Yes...I Inhale

There's a light rain this Sunday morn as I stroll down the street in my Rome neighborhood. The air full-bodied post-rain. Carrying the scent of still-blooming flowers. Growing up in Minnesota, I remember the smell of fresh dirt, awakened by the rain. Smells---evocative and immediate, release a Roman story...

• I was surprised when Alberto said, "I love the smell of the dust." Yet, it makes sense. A city rising up out of ancient, crumbling ruins. We love what we know and have come to love. 
• As I stand on the balcony. I lean out to retrieve the clothes from the line. The clothespin releases. I inhale---and there it is. A sweet surprise. My nose is smack dab in the middle of a pot of fresh basil. 
• I emerge from the Metro in an old part of town, but new to me. Need to get my bearings. The older woman in the sweater speaks no English, simply takes my arm and off we go.  Peaceful. Together, we walk under a collonade in the heart of Rome. Suddenly, she looks down and says, "Sparco!" with intensity. I have no idea. Is she referring to the gorgeous mosaic tiles underfoot...or the cigarette butts that lay there? Later, I learn, she's saying, "Dirty!" That's true. Rome has its share of trash for sure. Kind of adds to the earthiness of the place. Lots of smokers, too...now familiar and no longer off-putting.
• This morn I'm in Eva Oro---the Sicilian"Bar" nearby which is now like my "Cheers".  Luigi would love an American bride. Pino is the proud owner. Today---Sunday morning, it's a visual pastry feast. Croissant oozing with green fresh pistachio filling. These are every bit the masterpiece. Casual and magnificent. A giant croissant---at least 18 inches. They joke with a young man that he should buy for his "Tiamo" (lover). Large round pastries hang from the necks of bottles, like prizes. A young woman orders pistachio and hazelnut caffe. I follow her lead. Those who know me know I'm not a flavored coffee girl. This, however, was entirely different. Luigi takes a pitcher of the thick syrup (homemade)...and puts it under my nose. "Smell this!" Then he reaches in with a long spoon, takes some and smears it on the inside of a shot glass, the rim too. Next he pours in the espresso. I reach for the sugar (which this surely calls for), and he says no. And produces a packet of hazelnut sugar, opens it...and places it under my nose for a whiff. I'm soooooooo going to miss this place! Would I like to go dancing tomorrow night? Latin...Samba....Lots of Smiling, they say. Alas, I must pass as I'll board my plane early the next morn. An older gentleman appears. Former champion boxer, his wife now very ill with cancer. "Wait," I say---and place joy in his soft hands.  
• The lingering smell of rosewater in the bagno (bathroom).
• Sniffing homemade grappa.
• The tantalizing smells of Alessia's home cooking. Each day something new and more delicious. I feel like I've hit the jackpot.

It's midday now. Time for traditional Sunday dinner at home, round the table. There's a bustle in the kitchen. We gather. Antipasto course of soft cheese, (stracchino), cooked proscuitto and sundried tomatoes. Primo course of baked pastas (paccheri) with tomato sauce, bread crumbs and grated pecorino romano. More! Secundo course...a melange of roasted vegetables. Dolce course? I hear singing, look up...and see a cake with candles burning ("auguri"=good wishes). Surrounded by pastries. For me...my 56th birthday in three days. My eyes tear up. We hug. I cut. Alberto pours. Fresh caffe...robust and full and deep and dark and wonderful. This, my life. Me, so blessed, These, my friends. I inhale with gratitude.

Reach Out and Touch...

I climb out of the Metro and head to Castronis, a delectable Italian food products shop meets pastry bar. Wow. Yes to marzipan. Yes to regional spices. Yes to Italian chocolates. It's my rendezvous spot for my big day at St. Peter's Cathedral. Alberto's mamma, Gabriella, appears. And we're off---marching straight into St. Peter's Square--which to me looks invitingly round---with it's magnificent columnar wrap. Wow. On this sunny, warm autumn Roman day---as I look ahead at the ancient obelisk flanked by two fountains and on to St. Peter's Basilica, I'm awed by the magnificence. Pilgrims. Tourists all. Drawn in and to this, the largest church in Europe. We process (not planned, but we're in a massive line, so it become a bit of a processional shuffle.) Now my camera's on overdrive. Swiss uniformed guards. Bronze doors that are stories tall. Gilt. (Also some guilt...as my guide mischievously cuts a little in the line. Just a little.)

Disclaimer: I'm no religious historian. Nor an art historian. And plenty has been written about the magnificence within. Here's my experience of St. Peter's: smorgasbord of the senses...

•  There it is. Right inside the door. The light glints off Jesus' muscular leg in Michaelangelo's "Pieta". Mary's face is non-anxious. To think that he carved this at age 24. It's so clear that this is a masterpiece, even to my untrained eye. It glows. It moves. It's lifelike and stunning.
•  There is art and marble and color and shape and sculpture and light everywhere. Every single inch. Telling stories. Honoring popes. Crypts burying the dead. Reaching to the heavens. Speaking of faith. It goes on and on. I say---"A person could look at this a lifetime, and not see it all."
• Looking up...the ceilings, the cupolas, the domes all look like they are covered in amazing frescoes/ paintings. But, they are not. They are, remarkably, all mosaics. Absolutely incredible.
• The scale of the gold gilt lettering that provides a horizontal wrap of the cathedral is perfect. Huge huge letters. Clear and powerful. The message proclaimed energetically by the messenger.
• St. Peter's Basilica is flooded with natural light. Brilliant. Not dark as so many ancient religious spaces. Glorious!
• We enter one of the side chapels for prayer. The sensuous drape of the magnificent, heavy velvet curtain blesses my hand. I'll remember the soft weight of it's touch. I kneel, say a prayer--and unite with you all in that moment.
• The marble...oh the marble. All colors. Floors. Walls. Covered with it. As we walk, I imagine all the footsteps that have gone before. Over time. I reach out and stroke it with the palm of my hand. Feel it's coolness, how smooth it is...how my hand loves this sensation. Again, there's a connection to all time. And to my God-given senses. 
• Somewhere in the day, Gabriella and I bond. Right there in St. Peter's. Two wild adventuring women---one 70, one 55. She's an amazing companion and I'm blessed to have her as my guide. We play with the translation---Italian to English. We embrace this holy place.
• Sneaky...she says, how the legend has it that when St. Peter's was being built, they "stole" the giant bronze creation (the size of a large room---statue doesn't even begin to cover what this is) from the Pantheon and put it here. Right in the center of the Basilica! It's wild and crazy and magnificent.
• Dragons. Signs of the Zodiac. Skeletons...yup, all here.
• A nun prays in an off-limits zone, and I remember that this is a working Cathedral.
• Sculptures by Bernini. Tributes to the great family Barberini (whose symbol is bees). And so much more!
• Asian woman in wedding dress. Being photographed by a man in a suit. I inquire if it's their wedding day. Yes, today. I ask if they'd like me to take their photo. Yes! She's from Vietnam, he from Germany. I give them joy. They give me gratitude. 
• Now...I'd love you to try to imagine this. This dome designed by Michaelangelo---in its vertical form---is longer than a football field. Wow. Wow. Wow. It's time to climb it. An hour's line (our feet get cold) and we're on the elevator. Only 323 steps to go. At one point, we are able to step out INTO the basilica and look down. I'm right next to a mosaic. I reach out and touch a foot of a cherub. And am awe-struck.  Back into the steps, spiral now---getting narrower and narrower. Soon, we are near the top of the dome, and can feel the angle on our left shoulder as we ascend in slope.  A full-body experience...with every breath and muscle engaged. And then---out we emerge with a 360 degree vista of Rome in her afternoon sun and glory. Vatican and gardens. The Tiber snaking its way through town. Domes of cathedrals and churches as far as the eye can see. More gardens than you'd imagine. Windy, windy streets. Monuments. Castles. Hadrian's Wall. All rolling out below us.

We descend. Stroll out across the piazza/square. I reach out and touch the Bernini fountain one last time. We catch the bus.  Wind through an ancient Jewish neighborhood where we say goodbye at my next stop, a Hammam. I'm struck by the convergence of traditions, right here in my day. All calling Rome home. And so do I, for a few more days...

The Sounds of Civita de Bagnoreggio

I head to the hills. Literally. Jumping a train in the termini in Rome...I slide into my compartment with five Italian women of three generations. As is the Italian way, the friendly conversation amongst strangers becomes lively, more intense, more passionate. I wonder...what are they talking about? I listen in but catch no cues. Relationships and men? Politics? Finally---I ask. Ahhhhh, religion! Fields of browning sunflowers. Sheep grazing. Vineyards. Olive groves. After an hour, I arrive in Orvieto...a small town in Umbria. My journey sounds something like this...

• I wait for the bus. Where? Here? When? Soon. It's chilly---I find the sun. It's late in the afternoon. This bus? No. This bus? No. The driver points out my red glove---one missing. Grazie! And then whoosh, with an engine surge we round the curves, windy hilly road, struggling and moving at a surprisingly brisk pace!
• Arriving in the village of Bagnoreggio, it's sleepy (everything closes here) late afternoon. I hear a renaissance flute in the distance. Fitting soundtrack for this medieval village. I wind my way through the narrow streets. Asking..."Civita?" Yes...I'm going the right way. The street is deserted.
• A kilometer later, by foot there it is. Off in the distance... rising above the canyon. On a pinnacle  I see the small, medieval village. With 2500 year old Etruscan arch entrance. It looks other-worldly. And the only way in is by a long footbridge---another 1/2 kilometer...up. I feel my backpack on my back. I hear my breathing.
• Feral cats mew. This feels almost haunted.
• In the late afternoon light Civita is gorgeous. Red vines. Flowers. The canyon falling below us. Ancient buildings. It's as if I've stepped back in time.
• My camera clicks at every turn.
• Now, my fingers are crossed. I'm hoping the three-room medieval Civita B&B is open this late in the season. And that there's a room this late in the day. The door creaks. "Si (yes)" is music to my ears. And there I am...perched in my room on the third floor, overlooking the square. Dark wood  beams on the ceiling. Two foot walls. Plenty of wool blankets---and complete with heat! 
• Back out in the village (5 minutes from one side to the next) in the waning light...I smell something. Unmistakably wine. I hear a sloosh. And look down through the open grates of the window to a cellar. There he is. A vintner in a long white now wine-stained coat, bending and  heaving as he empties a huge cask. I try not to make a sound as I back away---not wanting to startle or harm him.
• Most everything is closed down for the season. What I don't hear is people (a stark contrast to the bustle of Rome.) 35 people live here all together (double the population of 2004.) I'm drawn to the light and the warmth of the open "Bar" on the square. "Closing" says Maria. I lean in. Ask her for a place I might find dinner. She recommends Pucci's back in town and offers to drive me in, if I'll wait while she closes. That's a big yes. Maria is from Romania--has a dream to return and open her own bar there, but the economy won't support it now. I'm thankful for the lift in the dark cold. I give her "Joy." 
• Ensconced in the warmth of Pucci's, I relax. Cozy. And curiously, elephants everywhere. 860 says Pucci. She's from Germany. Appetizer of pate bruschetta, truffle oil. Pucci recommends the shaved truffles, cheese and potatoes followed by stuffed (olives, potato, fennel) rabbit. I think, "Ralph would love this meal." My lips smack. My fork clinks. A large dog barks. Laying at the feet of the diners who have appeared next to me. Time to re-enter the cold...I step out.
• Now, it's late and truly deserted. Walking the dark, narrow street, I feel the cobblestones underfoot. Worn down by thousands of travelers over hundreds of years. I feel a deep connection. And hear the dog baying faintly in the distance.
• A bell tolls.  
• The wind blows and huge leaves scrape.
• Silence. 

Thankfully, the skeleton key works... and I sleep like a baby. Sun streams in as I sip my cappucino. I'm a true wanderer now. Down past the shrine of the incarcerated (combo jail and shrine). Past the old donkey stable under the cliff...with the crashed motorcycle overgrown by vines. Around the corner to the dark cave with the cold wind blowing out. Shall I proceed? Yes. I step in, a little tentatively. And can now see light at the other end. It goes completely under the village and comes out the other side. It's the old, ancient road. I glance at my journal entry and hear one final sound. My Own Voice.  "Tonite as I, an almost 56 year old woman walked alone on a hilltop in Italy I wondered...is this the edge of crazy or fully alive? It's such a close boundary and a fine line. I believe I'm here to navigate it myself...and to help others do the same."

Eat Play Love

I'm full. To the gills, which by the way...were actually MOVING on the fish in Mercato Piazza Vittoria yesterday! It was that fresh!  My days in Rome are full. Piazzas. Walks. Cathedrals. Metro. Ruins. Markets. Creating and transforming space. Connecting with my colleague and with strangers.  I lay my head down in the wee hours of the morn after 11:00 dinners. Too exhausted to write. And with no complaints! Each day---I taste (in every sense of this word) something new and delicious. It's all punctuated by caffe---espresso shots while standing in a Bar (coffee, liquor, pastries...especially chocolate cornettos) throughout the city and the day. Food--- unbelievably fresh, delicious and tantalizing to all my senses, tells a story. Here are some Roman taste treats...

• Cappuccino is only in the morning and early afternoon. Anything later and you just look like a tourist. There's even a caffe drink called "shacerado" which uses a martini shaker!
• Fresh fennel bulb with artisinal olive oil is exquisite.
• A six foot tall rosemary bush---wow.
• I notice a lemon on the ground, look up and see I'm standing under a lemon tree.
• Suppli is delicious---jalapeno poppers pale in comparison.
• Pizza----ahhhh, with crusts that are crusty. Not overloaded. Simple. Divine. Rectangular in shape. You just show how many inches you want and the purveyor cuts with a scissors. Loved the one with zucchini flowers, proscuitto and stragatta? (must check on this name!)...a tangy, soft cheese. Swoonworthy!
• Buffalo mozzarella from the market with oil, and fresh basil. Wow. Add a splash of balsamic if you like. (By the way---never put buffalo mozzarella in the frig. Also, before eating, soak package in water about 1/2 hour. Releases some chemicals .)
• Bruschetta. First...you pronounce this "brew-sketta". Now---here's how to make it, Tuscan style. Grill/toast in oven slices of good, crusty bread. Serve a slice or two to each person. Now pass the whole cloves of garlic--each person takes one. Scrape it over the bread to coat. Drizzle with your best olive oil. Add spoonfuls of chopped fresh tomatoes (pomodoro) that have marinated in olive oil, crushed garlic. Sprinkle with a pinch of salt. Eat. Swoon. Add fresh basil if you like! This is a magic combination of texture---crunchy plus tomatoes---and flavors....ahhhh.
• Almost everything is better with good olive oil.
• The Best Cannoli Ever. Just blocks from our flat. The Sicilian way. Fresh. Sunday morning. Men outside at the cafe tables watching the football game on the screen on the wall of the Bar. Me, inside in the dark. And there---the fresh Sicilian pasties. I instantly desire one of each---but practice restraint. I say "Un cannolo." He (older, swarthy, looks the part) hands me a spoon overflowing with a dollop of the ricotta cream filling. I taste it. Oh yes...and I love that it's not too sweet. Then he asks if I'd like fruit or chocolate in it. Chocolate, I say. He goes into the back room (behind an old floral print curtain)---and emerges  a couple minutes later, handing the cannolo (it's masculine, of course!) to me. It has chocolate not only on the ends but across the top (Alberto says this is unusual). I commit...turn all my attention to this divine masterpiece, and take a good full bite. Wow. Again, the textures. The crispy shell just now filled with the smooth cream. Nirvana. And grazie grazie grazie! I'll definitely be back. In fact---today---on my way for an "orange" shaped savory deep fried number with rice and sausage and herbs in it---which will be my lunch. Oh yes to that! 
• I've had incredible home cooking almost every night. So fresh. Otate (sea bass) stuffed with citrus. Cakes. Creme de Caramel. One meal of Fettucine Salsiccio (sausage) AND Ravioli with spinach and ricotta. Delicious bright green olives. Lox with Sardinian olive oil and capers. Homemade jams. Crunchy bread. Powerful hard cheeses. Melty soft cheeses. Salami.  Cornetti for breakfast.
• Italian "jerky" sticks are hot and greasy and to die for. It's an athletic experience. Make sure you have a napkin or paper towel----you'll need it when you're done! 
• Spicy Himilayan lunch yesterday near the big farmer's market  (vendors primarily Bangladeshi). A delicious twist of flavors in the heart of Rome. 
• Colorful, lively local outdoor markets. Fresh fresh fresh food everywhere. Abundant. Verdant. Enticing. Fruits and veggies (next to push up bras). Salted fish. Spices. Herbs. Cheeses. Crusty Breads---you can buy a whole or a half, really whatever size you want. Fresh oils. Vats of wine---you just bring a plastic liter bottle (a soda bottle works great) and voila, out comes the wine out of the spigot.  Easy peasy. At all meals, of course!   
• Salad comes after the meal. Zesty, peppery greens splashed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil.
• Gelato! Everywhere. All the time. Wild, fun flavors. Haven't tried Celery yet. Dished up with a trowel (not a scoop). A 2 Euro cone gets you two flavors. Smooth. Rich. Zesty. I limit myself to one a day!
• Warming pizza in a fry pan works great (keeps crust crunchy.)
• Here's how to cut a whole swordfish: Put it on its side. Place a large (about 2 foot will do) chef's knife at the place of the desired thickness of the steak. Hold knife with your left hand---and whack the top of the knife with a large hammer/mallet. Voila! 
• What not to do. Oops. This morn, I placed the electric espresso maker on the gas stove (by accident, since this is how I use my little espresso maker)...so I'm off to walk to the appliance vendor! Fortunately---he's just 1/2 mile away in the neighborhood---just like everything!
• Sharp knives readily available---the Knife Sharpening Man (I'm sure this has a name) came by this morning...announcing his availability with a plaintive cry on the street! Feels very old world. 
• Burada (note to self to check the spelling). Soft cheese. Like butter. A large scoop like ice cream appears at the end of our meal, in my bowl---"Oh no, I couldn't eat this much I say." "Try it, and see" says Alberto, smiling. I taste it. My eyes roll back in my head. It disappears.   

I'm an epicure in heaven! Pulsating with Italian food pleasures. We joke about the Seven Deadly Sins. Is this gluttony? Or, as I prefer to think...is this savoring manna every step of the way. A pilgrimage of sorts.  I'm here in the land of food. I taste. I eat. I savor. I do as the Romans do. There's incredible delight and connection and joy with the Italian people with each bite. It's HOW I'm experiencing Italy. It's the most delicious doorway/entree I know.  As a result...I have a little Italian food "baby" growing in my belly! I look a couple of months pregnant! I can't think of a sweeter conception. I'm literally eating, playing and loving my way through Rome!

Lunch By The Sea

Movement. Flow. For one euro (the equivalent of $1.25)---I step onto the metro, ride,  transfer, slide effortlessly onto a platform, and catch the train to the sea. The Mediterraneaum (as it's called here). I am blown away by the access and ease. Legs moving, bodies moving, lives moving, all flowing and arriving.  Teeny cars moving too--and that's a juicy jazz dance of wild weave! More like knitting maybe---with gusto! Sliding in and out, in spaces unseen by me. Interlaced with women on scooters, legs splayed in skirts and boots. All of it---absolutely working. I haven't seen an accident yet. Nor do the horns honk much. It's fascinating and appears seamless!

But I digress...I'm at the sea! On a Wednesday afternoon. In Ostia...walking towards the water that faces my faraway home. At the end of a pedestrian pier, I lean out---West. The waves crash in front of me, and flow underneath me. The sun breaks through the clouds, gleaming on the crests. It's dreamy and peaceful. 

I'm hungry to taste it! Strolling up the boardwalk now---I peer in. And there it is. The table---on the water, in the sun and the wind. I step in. Hurriedly, in broken English, the waitress says--5 minutes until the restaurant closes for food orders. No problem. She asks if I'd like an appetizer. I say yes---seafood. Good. And a pasta plate? I say no...or maybe "picolino." She says "Half?" I say perfect. And a bottle of water. With gas or no? Gas, I say smiling, knowing I've landed gustatory nirvana! While I wait I take in the sea. And offer to shoot a picture of the German couple next to me (their first shot together of their trip---with thanks). And I shoot a picture of the little blonde boy next to me seriously tackling the biggest gelato on a cone---with smears of dark and white and whip on his face that looks like Picasso!

My Lunch Appears. And it is to die for. A large plate of the freshest seafood---squid, oyster, lox in oils, sardines (oh so fresh!) in oil, octupus with lemon, herbs. And other delicious creatures.  A large black bowl of mussels, plump and huge and evocative---in oil and wine so divine I'm swooning now. I am predisposed to swoon. It's true. And this moment has me. A quick wave of guilt (Me? Wednesday afternoon? So much?) washes over me. But I know better. This is mine. My moment to savor. Right here on a Wednesday afternoon on the coast of Italy with the fruits of the Mediterranean. And there's no stopping me now. I dig in. Suck. Lick. Mop. Inhale. Grin. My eyes closed...I taste. Approaching heaven, I pause. And go back for more. Each bite so very fresh. I'm going for it! It won't work in a doggie bag on the train. No---it's now or never. And I'm loving this now! 

Then, my "half" pasta arrives. There's nothing that looks "half" about it! Mounded with a new diversity of seafood! Now I'm completely incredulous. Already near bursting, I feel a form of ecstasy rising in me. There's no turning back. I'm in for the duration---and absolutely committed to all of it.  I eat every last morsel in all its glory. 

There's one thing left. I peel off my socks and boots. My toes sink down into the dark, smooth sand. The Mediterranean splooshes over my feet----baptism of fresh, cool, playful waters. I walk. Feel the shining sun. Feel the wind on my face. And feel so complete.  One final wave washes over me. Gratitude.  

 

Red Leather Gloves

 It's dusk. I'm hustling back to the Metro. And then...I see it. Out of the corner of my eye, a shop the size of a closet. With leather gloves. Italian leather. And, the prices look real. Something in me yields and knows. This is the real thing. I'm standing in front of something important. Stop. Enter and open to this. I step in and am welcomed by a warm, lovely woman---in her seventies, perhaps. Charming in a non-fussy, non-chic way. Right away I sense that she is a glove professional. I ask her about the red kidskin gloves in the window. She smiles, says yes, finds a box (now it's a little like a shoe store) and out they come.

Here's where it gets really cool. There is a true art to this. She gently removes them from their cello package. And then----she takes what looks like a long old wooden double rod, and places it into each finger, and opens it a tad. It's a custom device I've never seen before.  Now---it's time for me to place my elbow on the padded counter---and hold my arm and hand straight up. Firmly. She does the rest---plying the soft leather over my fingers. If I go limp or try to help, she chastises me in the most loving way. No---I must let her do it. There is a grace to this lost art.

The glove is now on and the fit is stunning. She rubs and pats my smooth, gloved hand, and we both know that they are perfect. And meant for me. And divine. An intimacy has now grown up between us. I ask her her name. Alberta she says, and I, of course, share mine. She then answers the question I've asked. She's been selling gloves from her own factory since 1971---to people all over the world. I am now one of them. Part of her forty year legacy. I take the Euros from my hand and place them in hers. She carefully counts my change. Then, as we put our heads together to take a picture...I feel moved by this moment. This vibrant, unassuming woman bringing continuous joy. This opportunity to touch another so gently. To connect across cultures,  generations and so much more. This daily blessing of the hands.

If you ever find yourself on Corso Vittorio Emanuele in Rome---there's a treat awaiting you at 18/a. Put out your hand, introduce yourself to Alberta---and do tell her that Lynn with the red gloves from America sent you.

Don't Steal This...It's Already Stolen!

Sunday Morning in this Catholic nation...and there's a communal pulse.  And it may not be where you think. Enter Porta Portense, Rome's weekly open air outdoor market extending for blocks and blocks under holy  tents and umbrellas, literally amidst the ruins in an old Jewish neighborhood near the Tiber. This is a wild form of worship. Ancient---the hunt of the treasure. Now, I'm a red blooded woman. An experienced huntress. My pulse races a little. The scene is verdant--and I can smell the prize in the air.  The goddess/barker of the one Euro (about $1.25) clothes table draws me in. I'm told she's saying these outrageous (and sometimes true) words, "Don't steal this---it's already stolen!" It's a wink and a nod. Of course I buy. I'm in Rome. I do what the Romans do! Yes to red pants.

There's street chic here. Very cool and edgy. Black reigns. People appear to live, breathe, and dress effortlessly. I love it. And then---in the mix is the reddest hair on women I've ever seen (this appears a little less natural)! And the men with bowler hats and small dogs on leashes. Babies in strollers.  Global vendors. These masses flow and reach. Rub shoulders and commune. It's tight. Hard to walk and fascinating. An ebb and weave. We process---and when baubles delight, sidle up to tables of treasures. We taste and eat.

For me---the double rocking knife. Comfy leggings. The espresso pot hanging jauntily on the rope. A six foot pencil sketch.  For you? Perhaps a surveying stand. An "antique" painting or bible. Needles and thread. Bread and cheese. A chandelier (oh, if I lived HERE.) An Adam and Eve radio (please insert your imagination here.) Tables of...well, everything. Furs. Italian leather boots (oh sadly, not my size...but so close!) A pilot's leather hat. Tools. Jewels. Parts of toys. DVDs. Underwear.  Old suitcases. Candlesticks and lamps. Antique phones. Picture frames. Masks.  Shiny fabric. A poster that reads, "Moose Lake Bait and Tackle." Yup, that too.

The soundtrack? An accordian player (be still my heart!), of course. Cacophony of Roman voices call out to each other in a full throated union that is wild and wonderful. This is a truly expressive culture. What do we say in music? "With Feeling!" Yes, it's impossible to miss it. Roman people speak with feeling, delight with feeling, live with feeling and do of course talk non-stop with feeling. A cadence of spirit and arc of tones and calls and trills and ooohs and ahhhs!  What's that? Oh---a saxophone. Nice.

And I wonder...how is it that I, a Scandinavian American, feel so completely and utterly at home here?


 

Rome had me with Ciao!

Full Disclosure: I Love Rome. Lovestruck? Smitten? Whatever----its cast it's magic, and I'm a goner. Rome had me with Ciao! I know "All Roads Lead to Rome" and am so blessed that mine did. I can't explain it---but when standing on a rooftop, the clouds seem to do a surround shape that I've never before experienced. It's as if they are complicit clarions...announcing that Rome really is the Center. It's beautiful, moving...and feels absolutely right. Wow.

And what is here at the Center? Delicious wild juxtoposition! Colorful and pulsing!! .24 hour fresh flower stands on the corners ---of course, better, because is doesn't damage the flowers by moving them!! Now that IS civilized!

Vroom Vroom!

Aren't beginnings interesting? They're sort of like pregnancy. One minute you're not pregnant---the next you are! A couple of minutes ago, I was a blogging "virgin"....now I'm a real-time blogger! Whoosh! Here. I. Am. In the blogosphere! Being a newbie, I asked one-who-would-know. My experienced daughter. Here's what she said (and this is for all bloggers and all blogger wannabes):  "The first rule is to 'Get over yourself!' No drafts. Let 'er rip! Pour it out. And those will be your best posts!"

Gulp. Here. I. Go!!

Within hours I fly to Rome...for a big, juicy, creative adventure! Goodbye, Colorado! Hello Italy! I promise to post from afar...and invite you to join me. One woman. With red lips. And boots. Made for adventuring...and stepping out!

No wonder my insides are revved up...
Vroom Vroom!!