Am I really living in Europe? The land where so many of us think things are better than they are in the States? The land of high fashion, fancy cars, expensive perfume, fabulous cheese, exquisite wine, leather that melts in your hands, chocolate that makes you melt, incredible (unbeatable, amazing, fabulous, perfect, wonderful, I've got to have every pair of) shoes? If all of this is true, I have to wonder why it's so hard to find a Diet Coke in a pizzeria.
I can understand why it wasn't available in Bolivia, Ethiopia and Mali. I accepted it and drank regular Coke. But this is Italy. Wouldn't you think a restaurant in Italy would have Diet Coke? I thought this might be the 'last straw' and I'd finally quit drinking it, but that hasn't happened yet.
My favorite pizza place, I'm embarrassed to admit, is called Punky Reggae Pub. I found it one morning while I was running. My friends had never been there. It's one of the few pizzerias I've found with any character. And I suppose it's probably not Italian character, but it's character nonetheless. Half of the floor is Mexican terracotta tiles. Maybe they're not Mexican (although the owner's favorite city in the world is Mexico City, so who knows?). The other half of the floor is beat up old wood. The tables and chairs are perfectly unmatched. For some reason the sparkly plastic snowflakes hanging from the light fixtures don't bother me. They make me think that I'm really going to like this place in the wintertime.
One wall is covered with snapshots. They're unframed and glued to the wall in one giant collage. Some are in color and some are in black and white. They're pictures of signs and fire hydrants and close-ups of toes and spice jars and coffee cups and bubbles. They're nothing extraordinary, but for some reason I can't stop looking at them and every Friday night I find one that I didn't see the week before.
At first my Friday night trips to the Punky Reggae Pub were an obligation. Soon after, I realized it was my favorite place. The obligation was that I had to consume my share of Diet Coke. It started as a joke. I told my friends that I'd brought a can of Diet Coke with me in my bag. I said I was going to order a regular Coke so that I'd still be paying for something, but then I was going to drink my Diet Coke and take the regular Coke home for someone else. It didn't seem that crazy to me, but they found it quite embarrassing.
Then I decided to tease them a little more. I told them I was going to ask the owner if he'd buy Diet Coke for me if I promised I'd come back often enough to drink it all. They didn't think I'd ask, but I did. And they certainly didn't think the he'd say yes, but he did.
The next Friday night I ordered a Diet Coke and he brought me a Coke Zero. In an effort to continue practicing my new found ability to go with the flow (as long as the flow is kind of going in the right (or should I say MY) direction), I decided NOT to ask why it was Coke Zero instead of Diet Coke. It's not 'The Real Thing' anyway, so what's the difference? I like the can better, too. Diet Coke cans currently have a caricature of a skinny girl, which only reminds me of something that I'm not. Coke Zero, instead, is a stylish black can with a red, green and white design. Instead of the Italian flag, all things red, green and white still make me think first of Christmas. The cans complement the snowflakes.
So, like The Rolling Stones say,"You can't always get what you want." (You're right, I had to check to see if it was really The Rolling Stones.) And I'm not sure what else they say, but it has always sounded to me like "but if you blah blah blah, you get what you need" and the words I've always sung are, "but if you try sometimes, you get what you need." If those aren't the lyrics, I think they should be. We should all try sometimes. But if at first we don't succeed, maybe we don't ALWAYS have to try, try again. My failure to get what I asked for opened the door to something new.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Bridging the Gap
It seems like I always had a million excuses NOT to write the blog, but I didn't think I'd get to the point where I'd find an excuse TO write it. Having a broken knee and a cast that goes from your crotch (is groin a better word?) to your ankle seems like a pretty good reason to start up again. And a prognosis of 29 more days (I've already survived 8) means you can check back in every now and then because I'll probably have a few more things to say.
The accident was scary enough to make me wet my pants. My first thought was that there was blood gushing from between my legs. My stomach and everything felt okay, but I was sure I must have been hit hard enough to cause internal bleeding (but if it was coming out between my legs then it wouldn't really be internal, would it?). Then somehow I calmed down enough to figure out that I'd wet my pants. The good news is, at least it didn't scare the crap out of me. (I suppose that might be better left out, but it made me laugh.)
Here's what happened. I was riding my bike home from an English lesson. I had just crossed the pedestrian only (and bikes, I think) old wooden bridge in Bassano. It's one of my favorite things to do. The pavement of the bridge is cobblestone and marble. The stones are so big and round that it's not easy to walk on them, especially for the beautiful Italian ladies in their beautiful Italian high heels. So, in addition to the cobblestones, they laid nice strips of marble to make the bridge a bit more user-friendly for the Bassanese and the American English teacher on her bike.
When I got to the other side of the bridge the street was crowded. It's a place that's always crowded. It's a meeting point for locals, a photo stop for tourists and the perfect place to stand in the road and have an apertif. It really feels like you're in the middle of a little piazza instead of in an intersection where an occasional car passes through. Unfortunately, I found myself there at the same time as the occasional car. I saw it coming in my direction and I was sure the driver also saw me. It only took a second, and a thud, to realize she didn't see me. That's when I wet my pants.
I untangled myself from my bike and stood up. It was like trying to stand up after a fall on the rope-tow when I was learning how to ski. You don't really know where to put your hands to push yourself up and your legs don't really work because they're attached to your skis. In this case I couldn't put my hands anywhere because I was covered in bike and it seemed like my legs (at least one anyway) didn't really work. You get the idea. All I knew was that I wanted to be up because I thought that if I was up, I wasn't dead.
I looked around and realized I was definitely the center of attention. Not in the way I like to be when I'm riding through a piazza in a mini-skirt licking a gelato. Everyone was staring, but no one was helping. (Then last week when I'd come upon a car accident-- before I closed my eyes and plugged my ears like I do if I think we're about to hit a squirrel--I learned that Italians don't get too close to accidents. I had my eyes opened long enough to see panicked people out of their cars, but no one near the body on the side of the road. According to my friends, which I realize is one very small slice of the way Italians think, no one gets involved for fear of being sued later.) So now I understand why no one was rushing to collect my personal items that had flown from my unbuckled leather bag in my wicker bike basket. The bungee to hold the bag in the basket doesn't really work if the bag isn't closed. The intersection was full of my stuff.
I saw my iPod in it's little felted bag that I bought at the Amnesty International shop in Paris and one of the tubes of my minty lipstuff that I got for Christmas last year and batteries that had blown out of my smashed bike light and a little piece of metal that I actually thought was a piece of the car that I'd broken with my leg and wanted to keep (only to realize later that it was part of my bike). I finally asked someone to collect my stuff and then someone finally asked me if I was okay.
Yes. I was okay. At the moment, I'd decided I was even okay enough to walk back across the bridge to make it easier for my friend to pick me up on the less congested side of town. Wasn't that nice of me? It was a beautiful night for a little walk with a broken knee. I appreciated the marble paths on the bridge even more. I remember looking dreamily
at a faded old building on the river, that I've looked at a hundred times, taken a hundred photos of and only recently found out that one of my students owns it. On the third floor there's a tiny little apartment with a tiny little balcony looking out at the river, the bridge and the 1000 year old town of Bassano. And there's a tiny little chance that I can rent it in January. For a minute I'd forgotten that I'd wet my pants, scuffed up my all-time favorite German shoes, destroyed my bike and was about to embark on the adventure of a journey through the Italian medical system. That's the magic of Italy. It's easy to forget about real life for awhile. But only for awhile.
The accident was scary enough to make me wet my pants. My first thought was that there was blood gushing from between my legs. My stomach and everything felt okay, but I was sure I must have been hit hard enough to cause internal bleeding (but if it was coming out between my legs then it wouldn't really be internal, would it?). Then somehow I calmed down enough to figure out that I'd wet my pants. The good news is, at least it didn't scare the crap out of me. (I suppose that might be better left out, but it made me laugh.)
Here's what happened. I was riding my bike home from an English lesson. I had just crossed the pedestrian only (and bikes, I think) old wooden bridge in Bassano. It's one of my favorite things to do. The pavement of the bridge is cobblestone and marble. The stones are so big and round that it's not easy to walk on them, especially for the beautiful Italian ladies in their beautiful Italian high heels. So, in addition to the cobblestones, they laid nice strips of marble to make the bridge a bit more user-friendly for the Bassanese and the American English teacher on her bike.
When I got to the other side of the bridge the street was crowded. It's a place that's always crowded. It's a meeting point for locals, a photo stop for tourists and the perfect place to stand in the road and have an apertif. It really feels like you're in the middle of a little piazza instead of in an intersection where an occasional car passes through. Unfortunately, I found myself there at the same time as the occasional car. I saw it coming in my direction and I was sure the driver also saw me. It only took a second, and a thud, to realize she didn't see me. That's when I wet my pants.
I untangled myself from my bike and stood up. It was like trying to stand up after a fall on the rope-tow when I was learning how to ski. You don't really know where to put your hands to push yourself up and your legs don't really work because they're attached to your skis. In this case I couldn't put my hands anywhere because I was covered in bike and it seemed like my legs (at least one anyway) didn't really work. You get the idea. All I knew was that I wanted to be up because I thought that if I was up, I wasn't dead.
I looked around and realized I was definitely the center of attention. Not in the way I like to be when I'm riding through a piazza in a mini-skirt licking a gelato. Everyone was staring, but no one was helping. (Then last week when I'd come upon a car accident-- before I closed my eyes and plugged my ears like I do if I think we're about to hit a squirrel--I learned that Italians don't get too close to accidents. I had my eyes opened long enough to see panicked people out of their cars, but no one near the body on the side of the road. According to my friends, which I realize is one very small slice of the way Italians think, no one gets involved for fear of being sued later.) So now I understand why no one was rushing to collect my personal items that had flown from my unbuckled leather bag in my wicker bike basket. The bungee to hold the bag in the basket doesn't really work if the bag isn't closed. The intersection was full of my stuff.
I saw my iPod in it's little felted bag that I bought at the Amnesty International shop in Paris and one of the tubes of my minty lipstuff that I got for Christmas last year and batteries that had blown out of my smashed bike light and a little piece of metal that I actually thought was a piece of the car that I'd broken with my leg and wanted to keep (only to realize later that it was part of my bike). I finally asked someone to collect my stuff and then someone finally asked me if I was okay.
Yes. I was okay. At the moment, I'd decided I was even okay enough to walk back across the bridge to make it easier for my friend to pick me up on the less congested side of town. Wasn't that nice of me? It was a beautiful night for a little walk with a broken knee. I appreciated the marble paths on the bridge even more. I remember looking dreamily
at a faded old building on the river, that I've looked at a hundred times, taken a hundred photos of and only recently found out that one of my students owns it. On the third floor there's a tiny little apartment with a tiny little balcony looking out at the river, the bridge and the 1000 year old town of Bassano. And there's a tiny little chance that I can rent it in January. For a minute I'd forgotten that I'd wet my pants, scuffed up my all-time favorite German shoes, destroyed my bike and was about to embark on the adventure of a journey through the Italian medical system. That's the magic of Italy. It's easy to forget about real life for awhile. But only for awhile.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
'Needles' to say....
The only kind of Christmas decorations I like after the first of January are dead Christmas trees. I start looking forward to them the third week in December when a big sign shows up along the running path that says, "Recycle Christmas Trees Here." A few days after Christmas they start showing up and it's the best smell on the path all year!
This year, in addition to closing my eyes and taking a deep breath as I ran past, I looked at the pile and noticed that almost all of the trees were the same kind. In fact, in a pile of about 50 trees, I only saw one that wasn't the same as all the rest. It made me wonder if a different Chicago neighborhood would have a different pile of trees. I had a feeling it probably would. And that started to bug me, so I decided to google a thing or two about Christmas trees. I started with "rich people Christmas trees" because this pile happens to be in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. That didn't get me very far. I won't tell you what else I googled, but you can probably imagine what it might have been now that you see I'm odd enough to actually google "rich people Christmas trees."
So, why does everyone in this neighborhood (including me, sadly) have the same kind of tree? I suppose it's the same reason everyone drives the same kind of black sports car or SUV (yuck), wears the same kind of boots (ugh, no pun intended) and has the same kind of cell phone (which DOESN'T start out almost square and flip open to slip perfectly under the straps of a bike helmet, like mine does).
Anyway, I started thinking about how easily we can be defined by our "things". I guess that's life, right? But has it always been that way? I know it's not such a bad thing and it's just life and to each his own (I'm still working on that one), but it still bugs me. In fact, I wrote something about this awhile back. I know I think about it a lot when I'm traveling. Not knowing the cool neighborhoods and fashionable clothes or the difference between good and bad grammar when I travel is probably the reason I find myself in such unusual places with such unique people. I'm apt to go anywhere with almost anyone because I don't have the preconceived notions. I know it's not the smartest thing to do, but so far I've been more than lucky.
I can remember when I was in high school and a boy called to play a trick on me by not telling me who he was. Then one small question gave me a big clue. I asked him what kind of shoes he was wearing. I wasn't looking for a brand name. The kind of shoes my friends and I wore at the time had style names (bluchers, dirty bucs (also spelled bucks), tassel loafers...). When this guy could only answer, "What do you mean what kind of shoes? They're brown shoes," I knew right away who he wasn't.
The other day a friend came in the studio wearing his Barbour (that IS a brand name) and I told him I had to call his blind date's best friend to tell her he was wearing a Barbour because it's something we'd joked about recently. I still wear my Barbour, but I've been told that it's not in fashion anymore. Anyway, I was positive that the blind date wouldn't know what it was, but that the best friend would know. And I knew that it would tell her something about this guy, just like it told me something about him (that he was out of fashion, too).
I wish I would've found out where the other Christmas tree recycling points were around the city. I would've liked to have spent a day watching the people drop them off. I'm quite sure I wouldn't have seen a parade of black SUVs with drivers clad in bucs and Barbours. And I have a feeling I wouldn't have found a pile of forty-nine firs and one scotch pine.
"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself." -Friedrich Nietzsche
This year, in addition to closing my eyes and taking a deep breath as I ran past, I looked at the pile and noticed that almost all of the trees were the same kind. In fact, in a pile of about 50 trees, I only saw one that wasn't the same as all the rest. It made me wonder if a different Chicago neighborhood would have a different pile of trees. I had a feeling it probably would. And that started to bug me, so I decided to google a thing or two about Christmas trees. I started with "rich people Christmas trees" because this pile happens to be in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. That didn't get me very far. I won't tell you what else I googled, but you can probably imagine what it might have been now that you see I'm odd enough to actually google "rich people Christmas trees."
So, why does everyone in this neighborhood (including me, sadly) have the same kind of tree? I suppose it's the same reason everyone drives the same kind of black sports car or SUV (yuck), wears the same kind of boots (ugh, no pun intended) and has the same kind of cell phone (which DOESN'T start out almost square and flip open to slip perfectly under the straps of a bike helmet, like mine does).
Anyway, I started thinking about how easily we can be defined by our "things". I guess that's life, right? But has it always been that way? I know it's not such a bad thing and it's just life and to each his own (I'm still working on that one), but it still bugs me. In fact, I wrote something about this awhile back. I know I think about it a lot when I'm traveling. Not knowing the cool neighborhoods and fashionable clothes or the difference between good and bad grammar when I travel is probably the reason I find myself in such unusual places with such unique people. I'm apt to go anywhere with almost anyone because I don't have the preconceived notions. I know it's not the smartest thing to do, but so far I've been more than lucky.
I can remember when I was in high school and a boy called to play a trick on me by not telling me who he was. Then one small question gave me a big clue. I asked him what kind of shoes he was wearing. I wasn't looking for a brand name. The kind of shoes my friends and I wore at the time had style names (bluchers, dirty bucs (also spelled bucks), tassel loafers...). When this guy could only answer, "What do you mean what kind of shoes? They're brown shoes," I knew right away who he wasn't.
The other day a friend came in the studio wearing his Barbour (that IS a brand name) and I told him I had to call his blind date's best friend to tell her he was wearing a Barbour because it's something we'd joked about recently. I still wear my Barbour, but I've been told that it's not in fashion anymore. Anyway, I was positive that the blind date wouldn't know what it was, but that the best friend would know. And I knew that it would tell her something about this guy, just like it told me something about him (that he was out of fashion, too).
I wish I would've found out where the other Christmas tree recycling points were around the city. I would've liked to have spent a day watching the people drop them off. I'm quite sure I wouldn't have seen a parade of black SUVs with drivers clad in bucs and Barbours. And I have a feeling I wouldn't have found a pile of forty-nine firs and one scotch pine.
"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself." -Friedrich Nietzsche
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Don't Save Me a Seat
I'm not a table saver. When I go into a self-service restaurant I evaluate the situation before deciding if I want to stay or not. If there are more people in line than there are available tables, I don't stay. I don't want to get my food and then end up milling around with my tray until someone leaves. In fact, sometimes even if there are more available tables than current customers, I still don't stay. I build in the cushion for the table savers that might come in behind me, messing up the entire ratio of customers to empty tables.
Table savers. I'm not one. And, if you go to a restaurant with me, you can't be one either. Well, you can be, but then we won't eat together. Either I won't sit with you at the table you've saved, or I'll have already left for another restaurant. Table savers make me crazy. I don't understand how anyone can think that this practice is okay.
If you were at the butcher and you heard someone order the last two pork chops would you pipe up and say, "I know you were here first, but I'm standing right here by them in the case and that's what I was going to buy." I don't think you would. It makes sense that someone else was in line first and they get first dibs on the last two pork chops, right? First come, first served. So, why should you get first dibs on a table? Or, how 'bout merging at the last minute when you had a warning for two miles of the lane reduction. Instead, you stay in the fast lane and think you have a right to cut in front of all of the people who merged respectfully. Maybe it's more like that. But at least that could happen accidently and you might feel a little embarrassed by it if it did.
Some friends actually try to rationalize with me and say that if I don't save a table, someone else will and then I won't have one. Precisely. And as much as I don't want to be the one left without a table, even more I don't want to be the one responsible for the guy behind me being left without a table. I can't think of any reason this should be acceptable. And I don't know how anyone can sit there feeling okay staring at me in the aisle balancing my tray. Fortunately, these days, they can bury their heads in their cell phones and pretend not to notice.
I'm not sure why I hate this so much more than anyone I've ever asked about it. I thought that maybe it was because my parents used to make me do it when I was a kid at Mr. Fable's, Home of the Famous Beefburg. (Why was it called a 'beefburg' instead of a 'beefburger'?) But when I thought about it a little more, I remembered that I actually hated saving the table then, too. So, this is at least ONE instance where a childhood experience can't be blamed for irrational adult behavior. There I'd sit, all alone (with the exception of a pile of extra coats) in a giant booth, waiting for the rest of the family to show up. I had to do it then. I won't do it now.
Table savers don't sit well with me.
Table savers. I'm not one. And, if you go to a restaurant with me, you can't be one either. Well, you can be, but then we won't eat together. Either I won't sit with you at the table you've saved, or I'll have already left for another restaurant. Table savers make me crazy. I don't understand how anyone can think that this practice is okay.
If you were at the butcher and you heard someone order the last two pork chops would you pipe up and say, "I know you were here first, but I'm standing right here by them in the case and that's what I was going to buy." I don't think you would. It makes sense that someone else was in line first and they get first dibs on the last two pork chops, right? First come, first served. So, why should you get first dibs on a table? Or, how 'bout merging at the last minute when you had a warning for two miles of the lane reduction. Instead, you stay in the fast lane and think you have a right to cut in front of all of the people who merged respectfully. Maybe it's more like that. But at least that could happen accidently and you might feel a little embarrassed by it if it did.
Some friends actually try to rationalize with me and say that if I don't save a table, someone else will and then I won't have one. Precisely. And as much as I don't want to be the one left without a table, even more I don't want to be the one responsible for the guy behind me being left without a table. I can't think of any reason this should be acceptable. And I don't know how anyone can sit there feeling okay staring at me in the aisle balancing my tray. Fortunately, these days, they can bury their heads in their cell phones and pretend not to notice.
I'm not sure why I hate this so much more than anyone I've ever asked about it. I thought that maybe it was because my parents used to make me do it when I was a kid at Mr. Fable's, Home of the Famous Beefburg. (Why was it called a 'beefburg' instead of a 'beefburger'?) But when I thought about it a little more, I remembered that I actually hated saving the table then, too. So, this is at least ONE instance where a childhood experience can't be blamed for irrational adult behavior. There I'd sit, all alone (with the exception of a pile of extra coats) in a giant booth, waiting for the rest of the family to show up. I had to do it then. I won't do it now.
Table savers don't sit well with me.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Running Mates
You could join a running club, start training for a marathon with a group, sign up for a neighborhood race, meet at a running store for their regularly scheduled runs or better yet, do what I did. Just start running.
If you're looking for a job, a boyfriend, a girlfriend or just a friend.....run.
Here are some of the highlights from my running career. It's not a career filled with winning medals or personal records. Instead, it's a career filled with friends. And some never even become real friends. We just smile as we pass each other on the running path and they have no idea that they're a member of what I call my silent community. Some day they might enter my life for a few minutes, a few miles or a few years. We might even get to know each other in something other than running clothes. But even if we don't, in some strange way I still consider them my running friends.
I learned to speak Spanish running. After months of "hola-ing" and "ciao-ing" every morning, I finally stopped and met Ramiro at the drinking fountain. He didn't speak any English and I didn't speak any Spanish, but my Italian got us off to a good start and eventually I started speaking Spanish! It wasn't until six months later that he realized I was American and not Italian. I eventually became his emergency contact on job applications, his translator at the hospital after a bad burn, and a guest in his family's home in San Cristobal near Toluca, Mexico. He's an illegal immigrant and can't travel so his mom welcomed me like a daughter which brought her closer to the son she hadn't seen for 6 years. And when I was with her in Mexico guess what we did every morning?
Then there's Shel. He's 81 and he runs everyday. (He really thinks he's still running.) We'd finally started talking because I'd realized I'd seen him "running" in Michigan, too. I've since been invited to his house, seen his college basketball photos and met his wife and admired her watercolors.
In 2005 I ran a half marathon in Dolo, Italy where I met Fausto and Annamaria. I normally don't run half marathons, but I was sleeping in a town that was hosting one so I got up and ran it. Fausto started speaking to me in Italian and I told him that I didn't speak Italian (in Italian) and 21 kilometers later I had some new Italian friends. In 2012, they're coming to run the Chicago Marathon with me. Why was I in Italy in 2005 in the first place? I'd gone to visit some other Italians that I'd met running the Moscow Marathon in 2003.
I'd been smiling at Sara on the lakefront in Chicago for several years. That's all. Only smiles. Then one day she stopped me, introduced herself and asked me to run home with her because she thought someone was following her. I guess I'd become a part of her silent community, too. A smile can go a long way.
I would've had a completely different experience in Ethiopia if I wasn't a runner. On the first morning in Addis Ababa I took a walk and found myself sitting in what seemed like a strange, multi-tiered park. Then it started to fill up with runners doing laps on the tiers. The next day I went back in my running shoes which was all it took to meet Lemma and his friends. I spent the next two weeks traveling with them to train at an even higher altitude, I went to the stadium for an Ethiopian track meet and I spent Easter in Lemma's village in the countryside where some of the kids had never seen white skin. They tried to clean me off as if I were covered with paint or chalk. There's only one reason I made it to that remote village. I'm a runner.
A few days ago it was really windy and I was really tired and feeling really lazy. A man in front of me was struggling to take his coat off while continuing to run and I made an unnecessary comment (it certainly wasn't my first) and we ended up running together for 3 miles. I was doing a long run to train for my 20th marathon, which I thought was cool until he told me he was doing a long run to train for his 59th. He's 62 years old, I think. And he's run a 100 MILE ultramarathon. My ultras were only 50 KILOMETERS. I'll leave the math to you, but he's a lot more impressive. He also volunteers for a really cool organization called Back on My Feet. Three days a week at 5:30 a.m. he meets at a homeless shelter to run with any interested residents. Back on My Feet is "a nonprofit organization that promotes the self-sufficiency of those experiencing homelessness by engaging them in running as a means to build confidence, strength and self-esteem." Eventually they can earn points to earn money which goes towards building their new lives. Do you think I still felt tired or lazy after I met Jim?
Then there's the Dalai Lama. That's not his real name, of course, it's just one of the many nicknames I've bestowed on fellow runners like Smiley, Thumbs-up Guy, Celly (it's awful, but it's short for cellulite) Low Waver, See-through Pants, Blind Runner (which isn't a nickname. He wears a t-shirt that says Blind Runner and has a variety of different guides at his side throughout the week), Braces Lady, Bruise (he always wears black and blue), K Swiss Lady, and Peanut Man. But, back to the Dalai Lama. He's in a polyamorous relationship. I didn't know what that was until I learned it on the running path. He told me that his wife was a runner, too, and that I might recognize her because she runs with her long hair blowing in the wind. Of course I knew her. She's Lady with Her Hair Down. I've always been jealous because it feels great to run with my hair down, but I feel kind of silly doing it. There's something about the wind blowing through sweaty hair that doesn't feel quite the same when it's in a ponytail. It's kind of like skinny dipping. Anyway, Mr. Polyamorous (a.k.a. Dalai Lama) told Lady With Her Hair Down (a.k.a. Mrs. Dalai Lama) who I was. A few days later when we passed on the path we both knew that we knew who each other was, but we acted like we didn't.
Running might make you feel old (when you can't read the lap pace on your watch unless you take it off and set it on the ground to get it far enough away from your old eyes) or it might make you feel young (when at age 44 you drag an 18-year old boy to the finish line of his first marathon in Switzerland). Most importantly, it makes you feel connected.......connected to the places (Jardin du Luxembourg), the things (fields of poppies and bales of hay in San Zenone) and the people that you meet along the way.
So if your New Year's Resolutions include getting more exercise, making new friends and discovering new places, my advice to you is......RUN.
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