Truth in t-shirts

I miss American t-shirts. They're the kind of t-shirts that tell you something about the people wearing them.  Sometimes, anyway.  Good ol' t-shirts showing your support for a school or a beach town you visited or a marathon you ran aren't very popular in Italy.  There are occasional jerseys for national soccer teams, but rarely anything local.  Italian high schools don't have teams with colors and mascots because they're too busy teaching Philosophy and History of Art.  And Italian universities are just what the Oxford Dictionary says universities are:  High level institutions in which students study for degrees and academic research is done.  It says nothing about football games and fraternities and tailgates and t-shirts.

My father-in-law used to say you shouldn't wear a t-shirt if it didn't represent you.  In his opinion it was false advertising.  "Truth in t-shirts," he used to say.  In those days I liked my coat with the Chris Craft logo, but I didn't have a Chris Craft.  And I wore a Northwestern University sweatshirt for the color purple, even though I was a green MSU graduate.  Then at some point I adopted Bob's truth in t-shirts philosophy and I stopped wearing them.  It really did feel like false advertising.  The t-shirts said nothing about me.  

In Italy things are different.  Most of the people donning t-shirts with English emblazoned on their breasts (or boobs, in the following two examples) have no idea what they say.  That's about as far from truth in t-shirts as you can get.  Take Gemma, my 75-year old neighbor with her sparkly Touch Me t-shirt.  When I told her what it meant she just laughed.  And you can't do anything but love 85-year old Malvina in her t-shirt with the 3-inch rhinestone letters that read Love Me.  

When a handsome 50-year old student showed up with a tiny Delta Chi embroidered on his polo I had to ask.  And as I'd imagined, he had no idea what it was.   A year later I saw an old woman selling chestnuts on the side of the road with the same polo.  I'm sure neither of them have ever heard of the Animal House.

When I asked the wearer of a Morgan Freeman sweatshirt if she knew who Morgan Freeman was she said no.  The shirt said, I Wish Morgan Freeman Narrated My Life.  If it had said, "I wish J.P. Morgan financed my life" she wouldn't have known the difference.  And my 16-year old student wearing a t-shirt with a Jim Morrison quote didn't know who he was either.  It's a miracle that I did.  When he left I googled The Doors, just in case I was wrong. Even though my high school didn't offer History of Art, I'm happy to say that I learned something from the graffiti in the school parking lot.

The next week the same kid showed up in a black t-shirt with a big, white JESUS printed on the front.  I asked him if he knew who Jesus was.  (In Italian it should've said Gesu'.)  He said, "Yeah.  He's a really good Spanish soccer player."   Ole'!  

The fact that these t-shirts are written in English, and few folks in my small Italian town know what they mean, makes me think they must be meant for me.  This has given truth in t-shirts a new significance.  If they're meant for me, I have to find the truth in them.  I find myself searching for t-shirts as I walk through the piazza.  If I see someone coming but can't read their whole shirt, I circle around for another glimpse to get it all.  They become my words to live by for the day.

I may not have learned anything about philosophy in high school in America, but it seems I'm getting a daily dose in t-shirts in Italy.  Things like You are What you Think and Impossible Doesn't Exist provoke a bit more thought than Go Blue.  

Old-fashioned San Francisco 1965 was an unpleasant reminder that something from 1965 is actually considered old-fashioned.  And it's sad to say, but  there was nothing to learn from Today I Choose Myself.  I'm already pretty good at that one.  

Several months ago at the market in Bassano when I couldn't decide if I should buy the Boyfriend Season is Here t-shirt for Gemma or Malvina, I found the real truth on a t-shirt.  There was no need to jot it down on a wrinkled receipt in the bottom of my bag. I knew this was one I wouldn't forget.

Don't put your key to happiness in someone else's pocket.  

Truth in t-shirts.
Period.
 

Che bello!

Is half of the reason so many of us think Italy is so beautiful because the Italians are constantly reminding us just how beautiful it is?  Che bello this and che bello that!  At the market, on the playground, at the secondhand store and in the car next to you at a stoplight.  Wherever you are, something seems to merit a che bello.  Are things really that beautiful (wonderful, great, nice, handsome, cool.....all translations of bello)?  Or is it just the way the Italians have of looking at things?

The other day during an English lesson in the piazza I heard a little girl begging her grandpa to go in the opposite direction.  She was pulling his arm and whining, "Dai, Nonno.  Da qua e' piu bella!  Da qua e' molto piu bella!!!!!"  If a 4-year old American girl was having a hard time getting her way she would have been saying, "No.  I want to go this way," with emphasis on I and this.  Or simply, "No.  You come here," with equal emphasis on all four words and a foot stomp.  Or maybe even just a long, drawn-out, "Nooooooooo.....!"  But the little Italian girl was insisting in a little Italian girl way, "Come on, Grandpa.  It's more beautiful this way.  It's much more beautiful this way," with the emphasis on much.

After the lesson I hopped on my bike to go home.  I started to leave the piazza in the same direction I always leave.  Then I remembered the little girl and decided to go her way to see what it was that made it more beautiful, MUCH more beautiful.  The cobblestone street didn't seem to be any more beautiful her way than mine.  The centuries-old marble sidewalk with random shell fossils was beautiful here, just like on the other street.  The clock tower was visible from both streets and you could hear the church bells from both.  The lampposts cast the same curlicue shadows.  Old ladies chatted from their windows and old men chatted in the piazza no matter which street you took.  There was no shortage of rusty bikes with baskets resting under peely-painted windows and there were plenty of petunias hanging from baskets on balconies.  Small candles in oversized lanterns invited shoppers into boutiques and mountains of billowing gelato in spotless glass cases invited the rest of us into gelaterias.

At the end of my detour I wasn't convinced that the little girl's way was any more beautiful than her grandpa's, but I was convinced (having taken the time to look) that they both deserved a thousand che bellos.  Maybe it's not that Italians look at things in a different way, but just that they look at things.  They're seldom in a hurry, but IF they are, for most it's okay to be late.   I, on the other hand, am always in a hurry and refuse to be late.  This means less time to smell the roses.  Less time to "che bello."  

We're often reminded to look at things as half full instead of half empty.  But first, some of us need a reminder to just look.   You don't have to be on your bike in a medieval town in Italy to find something bello under your nose.  The sun sets everywhere.  Pigtailed, well-pressed  kindergartners walk to their first day of school in every small town.  Burning candles give off the same glow no matter where they're burning.  (Unburned ones don't deserve a che bello.)  Koolaid stands might not be selling Koolaid all over the world, but they're often selling something like toys made from tin cans in Mali, butterflies made from film in Burma and bracelets made from rings of plastic bottles, melted a bit to soften the edges then striped and polka-dotted with fingernail polish in Barcelona.  Che belli, che belle and che belli.  

Don't forget.  Water reflects, bells toll and fat ladies sing all over the world, not just in Bella Italia.

Wild Boar Run

I've never  really searched for a wild boar run, but I know they exist.  There's a Wild Boar Half Marathon in California and a Wild Boar Challenge in Iowa.  And now, even though I'm the only one that knows about it, there's a Wild Boar Run in San Zenone degli Ezzelini, Italy.

I learned about cinghiali (wild boars) a few years ago on a walk with my 68-year old neighbor Virgilio, one of the few men I've met in Italy that doesn't treat a woman like a woman.  We were talking about the woods and he said that I still had to learn my way around and it would be a good idea to take a walk together someday.  Apparently, in Italian "someday"  means "two-hours-later-on-the-same-day" because that's when Virgilio showed up at my door in his shorts, hiking boots and knee socks.  So I quickly changed into my hiking gear (a mini-skirt, tank top and running shoes sans knee socks) and off we went.  Ten minutes from home the temperature dropped, the wind picked up and I learned that his walking stick conveniently turned into an umbrella which meant there was no turning back.

The main goal of our expedition was to learn how to get to the pizzeria through the woods instead of on the road.  But after about a thousand, "If you go this way you end up in Asolo and if you go that way you'll find another little trail that will take you to top of the hill with the two cherry trees and there's the road Napoleon took with his carriage and that's the long path and there's the shortcut, but first we'll go to the big field where the hunters come out at night to shoot the wild pigs and then we'll come back and get you where you want to go," I was sure I was never going to remember how to get there (to the pizzeria in case you've forgotten).

So I just listened and plunged on with a certain astonishment that at that moment there was nothing feminine about me.   My legs were bleeding from the brush and thorns we'd walked through on what didn't really seem like trails.  I had to pay attention to keep from getting hit in the face by the branches that swung back at me after he'd simply pushed them out of his way and kept on walking.  I was freezing in my wet tank top because he'd decided that it would be better to walk without the umbrella.  (Which seems like something an Italian man might plan, but I can guarantee you, with Virgilio, it was unintentional.)

The reason my lack of femininity came as such a surprise was because I was used to meeting a man for an English lesson at the bottom of a hill and he insisted that he push my bike to the top.  And once, while walking in a very light snowfall with my crutches after having the cast removed from my broken knee, a man with an umbrella came and asked if I wanted to share it to keep me dry.  And every time I'm eating dinner with 80-year old Piero he notices that I don't have a napkin (because it's in my lap instead of on the table like all the rest) so he gets up and brings me another.  Then I feel obligated to let him see that I'm using the new one when all I really want to do is show him the one in my lap so he doesn't think I'm an ill-mannered American pig.

But let's get back to the Italian pigs.  When Virgilio stopped to take a breath I asked, "Can you remind me where the wild pigs live, please?"  He said they didn't really live in any one place but travelled throughout the woods.  At dusk they like to go to the open spaces and then it's easier for hunters to spot them. Unfortunately, I don't usually run at dusk or in the open spaces which makes it more difficult for unarmed runners to spot them.  I asked if they were dangerous.  He said that if I surprised a mother that had babies nearby, she would be aggressive.  I wasn't exactly sure how I could ever run in the woods and come upon a cinghiale without it being a surprise so it seemed to me they would always be dangerous.

Three years have passed since that walk with Virgilio.  The first several weeks after learning about the pigs my runs were far from relaxing.  One day I saw a sign on a secondary trail that said, "Do not enter.  Cinghiale crossing."  I didn't enter, but I did panic.  Then little by little I calmed down again.  That's not to say that I run through the woods with no fear.  I'm easily frightened by snakes sleeping on the path, pheasants hiding in the low brush along the edge, one-eyed dogs (see http://10leaves.blogspot.it/2013/10/face-your-fears-with-one-eye-closed-if.html), crying goats that I mistake for humans moaning for help, sheep and donkeys grazing freely with an unleashed dog nearby to reherd them, chickens (yes, sometimes they scare me), and lepri (wild hares) as big as small dogs and as fast as Carl Lewis.

And, as if that list weren't long enough to keep me alert, I can now officially add wild boars to it.  Last week I was running on a trail in the woods and instead of surprising the mother, it was the three little pigs crossing the trail that surprised me.  As far as I'm concerned, they're as scary as the big bad wolf.  Fortunately,  I didn't have to pass the point they'd crossed because I was at a fork in the trail and could head away from them.  What I didn't know is that they had their own trail in the woods which once again crossed my running path.  This time they weren't crossing, but the rustling in the woods was a sure sign that I'd surprised the mother.  It didn't take much to run faster than a lepre.

The next day as I was entering the woods I saw an old man.  I told him about the day before and asked if he thought it was safe to keep running there.  He said he's been walking in those woods for 50 years with hopes of seeing a wild boar but never has.  He said they usually avoid places that have signs of human life, so if they saw me, I'd scared them away.  I never thought I'd be the one doing the scaring.  How many other false perceptions do I have of myself?  It's time to change the way I think.  Instead of calling it the Wild Boar Run I'm going to call it the Run of the Big Bad Wolf.  

No Time to Waste

I've wasted a lot of time in my life just sitting here thinking that I'm wasting a lot of time.  I've spent hours worrying about what I'm not doing and wondering about what I should be doing.  Sometimes I try to convince myself that it's okay because at least I'm thinking about it and not just letting life pass without even noticing.  But that's really not okay.  Noticing is a step in the right direction.   But thinking about it instead of doing something about it can hardly be applauded.

I've never really been able to explain how I feel about my idleness.  And I'm sure no one has ever really been able to understand. When I complain, their usual response is, "You do more than anyone I know."   This makes me think the people they know must be real losers.  I've dug a lot of students out of their holes.  Sometimes all it takes is the Nike slogan.  When I'm in my encouraging mode I often feel strong and think, "I'm ready.  I have to listen to myself.  I can do it, too."  But in the end, the students are the only ones that make the changes.  They send me thank you notes and they start living.  I'm proud of myself for having helped, but disappointed that I'm still stuck.

When I went to Paris a couple of months ago, a friend invited me to Auvers for the day to visit the house and town where van Gogh spent the last 70 days of his life.  I was never a big van Gogh fan, but I seldom turn down an invitation.  (Remember?  I do more than anyone you know.)  There's no reason to miss an opportunity to learn more about an important artist, see a new town and speak bad French and bad English with an old friend all day.

Van Gogh lived in a small room above a cafe.  It's since been turned into a museum which consists of a restaurant, the original staircase to get up to his small, empty room, another empty room with a short video presentation, and an unoriginal staircase to get back down to the large gift shop.  

Although I appreciate receiving my Monet umbrella, Gauguin pencil and Prendergast bookmark, I've never been much of a gift shop shopper myself.  Fortunately, Olivier is.  As we were leaving, he bought me a book called Van Gogh's Letters, the Mind of the Artist in Paintings, Drawings, and Words, 1875-1890.

On the night train back to Italy I started reading my souvenier and found the perfect words to describe what I've only ever been able to call "wasting time."

July 1880
I would be very pleased if you could see me as something other than a kind of idler.  

Because there are quite different kinds of idler.  There is the man who is idle from laziness and lack of character, from the baseness of his nature.  You can, if you like, take me for one of those.

Then there is the other kind of idler, who is idle despite himself, who is consumed inwardly by a great desire for action, but who does nothing, because it is impossible to do anything, because it is as if he were imprisoned in some way, because he lacks what he needs to be productive, because inevitable circumstances have reduced him to this.  Such a man does not always know himself what he could do, but he feels instinctly:  nevertheless I am good at something, I can sense a reason for my existence!  I know that I could  be quite a different man!  How could I be useful, what could I do?  There is something within me, but what is it?

That is quite a different kind of idler.  You can, if you like, take me for one of those.

(And you can stop reading here, if you like, because that explains the way I feel.
But you can continue reading here, if you like, to find the solution.)

A bird in a cage in spring knows quite well that there is something he would be good at, he feels strongly that there is something to be done, but he can't do it.  What is it?  He can't quite remember, then he gets some vague ideas, and says to himself, "The others are building their nests and producing their young and raising their brood."  Then he bangs his head against the bars of the cage.  And the cage is still there, and he is mad with grief.

"There's a lazybones," says another bird who is passing.  "He's comfortably off."  However, the prisoner lives and does not die, nothing shows on the outside of what is going on inside him.  He is in good health, he is more or less cheerful while the sun shines.  Then the migration season comes, and a bout of melancholy.  "But," say the children who look after him in his cage, "he has everything he needs."  Yet for him it means looking out at the swollen, stormy skies and feeling the revolt against his fate within himself.  "I am in a cage, I am in a cage, and so I lack nothing, fools!  I have everything I need!  Oh, for pity's sake, give me freedom, to be a bird like other birds."

That idle fellow is like that idle bird.

You can't always say what it is that shuts you up, what walls you in, what seems to bury you alive, but you still feel some kind of bars, some kind of cage, some kind of walls.  

Is all this imagination, fantasy?  I don't think so; and then I ask myself:  My God, is it for long, is it forever, is it for eternity?

Do you know what makes the prison disappear?  It is every deep, genuine affection.  To be friends, brothers, to love, that opens the prison by its sovereign power, its powerful charm.  Someone who does not have that remains bereft of life.    
-Vincent van Gogh    

That leaves this 8th Grade Queen, this don't-go-to-bed-til-there's-nothing-else-to-do college girl, this smile- spreading-old-people's-home Social Director, this Halloween-Christmas-New Year's party thrower, this come-have-dinner-at-my-red-picnic-table hostess and this annual beach party organizer with no choice but to keep trying to break through the cages and break down the walls on her quest for some real Italian friends, because she's not the type to remain bereft of life.

Lions and Tigers and Jehovah's Witnesses

Take a long drive in Illinois and you'll find miles and miles of cornfields with a lone farmhouse dropped in the middle.  In Italy, it's kilometers and kilometers of vineyards and instead of a lone farmhouse you'll find a clump of four or five houses called a borgo.

Borgos were built to house different families that had land in the area.  They used the same well, split up the chores and borrowed each other's tools.  In the winter they even shared their animals' heat.  After dinner the families would head to the barn to sing and play games, benefiting from the extra warmth of the livestock.  Today, borgos are often inhabited by extended families who share babysitting services, WIFI and the remote control for the gate at the end of the driveway.  (see Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My. Gates and Shutters and Curtains, Mamma Mia.)

I live in a little borgo.  I wasn't surprised to learn that my borgo was built before they had running water and electricity.  The surprise came when I learned that in 1970 when I was on an airplane going to see my uncle's new electric car in Hollywood, some of my Italian neighbors were still using outhouses.  And in 1981, when I was riding my bike to town to see the first airings of MTV (cable hadn't come to my house yet) the Italian barrista was riding his bike out to the country to deliver messages to the people that still didn't have phones.

Most of my neighbors were born in the houses they live in now.  In America I heard days-gone-by-stories from my grandparents and great grandparents and they were referring to when they were very young.  In Italy, I hear these stories from my neighbors and they're referring to not-so-gone-by days. I can imagine Gemma going to the well to get the water because Gemma is still alive and the well still exists.  There's no need to go to a museum to learn the history of the area because I'm living with the history of the area.

Though I feel like I'm in the middle of nowhere, at least I'm in the middle of nowhere with a few nice neighbors.  I can hear Fabrizio calling for his cat, Paris, every evening.  I can watch Maurizio's dad trimming the hedge when there's a waning moon (if you trim when it's waxing you won't get good results).  I can listen to Emma and Bianca's melodious Italian and giggles in their inflatable pool.  And I can smell Virgilio's meat cooking on his homemade grill.  He burns wood in a little metal basket.  As it burns, the coals fall onto a tray below.  He spreads them out, lays a grate on top and cooks.  There's no button to turn the gas on and there's no charcoal or lighter fluid.  He goes to the woods, collects dead branches and cooks his Sunday meal.

From the kitchen window I can see a couple of the borgo's gated driveways.  Last week I happened to be looking out when I saw the Jehovah's Witnesses.  They rang  two neighbors' bells and were invited to approach the house and talked for a minute.  Then, unaware that I was watching, they came down my little road and stopped in front of the house.  With no gate at the end of the driveway there's no place to attach an intercom or buzzer.  To make yourself known where I live you have to come right up to the house and ring the doorbell. It's called a doorbell, not a "gate-at-the-end-of-the-driveway bell."

Perhaps it was the first time the Jehovah's Witnesses had called on a house with no gate.  I stood there waiting to see what they'd do, while they stood there wondering what to do.  In the end they moved on to the next gated driveway, rang the bell and were invited to approach the house.  It seems not having a gate in northern Italy is more threatening and provides more protection than having one.  Few houses have signs that say divieto d'accesso (keep out) or proprieta' privata (private property) but with a gate, who needs a sign?

For an American in Italy, a house with no gate says, "Welcome" without a welcome mat. It's too bad they're so hard to find around here.  

Weeping Willows and Crying Pines

I wouldn't say that I've gotten used to things in the three years that I've been living in Italy.  In fact, it seems like I'm finding it more and more difficult to accept the cultural differences and gracefully hold my tongue.  As they say, love is blind.  In the beginning, I'm sure I didn't even notice unusual things.  Then when I started to, they passed as different and funny.  But I used to mean funny in an odd, strange sort of way.  Now it seems that every time I say, "Hmmm...isn't that funny?"  it's because it really is funny and I find myself laughing at what seems like yet another strange Northern Italian behavior.

I live in an area filled with what I refer to as crying pines.  Yards and public spaces are often very well-landscaped and pine trees seem to be a decorative favorite.  Most of them are allowed to spread their wings and become well-rounded, but very few are given the chance to grow "up". Their tops are chopped.  There's no trimming or shaping or gentle pruning. They're simply chopped and left pointless.

The pines don't die, but they don't seem to be really living either.  They just exist.  They might still serve a purpose, like providing shade or blocking the view of a neighbor's ugly house, but they'll never make it to Rockefeller Center.  Hopes of reaching for the stars are dashed.  Someone decides the trees have grown enough and they put an end to it.  And what's left in life when you're done growing?

It's too bad the pines aren't chopped in December so we could use the tops as freshly cut Christmas trees.  Instead, In Italy, if you're weird and want a real tree, you buy one growing in a 7-gallon plastic pot.  Can you imagine what a tree skirt looks like on a 7-gallon pot.?  It actually looks like a skirt.  It's even weirder when you use the same live tree again the next year after it's been in your yard in a pot.  It doesn't take long to find the good side because it's the same good side as the year before.  You'll probably even remember which branches were the best for the heavy ornaments.

When my teenage niece and nephew from America came to visit we took a walk around the top of the medieval wall of Cittadella.  It was market day in the square below.  The streets were packed and from above we smelled the fish stalls, saw the tops of the food trucks stained with soot from their stoves and photographed the overhead view of the fresh flower vendors.  But the thing that really struck us from the top of the wall (which probably doesn't strike the Italian visitors) were the butchered tops of the crying pines.

During their visit we were guests in an English class at an Italian high school.  The Italian students had questions about America.  They wanted to learn things about school, sports, fast food and vacation.  They couldn't believe there's no school on Saturday and they were surprised that not all Americans eat McDonald's every day.  Then it was our turn and we wanted to know why they chopped the tops of their pine trees.  The teacher quickly came to the rescue and said it's too dangerous to let them grow, which left us wondering why Italian pine trees are dangerous and American ones aren't.

When I was a kid my dad planted two pine trees in our front yard.  The purpose was to watch them grow.  We were supposed to remember that in the year he planted them they were as tall as he was.  I remember the "as tall as he was" part, but I've forgotten the year they were planted.  It doesn't really matter.  I know they were planted long before GoogleMaps was created and as far as I can tell they're 50-feet tall now and they both have points.  Lucky for them, my dad's not Italian.

Maybe the reason I can't help noticing every crying pine I pass is because they're calling out to me. They're a constant reminder that I've stopped growing.  Or maybe I never really started. The difference is, my lack of growth is my own fault.  I'm merely existing, with no point.  I can't be afraid of a few growing pains.

Watch out Rockefeller Center.

The Last Time

The last time I threw-up was in my tiny apartment in Paris.  Before that, it was in Chicago when I was watching Dances with Wolves.  The last time I drove a scooter was in Cozumel.  And the last time I made a snowman was on the running path along Lake Michigan.  But I have no idea when I last heard Donny Osmond sing Puppy Love.  I'd love to know who I was talking to the last time I stretched the curly phone cord straight and slid it under the door to talk in private at the top of the basement steps at my parents' house.  And it'd sure be nice if I could remember the last time someone called me "miss" instead of "ma'am."

I started thinking about "last times" on my run yesterday.  (Hopefully it wasn't my last.)  I usually run the first half mile uphill.  Then I think I deserve to stop to stretch on the weathered wooden fence at the top of the vineyard.  But yesterday, when I was just about to die (where the uphill road bends and I'm in a little cavern of cornfields) some bikers came up from behind.  "Ciao Bionda!"  "Che bella!"  "Guarda che passo!"  "Che brava!"  (Hey Blondie!  You're beautiful!  Look at your pace!  You're great!)  It was such a pleasant surprise that I forgot I was dying and in need of a break.  A little encouragment goes a long way.  An extra two miles to be exact.  I just kept running past the fence and started believing that I really did have a decent pace and I was great.  As for being blond and beautiful?  The blond part's true (in a certain sense), but I'm not so sure about the beautiful part.  Bella is a part of every Italian man's vocabulary.  In fact, I'm almost positive I heard a 2-year old boy say "Ciao Bella" as I ran past the other day. That one went on the list of firsts.

So, the bikers passed and I kept running and thinking about "last times".  I realized that one day I won't hear "Ciao bella" anymore.  I'll just notice that I haven't heard it for a while, but I won't be able to remember when the last time was.  We're seldom aware when things are happening that they might be happening for the last time.  Major events, yes.  They often come with fanfare and photos and friends and we're aware of the finale.  But the little things that are part of everyday life just slip away unnoticed.  Like the last time I ate SpaghettiOs, the last time I locked my bike on the stop sign in front of my old house or the last time I wore the wool MSU band coat that I bought at The Salvation Army in 1987.

I finished the run thinking there are some things that I really have done for the last time and it made me sad.  But when I got teary about the last time I'd played my piano and my last game of beach volleyball and the last time I drove a convertible under the full moon with the heat on high I realized that those are on the last time list only because I've let them be.  I just have to do them again, and then I won't have to wonder when the last time was.  

As for the last "Ciao Bella", I'm not so worried anymore.  I'd forgotten that I live in Italy now where there will never be a shortage of "Ciao Bellas."   You don't have to be young and beautiful to hear that one.  And fortunately ciao means hello and goodbye in Italian, so if I'm lucky maybe it'll be the last thing I ever hear.
  


The only time you mustn't fail is the last time you try.  Charles Kettering.