat.  There were a few extra rooms so she asked us if we wanted to join them. We were packed and ready within minutes of her call.

We joined a varied gathering of Swedish women who had come for some downtime and self induced TLC.  They had names like Liselotte, Marta, and Annalie, and all of them were lovely and more than happy to be in Italy in this beautiful villa hidden in the rolling hills of Alessandria. 

We had spent the evening dining in a room with original arched brick ceilings and beveled glass windows that looked over the valley below. In the candlelight, the oversized mahogany table glistened, so solid and rich that I had to run my hands over the surface to explore the tiny divots and depressions. An ancient table that made me wonder if it had been built by the same hands that had carved out the wine and root cellar below.

Once again, The Moroccan Princess served us regional food from Piemonte, and poured glass after glass of local wine. Veronica and I happened to sit next to two best friends, Siw and Tina, who would soon be turning forty.  Much to my delight they were fluent in English, and we spent the evening getting to know each other. They were amusing, and the four of us were surprisingly comfortable and open in our conversations, like we had known each other for years.

Toward the end of the meal, the handsome blonde owner, Bjorn, again took out his guitar to entertain us. It made me remember that great night in his wine cellar back in the fall so I was ready for some fun.  His first selection, however, was a somber rendition of Eric Clapton’s “Nobody Loves You when You’re Down and Out.”  

I kicked Veronica under the table and gave her my best “what the hell…” look.  She mouthed to me that Bjorn and his wife were going through a divorce.  No one at the table knew how to react to the tragic turn of events.  Soon he was singing other Swedish tunes that were so somber that some of the women started crying. 

I persevered and sipped my wine for as long as I could, but when it became obvious that Bjorn was ready for a complete emotional meltdown, Veronica and I decided to make a break for it.  While we still had some optimism left.  We slipped out unnoticed, tiptoed away from the melancholy, and went back to our room to wind down, hash over the day’s events and get ready for bed.

As we approached the bathroom, I heard a call from the dark. “Psst.  Hey!”  Siw stepped into the light startling us into another fit of giggles. Her straight brown hair gleamed in the light.

“Do you two want to come to our room for a party?”

“A party?”

“Sort of a post “Bjorn” party. Something a little more upbeat,” she laughed. “We are not ready to go to bed, and you two are fun.  Would you like to come over for a while? I’m just headed to the kitchen to find some Sprite or something.  We have some vodka and gin.”  I needed more alcohol like a swollen river needed rain.

Veronica and I looked at each other and shrugged.  “Sure…we’ll be there in five minutes.” We washed up, threw our stuff back into our room and headed over in our bathrobes and PJ’s.  I felt like I was eighteen and sneaking into my friend’s dorm room at college.  To be honest, it was a great feeling, like I was not myself for a little while.  Like I was not 44 and carrying life’s battles and issues around in heavy grocery bags. Like I was really the age I felt inside, not the age I looked in the mirror.

Veronica knocked on their door, and Tina invited us in to their tiny room.  They had set two folding chairs near the ends of their beds so we could all sit in a circle.  In the middle was a little collapsible table on which they had set four plastic cups, a can of Coke, and two teeny tiny airplane size bottles of vodka and gin. We all burst out laughing and proceeded to make four teeny tiny cocktails. 

            “Sorry, this is all we have.”

            “This is perfect, I’ve had enough anyway.”

            “Your room is nice. Different from ours,” said Veronica.

            “We think it is cozy.”

            “Tina especially loves the quaint floral bedspreads,” Siw teased her friend who laughed, obviously hating the bedspreads.

            “They are nice,” Tina said smoothing her blonde hair behind her ears in mock defiance, “If you are eight.”

            “Cheers, ladies,” Veronica said as she held up her plastic cup. “To life, and to lovely vacations from life in Italian country sides.”

            “Cheers.” We said in unison as we clinked our cups together.

For the next hour or so we talked and talked like four old chums.  They opened their souls and shared their private pains, and we did the same.  It amazed me that though their culture and language were so different from mine, we were really sisters on the deepest level. Their issues and problems, hopes and dreams, and moments of disillusionment and clarity were the same as mine. Laughter and joking softened the hard edges of the feelings that were revealed, but we all agreed that “Being in the Middle of Life was Hard” no matter who you were or where you lived. 

Through all of our talk, we solved no one’s problems.  Because that was not the point of discussing them. The point was to connect and feel that we were not alone in our discovery that life had not turned out according to plan. To remind each other that life was a mystery that continued to unfold, and moments like this made the journey great.  To meet another soul unexpectedly and be touched in a way that renewed our humanity, giving us strength, somehow, to let go of outdated life choices and embrace new possibilities. To listen to another’s journey and find the courage to grab her energy and use it to follow our own dreams in a life in which we were suddenly aware of an endpoint.

Halfway to dawn, Veronica announced that sleep was calling her name in a loud, cruel voice. Before I could agree, Siw put her hand on my arm, “One more question.”

“Okay.”

            “Veronica, your husband has a busy job. But Susan, what do you and your husband do all day?” she asked me.

            “Some days, we just go for a cup of coffee.  That’s all we accomplish. But the fact that we are drinking it together in some unknown little café in some unknown little town that the rest of the world does not know about…that is enough.” I said, aware that something in the air that changed, a sudden riptide of emotion.

            “I barely remember when that was enough.” Siw’s eyes glistened with unexpected tears. “The story of how you came to Nervi,” she said, “it amazes me.”  The room was suddenly very still.  “I don’t think I have the courage to do it.”

Siw tilted her head backwards and looked toward the ceiling to keep the tiny pools of tears in her eyes from streaming down her cheeks.  Tina handed her a tissue.

“I often daydream about leaving my husband, or doing something different with my life,” she dabbed at her eyes and inhaled, “but then I just throw in another load of laundry or start dinner.”  She looked away and the rest of us sat, misty eyed as her words bounced around the room and then settled on the floor. “I will think of you often,” Siw turned to me openly weeping, “and what you did.”

“And I will think of you often, too,” I answered gently, “and pray for you and your husband. That you will find your way back to each other, and one day sit together over coffee, knowing, with all of your heart, that it is enough.”