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.