Finding Amy: Letters From Europe

2011-09-19T17:05:00.001-07:00

Ponte Vecchio-Firenze

2008-12-08T06:53:00.000-08:00

Lost and Found

2008-12-08T06:26:00.000-08:00

Now that I have been home for a week I feel it's time for reflection on this incredible journey and on the person I was, am, and hope to become.

Lost: Insecurity
Found: Confidence in my ability to adapt to new situations and environments.
In Progress: Confidence in my ability to handle anything life throws my way.

Lost: 49 pounds
Found: A new wardrobe! I recently met an old friend for dinner, and as he followed me out of the restaurant he commented, "You're so small!" Believe me, I have never had anyone say that to me before and it feels wonderful.
In Progress: Still working on self-esteem.

Lost: Friends. Dusty, my best kitty friend, and Sharon, who was a constant source of support and encouragement these past months when I was lonely and far from home and those who loved me. Au revoir...until we meet again.
Found: Friends. Perry, Terri, Michael, Maria, Laura, Francoise, Frau and Herr Froehlich, Claudio and the crew at Bar Signorelli, Elona and Antonio at Casantonio, Chiara, Barbara, and Carol.
In Progress: Maintaining those friendships and establishing a new network of friends.

Lost: Exhaustion and despair.
Found: Rest, peace, and a renewed enthusiasm for life. Isn't it wonderful!?!
In Progress: Learning to stay centered.

Lost: A job.
Found: A potential job. Application in progress....

Lost: Frustration.
Found: A higher level of patience and tolerance.
In Progress: Continuing to display tolerance and patience consistently.

Lost: An adversarial relationship with my children, partincularly the elder one.
Found: New ways to handle my frustration and a refusal to let my children draw me into a feeling of helplessness and depression over what I cannot control. I have made opportunities to communicate more open with my boys and the older one is sharing things with me that he has never before shared.
In Progress: Finding ways to communicate more openly and ways to help my boys become independent.

While I have returned to an "old" life, I have returned as a new person. Life is wonderful and I can't wait for my next adventure!

I wish to express my gratitude to all who have helped me in so many ways, both large and small, during the past 9 months. I love you.

2008-12-02T09:04:00.001-08:00

Hello,

I have arrived home safe and sound.

I am sorry to announce that a friend from Central Texas College recently passed away unexpectedly. She was extrememly encouraging and supportive of my decision to undertake this journey. She is one of the friends who kindly mailed me care packages of needed items when I was in Italy and always had a kind word when I needed it.

Sharon, you are loved and will be missed more than you could ever know. It has been my honor to know you.

Remember, friends, life is so short and tomorrow is not promised to any of us. Please follow your hearts, pursue your dreams, and LIVE.

Amy

Altar and Organ at Pisa Duomo

2008-11-26T03:03:00.000-08:00

Arno River in Pisa

2008-11-26T02:53:00.000-08:00

2008-11-26T02:51:00.000-08:00

Pisa on a Whim

2008-11-26T02:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Saturday, I went to Pisa, a decision I made late Friday night. I am becoming brave!

I woke early, at 5:10, in spite of a night of restless sleep…first a dog barking incessantly and then a rain storm with terrible winds. I walked through the darkened streets, and watched the town just beginning to wake. My favorite bar was brightly lit and I saw someone inside huddled up in the kitchen, probably warming their hands in the oven. The 6:20 bus to Terontola arrived first which took me right to the station where I caught the 6:45 train to Firenze, and, after a quick change, the train to Pisa Centrale.

After a bathroom stop at the station, I walked across the street and partook in an Italian tradition, a coffee drunk standing at the counter of a bar. I had a small map of Pisa, but stopped for a larger one at the tourist office, around the corner from the bar. My Lonely Planet guidebook suggested it would take about twenty-five minutes to walk to the duomo and I suppose it did, but now that I have achieved a higher level of fitness, I just don’t notice those walks much anymore. Hurray! I crossed the wide Arno River near a tiny, but ornate church called Santa Maria della Spina, so called as it was built to hold a single thorn reputedly from Christ’s crown of thorns. This beautiful little church huddles curiously on the sidewalk right at the edge of the river.

After another 10 minute walk, I crossed a wide pedestrian mall containing the Piazza dei Miracoli, to behold a breathtaking sight, the duomo and its world-famous bell tower, Il Torre Pendente, the leaning tower of Pisa. I approached the tower from the side beneath its precarious tilt, feeling curiously uneasy as though the brilliantly white structure might actually topple over on me in spite of the team of engineers who strive to keep it leaning, but upright. It was a gorgeous day and the sparkling, crystal structure stood out magnificently against the cerulean sky. I took a multitude of pictures, and then purchased a ticket to visit the baptistry and the cemetery (said to contain soil shipped from Calvary during the crusades) contained within the piazza, neither of which, in hindsight, were really worth the money.

I enjoyed the duomo, which had an immense, flat ceiling decorated with carved wooden rosettes painted with gold leaf similar to the ceiling of Santa Maria Maggiore which I visited in Rome. I wandered around, slowly, admiring the frescoes and the brightly-colored stained glass windows through which the sun shone sending a series of miniature rainbows bouncing around the interior of the cathedral. Fortunately no one seemed to mind picture taking so I snapped away happily.

After visiting the cemetery and the little domed baptistry, both more impressive from the outside than from within, I walked back toward town to explore the medieval alleyways. I popped into a couple of shops but didn’t find anything other than some 3-D Christmas labels to purchase. I turned left upon reaching the flat, wide Arno River and walked a couple of blocks before returning to the piazza to locate a likely place for lunch. Many of the cafés and restaurants in the area feature annoying employees who stand prominently near the entrance and attempt, rather obnoxiously, to lure you in for a drink or lunch. I avoided these places and selected one where a waiter stood ready to answer questions or provide a seat, but did not actively pursue my business.

I was seated outside at my request and when I heard a couple speaking English behind me, I inquired if the young woman was enjoying her pizza. She said it was very good so I ordered a mozzarella, speck (rather like prosciutto), and gorgonzola pizza, which was tasty although I would have preferred a bit more gorgonzola. The couple, he was 58 and she 22, continued to chat with me and the conversations took an oddly circular yet strangely unrelated path; she talking of their travels together and where she’d like to visit next, and he of his life as a butcher and of the importance of a quality cut of meat. I could never ascertain their relationship…they’d obviously traveled together before and yet there were no obvious endearments nor did she call him “dad” or “grandpa”. The man was annoyingly persistent in his notion that Americans are wealthy and money is no object when it comes to our spending habits. He also wanted to know if Texas has many buffalo and inquired if the “Indians” still want some of their land back. All in all a rather unusual lunch conversation, but they were friendly and lunch passed quickly in their company.

After lunch I felt as though I had seen what I wanted to see in Pisa, so I walked back to the station and caught a train for home. All was well until I tried to open the door to exit the train at Camucia and the door wouldn’t budge. I was forced to travel on to the next stop in Terontola, where a young woman and I had the same problem until it occurred to her (but not to me) that the train had pulled up to a platform on the opposite side of where it normally arrives, and sure enough, the door on that side opened! I guess I will need to learn to check BOTH sides before trying to get off the train. I was left to purchase a bus ticket from Terontola to Cortona, a distance of about 10-15 kilometers, and then wandered the tiny village for an hour trying to keep warm until the bus arrived. When I entered Cortona it was to find workers hanging Christmas lights down via Nazionale and across Piazza della Repubblica. I wonder when they will turn them on!

As of Tuesday, the holiday lights are still dark, but we had snow yesterday morning! Enormous, wet flakes which hit the ground with a juicy splat, and made carrying an open umbrella a necessity. I also received a heartfelt and loving email from my friend, Perry. Its contents are private, but suffice it to say, his friendship is a joy to me. How lucky I am!

The Snowflake Window

2008-11-21T09:00:00.000-08:00

The Orvieto Duomo

2008-11-21T08:56:00.000-08:00

A Six Minute Romance

2008-11-21T08:51:00.000-08:00

Like Tuesday, Wednesday was a clear and refreshingly brisk, no, downright cold, day so I decided to board the train to Orvieto. Orvieto is about 1 hour away on the Firenze-Roma train line, meaning I would have to make no transfer. I caught the 10:31 train in Camucia which actually pulled into the station ten minutes late putting me just slightly behind schedule. Because shops and attractions close from 1:00 until 4:00, particularly in the off season, sightseeing trips require careful planning.

My friends, Perry and Michael, told me to be sure to see the duomo and to get a tour of the caves of Orvieto, if possible. Pulling into Orvieto I was amazed by the fortress-like appearance of the town perched high atop a rock of volcanic origins like an eagle resting majestically on its nest. To access the steep rock, one purchases a ticket then walks across the street to the funicular (funicolare in Italian), where the ticket is inserted in a machine which validates it, then allows one person at a time to move through the turnstile. I was lucky enough to walk in and find the cable car waiting for me. In due time the car began the steep ascent and, near the middle, I noticed that the track branched before coming back together. I was curious about this branch, but quickly learned that there is a second cable car at the top of the hill and the two are carefully orchestrated to meet, and pass, each other at this branching of the track.

I gained access to the hill at one end and promptly began walking up a slight grade into the town proper. It is an attractive town of stone streets and narrow medieval alleyways, like most of the Tuscan hill towns. I knew the duomo was scheduled to close at 12:45 so I took my time looking in shops as I walked up, thinking that I would eat lunch while the duomo and shops were closed and tour the church interior when it reopened at 2:30.

As I walked into the Piazza del Duomo, I was amazed by the sheer size of this monstrous church and the bright colors of both the frescoes and the marble decorating the exterior. In addition to the shimmering paintings, the facade was covered with extravagantly carved figures and laced with windows, each as intricate and delicate as snowflakes. I snapped away, taking picture after picture of the magnificent structure, although I was disappointed to be unable to get a photo of the entire front of the church. The piazza was too small for me to get the entire structure in my viewfinder. I noticed groups of people being shepherded out so assumed, correctly, that the church was closing, so I turned and walked up a narrow street to explore the town.

Eventually I found myself at a small trattoria called La Grotta, where I stopped for my new favorite lunch; tagliatelle al ragu’, followed by tiramisu and a caffe latte’. This time the tagliatelle was made and sliced by hand, each lovingly prepared strand taking on a ruffled appearance as though cut by the shaking hand of an ancient nonna (grandma) clad in ubiquitous black. The tiramisu was heavenly and the coffee favored by this restaurant was particularly good.

I enjoyed a leisurely lunch and a friendly conversation with an American couple sitting next to me under a fresco which looked to be a woman whose head was being trampled by a bunch of human feet, a curiously unpleasant image which the restaurant chose to decorate its business cards. A most peculiar choice, I thought. I rounded the corner and walked back to the duomo and killed a bit of time shopping in a shop specializing in regional products and art featuring the town Orvieto. I saw some spectacular postcards showing an aerial view of Orvieto, its rooftops dominated by the monstrously huge and brilliantly colored cathedral. I would love to fly over Orvieto in a helicopter to get that incredible view.

I trailed into the cathedral upon its reopening and walked slowly around the interior, admiring the stained glass, frescoes, and unusual windows made of individual panes of translucent alabaster, unlike anything I have ever seen. As in most churches, a sign was posted prohibiting photography. I usually ignore this directive; however the guards must have seen intent in my eyes because they were all over me like a bad polyester leisure suit. Eventually I saw several other people pull out their cameras and begin unconcernedly snapping away, so I did likewise, discreetly, and the guards said nary a word. Of course, the church interior was dark and the pictures did not turn out as well as I had hoped. That’s what I get for ignoring the rules! As I eased my way toward the door I was struck by an overwhelming urge to sneeze which I tried to stifle by closing my mouth. This unfortunate move simply caused me to emit a tremendous quacking sound which bounced and echoed embarrassingly around the spartanly furnished interior like a fart let loose in a library. Boy, were the acoustics ever good.

I caught the 4:31 train home, having missed the cave tour due to the late arrival in the morning. As the train pulled into the Terontola station, the one prior to Camucia, I was leaning on a small counter looking out the window and thinking about what I was going to make for dinner, when I made eye contact with a dark-haired man on the platform. I was surprised to see that man pop into my car and ask if he could sit across from me in a nearly empty train car. I said, “Prego”, whereupon he sat and asked me where I was from. He asked my name and then introduced himself as Giuseppe. I took his outstretched hand and was surprised when he leaned over, kissed my right cheek, then tried to kiss me on the lips! I turned my head and he got my left cheek instead. He looked puzzled and inquired, “You are married?” to which I replied, “No, non sono sposata.” He asked me what my plans were for the next day and then asked me to his house for coffee. I sensed it wasn’t coffee he was interested in so I declined and he offered to come to my house, again “for coffee”. As I declined I explained that I didn’t know him. Had he invited me to a bar for coffee I just might have accepted. He continued to ask me questions about myself for the remainder of the trip, gazing at me intently as he did so.
I know you are dying to know what he looked like. Surprisingly he was young, maybe 35, and nice looking, with a young, boyish face. He looked like a nice guy, the kind I would normally be attracted to, but I was a bit alarmed by his forwardness.

He went on to tell me about groups of people who meet at his house to discuss Mormon religious beliefs and theology and, suddenly, a light bulb blinked on in my brain. I think this man wanted to slip me one of two things:

1. The proverbial "sausage"; or perhaps,
2. The Book of Mormon

Perhaps here in Italy, the land of love, they practice religious conversion by way of seduction. Or maybe he was actually interested in me. I will never know as the train pulled into my station after a mere six minutes and my last view was of him, turned sideways and leaning forward intently, as though he were about to leap out of his seat and across the aisle.

So, why didn’t I just go with it and let him kiss me? I think mainly because I was caught completely off guard by his move and was a bit nervous as we were nearly alone in a darkened train car. I still don’t know what his actual intention was. So, folks, I missed my opportunity and will just have to settle for a six minute romance. Six minutes is better than nothing, isn’t it?

Cafe' Window in Firenze

2008-11-20T13:33:00.000-08:00

The Olive Harvest

2008-11-20T13:23:00.000-08:00

Un Viaggio a Firenze

2008-11-20T07:52:00.000-08:00

Tuesday morning dawned sunny, if not warm, so I got up and caught the 11:31 train to Firenze. I still had a bit of shopping to do, including the replacement of the gift for my son which I had left in the train station bathroom by accident.

The trip was uneventful, until a lady boarded the train in Arezzo with a large and unwieldy suitcase and, of all things, a metal garden trellis. It took her quite some time to arrange the suitcase in the aisle so that it would both hold up the trellis and impede traffic from other passengers, but finally she had the obstruction arranged to her liking. At the train station in Florence, she exited the train with a large, pink tote bag and the iron trellis, leaving the traffic-blocking suitcase for a subsequent trip. I thought I’d help her by toting her suitcase to the door only to discover it weighed at least 90 hemorrhoid-popping, bladder-leaking pounds. Had I looked at the suitcase label, I would have found that it was the Bulging Hernia model from the infamous Slip-O-Disk line of premium luggage. I rather wished la signora had left the trellis for me.

I decided to eat lunch at the same restaurant I had eaten last Tuesday, so began walking toward the Ponte Vecchio, window shopping as I went. Along the way I found a gift for my father for Christmas, and found and rejected several potential gifts for my elder son. The little restaurant was open and my little table under the heater was just waiting for me. I ordered the same meal, tagliatelle al ragu’, I had last week. I was about halfway finished with my rich and hearty meal, when 2 English ladies were seated across from me. We began to talk and I learned that they were there to celebrate their freedom, one having just obtained a divorce. We had a nice 30 minute conversation about freedom, and looking for what it is you want out of life, while I finished my meal and partook of some luscious, sweet tiramisu. I hugged them as I paid my bill and thanked them for sharing such a wonderful conversation with me. These are the experiences I came here for and which I savor.

After lunch, I trotted up the street about four doors to the shop those nasty little marionettes had locked me out of in the rain last week. I was happy to find it open as it has some lovely things. This is the same place where I bought the gold and pearl earrings which dangle from fleur-de-lis posts several weeks ago. This visit I found a lovely coordinating bracelet, which I could not resist. It is not the same design as my earrings, but is a similar style and they look very nice worn together. The bracelet contains three large pearls interspersed with two gold links of a leaf design on which is set a small, round garnet. This bracelet will always remind me of this wonderful visit to Firenze.

Judgment Day

2008-11-20T07:51:00.000-08:00

Well, at last a day of reckoning has come to me. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience, but it did help me clarify my priorities, and I have learned a big lesson. I am not going to share what happened as it might reflect on someone else, something I don’t wish to do, but suffice it to say I was not the friend I should have been and I shall be making an apology the first chance I get. In relaying my experience to a friend, she reminded me that situations that happen mirror my own life and are opportunities for growth and change. If I am judged by others, it is likely because I am sitting in judgment myself. Point well taken. Now, to make the necessary changes…

My friend, Perry, and I took his young sons to nearby Castelion Fiorentino on Sunday. Our original plans had been to visit Orvieto with Michael, sans bambini, however something came up for Michael and Perry had his boys unexpectedly, so plans changed. We bumped along in Perry’s little car, which is surprisingly roomy inside, and climbed the hill to the old part of Castelion Fiorentino, and parked the car near the fortress. A WWII German tank is on display which was a great attraction for two young boys and they enjoyed climbing on it. After pictures, we walked to a small park overlooking the Val di Chiana to soak in the breathtaking view, then walked through a stone gate with enormous wooden doors at least 20 feet tall and meandered to the top of the hill where there was an archeological museum. A sky-scraping stone tower, normally open, stood near the museum, but was closed for the winter. The boys were quite disappointed, but Perry promised them a return trip in warmer weather.

We continued to wander through the town until we found a loggia with a view of the church and it’s slim, elegant steeple reaching skyward. It was a photo opportunity I couldn’t pass up. The boys jumped around, climbed on things, and displayed the large amounts of energy that small boys have. It took me back to the time when mine were small and I wished I had stressed less, and enjoyed more them doing the things that little boys do. We stopped for lunch at a small pizzeria and they enjoyed pizza, which Perry said was outstanding, while I had some salmon pasta in a cream sauce as I have been craving salmon lately. After lunch we found a playground and I played with the boys, going down a slide for the first time in about 25 years, after which I joined Perry on a park bench to discuss parenting and relationships, while the boys played soccer with some local children.

On the way home, I pointed out a castle high on a hill between Castelion Fiorentino and Cortona. We took a vote and since none of us had investigated it, we decided to make a detour. It was a lovely day and we witnessed many people of all ages harvesting the olives which have now ripened into a dark, round richness dangling invitingly from branches burdened with slim, silvery leaves, and one elderly couple allowed me to photograph them. I snuck an olive off a nearby tree as we parked the car and set about to walk the circumference of the nearly restored castle. I have been told olives are bitter, and this was no exception, but it was much less bitter than I had anticipated perhaps because of its ripeness. It was very juicy and the liquid stained my fingers a purple color making me wonder if olives were ever used as a fabric dye.

The castle appears to be a residence with a set of doorbells set into the wall near the entrance, so we weren’t able to look inside, but as we drove back down the hill, I was able to take some lovely pictures as a memory of a wonderful day. I shall miss experiences like this when I return home.

Hair We Go Again

2008-11-14T02:31:00.000-08:00

On my way home from my trip to Florence, hair dried to my scalp unbecomingly, I stopped by the salon of David and Francesco to make an appointment for a cut. The sweet young woman who usually washes my hair and gives me the world’s best scalp massage, gaped at me in horror as she quickly scheduled an appointment for “Emy” for the following morning. It’s not that my hair was particularly long, mind you, but it had lost any semblance of shape and was becoming unruly around the face. Besides, after the seduction fiasco in Firenze, when else will I get a gorgeous Italian man to run his fingers through my hair?

I arrived at the salon at the appointed hour, having made four stress-related trips to the bathroom before hand, and was pointed to a chair by David’s father, Francesco. Francesco, carrying his sheaf of official looking papers, walked the salon like a maestro leading a symphony, directing both staff and clients with an inclined head here or a pointed finger there. This salon is customer service oriented, as demonstrated by the deferent staff removing and hanging your jacket and helping you back into it at the conclusion of your visit. I was directed to a chair and told David would be with me shortly; he was applying highlights to a client’s hair in the team approach used at this salon. I sat down and noticed the man who has done my color and cut before and he greeted me with a smile and, “Ciao”, obviously recognizing me from past visits. I was sorry to not have been scheduled with him because I now trust him, but it makes sense for me to see David as he is the only who speaks English. In due time, I was summoned to the sink where a handsome young man washed my hair and gave me the world’s second best head massage before leading me to a station to await David.

At David’s approach I confessed, “Ho paura”, I’m scared. He explained he didn’t want to take too much hair off the back and sides because it was still quite short from the Scalping in Strasbourg, but a bit more off the top to give it volume and lift. I agreed to the plan and he whisked around me, snipping in such a subtle way that I was amazed to look down and see just how much hair he’d removed. I also failed to notice him cutting the hair out around my ears until it was a done deal. Perhaps I was lulled by his fingers playing gently with my hair or maybe I was distracted by how handsome he is…I just don’t know. At any rate, when he began to cut the top I told him it was too short, and he took a deep, patient breath, and began to explain, yet again, how he was going to cut a little more hair on the top to encourage lift.

A young woman with colorful hair, who is apparently in training, set herself up at the station to the right of me and began to roll curlers into the long hair of a mannequin. All was well until she inadvertently knocked the roller-encrusted head off its stand and it bounced once and rolled under the station next to me. I nearly cackled, but upon seeing her horrified expression and hearing her make an excuse to David, who didn’t even acknowledge the incident, I decided not to call attention to it.

In due time my haircut was finished and David fussed endlessly over it, twirling and curling it with a tiny, round brush until he’d beat it into submission. Upon finishing, he told me that it would be the right length the next cut, but was still a bit short in some places and needed time to grow. As I eased up from the chair I noticed how sore my leg muscles were. Apparently I had kept them tensed in the “fight or flight” defensive pose assumed by animals drinking at the crocodile infested waters of the Nile, and woman who’ve had bad haircuts in France. If called upon, those legs could have lifted me out of that chair and into a martial arts split kick move which could knock the shears out of David’s hand to the left and Roller Head off its stand to the right, in a single fluid motion. Haaaiyahhh!

Crypt of Michelangelo Decorated With Three Muses Representing his Specialties: Sculpture, Architecture, and Painting

2008-11-13T08:13:00.000-08:00

2008-11-13T08:12:00.001-08:00

Fresco at Santa Croce

2008-11-13T08:09:00.001-08:00

Tiramisu and Caffe' latte

2008-11-13T08:07:00.000-08:00

Involuntary Abstinence

2008-11-13T08:02:00.000-08:00

Involuntary abstinence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Voluntary abstinence, in the case of my teenage sons, is. This was brought home to be when I traveled to Florence yesterday for a day of shopping, sightseeing, and general merriment.

My initial plan was to go on a shopping spree to Florence on a Friday or Saturday, weather permitting, visit Santa Croce Basilica, and eat at Mamma Gina’s restaurant where I would put the moves on Flirty, the waiter. I wasn’t exactly clear on how I was going to accomplish the Grand Seduction, but folks; I knew it was going to happen. I was going to do what every woman dreams of…I was going to have an Italian lover, at least for an afternoon. In short, I was going to GET ME SOME! That was the plan anyway.

Here’s the reality…the fog was so heavy on the weekend that I scrapped plans to go to Florence, thinking I would not really see much in the fog, and might even get lost. I wanted some nice, sunny, picture-taking weather. Monday is not a good day to visit Firenze as many of the shops are closed, so I carefully checked the weather forecast for Tuesday (Mother, you would have been proud!), and when the forecast was for partly sunny with a high of 66 degrees, and no rain, I decided to go for it. One hitch was that the restaurant was not open for lunch on Tuesday, so I decided to scrap the seduction plans, figuring the Universe was in charge and whatever was meant to happen, would happen.

I set my alarm and arose “early”, walked through the fog to the bus stop and then caught the 9:31 train to Firenze. There was quite a crowd on platform three where the train north always stops, but strangely, after an announcement in Italian, the entire Italian crowd moved across to track one. A minute later the announcement was repeated in English, informing us that the train would be arriving and departing from track one, rather than three, whereby the few remaining passengers trotted down the stairs, through the tunnel, and back up the stairs to join our comrades at track one. That was my first hint that the marionettes had made a sinister reappearance.

Upon arrival at the main station in Florence, I walked around the corner to the Sita bus station and purchased a ticket for the shuttle bus to the airport for my departure November 30th, then continued over the visit the nearby church after which the train station was named, Santa Maria Nouvella. It was a lovely, large church and I wanted to take some pictures, but was shocked to see that everyone visiting was following the “no picture” rule. This is unheard of in Italy, where no one follows the rules. I had to settle for a few illicit, no flash, photos as a keepsake of this lovely church.

Next, I visited the San Lorenzo market looking for some gifts and, as it began to rain, set off in search of Santa Croce. Of course, I failed to bring my umbrella as the weather forecast did not call for rain, and my thin cotton jacket failed to provide much protection. I had consulted my map before leaving home and it appeared that by staying on the Duomo side of the Arno River and turning left at the Ponte Vecchio, I would run smack dab into the basilica. I set off in this direction as the rain changed from a sprinkling of cold drops to a steady shower, bracing in its coolness, which quickly drenched my light jacket leaving me sodden and dripping. I walked on and on, block after block, and could not understand why I failed to see something as large as a basilica. The roads signs to Santa Croce ceased as suddenly as they began leaving me unsure of where to go. I ultimately circled the carabinieri headquarters, a fortress like building taking up an entire city block, whose gutters poured a Niagara-like torrent of water over the sidewalks I was forced to traverse. I could almost see those ghastly marionettes on the roof, cackling as they poured bottomless tubs of water on me like castle defenders attempting to turn back a tide of marauders with cauldrons of molten tar. My poor hands were so cold and wet they took on a pink and white mottling much like marble and I had to keep wiping my dripping nose on a square of damp and tattered toilet paper I’d stuck in my pocket for just such emergencies.

I finally turned around, returned to the Ponte Vecchio, and then continued up the street to a jewelry store where looking at the window display is like opening a chest of buried treasure and discovering a trove of glittering surprises. Unfortunately, the marionettes arrived before me, turned off the lights, and locked the door barring my entry. Hideous creatures!

Wandering back down the street I came upon a small café called Pino’s and, after a moment’s debate, I walked into the covered courtyard and asked for a table. I needed a warm coffee, if nothing else. They kindly seated me next to a large heating lamp and I spread my saturated jacket over the chair next to me to dry. I order my standard tagliatelle al ragu’, then finished with tiramisu and a large caffe latte. The tiramisu was huge, centered on a square china plate, surrounded by mounds of homemade whipped cream and sprinkled with cocoa. To die for! I popped into the bathroom and tried to make something of my hair which had shaped itself to my skull in dark, wet tendrils. I plucked and poked at the mass, sticky from hairspray, and when I was finished it appeared as though a tarantula has taken up residence atop my head, fuzzy legs sticking up here and there.

After my delicious lunch and a quick map consultation, I walked out of the café and then it happened. As I was crossing the street, who should be coming toward me but the WAITER, and did he ever look good in jeans and a denim jacket with a green, hooded sweatshirt underneath. Tall, maybe 6’2”, and very distinguished. I couldn’t believe it! Although the restaurant was closed, fate had intervened bringing this vision of manhood into my path! I’d love to tell you that he took one look at me, was overcome by lust, and had his way with me standing against the side of the nearest building, protected from the elements by an awning, but what actually happened was that he took one look at that hairy squid perched on my head, politely looked the other way, and continued up the street. Foiled again! Those darned marionettes must have gotten to him first!

After that disappointment, I was even more determined to find Santa Croce, which I finally did. It is a magnificent church, but I was disappointed to discover that the frescoes behind the altar were being restored and thus were hidden behind layers of scaffolding. This church contains the remains of Galileo Galilei, Machiavelli, Dante Alighieri, and Michelangelo (Buonarotti) among others. Although posted signs prohibited us from taking photographs, most people were doing so anyway, and so too did I. Two of my pictures of frescoes turned out very well and I will post them for all to enjoy.

As the sun set, I trudged back to the train station where I left a bag containing a gift for my son in the bathroom. Words cannot describe how quickly that bag disappeared. I just hope the person who found it needed it more than I did!

Even Michelangelo couldn't paint a cloud this beautiful

2008-11-10T11:04:00.000-08:00

Le Chianine

2008-11-08T05:44:00.000-08:00

A Feast

2008-11-08T05:43:00.000-08:00

Lost in a Fog

2008-11-08T05:39:00.000-08:00

Fog blankets my world in a coat of silence and has done so for the past four days. It’s cold, damp tendrils curl around one’s body insidiously waiting to wring out every last ounce of warmth. Needless to say I am back to wearing my scarf, with which I am sorely tempted to wipe my ever-running nose. The fog has allowed me to take some interesting pictures though and every now and again the sun creeps through to light the world in dazzling whiteness.

When I informed Maria that I had disclosed in my blog that I wanted to marry her brother because he makes EVERYTHING, her response was, “Ahhhh, and he’s handsome, too….Vittorio.”

Last weekend was a holiday and on Sunday, there was some sort of event involving the giostra del’archidado, the joust, from back in June. A number of long tables were set up in Piazza della Repubblica, covered with cloths, and mounded with bread, huge garlic cloves, bottles of wine and olive oil, and decorated with olive branches. The wedding party and members of the five quintieri were present, resplendent in their medieval finery, as were town dignitaries in their requisite dark suits. I saw the 5 neighborhood standards (flags) leaning against the wall. A large man in stained white trousers, which he had earlier been trying in vain to clean at Bar Signorelli, was waving his hands extravagantly and talking into a large camera held by a film crew as he enjoyed his moment in the spotlight. And, boy, did he want the spotlight on him. He was peering so deeply into the camera, as he would a lover’s eyes, that I am pretty sure he left a greasy nose print on the lens.

What most interested me was that a pair of Chianina cattle with inward curving horns, that were hitched to a colorfully painted wagon full of straw and led right onto the piazza. These cows were enormous, each standing as high at the shoulder as its human handler if not a bit higher. They were a good 6 feet tall at the shoulder, if I had to guess, and were gleaming white with large, soft, long-lashed brown eyes. It is rare to see Chianine (plural) because they are raised indoors. I understand they are easily stressed and to produce the magnificent beef they are world-renowned for, they must be kept in a tranquil, controlled environment. I was impressed by how calm they were in spite of the small crowd, the running children, and the wild gesticulations of the Man of the Hour making love to his camera. I will post some pictures that I took of the occasion.

News on The Waiter front, since I am sure you are all dying to know…..the woman I saw his son with is his sister, however I have been assured that he is “practically married” to the mother of his little boy. From the other things I have been told about him, he sounds like a good man. He is still friendly to me, generally acknowledging my presence in some small way; a nod, a chin tilt, a small, quick smile. Sometimes I go in the afternoon for coffee and he usually serves me. He’ll nod at the coffee machine and I’ll nod at him, and Voila!, a steaming caffe latte appears in front of me with the proper combination of sugar and diet sweeteners I prefer. He is a master of nonverbal communication. I am, of course, sorry that he is involved with someone, but glad that he is a nice guy. As long as he is happy in his life, that is all I could wish for him.

Speaking of being acknowledged, I was surprised to be standing at the bus stop in Camucia several weeks ago and having two men I recognize from Cortona, one in a tiny Ape, honk and wave at me. These gentlemen do not so much as look at me when I encounter them on the hill, so to say I was shocked would be an understatement. When I mentioned it to Terri, she responded, “They can’t talk to you here or it will generate a slew of conjecture and never-ending gossip. This is a very small town where everyone knows everything about everyone, even stuff that isn’t true.” While I love Cortona and will always treasure my time here, it is too small a world for me to be happy in for the long run. There are people here who have never been as far as Rome, 2 ¼ hours away, while I have experienced a bigger world.

With just three weeks to go in my journey, my thoughts turn toward home more and more often. I called the boys yesterday, before school their time, and had a really nice conversation with them, especially the elder one whom I often have difficulty communicating with. It is my goal, when I return home, to try to forge a more open relationship with both boys, one which encourages communication. I must make time to listen, something I have sadly failed to do in the past. It is time for new beginnings.

Cortona Window

2008-11-07T02:59:00.000-08:00

Autumn Colors

2008-11-07T02:56:00.000-08:00

A Bountiful Harvest

2008-11-06T03:18:00.000-08:00

I want to marry Maria’s brother. Never mind the fact that he’s at least my father’s age, if not older. Age is a trifling matter in this case.

Maria was visiting her family in the region of Campania, near Naples, this past weekend, and while there she visits her brother. Maria’s brother makes or grows EVERYTHING! His workers make both red and white wine from his grapes, olive oil from his olive trees, and sometimes she brings me tomatoes and lettuce grown in his gardens. One time her daughter, Laura, made a Moroccan dish with a rather leggy chicken raised by GUESS WHO? If Maria told me her brother was knitting yak’s wool sweaters for the family for Christmas this year from his resident herd of Tibetan yaks, I’d believe it!

Yesterday it rained nearly all day, quite heavily at times. About 5:00 PM, my lights flickered and died, so I jumped into bed praying the power would return before my frozen foods thawed. I hopped into bed as it was so dark there was naught else I could do. Two hours later I was relieved to hear the familiar grating and clunking of the rain-swollen wooden front door and the tinkle of the overhead bell which heralded Maria’s arrival home from Campania. I leapt out of bed and dressed by feel in the dark, hoping I hadn’t selected a black bra to wear under a white, sheer top, and peeked out my front door. I was amazed to see that Maria had turned on lights in the hall….and they worked!! I whined at her about my powerless predicament and she came upstairs and led me to the fuse box, by candlelight, and showed me where the circuit breaker had flipped. Problem solved!

After unloading all her goodies from the car, she trudged upstairs and gifted me with not one, but two 8 ounce balls of mozzarella di bufala, which is made from the rich, white milk of African water buffalo. I was inordinately relieved to see that the bag containing my milky treasure had the name of a shop on it. I had just begun to envision her brother, The Great Giaquinto, slipping into his dark basement and hunkering down to milk a water buffalo before returning above stairs to whip up some world famous homemade mozzarella in his Tuscan kitchen. Maybe, like a alchemist who turns base metal into gold, The Great Giaquinto tosses various and sundry ingredients into a caldron, waves a wand, and POOF!, out pop edible treats.

Maria invited me to go shopping at Coop with her this afternoon, but first, we waited for her friend who needed a ride to the hospital. We effectively bottled-necked traffic on via Roma as her friend reached the car, opened the door, and fixed me suspiciously with her gimlet eye as I beamed at her, angelically, from the backseat. We drove 10 minutes cross-country to the hospital and on the way I noticed a good number of farmers harvesting olives. After making the hospital drop it was off to Coop for the necessities of life like sanitary supplies, chocolate, and hair color.

When we returned to our house on the hill, I was in for another treat. Maria asked me to bring a small glass bottle down to her…the only bottle I had was a large olive oil bottle so I trotted it downstairs and she obligingly returned it full of……newly pressed olive oil! From The Great Giaquinto’s olive trees! She warned me that because it was new harvest oil, it was very thick with olive solids and I would only need to use a small amount. I promptly toasted some ciabatta bread and drizzled it with liberal lashings of the peppery, opaque, greenish-gold oil. Heavenly! It’s a good thing I dragged my waffly thighs up to Bramasole on a walk today.

I have so much slippery olive oil I might just break out the rubber sheets and invite some friends over for a Mazola party!

Ceiling Detail, Hall of Maps

2008-11-06T03:11:00.000-08:00

The Hall of Maps, Vatican Museum

2008-11-06T03:07:00.000-08:00

The Sistine Chapel

2008-11-06T03:04:00.000-08:00

After the tour of St. Peter’s, Barbara, Carol, and I had about two hours before our tour of the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel would begin. My companions both needed to conduct a bit of personal business, so we walked around outside the walls of the Vatican until we located an internet site and, around the corner, an ATM machine. After completing business we stumbled upon a small pizzeria where we stopped for lunch, choosing a small table near the window. The gorgonzola and sausage pizza appealed to all of us so we each ordered one…and it was heavenly; rich, pungent, gooey. Judging by the many moans emitted from our table, we were either enjoying the pizza or having a religious experience, or perhaps a bit of both.

After finishing the pizza and a bit of red wine, none of us really felt like going on a museum tour. A nap would have been much more my speed, but we had already paid for the tour and, besides, when would I ever get to visit the Sistine Chapel again? We dragged ourselves up the street next to the Vatican wall, over to a café’ across from the museum entrance, and down a flight of stairs to await the rest of our twenty member tour group. Our two guides arrived and we twenty were split into two more manageable groups and led into the Vatican Museums by way of a modern entrance.

The Vatican Museums are HUGE, room after room after room of Greek and Roman statuary, paintings, tapestries, frescos, and mosaics. The Sistine chapel is not reached until two hours into a three hour tour. I loved the gorgeous ceilings, which are all extravagantly decorated and painted. My favorite room was the Hall of Maps, an enormous, long room with an illuminated, arched ceiling divided into small sections, each one a different painting. Large, painted maps of the regions of Italy decorated the walls, including the painstakingly reproduced maze of canals that make up Venice. The maps are surprisingly accurate considering they were painted hundreds of years ago!

Finally, we reached the Sistine Chapel where the crowds of visitors were shushed into reverent silence. Pictures are not allowed in the chapel as part of an agreement with an Asian company who financed the 13 year cleaning of the chapel in return for a copy write on all images. We walked to the far end, where we had a magnificent view of the vast space. The entrance wall of the chapel featured a huge fresco done in shades of blue. If you look closely you can see that the painted figures are arranged in the shape of a human skull. We were told that Michelangelo was not happy about having to paint the chapel and was very upset when he climbed off his scaffolding to discover he’d made the figures too small. He was even less happy to have to repaint. We’re so thankful he did, though, as the chapel is an absolute masterpiece. The tour group was to have visited St. Peter’s at the end of the tour, but found it still closed after the special ceremony earlier in the day. Barbara, Carol, and I were so thankful to have taken the separate tour in the morning or we would have missed the basilica altogether.

We had debated walking back to the apartment on Piazza Rondanini by way of the Trevi Fountain after the tour, however dark had settled while we were inside and after 6 plus hours on our feet we were tired and voted to catch a taxi. Upon arriving home we walked around the corner, past the Pantheon glowing in the dark, to a small grocery store where we bought inexpensive wine, salami, proscuitto, fresh pecorino cheese, bread, and chocolate for dinner from a young, male cashier who was flirting with me. Cheap wine in Italy is exceptionally good and it is no hard task to drink quite a lot in a short amount of time, so after we three had finished two bottles, Carol and I volunteered to make a second run to the store for more while Barbara cleaned up after our feast. My cashier was still on duty and looked rather happy to see me, greeting me in English as I passed. As we wandered back past the Pantheon and turned the corner, we heard singing. Not knowing exactly what was going on, we debated for a moment, and then turned around to walk back to Piazza Rotunda. Lo and behold, a young man had set up a chair and a portable stereo and was singing Italian opera songs in a beautiful tenor voice. His white poet’s shirt billowed in the gentle breeze as he belted out lovely songs, including the famous Nessun Dorma. Carol quickly turned on her camera and made some short movies of his impromptu concert. Where else but in Italy?? It was a perfect ending to an incredible adventure!

Outside St. Peter's, Vatican City

2008-11-03T03:07:00.000-08:00

Dome at St. Peter's

2008-11-02T08:50:00.001-08:00

Altar at St. Peter's

2008-11-02T08:48:00.000-08:00

Michelangelo's Pieta'

2008-11-02T08:47:00.000-08:00

Touching the Divine

2008-11-02T08:37:00.000-08:00

We three had signed up for a “skip the line” tour of St. Peter’s Wednesday morning, and our scheduled meeting point was at the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore (Saint Mary Major, so named as it is the largest church devoted to the Blessed Virgin in Rome), which seemed odd as it is so far from St. Peter’s. I walked about 15 minutes from the hotel and Carol and Barbara arrived by taxi. Our tour guide, Catherine, a lovely young American, was late to arrive due to the school strike demonstrations which had relocated to Piazza della Repubblica, around the corner from my hotel. Catherine explained our meeting point by saying we were to tour 4 basilicas that day, the first being Santa Maria Maggiore. We were all surprised as the website where we booked the tour had not provided that information. In fact, the website provided very little information of any kind, and we were disappointed to learn that the Sistine Chapel was not a part of our tour, but rather is a part of the Vatican Museum for which we had not purchased tickets. Barbara, Carol, and I were the only guests on this tour so we had Catherine as our own private tour guide.

Catherine began our tour with the history of Santa Maria Maggiore, telling us that the Virgin Mary appeared to two men in a dream on the night of August 16 informing them that she would leave a sign where she wanted a church to be built in her honor. The next morning, August 17th, the two emerged to find that snow had fallen on one of the hills in Rome, and it was there the church was built. The basilica was once known as Saint Mary of the Snows or Our Lady of the Snows (I have heard two different versions so will provide both). Each year the event is celebrated by a special mass during which a ceiling panel is removed and white rose petals are released to float down gently upon the altar. A thought so moving it brings tears to my eyes even though I have not witnessed it. The basilica contained an enormous canopied altar the likes of which I have never seen before. After taking lots of illicit photos, we caught our private car for the trip to St. Peter’s, across the river.

Because St. Peter’s was scheduled to close at noon for a special service, we arranged to visit it second rather than last to ensure we didn’t miss it. We had to wait for a special guide to approve our entrance to the basilica so we did have to wait in a short line, which gave us ample photo opportunities. On either side of the magnificent basilica are two arching wings of columns encompassing an enormous piazza like a hug. The piazza can accommodate 150,000 people! As we approached the entrance to St. Peter’s we could see that it was guarded by young men in brightly striped costumes with ballooned, knee-length pants. We were told that these are the Swiss guards and each serves at least three years at the Vatican. They are all young men of Swiss nationality from good families and cannot have so much as a parking ticket on their record. They also speak 5 languages and are very friendly, answering questions and posing for photographs with visitors. Catherine told us that Vatican City is a separate country with its own postal system and any postcards mailed from within its boundaries will have a special postmark. Unfortunately, none of the three of us had brought addresses with us so that we could mail postcards!

Entering St. Peter’s was like walking into a huge treasure chest filled to the brim with jewels, carvings, and all things gold, and size became relative. Catherine provided us some reference points so we could better judge the scale of the structure. The gold writing partway up the walls was twelve feet tall and an alabaster dove in the wall behind the altar had a wing span of 6 feet. To us it was a tiny little shape almost unrecognizable as a bird. In a chapel to the right was Michelangelo’s statue of the Pieta”, which is Italian for pity. He completed the statue when he was only twenty-four years of age. The Pieta’ was the most beautiful statue, and one of the most beautiful things, I have ever seen. The Blessed Virgin is serene and breathtakingly beautiful as she gently cradles her dead child. We were not able to approach the canopied altar, much like the one at Santa Maria Maggiore, due to a huge bank of chairs set up for the special service in the afternoon, so we contented ourselves with viewing the bodies of three canonized popes, the resting places of various dignitaries, and the gilt opulence that surrounded us. We peeked into the wedding chapel, which Catherine told us has a 7 year waiting list! My head was spinning as I snapped photo after photo of at least 5 painted domes. I have an obsession with domes it seems.

Upon leaving the grandeur of St. Peter’s we found that we were way over schedule. It was already twelve o’clock, the scheduled end of our tour and we had only seen two of the four churches. Our Roman driver was very put out and complained non-stop until we finally proposed a compromise. We agreed to forgo the last two churches if we were given a discount for the Vatican Museum tour which would afford us the chance to see the Sistine Chapel, something that was very important to me. The tour company agreed to this plan offering us a 20% discount which we all accepted. We were dropped off near the Vatican Museum for our afternoon tour which would begin at 2:00 giving us a couple of hours to eat and rest our weary feet.

Barbara, Carol, and Me in Rome

2008-11-02T06:26:00.000-08:00

The Pantheon and Fountain

2008-11-02T06:20:00.000-08:00

A Roman Holiday

2008-11-02T06:15:00.000-08:00

The day I traveled to Rome dawned overcast, but cleared slightly as I awaited the train in Camucia. I met a couple from England who were just completing a two week visit and I shared a small cabin in the 2nd class train car with them to Rome, a 2 ¼ hour trip past green hills, sheep-filled pastures, stunning hill towns, and through a series of ear-popping tunnels. The trip passed quickly, engaged as I was in conversation with the friendly couple, and before I knew it we were at the Rome Tiburtina stop, which was the English couple’s transfer point for the train to the airport. An Italian man quickly took one of their vacated seats and chatted with me in basic Italian until we arrived at the main train terminal in Rome, Termini.

Termini is an enormous station with several levels and more than 40 platforms and I had arranged to meet Barbara and Carol’s train about an hour after my arrival. In the event we missed each other at the platform, our alternate plan of action was to meet at the café’ across from the bookstore at the exit to the terminal. I headed off to explore the station and found it took me 10 minutes to locate the bathrooms! I then located the café’, browsed the bookstore, and went to check the arrivals board for my friends’ train where I encountered a problem. The arrivals board clearly lists incoming trains, time due, and actual arrival time; however the section which identifies the arriving track was blank. I checked the printed schedule which suggested that the train from Perugia was due at track 2, however I know the Italian way of doing things, so walked ½ mile down to track 2 to find an outgoing train to Ancona already occupying the track and not due to depart for quite some time. I trudged back to the café’ and saw another arrivals schedule which stated the Perugia train would arrive on track 1, so I dragged my carryon 8 minutes back to track 1, but when I didn’t see my friends, I fell back on Plan B, and crawled back to the café’ where I found them about 10 minutes later.

We headed out of the main exit on Piazza Cinquecento and began the walk to my hotel located about 600 meters from the station. The going was difficult considering the weight and inmaneuverability of Carol and Barbara’s luggage and the fact that we had to traverse up and down curbs, in and out of seemingly illegally parked cars, and around pedestrians who were determined not to give way. Also, the frequent consultations of the map served to slow us down. Eventually we found my hotel, Hotel Patria, whose lobby was lit with alien green florescent lighting which gave our complexions a sickly cast as though we’d just emerged, eyes blinking, from 10 years spent in a cave. I checked in and we encountered problem number two when we boarded a taxi for Piazza Rondanini where my friends were staying in a small apartment. Apparently a school strike and demonstration was in progress, so the taxi could only get us to within about a half mile of the apartment. We unloaded the “body bag” and I took some of the load including a heavy backpack whose straps were adjusted to fit Barbara’s narrow frame. I could get it on, but it kept my shoulders at such an extreme outward angle that I couldn’t get my hands within 6 inches of meeting. Our taxi driver gave us directions and we headed off, loaded down like camels in the Serengeti, toward banks of police vehicles and nattily dressed carabinieri (police) with their knife-pleated trousers and jaunty berets. We quickly became distracted, gaping as we were at the gorgeous hunks of manhood strutting and preening in front of us, which necessitated stops every 10 seconds to consult the map, a laminated number which Barbara whirled around with increasing fervor like a ninja in a poorly dubbed martial arts film. Some news cameras scanned us as we stood, vulnerably exposed, in the no man’s land between hordes of brick-wielding throngs of demonstrators and the tear gas carrying carabinieri, safely enscounced behind their Plexiglas shields. Okay, it wasn’t really that dramatic, but we definitely felt that we were where we shouldn’t be and that all eyes were upon us. Eventually we did locate the apartment and a suspicious character named Marco, who gave us all the heebie-jeebies, let us in and turned over the key.

The setting sun found us drinking wine and cappuccino at a small bar in the piazza, after which we walked to Piazza Rotunda, site of the Pantheon, a 2000 year old structure looming menacingly from behind a large fountain. The piazza was ringed with ristoranti, all of whom had sharply dressed receptionists trying to lure us with promises of a fantastic dining experience. It was early and we weren’t yet hungry so we walked past enormous columns into the Pantheon itself, which has been converted into a Catholic church. We wandered around the interior of the structure amazed by the gigantic dome and the engineering brilliance of the ancient Romans.

After taking pictures it was off to view Piazza Navona and its magnificent fountains and then an aborted attempt to find Campo de Fiori. Somehow we got off track and found ourselves in uncharted territory. After getting directions from some other tourists, we stopped for dinner at a pizzeria. I ordered pizza and consumed every last morsel, while my companions tried two different pasta dishes. As we sat at our outside table, listening to heavy traffic and whiffing the scent of eau de benzina (gasoline), there was an ominous rumbling from overhead. “Pioggia”, declared the waiter, and sure enough, we just had time to pay for our meal and jump into a taxi when the skies opened and rain poured down. The taxi stopped near Piazza Rondanini, where Barbara and Carol jumped out and ran for their apartment, before continuing on to my hotel. There was a curious churning and gurgling in my now full stomach as the taxi bounced frenetically over cobbles and rough pavement and whirled around traffic circles at breakneck speed, with quick stops and head snapping accelerations. “She’s gonna blow”, I kept thinking to myself as I prayed we’d reach my hotel in time to avoid certain embarrassment, which we did. I crawled in bed, exhausted from all the walking, but excited about the adventure sure to follow the next day.

View of Rome from the Vatican Museum

2008-10-31T09:00:00.000-07:00

2008-10-31T08:57:00.000-07:00

Hello All and Happy Halloween!

I just returned from spending 2 days in Rome where I had the time of my life. Please stay tuned as I post blog entries and pictures in the next couple of day!

Miss you all!!

Me and Flirty

2008-10-28T03:24:00.000-07:00

Buon Compleanno

2008-10-28T03:18:00.000-07:00

I saw Frances Mays at the fruit seller’s in Cortona today. And her Italian is even worse than mine.

I also encountered my elderly Italian gentleman at Bar Signorelli with an older gentleman and two Americans. They asked me to take a picture of the four of them with their coffees. The Americans went on to introduce my friend to me as “Armando” and they said he and the other gentleman have olives trees and they, the Americans, have come each of the past four years to help with the harvest. I would have loved to have asked more questions about the olive harvest and the pressing of the oil, but didn’t want to intrude on their time together. They offered me a coffee, which I declined graciously, and returned to my table where an elderly Australian man was waiting to chat with me. I am not accustomed to being so popular!

Something mildly disturbing happened last night as I was trotting down via Roma to take my trash to the dumpster outside the walls. A lady, who I happen to know works with my friend, Terri, popped out of a side street with the son of the waiter I am so attracted to. I know she has a boyfriend…and now I wonder if it is he. Of course, that would mean that Terri knows and didn’t tell me, perhaps thinking it would just make me feel bad if I knew. I really can’t bring myself to ask her. If this woman and the waiter are a couple I really would rather Terri had done the humane thing and put me out of my misery by telling me. Perhaps I could have avoided some of the six months I have spent forlornly pining over someone who may not be single. At any rate, in a small town such as this I dare not been seen paying attention to any unavailable man, so when the waiter made eye contact and nodded at me today, I could only look away. Unrequited attraction really sucks and sometimes it’s downright painful.
Saturday, October 25th, was my birthday. I spent it in Firenze with Carol and Barbara as I had volunteered to be “Sherpa” for the day and help them on and off the train with their accumulated baggage. Their landlord had arranged for us to meet a taxi at Piazza Garibaldi which delivered us to the Camucia station. The 9:31 train duly arrived and we lugged suitcases and a rolling duffle dubbed “the body bag” onto the train and found a trio of seats together.

I spotted a woman sitting near the bathroom accompanied on either side by two, larger-than-life ceramic dogs wrapped in sheets and inserted into large tote bags. The dog figures were so large that top two feet stuck out of the tote bag, well above the length of the handles, rendering the tote useless. My companions liked the ceramic figures, but I thought they were just awful. I can’t imagine wanting a couple of three foot tall china dogs taking up space in my living room, giving me a fright in the middle of the night as I wander to the kitchen to satisfy midnight chocolate craving. The poor woman struggled off the train at the first Florence train stop with her unwieldy load and onto an elevator designed to take her to the tunnel to exit the station. Of course, like many of the train doors in Italy, the elevator failed to operate properly and we watched for 3 minutes as the doors closed and the elevator descended a mere eight inches before returning to its former position, over and over. Personally, I think she should have left those hideous dogs in the malfunctioning elevator and walked home without them, but she appeared determined.

We lugged the baggage off the train at the Santa Maria Nouvella station and walked one block to the hotel where Carol and Barbara checked in before making a quick tour through the San Lorenzo market. Barbara lived in Firenze for four months several years ago and was surprised at the changes she saw in Florence and the throngs of pedestrians crowding the sidewalks.

We walked over the jewel-encrusted Ponte Vecchio and made a right-hand turn on the street leading to Ristorante Mamma Gina’s, where Terri and I had eaten lunch three months previously. We were seated at a corner table for three in a room with a vaulted ceiling and had the same flirty waiter Terri and I had on our visit. We shared some red wine and a bruschetta with tomato appetizer, before diving into plates of pasta with meat and mushroom sauce. The waiter, Claudio, took some pictures of us before surprising me a panna cotta (cooked cream) glazed with raspberry sauce and topped with a lit candle, and singing Happy Birthday in English. We three shared the sweet, creamy dessert, but could not finish it. Flirty, the waiter, teased me about not finishing it and before I knew it he was stroking my left cheek with his finger. I am almost embarrassed to admit I thoroughly enjoyed the attention and was actually purring like a cat in the sun. Carol and Barbara insisted on treating me to lunch although I, in fact, wanted to treat them. They are such generous and gracious ladies!

After lunch we exchanged hugs and parted ways as I had some shopping to do and they, with only 2 short days in Florence, had some places they wanted to visit. I left them in search of Santa Felicita’ and the lovely Pontormo painting that brings Terri such joy, and headed off to buy myself a birthday treat, some lovely earrings I had seen back in June. I purchased a few Christmas gifts before walking back to the train station and catching the slow train to Camucia. It was a wonderful birthday and I am thankful to have spent it in such fantastic company!

A Party

2008-10-26T05:04:00.000-07:00

Thursday afternoon I climbed the steep and treacherous hill to Carol and Barbara’s apartment, with its rooftop terrace and panoramic views from every window, to confirm our Saturday departure time for Firenze. They welcomed me in and we climbed myriad stairs to the living room. We agreed on a time for departure and they reported that, rather than taking the bus to the Camucia station, their landlord had arranged for a taxi. I also had a proposal to put to them and I wanted them to have time to discuss it in private before they gave me their answer Saturday. I would love to see Rome; the Vatican, the coliseum, anything and everything, and since they were going next week I proposed to meet them there and join them for some sightseeing. I didn’t, however, want them to feel obligated to include me on their vacation, and was surprised when they agreed immediately.

I will take a train to the Roma, which is a straight shot from here in Camucia, and meet them at the Termini station near the book store on Wednesday, October 29. They will be taking a train from Assisi the same day. They are staying near the Pantheon so I will attempt to book a hotel in the same general area. I booked a tour of the Vatican for $70, the same tour on which Carol is booked and which Barbara later booked when her “after hours” tour fell through. It is expensive; however it is a 3 hour tour which enables us to skip the long (2 hours) wait in line for entrance to the Vatican. I am very excited about this big adventure and very appreciative that these ladies are willing to include me as it is just not something I would do alone.

The three of us walked to via Nazionale for an aperativi (before dinner drink) and encountered Perry who said, “I was just looking for you.” The previous week we had discussed getting together for my birthday with Michael and Terri. Since Michael was leaving for a vacation home to England the next day, tonight was the night. Carol and Barbara were invited to join us at Fuflun’s at 8:00 for the festivities. After a lovely glass of Chardonnay, I ran home to clean up and change clothes before dinner. I actually arrived at Fuflun’s ahead of everyone else, but since Terri had the foresight to make a reservation it wasn’t a problem. In due course everyone joined us and I was surprised to be gifted with a magnet of Cortona, a cute little bowl decorated with a sunflower and a spout for an olive oil bottle. Such lovely gifts!

Appetizers’, salads, and plates of pasta were ordered, my old favorite tagliatelle al ragu’ for me. Several bottles of red wine were requested and the conversations became louder and more boisterous as the level on the wine bottles declined. I would say we were fairly obnoxious by the end of dinner, but having a blast all the same. We adjourned to a local bar after dinner and my companions had mixed drinks while I stuck to a small coffee with a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream. A friend of Michael’s, who is also intuitive like Carol, joined us and he and Carol engaged in some mutual, alcohol-fueled intuitive readings. She expanded my reading to inform me that in addition to a “big rock”, I would be leaving in a house near a lake with the balding attorney, who is also overweight, and we would be losing weight together. About this time, I am visualizing a short, portly, neurotic man like George in the Seinfeld TV series. Carol quickly corrected me, “He’s a NICE man.”, she stated.

After closing that bar, we walked to the head of via Nazionale to the Route 66 disco where we met an American woman traveling alone. She shared her bottle of wine with us and another bottle was ordered. She has done something similar to what I’ve done, quit her job and run off to Europe. She was very thin and pretty, with long, red hair and the two men in our group quickly refocused their attention on her, one of them saying, “You have beautiful hair.” I will say that she did not seem particularly interested in either man and was more interested to sitting with the women of the group. What is it with men? They are swayed by every pretty face that passes by. I am not at all secure of my ability to hold any man’s attention for the long term as I am sure their eyes will follow every slim, pretty woman who walks past. Oh well.

Route 66 closed about 30 minutes after our arrival, by which time it was 2 AM. We all headed our separate ways with the exception of Terri and Perry who escaped to Perry’s to finish the last bottle of wine. They later told me they stayed up until 7:30 AM. Subsequent encounters with them in the following days showed two weary people with red-rimmed eyes. It was a great party!

San Gimignano Shrouded in Mist

2008-10-26T04:56:00.000-07:00

The Joy of Friends

2008-10-26T04:55:00.000-07:00

I am so lucky to have met some wonderful people on this journey and, particularly, here in Cortona. A friend told me, not long ago, about an incident I had long since forgotten. Apparently we were talking about family and friends and the importance of each in one’s life. This particular friend is not especially close to her family emotionally, has not married, and although she truly wanted children, her destiny has not afforded her that opportunity. She depends greatly on the close friends that she has and during a discussion I, who was lucky enough to have a husband and children of my own at the time, told her that friends are fine, but it’s FAMILY that really stands by you in times of need and it’s family who will be there walking us through the shadows as this physical life ebbs and comes to its conclusion. She told me recently how much pain my comment has caused her. It must have seemed as if I was flinging my good fortune at having children in her face. To say I felt, and still feel, terrible would be an understatement. That I could be so arrogant about my fortune in telling her that friendships are secondary to family relationships still floors me.

What’s more, over the past 5-10 years my opinion of the role of the various relationships in our lives has been completely altered. Families are incredibly wonderful and I consider myself lucky to have both of my parents in my life and to have been gifted with two sons. However, I now realize that having a blood family does not necessarily mean that those family ties are strong, close, and emotionally nurturing. Relationships are complicated and come with no guarantees. As I have matured, the value I place on my few friendships has increased tenfold. There is something so fundamentally different about family, who may well be in one’s life out of guilt or duty, and friends, who share your life because they want to. A lucky few have loving relationships with both family and friends.

On that note, my new friends, Barbara and Carol and I took the bus to Arezzo on Tuesday and walked a mile to pick up the rental car, a slightly dinged up, silver Fiat Punto, my rental car of choice in Italy. Barbara elected to sit in back where she caught up on some much needed rest while Carol and I chatted our way to San Gimignano. The heavy mist and fog cast each small town in a shroud of mystery. The leaves on the trees and the grape vines, now stripped of their precious bunches of sweet grapes, are turning gentle shades of yellow and orange.

Upon reaching San Gimignano, we dropped Barbara at the front gate to save her the walk up from the parking lot, and Carol and I parked the car and walked up to meet Barbara. Along the way we walked past a stone wall and under an arch covered in vines, whose leaves had turned the most beautiful shade of rich, pink-red, accented with tiny, blue berries. We stopped to take pictures, which I posted on the Blog earlier this week. We each wandered the town doing a bit of shopping and taking pictures. Carol absolutely loved the town and was very glad we’d come. We took a leisurely lunch at La Stella, The Star, and we shared an appetizer of prosciutto, salami, and Pane Toscano then main dishes of pasta. We had a long conversation about our Spiritual beliefs and past readings we have received from Intuitives. Carol is also intuitive and told me she saw a “big diamond” in my future along with a really nice man, who is possibly an attorney. I guess time will tell.

We had a drink at an outdoor café, eiscafe’ for me, and drove back to Cortona where Carol and I tried to figure out the whole gas pumping self-serve mystery. The hardest part for me was putting the gas cap back in and, finally, Carol took over and completed the task as I was obviously unable. What a nice day with friends!

2008-10-24T11:42:00.000-07:00

Terri, Perry and I on via Nazionale

2008-10-24T07:48:00.000-07:00

Osteria del Teatro

2008-10-23T02:36:00.000-07:00

I met Barbara and Carol near Bar Signorelli and we walked around the corner and up the hill to the restaurant where they had made a dinner reservation. We were shown to our table in the back room by a young, dark-haired waiter who left us with both English and wine menus. Another older waiter brought us a tall, while candle which he lit and left on the table. I ordered a rare glass of red wine while my companions each had a small bottle. After placing our order, we relaxed and chatted until we were interrupted by the rough sound of large cardboard boxes being cut down for disposal. Amazed that such a task would be performed in a nice restaurant at dinner time, we turned to discover that the sound was actually that of a woman slicing enormous loaves of the impossibly tough saltless local bread, Pane Toscano, with a large, sharp knife. A basket of this tasteless stuff was later delivered to our table and went largely uneaten. I find I need to douse it with good olive oil and salt to really be able to eat it.

In due time dinner arrived: long, hand-rolled strands of pici pasta coated with the wonderful, rich Tuscan red meat sauce for me; tortellini stuffed with pears and cheese for one of my companions and pasta with lemon and scallops for the other. We all agreed we couldn’t eat the two plus courses most Italians eat so we elected to get a “primo”, first, followed by dessert. The waiter quickly reappeared wielding the biggest pepper grinder I have ever seen. It was at least 3 feet long, constructed made of wood, and we were offered a grinding of “big pepper”. I suppose the purpose of the grinder was so that the waiter could pepper the meals of all diners without actually walking around the table. It’s likely a good thing I am not employed at that restaurant as I am fairly certain that I would leave the dining room in a cloud of pepper and a cacophony of sneezes having dosed every tie, bosom, and crystal goblet of wine with a liberal coating of tiny black specks.

Dessert was a cooked pear served, with stem attached, swimming in a bath of warm, melted, semi-sweet chocolate. Yum! It was so decadent and sensual it should have been consumed in the nude with a partner!

During dinner the ladies and I decided to pool our resources to rent a car the following and drive to San Gimignano which Carol had never seen. We made an online reservation agreeing to a ridiculous amount of money with plans to meet at Piazza Garibaldi to catch the bus to Arezzo at 8:30 the following morning. We quickly ran to the tobacco shop before it closed for the night to purchase our bus tickets and the ladies walked me back to the Mansard for the “grand tour”.

Fall Colors in San Gimignano

2008-10-22T08:26:00.000-07:00

2008-10-22T08:24:00.000-07:00

A Compliment

2008-10-22T08:22:00.000-07:00

Monday, after coffee and a ritualistic daily trip to the internet point, I treated myself to lunch at Fufluns. I sat at a table in the small side room with the arched, red brick ceiling so reminiscent of a wine cellar, and tried to decide between tagliatelle al ragu’ or my favorite pizza crostone. I have not indulged in the wonderful rich, red, Tuscan meat sauce since my return to Italy and, while I was sorely tempted, I stayed true to my old favorite, pizza crostone. I read a bit while awaiting my pizza and overheard two American women sitting at the table directly to the left of me. I eventually struck up a conversation and we three chatted away through lunch. They are here in Cortona for one week and then will visit Florence, Asissi, and Rome to complete their 2 week visit. Both ladies, Carol and Barbara, have visited Italy many times and Barbara speaks Italian about as well as I do, due in large part to an informal conversational Italian class she takes as a member of an Italian organization in San Diego where she lives. At the end of lunch I was surprised and delighted to have been invited to join Carol and Barbara for dinner. I wasn’t sure where the restaurant was, so we agreed to meet in front of Snoopy Gelateria at 7:30.

I took my leftover pizza home in a box and wouldn’t you know I came face to face with the waiter on via Roma. You know, as a larger lady, I hate being seen eating unhealthy food or carrying large food boxes through the streets, so I was none too happy to have been caught by the waiter. He was wearing a white button-down shirt and black dress pants with a royal blue sweater tied around his shoulders by the sleeves and he looked great! He mouthed a silent greeting at me as we passed like two ships bound for different ports of call.

Maria caught be on the way upstairs and invited me for a walk later that afternoon. We drove partway to the Monastery, Le Celle, The Cells, where she attends church, parked the car and continued by foot. We visited San Francesco’s cell as we had during our visit last spring and I took a picture in the small chapel adjacent to his cell. The bubbling torrent of water running down hill through the monastery has dried up leaving just a few determined puddles of water behind. I am so glad that I took some pictures of the stream on my last visit. The woods were quiet and peaceful as we strolled over the arched bridge and up the hill to the parking lot. The walk back to the car was up and down a number of hills but the sun was warm on our faces and we walked slowly savoring the tranquility. Maria mentioned that she had run into the elderly gentleman who used to stop me to discuss the weather, the man with the face sculpted by a life of joy and happiness. He lives in our alley and he stopped her to mention he’d noticed that I had returned to visit and had lost weight.

I dressed for dinner in my “Cruella de Vil” purple shirt, so named because it has a rather high cruel collar, an open neck, and a bodice fastened by tiny buttons, reminding of me something wore by the evil villan in the 101 Dalmations movie, along with a new necklace purchased from the shop Terri works in containing dangling tiers of purple, pink and gold-colored beads. While departing my alley I encountered my elderly friend whom I greeted. He stopped, grasped my hand and complimented me on my weight loss saying I was “piu’ magra e piu’ bella”, slimmer and prettier. He continued on for quite some time and, true to form, I understood only about 10% of the conversation. Somehow it didn’t matter. I understood what he wanted to tell me and appreciated his kindness and effort in doing so. I notice that he no longer talks to me about the weather, however he has begun to wink at me every time I encounter him in the piazza. What a flirt!

A Sudden Longing

2008-10-20T02:27:00.000-07:00

All of a sudden I am homesick and longing for my home, family, pets, and to be near those who love me. It came over me like a curtain falling on a darkened stage yesterday, October 17. I will not be coming home early as I would have to spend a large amount for a ticket and I could not ask Maria for a refund as I know she depends on this income, so I will just use this time to work on my continued growth. I always felt that I would know when it was time to return home and I feel that time is nearing. I had such a nice talk with my boys and Tim last Sunday evening. The boys are growing and changing so quickly, and while this break was good for us all, I miss being a part of their lives.

I had a bout of the flu earlier in the week, mild, but unpleasant. It struck without warning as I walked in the park and I was glad to be near the public restroom. Maria was a dear and made me chamomile tea in a blue mug to settle my stomach and later brought up vegetable soup, blended smooth so as not to upset my tummy. Such kindness.

Yesterday I received a box of paperback books, generously sent by my mother. It felt like a celebration as I cut open the brown package and toss bits of crumpled newspaper to the side to uncover the surprises concealed within. A little bit of home all wrapped up in love to let me know I have not been forgotten.

It’s Saturday, market day, and my favorite porchetta man built me a huge, yummy sandwich which I am eating as I write this. I am beginning to understand a bit more of the language, but not so much that I really understand a conversation. I am beginning to differentiate people’s names from other words in a conversation and its makes me feel more a part of things when I know the names of those I see on a daily basis.

The lady at the internet site recognized me and shook my hand when I first saw her on my return. She is back to charging me for internet usage only every other day or so, rather than every day like she charges most people. While at the internet point today, three rather scantily-clad and generously proportioned American women walked in yelling, “Do you speak English? Do you speak Russian?” and laughing loudly. The one proceeded to stare down my cleavage so much that I nearly said something to her. All three spoke and laughed in raucous voices, horribly mispronouncing words in their feeble attempt to say “grazie”, and seemed to relish the attention they attracted. Just the kind of American tourist I strive NOT to be, but perhaps I am becoming a snob.

I had dinner with Perry and Michael earlier in the week at Perry’s house and, like true gentleman, they walked me home afterwards. I gave them the “grand tour” and chuckled about the excitement they showed over my automatic dishwasher. I hadn’t the heart to tell them that I never use it! Perry’s little ground-floor apartment is interesting. It’s located on a steep hill and the interior walls are brick. The kitchen still contains the manger with iron rings on the wall above where the animals were tethered during the room’s former use as a barn. In a deep nook in the living room, behind a window and hinged iron bars, is an acnient well still containing water. Perry days that rain water drains down the inside of the walls of the abode and into the well. He figures if he installs a pool ladder for access and finds a way to heat and agitate the water he’ll have a great party hot tub!

It is my birthday next Saturday. The big 4-6, and Maria and I plan to celebrate together. Perhaps we’ll share a drink at a bar or here at home. It will be nice to share my day with someone, but of course, my thoughts will be home.

Good News and Bad News

2008-10-15T02:35:00.000-07:00

I have good news and bad news. And it’s the same. I finally stopped by the farmacia, pharmacy, during a passegiata with Maria and hopped on the scale. The good news is that in spite of eating my way ‘round Europe, I have officially lost 45.25 pounds. The bad news is that, had I exhibited more self-restraint, I could easily have lost 60 pounds. I love to eat, and I am compulsive about it…a bad combination for weight control. However, I could easily have gained weight, so I am thankful for the progress I have made.

My days have settled into their old familiar cadence. Coffee in the morning (and a smile to the waiter), a stop by the internet point, then shopping for the day’s necessities, then housework, a walk, a rest in the afternoon, and dinner and TV in the evening.

The weather since my return has been glorious. Warm, slightly breezy days with incredibly beautiful sunsets. The leaves are falling and the ground is littered with chestnuts. Maria tells me that some are good for eating and some are not. The Val di chiana is turning from lush and brilliant green to brown as it prepares to slumber for the winter, and soon it will be the olive harvest. Perhaps somewhere nearby a truffle hound, his quivering nose to the ground, searches for a telltale scent in a clearing beneath a tree, his master ready to snatch the valuable jewel from between his jaws.

On my first full day back, Friday, I walked down via Nazionale and saw my British friend, Michael, who was nearly speechless upon seeing me. He jumped to his feet, and gave me a warm hug and a two-cheeked kiss, as did Perry, my other British friend who accompanied Michael. So nice to see friends again and their warm greeting did much to make me feel welcome. I sat with them and chatted for several hours. Upon hearing that I have never tried the luscious chocolates made at Cacao, a local shop, Michael disappeared down the street and brought not one, but nine yummy chocolates for me. I shared them around, but savored most for myself. What a kind and generous friend! I met Terri for dinner at Fuflun’s and we ate pizza and caught up on each other’s lives. She is so beautiful and it’s such a joy to see her again!

Maria was kind enough to drive me down to the newly expanded Coop store to stock up on some provisions yesterday. Things are just so much cheaper at Coop than what can be purchased up on the hill and I enjoy the larger selection of items. She and I decided we would celebrate my upcoming birthday together. Also, she seemed really to like the picture of Laura I had printed and framed for her. “Sua bambina”, your baby, I told her as she peeled back the hand-painted, silver gift paper. What better gift for a mother?

A View Painted by the Hand of a Master

2008-10-13T02:45:00.000-07:00

Tuscan Sunset

2008-10-12T03:37:00.000-07:00

Coming Home

2008-10-12T03:32:00.000-07:00

Before leaving Strasbourg, I walked to a bakery on the next street over form Grand ‘Rue and bought a baguette garnished with salami, and lettuce. It was simply marvelous! At 11:30 my landlord, Francoise, came down to look at the apartment and I had to show her the cracked toilet seat which has taken to pinching my leg painfully leaving behind a row of partially healed scabs. I offered to pay for a replacement as I may have dropped the seat, damaging it, while I was cleaning. I just don’t know. Francoise declined my offer and wished me well on my way.

I loaded my heavy carry on on my back like a pack mule, grasped my steamer truck in one hand and my backpack/purse in the other, and headed off the “Grand Isle” toward the train station. Tiny drops of rain began to pitter pat on the pavement as I reached the bus stop near the train station. Fortunately I had to wait only about five minutes before the bright yellow Lufthansa bus arrived and the driver kindly opened the luggage compartment and helped me stow the truck beneath the bus. I chose a prime seat…in vicinity of the bathroom, of course. I dozed fitfully, waking several times to find my mouth hanging open unattractively. I hope I didn’t disturb the other passengers with my snoring. The drive to Frankfurt was beautiful with the trees wearing their autumn coats in shades of yellow, orange, and red. A landscape painted by the hand of a Master.

It was quick work to check in, get my boarding pass, clear security, and locate my gate. The flight was pleasant and uneventful and I was happy to discover that my seat belt now closed easily and I could tighten my belt about 1 ½ inches. A far cry from the painful squeezing I received on arrival in April! My suitcase arrived without incident and I was off on my way to the bus stop. A review of the bus timetable revealed that I just missed the bus and the next was not scheduled for 50 minutes. Two other ladies found themselves in the same situation so we decided to spend a bit more and share a taxi to the Florence train station, Santa Maria Nouvella. I used the automatic ticket dispenser to buy a train ticket to Camucia, the city at the foot of the hill on which Cortona rests. I also called Maria to give her my estimate time of arrival, but had to leave a message. Entering the last car on the Chiusi train, I found a seat and stowed my gear next to me for the 1 hour 45 minute trip. A smiling half moon followed me from Firenze to Camucia and I knew the Universe was smiling on me when the train door opened easily and I dragged my luggage off to find Maria waiting on the platform.

We chattered away, catching up on all the news, during the short drive up the hill. Maria has let her hair return to its normal wavy style and it’s so flattering on her! She shared a bowl of delicious homemade vegetable soup as I hadn’t eaten in hours and then I took a quick walk around town to make sure everything was the same (as Terri later commented rather drily, “Cortona hasn’t changed in 3000 years.”) before curling up in my familiar bed. I am home.

Strasbourg at Night

2008-10-08T12:26:00.000-07:00

People, Weather, and Dreams

2008-10-04T09:18:00.000-07:00

I like to sit at the same table at the cafe each morning because, as mentioned before, I am a creature of habit. I prefer to sit under the front window which gives me a panoramic view of the cafe. It is the one time of the day I am in proximity to people and I find I enjoy watching what goes on as people come and go buying breads, pastries, and quiches, or relaxing while enjoying coffee or tea and croissants. It makes me feel more a part of life here and not just a foreign speaking stranger.

I often see an older gentleman who comes to drink coffee and eat a croissant while reading the paper. He is close to 70, I would think, and wears his gray hair tied back in a neat pony tail. He sports a t-shirt with a design stretched over his generous frame, belted trousers, and a blazer. I imagine he was extremely handsome in his youth and he has a poetic and romantic look about him.

I regularly see another man while walking down the street in the opposite direction. He is rather petite, with a large head, wavy, blonde hair, and brilliantly blue eyes. He is a regular fixture at the saloon around the corner and can usually be seen holding up his end of the bar or warming a chair at a small table on the sidewalk, beer in hand. He usually makes eye contact with me, and greeted me with a, "Bon jour", when I quirked my mouth at him the other day.

All of a sudden, Christmas is in the air. Although it was 55 degrees yesterday, it felt like winter. People are wearing hats now and I have retrieved my off-white knit gloves from their home at the bottom of the suitcase. The breeze is cold and the damp air can be chilling. Sidewalk gelato carts have been stowed away and shiny, locomotive-styled chestnut roasters have been wheeled out and heated up, their vendors dispensing tiny brown paper cones of the warm treat. I have never had roasted chestnuts and I will try some before I depart on Thursday. Strasbourg hosts a large, world famous Christmas market during the month of December and I am sorry to miss it this year. There is nothing like the sights, sounds, and smells of a holiday market to get me in the spirit of the season.

Saturdays are busy in Strasbourg, with stylishly dressed couples walking arm in arm up Grand' Rue toward the majestic cathedral, and families with children and strollers in tow browse the elegantly designed window displays of the shops and boutiques in this area. I wish to have someone to hold hands with as we stroll up the street, shopping, and nipping into a cafe for a warm, luscious hot chocolate and light, fluffy croissant, stopping when tired for a romantic, dinner at a table graced by flowers and candles. I have never done that.

Discovering Strasbourg

2008-10-03T02:36:00.000-07:00

I wanted to visit the Musee Alsacien, the Alsatian Museum, so yesterday I walked across the island and over the river. I walked quite a long way around the island, looking in shops and boulangerie (bakeries) as I went. There are a fair number of Indian shops with interesting jewelry, scarves, fabrics, and other exotic treasures, however the strong smell of incense which permeates these shops and wafts out from under the door puts me off and I seldom enter, although I do enjoy looking in the windows.

When I reached the museum, which contains artifacts and recreated rooms illustrating historic life in this Alsace region of France, I found it was closed for refurbishment. I was very disappointed, however I continued to walk along the river. Eventually I passed a fork in the waterway and wandered into unknown territory. The river was quite wide by now and there were a number of boats tethered dockside, made into cafes and restaurants. I could see a large church, graced with twin spires and a large, round, stained glass window, in the distance. I have never seen this church before on my explorations and I wanted a closer look so continued on toward the magnificent structure. I carefully crossed the tracks of "the widow maker" (the tram) and approached the church, crossing back over the river to do so. I was disappointed to see the large wooden doors, decorated with wrought iron appeared to be closed firmly.

In Italy and Germany, I notice that churches are usually open to visitors in the afternoons, doors flung wide, inviting one to enter, sit, and pray. In France however, houses of worship seem to be locked up tight as though they wish to keep the sins of men, and the sinners themselves, at bay. According to my tourist information, churches do often have open hours, but with the thick doors closed, they aren't welcoming or inviting. A sad thing. Churches in the United States are like this. One isn't really welcome to stop in to commune with the Divine unless there is a service. Throw open the doors! Let people in and God out. That's what I like about my Spirituality...I can pray anywhere I like, at any time. God is there.

I had to be satisfied with taking pictures of the lovely church. I thought I saw the familiar large, green dome of the church I discovered a couple of weeks ago so I headed in that direction. When I walked a couple of long, city blocks, and the green dome no longer visible, I decided to backtrack so as not to get lost. The city is just like a maze to me, and what's worse is that the Ill River branches and circles a couple of times with some small forks, so there are a series of islands in Strasbourg. I have to be careful never to assume that by crossing the river I am back on my island. Therefore I explore slowly and carefully allowing myself to absorb each new part of the city I encounter, much like two young lovers each learning about the other.

Petite France, Strasbourg

2008-10-01T04:52:00.000-07:00

Time and Seasons

2008-09-30T04:23:00.000-07:00

Fall is here. The air is sharp and crisp, sometimes damp and heavy with a perfume of ripeness. It's harvest time...and grapes soon to be plucked, heavy with precious juice, from the life-giving vines which nurtured them. Olives are usually picked from small trees covered with slender, silvery-green leaves in November. I will be back in Italy when the olive harvest commences and can enjoy fresh pressed, greenish-gold olive oil freshly bottled.

The leaves are falling from the trees rapidly and swirl playfully around my feet as I walk through the city. I keep expecting to see roundly orange pumpkins decorating doorsteps, and champagne-colored cornstalks tied crisply in bundles and leaned decoratively in corners. Autumn in Texas is a joy as the unbearable heat of summer gives way to cooler air and the crepe myrtle outside my kitchen window turns a lovely shade of orange.

I found a scale at a local pharmacy and decided to weigh myself to mark the progress I have made. I tested the scale by my placing my purse on it, to find, alarmingly, that it weighed 41 kilos, in excess of 90 pounds. Even more suspiciously, my left foot weighed the same amount. Drats! The scale was broken. I guess the Universe interceded, preventing me from weighing myself, undoubtedly knowing this might have the power to cause me to focus obsessively on my weight and progress, or lack thereof. I suspect I have not lost as much weight as I would like to think I have lost. No real surprise as I eat a great deal and struggle daily with self-control. I have firmed up quite a bit due to the exercise which possibly makes me appear as though I have lost more than I actually have.

I am wearing a new pair of jeans. They are quite tight acting rather like a waist to knee girdle reducing circumference and controlling jiggle. They do give me nice legs though. Not thin certainly, but shapely. They don't do a thing to augment my flat ass however.

On advice from the Japanese gentlemen, Toru, I walked back to the cathedral at high noon to view the astronomical clock. Precisely at 12, a small bell sounded and a colorful wooden figure moved rapidly from the right side to the left and disappeared from view. I waited for more motion from the enormous time-keeper, but there was nothing. I confess to being a bit disappointed as I wished to see more. I had not even time to get out my camera before the show was over. I was interested to note that while the clock sounded precisely at noon according to my watch, the clock showed the time as 12:10. Maybe it needs a bit of winding.....

I got lost today. I went for a walk on the ring outside the island, in a direction I had never before explored. I walked in and out of sight of the river, my marker, and crossed the tram tracks, which I know intimately since I came about 24 inches from being run down by a tram the other day. I was so busy listening to music and watching for cars, pedestrians and bicycles, that I failed to noticed a 3 car tram approaching from the left. At any rate, I followed the tram lines away from the island, made two left turns, and was lost. I walked a bit in the direction in which I still believe the river lay and when I didn't see anything familiar, like a bridge or church spires, I turned around and retraced my steps, nearly taking a wrong turn. When I was in sight of the river again I crossed over and believed I was back on the island; however I didn't recognize the street or any of the shops. I walked along, planning to turn back if I didn't spot something familiar in a short time, and eventually intersected the street on which I live, Grand 'Rue. What startled me is that I came upon my street from the direction opposite of where I believed I was. I am not sure how my internal compass got so turned around, but it shook me just a tad and I had to fight the urge to sprint down the street and take refuge in my little home.

Announcement

2008-09-29T09:51:00.000-07:00

I am excited to announce that my son, Jordan, who attends Copperas Cove High School, placed 8th at his Cross Country meet today and won his first individual medal!

The Market

2008-09-26T05:12:00.000-07:00

There is a market in the old city on Fridays. I followed the cobbled streets to the market area today and was amazed by the variety of items on offer. In my experience in Germany and Italy the items for sale are mainly clothing, shoes, purses, and a variety of linens and housewares. This market had all that plus what I think of as the more traditional offerings of fruits, vegetables, cured meats, cheeses, prepared foods, bakery and breads, fresh meat and seafood. In fact, the smell of seafood permeating the air reached my nose before I ever reached the market. I was very excited...it was a real market! I didn't buy anything, but enjoyed browsing around even though the food stalls were beginning to pack up for the day. I loved the variety of cheeses; sharp, creamy, or pungent, in slices, wedges and wheels; all mine for the choosing. After all, I am a cheesehead from Wisconsin by birth.

In the large market square near L'Aubette, I was happy to discover a bookstore with a large selection of books in English. I chose two crime thrillers by Kathy Reichs and may go back for one by Jonathan Kellerman. In Germany I found some British authors I really like; Cody McFadyen, Stuart McBride, Tana French, but had read the few books they carried by those particular authors. If I could stand blood and violence I would say my calling is in law enforcement, but I really don't think I can deal with the reality a career like that would entail, so I live vicariously.

Having never lived near the epicenter of a bustling city, I am constantly amazed by the numbers of people I see at all hours of the day. It's almost as though no one here works. They are all on a perenial holiday: dressed elegantly, sipping cappucinos and eating croissants at sidewalk cafe's with their boutique bags of treasure propped beside them; riding bicycles, a long, golden, French bread poking out of a basket loaded with tonight's dinner; or tall, stylish men with dark hair conversing on cell phones in elegant prose, cigarette smoke hovering above their heads like a silvery halo, gesticulating with their free hand to puncutate the conversation. Once again, I play the observer. Not a part of this life, but a bystander, a watcher.

I have not heard from my friend, Terri, in Cortona for a long time. She did warn me that she is not good about answering emails. I have not told her I am returning to Cortona as I want to surprise her. I hope she did not run into Maria and learn about my return and think I was avoiding telling her because I don't want to see her.

A Little of This and That

2008-09-25T07:38:00.000-07:00

I went for a long, long walk today, so long that my thighs hurt. I am slowly venturing off my island and into the surrounding city. I saw a really interesting looking church with a huge green dome, however I was disappointed to find it wasn't open as I would like to have gone it for a visit. Instead I walked along the river under a leafy canopy of trees, then back across a pedestrian bridge lined with planters of lush flowers to my island.

This week I met a Japanese man at the coffee shop named Toru. He is my age with long, salt and pepper hair tied back in a bandanna. He is traveling in Europe for the first time and his wife has been hospitalized with pneumonia for the past week. What a way to spend a vacation! He went on to tell me he has been sightseeing alone and was really amazed by the astronomical clock in the cathedral, which prompted him to write a short story about a man in circumstances very similar to his own culminating in him have a sexual dream about a French lady at his hotel. Fortunately, he didn't give me any details about the dream!

To combat the cooler temperatures, and so that I could return Francoise's wooly neck-wrap, I walked to the mall and bought a very lightweight scarf of my own. The first I ahve had in about 20 years! It's off white so will go with the gloves I brought with me and has tiny, silvery threads which give it a subtle shimmer in certain lights. Also, I bought myself a pair of long, brushed silver earrings, rather old-fashionedand lacy in style, which end with a glittery, light gray teardrop crystal. I am wearing bigger earrings with my shorter hair and I wanted something special to remember Strasbourg by. The shop where I bought them, Olivine Bijoux, has wonderful, very feminine jewelry displayed in tall, glass cases backed with mirrors. A very girly shop! I found a ring I like, with a pink tourmaline and two pearls, but it was out of my price rage, so I settled on the earrings.

I borrowed my landlord's phone last night to call Maria to make sure she is going to be able to pick me up from the Camucia train station in two weeks. I dialed and dialed and dialed and had the hardest time reaching Italy. Eventually I looked up dialing information online and found I had been dialing incorrectly, so I tried again, and at last was successful. The connection, however, was terrible and we were cut off twice. Not being entirely sure she understood my arrival time, I emailed her daughter, Laura, and asked her to relay the information. Laura is a singer and composer and the other day I looked at her MySpace page and listened to some of her original music. I will place a link on the blog so anyone interested can listen to Laura. There are some lovely pictures of her as well.

Foret Noire

2008-09-22T00:30:00.000-07:00

Feed a Cold

2008-09-21T23:21:00.000-07:00

My cold arrived Friday and I spent a long night with a sore and scratchy throat. Fortunately, it doesn't seem to be a severe cold. When my landlady, Francoise, heard I was under the weather she ran upstairs and came back down wielding a long, thick, fuzzy scarf. Those of you who know about my "guillotine complex" know that I hate having anything around my neck, especially something thick and scratchy. It makes me feel like I am being strangled. Francoise insists that I wear the scarf, even indoors. I spend my time now trying to sneak out the front door without being spotted. I am afraid that if she finds out I am going without the scarf I might be the unwilling recipient of an onion poultice and a jar of Vick's Vaporub. A truly horrible thought. Francoise is such a dear though!

I walked back to the bakery across the river and bought a Nutella croissant drizzled with chocolate feeling sure it would contain recuperative qualities. It was good, but not great. I think to be truly great it would need to contain 3 times more Nutella. Still feeling distinctly unwell, I walked around the area and did my weekend grocery shopping since stores are closed on Sunday. 'I found my way back to the mall to look for a lighter weight scarf which might be tolerable and, instead, discovered a grocery store in the mall itself. It was a bit like a Central Market with all sorts of interesting foods and a huge wine department. I bought a container of Neptune Salad containing pieces of salmon, sliced potatoes, cucumbers, and some other vegetables and seasonings in a sour cream based sauce. I also found an olive bar with bins of marinated artichoke hearts, black olives, and baby squid. I bought some small, greenish-black olives glistening in a coat of olive oil. I also bought dessert, a package of Black Forest tartlets. Guess what dinner consisted of? The Black Forest cakes, Foret Noire in French, were wonderful. The "crust" looked solid but was actually very soft, and was filled with chocolate mousse and a thick layer of whipped cream dusted with cocoa powder, with a chocolate fan inserted on top as decoration. There were some cherries concealed between the layer of mousse and the whipped cream as a surprise. I ate one for dessert, and then ate the second one as a research project for this blog and so I could take pictures of the layers. I spent the rest of Saturday floating on a sugar cloud. Heavenly!

Before going to the mall, I had an assignment to complete. When I purchased my ticket back to Florence from Orbitz it included a bus transfer from Strasbourg to Frankfurt, a trip of more than 2 1/2 hours. I emailed Orbitz asking if I was to catch this shuttle at the airport or what. This instituted a string of emails where Orbitz repeatedly asked me to call their customer service number and I asked them to provide the information by email as it would cost me $1.60 per minute to call them. They eventually referred me to an 800 number provided by Lufthansa, which left me with the same problem, an expensive overseas phone call. I finally logged on to Lufthansa's website which provided some information about the shuttle including a street on which I could catch the bus. The street is near the train station so I walked down to see if I could locate the stop, which I did without too many problems, the stop being marked by some laminated yellow Lufthansa signs. It does mean I have to drag my steamer trunk through the crowded streets of Strasbourg to the stop; however it does save me the very expensive taxi fare to the airport. All in all, I'd say I come out ahead.

The Rotating Bridge

2008-09-19T08:39:00.001-07:00

Friday

2008-09-19T08:39:00.000-07:00

I am still fighting a cold. The temperature is between 50-60 degrees during the day, about the same as it is in Cortona, however I am freezing all the time. It doesn't help that my tiny courtyard only sees direct sun for about 10 minutes a day due to the high buildings surrounding it. It's also damp. I often have to brush the moss off my clothes drying on the rack outside before they're actually dry enough to wear. I am taking all my homeopathic remedies to fight my cold, but I am still sneezing, blowing my nose, shivering, and generally carrying on. I am going to FREEZE in Italy in November!

I decided to treat myself today by walking to a nearby bakery across the bridge and buying a Nutella croissant, but when I arrived they didn't have any. I got all excited for nothing! Perhaps tomorrow.

I walked down a different street today and found a lovely, wooden bridge from which to take some nice pictures of the river, edged by old and half-timbered buildings. As I focused my camera to take a shot, a tall, grey-haired man raced up, brushed past me and, when I moved to the side, fastened a metal chain across the street just to this side of the bridge. As I watched, the entire north-south facing bridge rotated slowly until it faced an east-west direction, so a glass-covered river boat could pass by. Very cool.

I found a small park upriver from the rotating bridge where I chose a sunlit bench on which to read my book. I was hoping to warm up a bit in the sun like a lounging cat, but there was a breeze from my back and I had to zip my sweatshirt and pull the hood up around my neck. I think I will need to buy a scarf or I will never survive the temperature change. I will also buy an undershirt that also doubles as a cellulite-reducing, constriction device. When I tried one on yesterday, I noticed that it was nice and warm, if a bit squeezy. I am still feeling very upset about my hair. It is so unflattering. I really have noticed that my self-esteem has deteriorated lately, even before the terrible haircut.

As I slowly reduce my protective layer of fat, I again feel exposed and vulnerable, and not nearly as attractive as I would like to feel. Where is my confidence? Why do I feel worse rather than better? Why do I know in my heart that I will always be alone, that I am still missing the mysterious something that makes most women feminine and attractive in some indefinable way? I seem to be failing in my goal to learn to love myself and I am discouraged at my apparent inability to change my thoughts of myself. All I can do is to keep struggling along trying to think positive thoughts. Please send me your positive thoughts and energy to help me get through this rough spot.

Speaking French and Big Penises

2008-09-15T07:29:00.000-07:00

There is a particular technique to speaking French, which does not include actually knowing the French language. It's all in the pronunciation, folks. For beginners, it is essential to assume the proper mouth position. First, insert a grape into your mouth, but don't chew or swallow it, just hold it on top of your tongue. The grape is to assist you with the proper tongue positioning. Secondly, purse your lips up like a lemon-sucking old crone minus her dentures. Then wrap a rubber band around your lips to keep them in this puckered pose. If you don't have a rubber band, and I don't, you can cut off the open end of an expired condom (I do have one of those rolling around the bottom of my purse as you recall) and use that. It is essential that you force your words through the tiny opening left in your lips to achieve that atmospheric French sound. It doesn't really matter what language you speak, just so it sounds French. Once your lips are properly trained it is possible to remove the condom only reapplying it should you get a bit out of practice.

In wandering the streets, I found a Virgin Megastore which thankfully has a few English books of which I've bought just one, so far. There is also a large "international" bookstore of which a long and fruitless search proved to have no books in English. I wonder what the "international" part of the stores name means? In searching every little nook and cranny of this large store for a book I could actually read, I stumbled upon a book I could look at titled, improbably, "The Big Penis Book". After viewing the cover, I felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to make a closer inspection of this tome of obvious literary value, however the thing was 2 inches thick and must have weighed 7 pounds, so there was no slipping it into a copy of "Pride and Prejudice" to have a wee gander. My luck I'd drop the darned thing on the floor creating a huge ruckus and attracting all sorts of unwanted attention. Now for you disbelievers, please look this book up on Amazon.com and you will find that it is a true book featuring pictures of Big Ones mainly from the 60's and 70's. I wonder if the Copperas Cove Public Library carries a copy. I believe will visit the library the very minute I arrive home to find out.

My appetite these days is insatiable. I walk a lot and I am not sure if it is the exercise or perhaps the cold weather (a high of 50 degrees during the day) which has triggered my hunger, but I purchased and ate an entire loaf of cheese and walnut bread today. It made wonderful ham and tomato sandwiches. For the first time in a week, I am FULL. Fortunately my clothes continue to loosen almost imperceptibly, so I am obviously still losing weight, albeit slowly.

In walking to the Coop today, I crossed the street where the styling salon is located and, lo and behold, there was the Evil Stylist, standing outside the salon chatting with some ladies. It was all I could do not to nip down the street for a crusty, brown, 18 inch long baguette with which to beat her about the perfectly coiffed head and bony shoulders! Lucky for her, I didn't.

The Coffee Shop

2008-09-15T02:49:00.000-07:00

Making a Life

2008-09-15T02:03:00.000-07:00

I found a coffee shop up the street about half a block, where I walk most mornings to have a cafe' au lait. Saturday was an exception as I was in bed, curled in the fetal position, crying over my hair. The coffee is served in a squat cup like those cappucinos are served in and the milk comes separately in a tiny, silver pitcher. A nice, dark-haired, young lady works during the week, and a middle-aged man, who could be the owner or manager, often works with her and alone on the weekends.

After coffee I walk up the street toward to cathedral and stop at the boulanger for two small rolls, sometimes with poppy seeds and sometimes without, "natur". If I need to access cash from an ATM machine, I walk further up the street to an HSBC bank. Unfortunately, here I am charged both an ATM fee of $2 and also a 1% foreign transaction fee, which I wasn't charged in Germany or Italy as long as the bank was on the same network as my home bank. Here it doesn't seem to matter. The money I save becuase the dollar has strengthened against the euro, I spend on transaction fees. I have changed a fair amount of money recently as I have to pay Maria when I arrive in Italy and I suspect the dollar will weaken significantly today due to Hurricane Ike and what I suspect will be the higher cost of crude oil.

If I have cash on hand I return home to drop if off before I do my grocery shopping. There are four stores nearby and I visit all four of them for different things: Norma for toilet paper; Spar for a certain kind of yogurt; Simply for fresh salmon and ham; and Coop for most other things. I tend to run back home with purchased items before heading to the next store which gives me an extra bit of exercise.

I am lucky to receive the BBC Prime channel featuring British shows in English. I enjoy watching "Holby City", a medical soap opera I used to watch in Ireland, each evening and I really enjoyed a show called "Speed" last night.

I try to walk a great deal each day around the "island" on which I live. I tend not to wear my mp3 while walking as I have to listen for bikes, strollers, pedestrians, dogs, delivery vehicles, and the many trams, one of which came too close for comfort the other day. I am losing the sense of "Where-the-hell-am-I?" which filled my early days here and it's being rapidly replaced with "What-the-hell-did-he/she-just-say-and-how-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-respond?". I remember my dad telling me that he got along just fine speaking German while traveling in this region. To quote a man I used to work with, "What was he smoking?" As I mentioned previously, people here speak French and usually nothing else. Maybe Dad just thought he was being understood. I don't know. I try to get by the best I can without hiding in my apartment all the time.

A Home Dye Job and a Shearing

2008-09-13T04:07:00.000-07:00

Lord, things have not gone well with the hair this week. It grew very quickly in Germany and has become increasingly difficult to manage, sticking out and curling whereever and whenever it wants. The color has also grown out and I felt I could not afford to have my hair professionally colored both here and again in Italy, so I brought some hair color with me from Germany. I bought a dark blonde shade and applied it carefully, washing it off after the required 30 minute wait. Unfortunately, the color wasn't dark enough to give good coverage over the red and yellow stripes I'd had applied in Rothenburg, so those colors still show through. In artificail light I noticed the golden highlights have a greenish cast to them. I don't look good in green.

Yesterday I walked around the corner to a salon, with my datebook in hand, to schedule an appointment for a haircut. I greeted the attractive, blonde stylist and told her I needed a haircut by making cutting motions with my fingers near my hair. I then held out my datebook so she could give me a date, which she did, today at 10:00.

I walked down to the salon this morning and waited my turn. A lady, originally from England, was there and translated for the stylist and I. I told her she could do what she liked, but I didn't want my hair too short like it was in Italy. She relayed that she wanted to cut off about 1 centimeter. I replied that that would be fine. Well, an inch and a half later, I have a Halle Berry haircut, only shaggier. I don't look like Halle Berry, folks. I am short, fat, blotchy skinned, and unattractive. My hair is shorter than it was in Italy and she razored the sides to nearly the skull, but as usual, one side is visibly longer than the other, which I have been whacking at with a cuticle scissors, trying to even it up. I started to cry in the chair and sat there for the last 5 minutes with tears pouring down my face. The stylist and I were not on speaking terms as I paid and departed. When I reached home I crawled in bed and cried for another 45 minutes.

I don't know if she really thought this hairstyle would be attractive on me or if she thought it was humorous to make a homely woman even uglier. Some women have this tendency to try to make other women look and feel as unattractive as possible so as to maintain their status as the better looking one. You know what I mean; the "friend" who sabotages your diet; the family member who comments that you've gained 5 pounds and are looking a bit "bloated; the co-worker who tells you that you look great in orange stripes and then sits back smugly, knowing you look like a deranged pumpkin. We women should be sticking together instead of tearing each other down. It's pretty sad.

At any rate, I seriously considered not leaving the house for the next two weeks, but I will have to go out and get food. How the heck am I going to go back to Italy and face the waiter? Well, I guess it doesn't really matter. If he didn't notice me then, he won't notice me now. I think I might just have to give up on the dream of actually be an reasonably attractice woman one day. Things are just not going in my favor thus far.

Cathedrale Notre Dame de Strasbourg

2008-09-12T06:59:00.000-07:00

Strasbourg

2008-09-12T06:03:00.000-07:00

My apartment is located in old city Strasbourg, located on an island edged by the L'ill River, just around the corner from "Petit France". My street, Grand 'Rue is a pedestrian street, open only to taxis and delivery vehicles, bicycles, and people. Some buildings are ancient and half-timbered with leaded glass windows made up of tiny circular panes, and other buildings are more modern.

After breakfast on Tuesday I walked to the end of my street, onto a connecting street, and into the square, Place de la Cathedrale, containing the cathedral called Cathedrale Notre dame de Strasbourg. It is a large cathedral in dark reddish-brown brick, covered with carving, and accessed through gothic arched doors, and is the 4th tallest church in the world. It was also the tallest building in the world for several hundred years. There is no charge for entry, although there are many signs warning about pickpockets. One good thing about wearing really tight pants is that being the victim of a pickpocket could provide a secret little thrill. I entered through a towering wooden door and walked slowly through the cathedral taking pictures of the altar, carved stone pulpit, altar, and an interesting astronomical clock. The red and gold pipe organ was mounted on the side of a wall overhanging the pews.

I did a bit of shopping at the overpriced souvenir stands near the cathedral and bought a small plaque with a gold fleur-de-lis on a cream colored background to hang over my front door. It's only about 4 inches square, but seems to weigh about 4 pounds! A fleur-de-lis is a stylized lily or iris, similar to the Giglio Fiorentino of Italy, and remains an enduring symbol of France.

The streets of this tiny section of Strasbourg are filled with shops, stores, boutiques, cafes, banks, travel agencies, and gelato shops. One could literally shop for hours and hours....if one had the money, that is.

Strasbourg is just over the German border, yet the people on this side of the Rhine have a completely different set of physical features and characteristics. The men generally have much darker skin, hair, and eyes, and narrower features, often with a hawk like nose. Younger men tend to be lean and fit. Very attractive, all in all. I do see larger women however, and I have located six large-sized clothing stores, four on my street alone. The shops have some very attractive clothes, with most shirts being embellished with some sort of decorative element, however the items are quite expensive and I haven't found anything I loved enough to justify such a large expenditure. I will stick to inexpensive clothes at H&M and C&A, both of which have a retail store in the mall located on the far side of the river.

Starting Over, Again

2008-09-11T08:24:00.000-07:00

After breakfast Monday, I retrieved the car from the underground garage and drove west toward Strasbourg. After crossing the wide Rhine River, I was in France. I was surprised that there was no border check when entering France on this particular road as I had my passport ready for review.

I filled the gas tank in Germany where I could understand which gas was unleaded and where I understood the payment procedure (pump first, then pay, like times of old in the U.S.), I then drove about 20 minutes to Strasbourg hoping to see a sign for the TGV, the high speed train station, which is located just a few blocks from my apartment. No luck on seeing "TGV" on a sign, nor the street name on which the station is located, so I proceeded to circle around and around and around, off and on the A4, the E25, and the A352 at a reduced speed so as not to drain the gas tank to below the "full" mark. I had no clue where I was. Eventually I exited at a sortie, exit, marked "Gare" and pulled to the side of the road to show a kind lady my map. She pointed straight ahead and, lo and behold, there was a modern, glass enclosed train station, of course not designated with the helpful letters "TGV". I proceeded to the front of the station, trying to avoid pedestrians and zooming bicyclists as I went, and spotted the Europcar office on the left side of the street. It took 8 minutes to circle back around and park, illegally, on the street in front of the office, where I waited 15 minutes in line behind a man who has apparently never rented a car in his life and needed a detailed explanation of everything on the contract, repeated 3 times, before I could ask an agent where I was to park the car. As luck would have it I had to circle the block and park in a narrow drive behind a gate, where I blocked all traffic coming and going from the rental car lot. I quick trotted back in and handed the agent the keys so she could move my car and unplug the log jam I'd created.

The agent processed my car return slowly and informed me I had to pay a 110 Euro one-way return fee, which I informed her I had already paid, in dollars, when I rented the car through Auto Europe online. Unfortunately, I did not have a copy of this paperwork with me as it was retained by the German agent. She said it would be straightened out and I would receive an invoice with a zero balance from Europcar by mail. I am watching my credit card closely in the event they charge me the fee in error.

The agent pointed me in the direction of Grand’ Rue and I hefted my 40 pound carry-on onto my back and firmly grasped the handle of my steamer trunk, and forced the accumulated bulk through the door and onto the busy street where I headed off in the right general direction. I could not manage all the luggage and the map and still navigate so I had to stop and ask directions a couple of times. The steamer trunk was not made for maneuverability so it was a challenge to dodge people, strollers, dogs on 20 foot leashes, and cyclists zipping this way and that. There are also numerous cafe's and eateries with tables on the sidewalk, so I was forever having to drag the trunk out into the street then back onto the sidewalk when I'd cleared the cafe'. I did find the correct address after 15 minutes or so and my landlady, Francoise, was happy to see me. Her English was outstanding and she happily showed me to my studio apartment complete with a small courtyard table, lighted stained glass window, 27" flat screen TV, and kitchen area with marble countertop. She was kind enough to loan me a cable for my computer so I could take advantage of the included internet service.

I settled in, unpacking and nesting, and then went out for a short walk. Being surrounded by the taller buildings of a city, I found myself disoriented and in a constant state of Where-the-hell-am-I? Francoise directed me to a couple of small grocery stores across the river and I set out to purchase the necessities. I elected to rest up for the remainder of the day and explore further the next day.

Princess

2008-09-11T06:06:00.000-07:00

The Cutest Town in Germany

2008-09-11T04:59:00.000-07:00

My plan for Sunday was to drive from Heidelberg to somewhere near the French border, perhaps Offenburg. It took perhaps a couple of hours, including a long stop for milchkaffee, to reach my intended destination. On a whim, I exited in a town called Gengenbach, after seeing a sign advertising the historic old city. I found myself in a small town with the main part of the old city blocked off for pedestrian traffic only. I parked the car in a nearby carpark, free because it was Sunday, and walked a few blocks into the town and was surprised to discover I was in, arguably, the cutest little town I have ever seen.

The large Rathaus (city hall) faced a large triagular "square" at the convergence of 3 major roads, each lined with little restaurants, sidewalk cafe's, and shops. I saw about 8 decorative fountains as I walked through the town. Window boxes and planters burst with a profusion of blossoms in every color of the rainbow and a small stream ran in shallow gutters through the middle of town. I had to watch my step in case I got a wet foot! One fun thing was that local businesses had sponsored the decoration of a large fiberglass cow, much like something that was done in my hometown of Madison, Wisconsin once, and these colorful bovines were displayed artfully around town sometimes in the most unexpected of spots. My favorite was named Princess and she was painted gold with white swirls of paint, long eyelashes, earrings, a crown, and sparkly rhinestones artfully placed all over her. She was beautiful! Every girl needs a little sparkle in her life and Princess had more than most.

I found a hotel, the Sonne (sun), which had a large, modern, nicely decorated room available for 38 euro per night, 1 euro less than I paid for "the closet" the two previous nights. There was even a tiny garden planted right outside my window, also bordered by the stairwell and hallway.

Upon receiving a promise my room would be ready in 30 minutes, I wandered to a small Italian cafe' for one of the few meals I have eaten out in Germany. I chose a small table for two on the patio and ordered an entree of pasta with mushrooms, ham, tomato sauce, and cream. Yummy! The larger tables next to me were placed under an arbor dripping with green grape clusters. It's a good thing I didn't have a dining companion, as they would have had to sit under a hanging planter whose fuschia pink flowers hung so low as to be resting on the head of the person sitting across from me. Lunch was leisurely, followed by a trip to the bakery for some sweets for dinner, as I did not plan to dine out again that day. I followed narrow medieval streets taking pictures and enjoying the atmosphere, then wrapped up in my poofy feather comforter and took a luxurious nap. What a wonderful way to spend my last day in Germany!

Flag thrower in Cortona. Forgive him if he has a bit of difficulty with the flags!

2008-09-10T07:35:00.000-07:00

This is the video clip of the drummers in Cortona for the Giostra dell'Archidado. I was finally able to upload it. Be sure to turn up your speakers!

2008-09-10T07:16:00.000-07:00

2008-09-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

Happy Wednesday!

For those of you having trouble keeping up with my, I will be flying to Italy October 9 and then flying back to Texas December 1.

Amy

Heidelberg

2008-09-09T23:50:00.001-07:00

After spending the night in Ulm, I decided to head northwest to Heidelberg. Wanting to take no chances I booked a hotel near Heidelberg for Friday and Saturday nights for about $60 per night, more than I really wanted to spend, but with a last minute booking in that area I felt I wasn’t going to do much better pricewise. I took the autobahn cross country through vineyard covered hills until the terrain flattened out near Stuttgart. I made a wrong turn in Stuttgart and had to backtrack 10 minutes or so. Roads in Europe are not labeled north-south, east-west as they are in the United States. They have a number/letter designation and directional signs list major and nearby cities, however it’s rather easy to get turned around, particularly if you are not familiar with towns and cities in the area.

I successfully located my hotel in the town of Bammental, a very cute little German city located just a few miles from the Neckar river. I rang the doorbell and was admitted to the hotel where I was given a key to a closet; a tiny, minimally furnished room with a single bed which was to be my home for the next two nights. The bathroom did have a bathtub for which I was grateful as I needed to do some laundry. I also cleaned out the suitcase a bit and got rid of a pair of jeans. My policy is never to have more than two pair of jeans that fit at a time as they are very heavy to lug around in the suitcase. Also, as I buy a new shirt, I try to weed out one which is worn, not flattering, or stained. Same with underclothing and socks.

I drove to Heidelberg, a distance of 10-15 miles, and discovered that the road from Bammental leads right into the pedestrian area of the “old city”, shelted by the massive castle ruins perched on a tree-covered hill. I parked in a narrow space in an underground garage and walked off to explore Heidelberg which I have not visited in probably 19 years. I stopped by the large, red, brick church with souvenir stands crowded around the base like ducklings huddled underneath their mama. When I visited Saturday, a market selling fruits, vegatables, cheeses, and meats had been set up in the nearby square and a little arts and crafts fair had been set up in the square near the parking garage. The church was lovely and I briefly considered climbing the spiral staircase to the tower for a panoramic view of the city and the river, however as my foot was still tender, I decided to forgo the climb. Right outside of the church is the Hotel zum Ritter, a beautiful old hotel where Tim and I once spent the night. I walked down the long pedestrian mall, shopping and browsing as I went. I found a gift for my other son. I am not buying either of them one more thing!

The Heidelberg castle ruins hover right over the old city in view of a famous ancient bridge which crosses the Neckar. Both the bridge and the castle were partially convered by scaffolding, which, as I mentioned before, is typical.

On my drive back to Bammental I found a grocery store and purchased a salad and some sandwich fixings and ate dinner in my room. I was happy to find that for a charge of 2 euro per 24 hour period, I could use the hotel’s wireless internet, so I did some catching up on writing and shopped for some new music on Amazon.com. I sat on the terrace, Instant Messaging with my friend, Churck, and listening to music, when I overheard two men speaking Italian at a table next to me. When the younger one went inside, I spoke with the older one, asking him where he was from and telling him about my adventures in Italy. He was polite and said he was from Rome, however later I noticed him checking me out rather intently, as I have heard Italian men do. Perhaps I had been a bit too friendly, although it was all innocent on my part. I guess I am accustomed to the men in Cortona who really were gentleman, but that’s to be expected in a tiny town where any step out of line would travel the grapevine in record time. Incidently, mention of the grapevine reminded me that I heard a DJ on the radio in Garmish introducing that famous 1968 Marvin Gaye Mowtown hit, “I Heard it from the Grape Wine.” I laughed and laughed……..

Wieskirche and Frustration

2008-09-08T06:49:00.000-07:00

On my way to see Neuschwanstein yesterday, I stopped at the Wieskirche, something I have never done before. This large, white church sits in a rolling green pasture, surrounded by a couple of buildings and a nearby farmhouse. The setting is peaceful and idyllic and horses graze quietly in a paddock behind the church.

I stopped by a small chapel on my way up a small rise to the larger church, decorated ornately with paintings, carvings, and gold leaf. The organ high above the entrance door was especially lovely. A fitting accompaniment for a choir of angels. I took lots of pictures even though signs asked visitors not to. All the other visitors were snapping away as well so I didn't feel too bad about it. I would like to have stayed longer and prayed, but with all the foot traffic I just have a hard time focusing. I noticed a nun on a seat near me basking in the Divine in her quiet and unassuming way.

Early the next day I set off down the autobahn intending to stay near Lindau, a city on an island in the Bodensee for a night. I stopped in Kempton on my way to shop around and use the internet which was possibly a mistake, as I was unable to find a room to stay in near Lindau, in spite of driving around for 2 hours. If I saw a sign for a room, I would turn off and travel off up a road only to find a group of 10 houses, none of which was identified as the one offering rooms. Walking from house to house is simply too time consuming. Other times no one answered the door, the rooms were already taken, or the proprietor was not inclined to rent to a single traveler. It was just a wild goose chase. Eventually I stopped at a small hotel in Ravensburg and was told that there was a big cycle event in the area and all the rooms around were full. The nice man suggested I travel 95 kilometers back to Ulm for a room, so I got back on the autobahn and headed that direction, thinking that if I was going to have to sleep in a rest area, the safest place to do so would be at a busy autobahn rest area. After a 45 minute traffic delay due to road construction, I finally reached Ulm and found a hotel right next to the autobahn with an available room at about 8:45, where I gratefully paid $95 for a room.

This was a lot like the nightmare trip I made to Cinque Terre in Italy in May and was one of the few times in recent months I have felt close to having a meltdown. When I am tired, my tolerance is very low. I must find some good ways to deal with that situation when it happens in future.

Bavaria

2008-09-06T08:27:00.000-07:00

Hohenschwangau, Childhood Home of King Ludwig II

2008-09-06T02:14:00.001-07:00

Schloss Neuschwanstein from the Marienbrucke

2008-09-06T02:13:00.001-07:00

Neuschwanstein

2008-09-06T01:21:00.000-07:00

After a last walk down memory lane in Oberammergau this morning, I left for Fussen, location of the magical castle of Neuschwanstein, arguably the most famous castle in the world. Neuschwanstein is the model for Disney's fairytale castle and, in my opinion, if you see just one castle in your lifetime, this is the one to see. I have been here 5 or 6 times, but my trip would not be complete without one last visit.

Neuschwanstein, on it's rocky ledge below a steep mountain, can be viewed for miles. I stopped frequently to take pictures on my approach, but as it was a bright, sunny day, the castle did not show up well in the pictures. Eventually I located a parking lot at the foot of the approach to the castle and parked the car to climb partway up the hill to the ticket booth. It now costs about $7 to park the car, and $13.50 to tour the castle, plus the cost of transportation up to the castle. There are a number of ways one can access the castle from the valley; a 40 minute walk up a heart attack inducing steep hill, a ride in a horse drawn wagon, or a bus ride and subsequent 15 minute walk to the castle itself. I really wanted to take the horse and wagon, but as each wagon can accommodate only 12 passengers, and there were 40 people in line in front of me with no wagons in sight, I decided I had better catch the bus so not as to miss my scheduled tour. There was a 20 minute wait for the jam-packed bus as well, which dropped us off directly below the Marienbrucke, to which I climbed, quickly, to get a gorgeous picture of the castle. Unfortunately, the side of the castle was concealed by scaffolding, as always seems to be the case. Historic treasures take constant maintenence and restoration so workmen and scaffolding is the norm on structures of historical significance.

After tiptoeing across the Marienbrucke, a narrow and impossibly high bridge, whose wooden floorboards bent and gave unnervingly under the combined weight of the assembled visitors, I reversed direction and rounded a bend in the path to discover a magnificent and panoramic view of the glowingly golden Schloss Hohenschwangau, childhood home of King Ludwig II, located across from Neuschwanstein in the same valley. After a photo op, I continued down the hill to my destination. The tour began exactly on time, and we had a pleasant young man as a tour guide. He led us up a winding, spiral staircase topped by brightly painted plaster replica of a palm tree to the 5th floor private apartments of the King. The castle is dedicated to the Germanic legends, and rooms are painted with scenes from Lohengrin, the Ring of the Nibelung, and in his bedroom my favorite, the tragic love story of Tristan and Isolde. The apartments are luxuriously decorated with carved wood (his bed alone took wood carvers 4 years to complete and is replete with cathedral -like spires), magnificent paintings, tapestries, and ornate furniture. The castle is also a picture of modernity with double paned windows, running water, plumbing, and electricity.

After the tour, I decided to walk back down the hill, rather than take the bus or horse. It was a good 30 minute steep walk downhill and my left foot has been bothering me a bit, but I made it fine. It took me some time to find a place to stay this particular night, a problem which would plague me again later in the week. I find that many places have a room available, but if it has two beds, they are disinclined to rent to a single person, instead electing to wait and see if a couple shows up. This may make sense from their standpoint as they charge on a per person basis, however it's very discouraging for me. When I am exhausted I hate being turned away simply because I am single. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a significant other or traveling companion.

2008-09-05T12:24:00.000-07:00

Hello,

I have added some new links to the right for those of you interested.

Love and miss you!

Amy

Me in Bavaria

2008-09-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

Ettal Cloister Church

2008-09-05T09:09:00.000-07:00

Cloisters and Kings

2008-09-04T03:58:00.000-07:00

After a restless night, I awoke Tuesday morning, ate a large breakfast of chewy brötchen, ham, cheese, butter, homemade jam and coffee. I have taken to eating a breakfast worthy of a lumberjack and then not eating again until dinner. It serves three purposes; to take advantage of the breakfast provided in my room rate, to minimize expenses, and to try to control my food intake.

I drove downtown after breakfast and shopped in some of the stores, including several wood carvings shops. I have two carved horses, purchased in Oberammergau over the years which are very special to me. Oberammergau is famous for it's wood carving, and religious themes are popular. Some carvings are natural wood, some are stained, and some are painted in soft hues. I found a gift for one of my children, but not the other. Now I will need to keep an eye out for something special for my other "baby".

After my shopping foray, I drove to the nearby town of Ettal, a tiny town which features a beautiful cloister, where the resident monks brew beer. The church has an enormous dome, the inside of which is painted in lovely, soft pastels. The church is very ornate with lots of gilt trim and a gorgeous pipe organ. The town is quite small, so after I visited the lovely church, I drove to Garmisch for some shopping. A kind lady gave me her parking ticket which still had 45 minutes left on it. How kind! I wandered the downtown area, poking into shops, but did not find anything I wanted to purchase. The highest mountain peak in Germany, the Zugspitze, is in Garmisch, but I was disappointed to see there was not one flake of snow on the towering, rocky peak. Maybe it's always bare of snow in the summer, I just don't remember. You can take a gondola to the top of the Zupspitze and have a eagle's eye view of the alps into Austria. An incredible experience which I did with Tim and my parents one year.

On the drive back to Oberammergau, I turned left and traveled a narrow, green valley edged with tall pines to one of the castles of King Ludwig II of Bavaria, Linderhof. Ludwig was quite the character. He built three castles, Linderhof, Neuschwanstein, and Herrenchiemsee, nearly bankrupting Bavaria to do so. Of the three, only Linderhof was completed. A fourth castle, Falkenstien, was planned, but never begun. Ludwig was a bit reclusive and had an obsession with the work of composer, Richard Wagner, and sponsored his music. I have heard he also had an obsession with Richard himself, but we won't visit that topic now. Ludwig was essentially imprisoned and died under mysterious circumstances. A web search will give you more details of this eccentric and interesting king, if you're interested.

Linderhof is more a small palace, than a castle, and Ludwig lived here alone, never entertaining visitors. 5 kilos of gold were used to decorate the royal apartments, and the bedroom contains towering, elaborate Meissen china mirrors. They were really beautiful! There was also a china statue of a Polish King on horseback wearing a Roman style soldier's uniform, painfully white legs bare and wrapped around a rearing stallion. The king had the pudgy, doughy, porcine facial features one often sees on portraits from the 1600 and 1700's. Not an attractive man. When I commented on this fact, the tour guide shared that he was rumored to have 150 mistresses and in excess of 300 children, so he must have something going for him! I was on a small tour of only 5 people, so the tour guide was able to answer questions and give us a more personal tour, which was very interesting. I walked the grounds a bit after the tour and looked at some of the gardens and fountains before walking back to the car and driving home.

Jail Break!

2008-09-03T01:00:00.000-07:00

After settling into my bed and breakfast, I ate a light dinner, then went for a long walk. Oberammergau is the site of the Passion Play illustrating the life of Christ put on every 10 years in celebration of the town being spared some horrible disease in 1633. Only local townspeople take part in the play, and until the 1980's only men were allowed as actors. I am glad they've changed the rule as a hirsute Madonna with bulging calf muscles is a scary thought!

Many of the town's buildings are brightly and beautifully painted with various scenes of farming, Grimm's fairy tales, and the life of Christ. The town sits beneath the shadow of a steep mountain peak topped by a crucifix. A sparkling clear mountain stream ambles through the village with a walking path on either side. It's a crisp, clean town abundant with blossoms and wood carving shops, for which the town is famous.

I walked along the stream, burbling happily on it's way west, passing a barn as I went. I noticed that the barn had a very large, sliding door for driving large machinery in and out, with a smaller, people-sized door placed within the larger door. The large yard was roughly fenced and I saw that the barn door appear to be angled outward, with some smallish, bent metal rods leaning against it to hold it in place. Two goats were at the fence being fed day-old bread by two young girls. I stopped to watch them for a moment and as I did, a rumbling occurred, accompanied by the sound of bleating goats. The door heaved a bit, then lifted, and a goat appeared from beneath the door, making straight for the little girls with their bread crusts. Quick as could be, there was a stampede and about 50 wild, bleating goats poured underneath the rickety door, charging the fence. A couple of tiny babies squeezed out of the gate and made for the bread bag, while their elders ran down the yard a bit and began to hop the fence. Within a minute the stream bank and walking path were covered by goats all heading for the little girls and their bag of bread. The girls held the line for a bit, looking absolutely horrified, then they broke ranks, dropped the bag, and made for a nearby bridge. After demolishing the bag and devouring the bread, the goats proceeded to the other side of the stream in search of greener pastures.

I could just see the town overrun with goats, whilst the Polizei chased them in vain. Excitement in a small town!

A beautiful village near the German Alps

2008-09-03T00:58:00.000-07:00

Travels with Aunt Flo

2008-09-02T10:08:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in a previous blog I am beginning The Change. What this means to me is that my normal, just-like-clockwork, cycle has gone haywire. My doctor told me that is it possible that my hormones will be irregular and she prescribed a synthetic hormone in the event I miss several cycles in a row, so 11 days ago I began a daily pill which send me into immediate PMS of the world class variety. I blew right up like a water-filled zeppelin and the day I was due to leave Rothenburg, Aunt Flo arrived with a vengeance, rather like what would happen if the Little Dutch Boy in his cheap, blue, Lord Fauntleroy knock off suit and wiggy hair were to pull his plump digit out of the hole in the dike. I don't know why I bothered buying sanitary supplies. I should have just bought a package of Pampers.

The night previous to my departure found me tossing and turning, unable to sleep. About the time I finally drifted off, a huge storm broke which successfully kept me awake until dawn. I treated myself to one last coffee at my cafe and purchased a cheese and ham pretzel bread to enjoy during my drive toward the Alps. Frau Fröhlich drove me to the train station and I lugged my extremely heavy suitcase onto the train. All went well until I disembarked in Steinach. The train stations have a luggage conveyor belt to help you get luggage up and down the stairs as you move from platform to platform. The belts work in either direction and are triggered by a bag being placed on one end or the other. The first whiff of trouble began when I placed my huge suitcase sideways on the belt and it began to move away so fast I couldn't grab my carry on sitting on the top step. As I twisted to reach for the carry on, the steamer trunk fell sideways off the belt nearly taking out a Mamie Eisenhower look-a-like making her way slowly down the stairs in front of me. I righted the suitcase, but then tipped over the carry on as I made a grab for it. Fortunately a nice lady picked up and handed me the carry on, as she could plainly see I was in need of assistance.

I raced to the bathroom to attend to Aunt Flo, only to discover that the train was out of water and washing my hands was out of the question as was flushing the toilet. I chose a seat with an extra absorbent cover as I could feel Flo creeping down my left leg and pooling in my sock. When I arrived in Ansbach I trotted around to the far staircase to find that the conveyor was already running in a northerly direction when I needed to head due south. I dragged my trunk down one set of stairs and up the other hoping no one noticed the set of bloody footprints I left on my way to the bathroom. As I left the loo, I noticed an EMT running around with an IV pole and a pint bag of blood looking for the injured party hemorhagging blood all over the train station. I made a quiet escape out the opposite door. Don't worry, Aunt Flo's got me covered...literally.

I took a taxi to the rental car agency and when I reported to pick up my two door economy car, I was offered a $60,000 Peugeot sports car. The three men behind the desk looked as me in shock when I turned it down in favor of a little Japanese model, telling them the Peugeot was "too big". Truth was, the Peugeot was way too beautiful and expensive and with Flo riding shotgun, I did not want leather seats. Besides, I did not elect the optional insurance coverage and I am sure my credit card limits the coverage they provide on high ticket cars. The gentleman at the counter asked me if I was traveling alone, and I said I was, choosing not to mention Auntie Flo, as she would not be driving. Don't worry, it'll be OK. Flo's got my back....literally.

I headed south, making frequent bathroom stops, and purchasing mounds chocolate to nibble at Flo's insistence. That Flo's a real pain...literally. I arrived at my destination of Oberammergau at about 4:00, then began the tedious process of locating a place to stay. The city has changed some and roads have been re-routed which was confusing and I did not see as many signs advertising rooms for rent as I remember from past visits. I did eventually find a place for 2 nights, at $25 per night. The house was rather old, and the carpet did not appear to have been replaced, or cleaned, since the Hoover administration. My room smelled damp and musty and the mattress had a six-inch dip right under my bottom, making it feel like I was sleeping in a bowl. The night passed slowly with Flo and I creeping past our landlord's bedroom door to the bathroom innumerable times. Aunt Flo really knows how to show herself ....literally.

The Marionettes: Down the Tube

2008-08-30T10:58:00.000-07:00

It's finally happened. After nearly 9 weeks, the marionettes have found me! I had nearly forgotten about the pesky buggers, when all hell broke loose.

I was practicing my evening ritual last night; removing make up, brushing teeth, admiring my new beard growth in the mirror, and scrubbing my giglio fiorentino with a toothbrush, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a blur of something bright and colorful. It was one of the marionettes zipping down the ladder-shaped heating register right next to the pedestal sink at which I was standing. In a flash he was at my elbow reaching out his little plastic pink hand to bat my 18k, white gold, giglio pendant purchased in Florence, right out of my hand and down the drain! I was horrified! My special giglio purchased on that wonderful and memorable trip to Florence with Terri!!

I immediately did what I always do in cases of extreme emergency: I got dressed. Somehow life's little mishaps always seem to occur while I am in a state of semi-nudity (feel no need to picture that in your mind's eye). After dressing, I tiptoed back to the sink and carefully wiggled out the drain cover and peered into the depths. Fortunately the sink area is well-lit with neon overhead lights which make me appear pasty with cadaverously dark under eye circles, and I could just make out the tiny, sparkly giglio turned sideways about 6 inches down, in danger of slipping even further into the depths. I tried inserting a tweezer but it simply wasn't long enough. I remembered something magnetic in my purse the other day, which a battery had affixed itself to, but could not remember what it was or if gold is even magnetic. I gave up on the magnet idea and went to the kitchen area for a long pairs of scissors. Opening the tip a tiny bit, I inserted them carefully into the drain. When I could see I had reached the jewel I closed the scissors a fraction and was able to bring the giglio safely up out of the dank tunnel. In celebration of my good fortune, I proceeded to clean the drain of large, black, smelly, clumps of hair with a butter knife. Major yuck!

Since I am leaving in less than two days, I have begun to STUFF my suitcase, but I am zipping it and hiding it under the bed when not in the room to ensure those horrible dolls don't climb in for a free ride to Strasbourg. With any luck, I will be back in Italy before the little cretins even know I have left Germany. Ha ha!

Real Life

2008-08-27T01:33:00.001-07:00

I have done a great deal of thinking about the reasons I was happier and more content in Italy than I have been here in Germany. Some things are obvious: I am familiar with Germany and it does not have the same sense of "newness" to it that Italy had, and certainly, I did not connect with anyone here in Germany as I did in Italy.

But it's more than that. While Rothenburg is lovely, colorful, pristine, and cheerful, it has the feeling of being a stage set. I have the impression that if all the visitors were removed from within the high stone walls, the rest of the town could be dismantled, folded up, and loaded onto trucks to be transported to the next locale. The sleek, shimmering horses would be unhitched from their brightly-colored wagons and loaded into trailers to save their feet the long walk, and the Night Watchman, rather than giving nightly tours, would remove his costume and be put to work packing up pieces of the stage that is Rothenburg. Yes, there are many people who live here fulltime, but many, many of them are employed around the tourist trade, operating shops and restaurants and the multitude of ferienwwohnungs and zimmers (vacation apartments and rooms for rent) which are crammed into this tiny village. I don't feel as if I have ever seen real life here.

In Cortona, although there are many tourists, there is a feeling that the town is one, big, passionate, and sometimes dysfunctional family. If all tourists packed up and left town, things would pretty much continue on in the same way. The lady at Bar Signorelli would still be fussing over baby Matteo; the mammoni (mama's boys) would still meet for their evening aperativi; the man working on the church roof across the street from Maria's house would still be buying his daily panino (sandwhich) at Molesini's, consuming it as he wandered between Piazza della Repubblica and Piazza Signorelli; and the porchetta man would still be slicing pork for customers at the market. Life would continue unabated. I loved sitting at the bar each morning with my caffe' latte and watching all the regulars come and go and listening to the friendly greetings and conversations which signal the rythm of life in this small village. The greetings I received, and the shoulder rubs were a small way to make me feel just a tiny part of this rich, flavorful life. I miss that.

Flat Asses, Invisible Dobermans, and Other Matters of Negligible Importance

2008-08-26T11:16:00.000-07:00

I have a flat ass. And it's wide. Flat and wide. This unfortunate and shocking revelation occurred while I trying on a shirt at C&A in Nürnburg this afternoon. Mind you, my ass is MUCH smaller than it was when I left home in April, but it's flatter than a pancake and not all that attractive. With all the stair and hill climbing I've done, I was hoping to develop a nice bubble shaped butt, but instead mine is flat and droopy rather like a souffle that's souffled (pronounciation is the key to this word: SOO-fuld). When I was a size 10/12 in college, for about 20 seconds, I had no rear end whatsoever and my pants drooped sadly in the back like a hot air ballon in need of a flame.

Dogs are popular in Germany. Generally speaking they are well behaved and travel everywhere with their human companions, even to restaurants and on the train. I frequently see people exercising their pets while on my walk in the countryside. Often they are unleashed, but hardly spare me a glance, much less chase after me. The other night, as I rounded the bend, I noticed a black and tan Doberman, standing silent and alert by the side of the road, looking in my direction. Not spotting an owner, I slowed down to a cautious crawl, waved my arms and hollered to see if the dog moved toward me. He didn't, but not feeling particularly confident, I stopped walking to jump up and down, whistling and calling like a crazy woman. Still no movement, so I crept hesitently forward on the opposite side of the road. As I neared the beast, I was surprised to see it wasn't a dog after all, but a break in the hedge which had been uncovered when the verge was mowed. The tan-colored "points" I'd seen were actually small brown branches now visible around the dark hole in the greenery. Now how foolish did I look jumping around and yelling at an invisible Doberman?

I am taking a gift to Maria when I return to Italy. I printed off and framed the picture of her daughter, Laura, in her white dress which I'd taken the night we went to dinner together. Since it's a gift, it felt right to wrap it in some pretty paper, so I walked to the card shop and bought a piece of thick, handmade, textured paper painted a dark and metallic shade of gray After purchasing tape, I walked back to the house to wrap my surprise and that's when the real fun began. The paper was difficult to fold neatly because it was so thick, however do not confuse "thick" with "sturdy". The darned stuff wanted to tear every time I folded it tightly over the bottom of the frame box, and the tape refused to stick to the silver paint. I used about 10 feet of tape to close the package and then wrapped it in a plastic bag to keep the paper secure. In spite of these precautions, I have a sinking feeling that when Maria takes it out of the bag it will be to find that the paper has affixed itself to the inside of the plastic bag and the plain box will be visible. A gift that unwraps itself...how novel!!!!

Trains run like clockwork here in Germany. In fact the schedule is so precise that the track that each train will arrive and depart from is printed up, and mounted behind glass at the train station. Now, it was a whole different story in Italy, where it is not at all unusual for trains to be late (and for busses not to show at all), which is probably a direct result of the fact that it can take 3 minutes and a crowbar to jimmy open the nonfunctioning train doors. I saw a lady in stilettos toss her cosmetic case, then herself, through a cracked window to make her connection in Florence once. At the main train station in Florence, Santa Maria Nouvella, throngs of hot and weary travelers mill around under the leader board, jockeying for position, while waiting for the track numbers to be posted, rather like the staring lineup at the Kentucky Derby.

German and Italian have both formal and informal verb forms. Informal verb forms are used between friends, family, and young people. So as not to offend anyone, I stick with the formal verb forms unless I am invited to do otherwise. This rule is not a strict as it used to be, but I'd rather err on the side of politeness. At the coffee shop this morning, I noticed the Italian man greeted me using the informal form of address, which invites me to do the same. There has been a subtle shift. I am not so much a stranger now.

The Witch's House-Notice it is number 13!

2008-08-25T05:40:00.000-07:00

The Plönlein at Night

2008-08-25T05:37:00.000-07:00

Chase, the Golden Retriever, and Dusty, the cat

2008-08-22T06:04:00.000-07:00