Rainy Daze

In the past, to run or not to run was not the question. I set goals and reached them. To achieve 2006 miles in 2006 I had to run rain or shine, and the last six miles were a breeze. At age 51 the goal for the year was 51 wet or dry kilometers a week. I ran them and then I turned 52.

It's only running with no goal that brings up debate. If you've no reason to record results the alarm, frost and rain challenge the reason for the run. I try to keep this personal parley to a minimum and begin the difficult transition from pajamas to running clothes as soon as possible. Once clad in battle gear, the rest is a walk in the park (that's our secret).

I admit I like the praise that comes after 6 soggy miles, but this morning's mountain run made me wonder if I'm undeserving. Instead of suffering, I was aglow. The tiny beads of water danced on the sleeves of my slicker like the slippery silver balls in the tiny maze game. Keen control of my pace left no puddles unsplashed. I hit each one like Frogger hit the lily pads, smiling and imagining the disapprobation of all good Italian parents.

After a gradual, downhill run my driver picked me up to get on with our errands. I changed my clothes, wiped my wet my face and controlled my mileage. Minutes later, from the warm, dry car I saw another runner through the raindrops on the windshield. I watched him with admiration. Definitely drenched and seemingly cold and tired, I saw a real warrior. Immediately upon giving him kudos I wondered why I hadn't applauded myself. The heavy raindrops hitting him were the same ones I'd just dried, yet my run seemed like a frolic and his a feat.

We're often told that things are easier said than done, but I beg to differ. Sometimes it's just a matter of changing your pajamas. With the right armor, even the heaviest raindrops fall like feathers.

An Unamusing Muse

Dare I declare thyself a muse, at least for my own amusement?  

A couple of years ago while waiting for the vaporetto I saw a man (less than discretely) taking my photo. It happened the day after I'd written a post about taking more than just selfies. When I asked where he'd found the courage he said he couldn't resist. (That's the muse taking over. I really have no idea what he said.) In any case, the vaporetto was arriving and there was time for nothing more than giving him my number and insisting that he send the photos.

One minute out to sea (the Venetian Lagoon) the photos arrived.  He attached a message to his favorite and commented on my violin. I thanked him and sent the link to the coincidental post. In addition to the photos he'd taken of the old lady with the ukelele (the instrument of the modern muse) the blog added fuel to the fire.

Day after day I received poetic messages relating to minute details in the blog; it has never been read with such attention. Photos I'd posted were artistically rendered in small watercolors and sketches.  Gianluigi made my red teapots whistle and my beat-up backpack beam.

Most that have heard this story (and perhaps you, too) call it stalking and discourage me from letting it continue. I, on the other hand, am inspired just being another's inspiration. Following his lead and painting on pizza boxes and unofficial watercolor paper my brush feels lighter. And even though there's little to no improvement, I paint more.

Several months after the photo shoot I discovered his artistic touch on the beach. He'd found my art installation with buoys and driftwood but he didn't find me, so he left a splotchily painted white linen shirt on one of my statues, a drawing of a sunset on my table and a clear plastic ball with a shell inside dangling from the pole of my capanna (hut).  

Then one day he showed up at the turquoise door of my tiny yellow house. (It's not hard to find the only American on the island.) We shared a CocaZero near the lagoon and with every word I spoke I felt sure to be tainting the image he'd so creatively created of me. He had bits from the blog, but nothing more. As an artist he didn't fill in the blanks like a paint-by-number. He created someone that suited him and then brought his creation on walks in the mountains and on bike rides near the sea. She never complained or talked too much and she didn't ask too many questions. She lived in his world just the way he wanted her to.  

Nearly two years have passed and it seems he finds me less amusing. I must admit I miss him. Perhaps he's taken photos of another unusual subject, gotten her number and found new inspiration. And maybe now he's living different days with her. Instead of midnight bonfires, there might be fancy dinners. This time she could really be by his side or she could just be another momentary part of his imagination. But if it's a happy place for him, I (unlike so many others) don't find it sad or creepy.

In an imaginary world there are no rules or restrictions; it's not a paint-by-number. You can choose the colors and go out of the lines when you want. If you start feeling sad, add more color; if things are overwhelming, tone them down a bit. Made-up people and places are there for us when the real ones let us down. They give us hope and inspiration.

Pondering this post before publication, I had a revelation. (From whom it came, we'll never know.) Is the tale I've told so different from a relationship with God? People read the Bible. Their image of God is created based solely on the readings (there's not even a Coke in the lagoon.) This imaginary creation provides company and inspiration when needed and is very often forgotten when not. Perhaps God is merely a muse; and his followers stalkers?


 

New Year's Intentions

It's easy to avoid talking about New Year's resolutions in Italy because it's usually only a part of the post-holiday inquisition when l'americana brings it up. I often avoid the subject altogether because new year after new year I find myself frustrated with such a different interpretation.

According to Cambridge Dictionary, a resolution is a promise to yourself to do or not to do something. Instead, Oxford Languages says it's a firm decision to do or not to do something. I prefer Brittanica Dictionary's definition: a promise to yourself that you will make a serious effort to do something that you should.

In Italian, New Year's resolutions are called Buoni Proposti, which translates as good intentions. Imagine asking your colleagues at the water cooler (if offices still have water coolers) about their good intentions for the new year. And how about the first week of February when you have to confess that you no longer do sit-ups every night before bed. Is it grammatically correct to say that you've broken your good intention?

We've  all been told where the road paved with good intentions leads, and in case you've forgotten, it's not heaven. So this year why not follow the yellow brick road which leads to brains, courage and love; three essentials for achieving goals. And for those of us that have written 'travel more' on 2025's resolution list, perhaps it's time to realize there's no place like home.
 

*For international readers, the yellow brick road is from a children's novel, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, written by Frank L. Baum in 1900.


 

May I have a word with you?

I don't realize that I've been missing words until they pop up again. The other day I heard a big brother (an ex-student) call his little brother (a current student) a clown. "You're a real clown," he said. And I smiled more about his word choice than the fact that the little brother and I had just played a good trick on the big one.

There are also words I miss because I refuse to use them. Words like 'chat'. It was probably archaic when I used it, but I liked it. Thanks for the chat, let's chat soon and there's nothing like a good chat all referred to real conversations. Many current users probably have no idea that you can chat in person. If I accidently use the word, they think I'm involved in an internet relationship.

I've lived in Italy so long that my vocabulary lacks lots of the latest lingo. I pick up a few words from my cool students that learn them on Instagram and Netflix. They're easy to memorize, but I'm never sure how to throw OG (old gangster) into a sentence. And the other day when I accepted a student's invitation with, 'I'm in' he corrected me with 'I'm down'. I used to say 'I'm down with that' in the 90s; 'I'm down' must be the new abbreviation. But now that I think about it, after saying 'I'm in' it's probably the perfect time to add, 'I use that term because I'm OG.'

Sometimes English words pop up Italianized. Years ago there was lots of talk about 'the Joe Backed'. I always wondered who Joe was and I didn't understand why he deserved an article in front of his name. I finally asked and here's the reply. "You don't know WHAT the Joe Backed is?" (That should have been my first clue, WHAT instead of WHO.) He continued, "I throw an American term in an Italian sentence and that's the only word you don't understand?" When he said that politicians say it every day I realized that 'the Joe Backed' was the Italian pronunciation of 'the Job Act'.

The other day someone referred to their 'coperta di LEE-noose'. That's not the right spelling but I wanted you to hear how it's pronounced. Coperta is blanket. Lino (pronounced LEE-no) is linen. I thought they were talking about a linen blanket. Weeks later I saw it written. The coperta di Linus is Linus' blanket, aka security blanket. I'm afraid my mini-Oxford Dictionary isn't the Linus' blanket it used to be. I'm sure I wouldn't have found that if I'd looked under 'L'.

I've been told by American friends that I suffer from the 'FOMO'. I don't think that's how to use it in a sentence, but I know it means 'fear of missing out.' I don't know if you suffer from the 'FOMO' or if you are a 'FOMO'. But that sounds like 'MOFO', which I've yet to understand why it's not 'MOFU' since that's the correct abbreviation of THOSE two words.

It's time to stop clowning around and get back to serious things like stoking fires; in the water heater for hot water, in the fireplace for a warm livingroom and in the stove to cook my dinner. And even though those are the most important events of the day at the mountain house, I don't (often) suffer from the FOMO. It's a place where I feel like a tough MOFO and a real OG.

 

That Little Extra Something

It's Christmas cookie season. I didn't get a lot of cookies as gifts in the States, but in Italy with a few friends and students it's become a tradition. As a true cookie connoisseur (one who appreciates lots of butter and sugar) I can't say I'm terribly excited about the cookies I'm given. It's the packaging that interests me. Some come on a shiny, gold, cardboard tray wrapped in cellophane. Others come in tiny, clear bags tied with jute and have a little tag with the ingredients.

One of my favorite packages is from a lady that lives on the island. She has six kids. They're all married (that makes 12) and they all have kids (I think they're up to 29). Yet, year after year she finds time to deliver what I call dry, butterless hearts, stars and braids (an Italian tradition loved by Italians). For me the best part is the little brown bag with a strip of gold tinsel stapled to the top. There's always a note attached (it's usually about Jesus) and it's written in English (just for me) by one of her kids or grandkids.

This year, the day after Christmas, the island cookies made their way to the mountains with us. Upon arrival they were unpacked and put in the fruit bowl. I know that's not the best place for cookies, but seeing that they seemed to lack sugar and butter, I thought it might be just enough to make me eat an apple.

The following day I saw the bag with tinsel just as it was about to be torn apart and thrown in the fire. When I asked why, I was calmy told, "E' solo qualcosa in piu', no?" I stopped the burning of my favorite cookie bag just in time and explained that the packaging was the best part. It's what reminded me of Maria; the stapled tinsel and the part about Jesus.

The rest of the day I found myself quietly repeating the phrase, "E' solo qualcosa in piu'." It literally translates as 'it's just something more', but in English it doesn't have the same ring to it. I asked the almost arsonist for a synonymous sentence and was told "E' qualcosa di superfluo." Perfect. It's just something superfluous. That gets the feeling across.

I find it sad that an obsession with order leaves no room for superfluousness; something I consider an enhancement to an otherwise dull life. There was definitely room in the fruit bowl for a little gold tinsel. We should always have room for superfluous things, and if we don't, we should make room.

We're told that when life gives us lemons we should make lemonade. And I think when it gives us cookies baked with so much love there's no room for sugar, we should enjoy the tinsel.

Parents Say Things

Parents say the darndest things. It's no wonder kids' favorite words are 'why not'. And seeing that I'm not a parent, I've dangerously fallen into the kid group at the risk of gaining enemies and losing friends. More and more often I find myself giving up something I really want just to keep peace between my little friends and my big ones.

Take CocaZero (aka Coke Zero) for example. Other grown-ups drink beer and wine and some even smoke in front of their tots. Those bad habits are allowed because they're off-limits to kids. Parents don't feel guilty partaking and kids don't feel left out. But this grown-up doesn't like beer and wine and sometimes has the need for an ice cold CocaZero. The problem is, my drink of choice isn't illegal for kids. So if I have it, they want it. And that's where I'm stuck. Drinking my Coke doesn't quench my thirst the same way a beer makes a dad say "Ahhh!" Mine includes envious eyes and sad smiles from whom it's been forbidden. That's enough to pour myself a glass of water.

I've spent most of my life eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips simultaneously. It's created a monster. I like two things served at the same time and I decide when to take a bite of one or the other. I like my salad WITH my pasta, my Oreos WITH my ice cream and my french fries WITH my hamburger. But try opening a bag of potato chips with a family when the kids haven't finished their sandwiches yet. I suppose it's easy for most adults to wait. But this monster likes soft things and crunchy things at the same time. The parents tell me to go ahead and open the chips but that the kids can't start crunching until they've finished their mortadella (aka bologna) sandwiches. The kids reluctantly agree. But this (sometimes) softy doesn't have the heart, so I, too, patiently wait for the signal from Mom and Dad.

Don't walk barefoot in the house (the truth is, don't even walk in your socks. You have slippers.) Stay out of the tall, wet grass (but that's where adventures begin). And don't crack the ice in the frozen puddle (but then you'll never hear that splintering crack that only comes from cracking ice in frozen puddles). All we want to know is why not.

Last month I was invited on vacation in Vienna with a family of four. Onlookers would have seen a mom and dad rushing ahead with two kids and Maria (from the Sound of Music) curiously walking hand-in-hand often far behind them. Our evenings ended with chamomile and cookies as the five of us sat huddled around the little table on four chairs and a bunkbed planning the next day. The mom's insistence that the 8-year old drink the hot chamomile brought understandable protests as to why it couldn't be drunk cold. That's when Maria (aka me) took over for Chiara, maturely asking, "Is there actually a valid reason she has to drink the tea hot? Because I'd really like to know if cold things hurt you or if hot things make your digestive tract work better. And if we understood why she had to drink it hot, maybe she'd drink it. Right, Chiara?" I was so shocked by my courage to ask, I don't remember the answer. But I have a feeling it included some hemming and hawing.   

My parents' militant comeback would have been (as always), "Because I said so." That's all it took to make me stop asking why. But if there'd been an explanation maybe I'd have learned something and now I wouldn't be so desperately curious about absolutely everything in life. Perhaps the only thing I'd be left wondering is if I'll ever be invited on another family vacation.

It's 10:10

Most people see their names in lights from time to time. Kids run to souvenier shops looking for bracelets, mini-license plates and mugs made just for them. Some have the same names as presidents, serial killers and movie stars and they find their names in magazines and on the 6 o'clock news. The only time I ever came close was when the bachelorette on the reality tv show, The Bachelorette, was named Tenley. I lived in Paris at the time and the bachelorette was engaged and married (and maybe divorced) before I got home. Fortunately my name didn't catch on and as far as I know, it was never stamped on a water bottle or pencil.
The truth is I do see my name around town, but I think I'm the only one that notices. The standard time to display the hands on an unwound (or battery-less) clock is 10:10. I've read that it's the most pleasing position for one's eyes. I'm sure some marketing genius thought of it. 9:25 isn't as welcoming and 2:05 draws your attention to only one place. 10:10 gives you more options. Your eyes go from left to right and the spaces above and below the hands are wide open for a full view of the clock's face.
Unfortunately, the marketing genius had already died before the Casio watch was invented. When someone read the manual on what time to set a non-working digital clock for publicity purposes they followed suit with the 10:10 meant for clocks with hands.  
When I opened my new running watch on Christmas morning the first thing I saw was two big tens; one green and the other white. I thought the box had been hand-decorated just for me. I'm not the only one who likes to play with markers. Then I saw that the numbers were printed on the box and I assumed it was the Garmin's model number. It wasn't until the next day that I realized it was a photo of the watch set at 10:10.
When I see 10:10 my first thought is not the time. I don't read it as ten after ten.  It looks more like a good score on a test, part of a math equation or the time it takes an average runner to run a mile.  
In any case, I was happy to discover that in the digital world I haven't been forgotten. I don't share my name with a Biblical figure, but now that I've brought things to light, maybe you'll start thinking of me when your clock strikes 10:10. If I'm lucky you'll think of me twice a day. Now that's what I call a real marketing genius.