Prepped and Packed

I've been preparing for this trip since December, but during the past week it's gotten intense. I have lists "TO DO" and lists "TO TAKE" and lists "TO CLEAN" That last one always gets The Man because he cannot understand why I have to clean the house before we leave! (He also has difficulty with the concept of the "blowdryer," but I'm not taking one on this trip so it's irrelevant.)

I have been studying four, dusty French language books that have been laying around, familiarizing myself with French vowel sounds and that gutteral thing they do, because I really don't want to sound like a total nullard when I ask for directions to the nearest toilet.

I found my old "Street-Wise Paris" map and familiarized myself with the arrondisements. I've acquainted myself with the Metro system. I've spent hours (hours!) attempting to decifer the various transportation passes available in Paris, every blog, every forum. Paris Visite? Carte Orange? Navigo? Mobilis? Or, just a "carnet," s'il vous plait. These are all options for using Paris' extensive public transport. It's hard to believe, but the Roman system is so much simpler!

I've been deciding on my clothing for three days now. I'm shooting for comfort with class, which isn't easy when you're dealing with a pile of ragamuffin clothes like I've got. At least I'm not taking my scrappy jeans or any sweat pants. However, my footwear will be headlined by "Fluffy and Muffy," (see previous post "Big Giant Feets.") so you can see my dilemma.

And, lastly, I've developed a craving for French-fries.

I think I'm ready.

The Man, on the other hand, just pulled out "ol' greenie," his 20 year old, broken suitcase. He got out two pair of pants, a shirt, a sweater, socks and underwear and says, "I'm packed."

Is he really packed, or is he just trying to teach me something? Think, little Grasshopper, think!

Can't think now. Must pack. Will think later

Dentally Deranged

This morning I discovered I couldn’t chew on the right side of my mouth without excruciating pain. Plus, I had a big scab on my chin which didn't help.

With The Man accompanying me for moral support (and to remind me not to elaborate too much, to keep-it-simple-stupid), I went back to see my dentist.

We had to wait about an hour for him to finish with scheduled patients.

The receptionist and the hygienist both figured I was there to cause a raucous. The hygienist came out at one point to get another victim...I mean, patient... and she didn’t even say hello to me or ask how my scab was doing.

At last, the dentist came out and sat down and listened to my “simple” story of woe and vexation. He took me into his examination room and checked me out.

He told me that the pain is caused by some exposed “dentin.” Google that.

When the hygienist cleaned the tartar and crud away from my teeth, the dentin was left uncovered. That’s why I hurt. He explained everything very clearly for me (very “simple” for the “stupid”).

Now I am feeling much better. My tooth still hurts and I can’t chew on that side, but at least I know I don’t need a root canal.

Essentially, the pain is NOT because I had my teeth cleaned, but because I haven’t had my teeth cleaned ENOUGH.

That’s Dental-Speak. I respect that.

I deserved that scab.

Dentistry Sucks!

So, The Man goes to the dentist.

He’s trying to save a tooth that some other dentist drilled too deep and split.

This Rome dentist speaks seven languages and has all sorts of neat technological equipment, so we figure he’s going to be good.

This guy recommends that The Man have his teeth cleaned because he has such bad tartar and stuff.

The Man goes and the hygienist does her thing. In fact, she does it twice and The Man’s scheduled for the third attempt on April 10^th. His tartar is of Mt. Rushmore proportions. She's dug out Roosevelt and Jefferson, she'll get Lincoln next.

I accompany The Man and, while waiting, I figure I’ll let this dentist check out my un-pulled wisdom tooth, the one that’s impacted that my other dentist attempted to pull last fall. I was thinking it would be good to get another opinion on just exactly what I should do with the thing.

I talk to the doctor and he checks me out.
He says “it would be better if it weren’t there.”
I agree.
He says that it should come out, but it is up to me.
He also gleefully adds that he loves that kind of surgery.

Hmmm. He overdid the glee part, in my opinion.

He also insisted I have too much tartar and that I should get my teeth cleaned.

Okay. That sounded fair.

I went in today for the cleaning.

The hyginist, Ms. Torquemada of the Spanish Inquisition Torquemada family, seemed innocent enough. She was a petite, pretty brunette Italian girl.

She sat me down, pinned on my bib and pulled out a bag of tools.

Then it began. The worst torture I’ve ever experienced.

She started scraping under all my gums with some kind of water torture digger. It was brutal right from the very start. I gripped the armrests on my chair and didn't let go for the next hour.

I squirmed in my seat, thinking “What is going on? Why does this hurt like hell?”

She stopped and said something in Italian that I didn’t understand. Then she plopped a gizmo over my face and told me to breathe in and out through my nose and not through my mouth. It was gas.

Okay, gas. This will help me relax and lessen the pain.

Not! What I needed was total unconsciousness!

She continued digging and scraping and, just for fun, occasionally sticking various nerve endings with her needle-sharp scraper.

I was actually flopping around in the chair. Flopping!

The water from her spray gun was dripping back down my neck.

At one point, I almost drowned from the water because the little sucker thing wasn’t in the right place and the water was coming out my nose!

But, she didn’t stop. She didn’t give me a break!

I started moaning.

I’ve have never moaned in front of a stranger in my life!

I remember pushing her arm away on at least two occasions.

At one point I yelled out, “What the hell?!”

Still she continued.

It was bad, people.

Afterward, (which I thought would never come) she calmly told me I should have a couple of more x-rays because she was worried about my back molars.

I told her, “maybe later.”

I just wanted to go home.

I was not very nice to her.

I told her she’d hurt me...a lot!

This didn’t seem to faze her. What was she, some kind of monster?

I mean, I’ve been going to dentists since I was about six years old. I had to have all but two of my baby-teeth pulled. I have been known to fall asleep in the dental chair, for cryin’ out loud!

So, it’s not like I’m some scaredy-cat.

Oh, and did I mention the part where she was polishing my teeth with some kind of drill apparatus and was pushing so hard that it slipped down my bottom lip and ripped into my chin? That was where I leaped out of the chair yelping. I was actually bleeding on my chin! Now, I’m going to go to Paris next week with a scab on my face!

I mumbled arrivederci and left the office. I didn’t ask about whether I should pay now or bequeath something to them after I’m dead from ripped-chin disease. I just left.

I came home and burst into tears.

The Man just looked at me.

He’s the one who told me what a good job this girl was doing on his teeth.

I hereby declare that I will never have my teeth cleaned again.

Gingivitis and periodontal disease be damned!

Two Poles

Here's a photo of Captain Z. and The Man.

Capt. Z and his wife Iwona travelled from their home in Poland to the town of Monopoli, Italy to visit their son who is attending school in nearby Bari. We were fortunate to be able to spend a delightful Easter weekend with them.

Zdzichu picked us up on Good Friday at the Bari airport and drove us back to our Bed & Breakfast, located in the historical center of Monopoli. Zdzichu and Iwona had rented an house nearby. Our room was located in a grand, old apartment with 20 foot ceilings and beautifully tiled floors. We also had a balcony that overlooked the quaint stone street below. It was really unique. (We had a great time the first night because we were the only renters in the apartment. But on the second night a family of about eight people moved into the adjoining four rooms and took over the place. What a racket! At 2:00 a.m.!!! But, I'm sure we woke them up the next morning, so we were even.)

Anyway, that evening, Zdzichu, Iwona, The Man and I attended the "Venerdi Sante" (Holy Friday) procession, where this photo was taken. We met up with the Captain and Iwona in a piazza and The Man had bought a ham sandwich (for both of us, I must admit!) prior to their arrival. The Captain arrived, saw The Man holding the sandwich, and reminded The Man that we don't eat meat on Good Friday. Argh!

So, Zdziche, Iwona and the two pagan-meat-on-friday-eaters, joined the citizens of Monopoli in front of an old cathedral (of which there were several - all amazingly beautiful) and watched as the statues of Jesus in agony, representing the "Stations of the Cross" passed out of the church, held on platforms by bearers dressed in various costumes. A band played sad dirges and the crowd fell silent. It was a spectacle of sadness and unity, very solumn.

We had a wonderful weekend walking around the old port town of Monopoli, on the crystal clear, tourquoise blue Adriatic Sea. We walked along the ancient sea wall, the stone buildings that have housed generations of fishermen, saw the boats and talked to the very friendly people. There was an outdoor market full of the freshest vegetables of the season, huge artichokes, bunches of chickory and asparagus, tomatoes and fava beans in the shell. There were vendors calling out for us to buy their selections of fresh fish, mussels and sea creatures. And, there were the olive and nut salesmen. The Man bought a huge bag of pistaccio nuts and water-soaked chestnuts that were to die for. He also got a bag of fresh fava beans that had been soaked in a barrel of salt water. Oh my! Good as good can get.

Zdzichu and Iwona provided us with delicious meals. They had brought a carload of food with them from Poland, many traditional Easter foods, ham and sausages, fish, eggs and cheese, cakes and sweets. We ate well (too much!) and enjoyed every bit of it.

It was a great time and we are indepted to Capt. Z & Co. for making our visit to this extraordinary place so memorable.

Big Giant Feets

I was "in wait" mode with The Man at the airport the other day, looking at the shoes on a woman nearby. They were black leather, long-pointy-toed boots with 4 inch stiletto heels. Then I saw another woman hobble by wearing, essentially, the same thing on her poor, deformed feet.

These two were "stylin'" and they're not alone. All over Rome, women are "out-stylin'" each other by wearing boots only a masochist could love. The "tick-tick-tick" sound the heels made on the linoleum floor as she walked by, translated in my mind to "ouch-ouch-ouch."

People, these are torture mechanisms. If they had been available during the Spanish Inquisition the Catholic priests could have weeded out all those fake Christians that bothered Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand so much. Everyone threatened with those boots would have screamed out, "Yes, I'm really a Jew. Burn me as a heretic, but don't, for the love of God, DON'T make me wear those boots! Ahhhhhhh!"

I looked down at my shoes. Fluffly and Muffy, let's call them.

"They look like something a hobbit would wear," The Man said.
"Hobbits don't wear shoes," I said.
"Well, if they did, that's what they'd wear."
"Yeah, well if the Big Giant came right now, this little hobbit would be outta here so fast."

In my mind, escaping the Big Giant is the ultimate fashion statement.

He's Much Nicer Than Her

The Man's photo might be a bit blurrier than mine, but you can see he got a much better photo for his Permesso Di Sojourno than I did. He looks kinda sympathetic, don't you agree? What a nice guy, the people will say after watching the news story about the horrific accident. She probably forced him into that McDonalds for those french fries. She made him go in there with her. You can tell by his face he'd never go into such a place on his own. It's a relief to know he, at least, survived. What a nice looking guy. Let's invite him over to our villa for a fantastic dinner. In fact, let's give him our villa with the terraza that overlooks the Tevere. And, remember, now he's single. Let's introduce him to the Swedish twins next door. He has such a sweet, innocent face. We'll adopt him.

Have You Seen This Woman

Here it is, the photo that appears on my Permesso Di Sojourno (Permission to Stay) document. Here is the worst photo of me I've ever seen. Look at those dark circles under my eyes. And, what happened to my hair. I look like a criminal. My eyes are uneven. I hope I don't die some tragic death here in Italy, because if I do this is the photo that they're going to publish in all the newspapers and on the evening news. Why couldn't I have smiled a little bit? I paid 3 euros for these photos. I'm so cheap. You get what you pay for.

Today's Windmill

Every once in a while I am hit upside the head with the realization that ROME ISN'T NORMAL. It's not quite sane. It's tweaked. It got dropped on it's head when it was a baby.

It looks all right on the outside. But, intuition tells you that you better not turn your back on it. And, it would probably be a good idea to leave the little-light on at night because if you don't, Rome's gonna get you.

One dwells in the perpetual state of wondering when the other shoe is going to drop.

It's easy to understand why the ancient citizens of this crazy town found the gladiatorial battles of the Colosseum so...enchanting. They were thrilled (and relieved) to see someone else getting the shaft, instead of them.

Nothing's changed in two thousand years.

Take today, for example.

We got up and leisurely decided to go down to Campo De' Fiori to watch the crowd at the morning market and to have a coffee at a local bar. It was a beautiful day, calm and serene. You could almost hear "Morning" from the Peer Gynt Suite playing in the air.

Then, without warning, the iron gates were raised and the lions were released into the arena. The Man started receiving Italian text messages on his cell phone. He couldn't understand them. He asked Monica, the bar owner. He asked some other patron at the cafe. He was directed to ask a group of policemen who were milling around nearby. (Who says there's never a policeman around when you need one!)

The police read the message on The Man's phone and said "It's from the Police. It's something about documents."

Oh! Our Permesso Di Sojourno's must be ready, The Man thought. (See my previous post "A Town Without Pity, But Great Pasta.") Instantly, we were in action. We rushed back home to get our papers, receipts, passports, clean underwear, etc., everything that the officials could conceivably ask for. I stuffed everything in a sack and we took off.

We went to grab the next 116 bus that goes directly to the office of the Questura. The 116 is a small electric bus which has seats for eight and standing room for about eight to ten more. When we got to the bus stop we saw a crowd of about 25 people waiting. This was very unusual and discouraging because there was no way we were all going to fit. The Man stopped to wait anyway, but I walked ahead and saw the approaching bus. It was absolutely packed. I have never seen a 116 that crowded. It looked like one of those "how many people can we fit in a phone booth" kinda things. I called for The Man and told him to forget it. He didn't believe me, but then he saw what I was talking about and we decided to walk. Damn tourists!

The Questura is located less than a mile from our apartment, but it's far enough that The Man had to struggle to make it. I was really marching along and The Man was saying that there was "no hurry," "what are we doing?," "Rome doesn't work like this!," etc. I just kept saying "hurry" because I was on a mission. I had gone "lunatica," (roughly, a form of the word "lunatic").

We got to the Questura, breathless. The police guard told us we were at the wrong door. He directed us back the way we'd come, around a corner, up an alley to the other entrance. The Questura is in a grand, old palazzo, filling almost a block of space with a large courtyard area in the middle (now used for official parking). Like rats, we scurried around the wall of the building, sniffing for the entryway. Finally, we found it and were instructed by the guard to go to the green door.

We'd won the first round. We'd found the office.

Inside we were met by a man who asked "What do you want?" The Man told him about the cell phone messages. The man read the messages and told us that they were sent to inform us that we had an appointment scheduled for May 7th to come and finalize the paperwork for our Permesso Di Sojourno. My eyebrows cocked into the worry position and I said, "May 7th? But, we're scheduled to return to the United States on May 6th!" The man looked pensive and not amused. He looked at the load of paperwork I carried in my sack. He said to wait while he talked to the "Directore." Then a woman co-worker came into the room. We knew her and she recognized The Man. We've dealt with her several times throughout the years of bureaucratic haggling. She was very friendly. This was a good thing.

The man returned and said that, because there weren't any other people there, they would process our paperwork today. Flipping through my stack of paperwork, he told us we needed two copies of this receipt and two copies of that form, two copies of our passports and a set of passport sized photos for The Man (I already had my photos that looked like the worst mug shots you've ever seen).

Okay, okay. Got it. I'm totally focused and ask "Where's the photocopy place and where can The Man get photos?" The man gave rapid, unintelligible directions, (it goes like that sometimes) but I heard something about a "piccolo strada" (little street) and something about crossing the Via Del Corso. Then he told us we had one hour to get back, because his office closed at 12:30.

The game was on.

We walked outside and The Man immediately started in the opposite direction. I said "No! We have to go this way." He didn't put up much of a fight. That meant he didn't understand the guy's directions any better than I.

We followed my keen sense of direction (that's funny) and actually found the photo shop. It was in an optical store. Where else?! There was no signage to indicate that, in addition to selling 5 million pairs of sunglasses, they also made passport photos. Luckily, The Man asked. They took him into a side room, sat him down, took handsomse photos (naturally!), printed them out, charged 6 euros and then directed us to a nearby copy place where we could make copies of our documents. We rushed like contestants on a game show about three hundred yards and found the small doorway camafloged by restaurants on either side. We went in and, with the help of the attendant, got our copies. Cost, less than a euro. What a deal!

It was like a scavenger hunt.

We headed back to the Questura. The crowds of tourists were hampering our progress. We thought of catching a bus because The Man was on overload. He was dragging his feet and had tripped badly going up the step to the copy shop. I was starting to worry, but he just waved me on and said he was fine. I looked at my watch. Go, go, go!

I know that The Man had no idea where the Questura office was anymore. We had trudged through small alleyways, circled piazzas, crossed major thoroughfares and dodged countless cars and motorinos. But I had been dropping mental breadcrumbs all the way. I found the secret entrance to the Questura and we were back inside with exactly 30 minutes to spare.

The lions were sent back to their cages. We were saved!

The man came out and saw us. He didn't look particularly happy, or even surprised that we'd accomplished such a feat. I know that what we'd done was superhuman. Not many "stranieri," (foreigners) let alone a Roman, could have done it. I felt proud of us.

We were admitted back into the inner sanctum, signed some papers, got fingerprinted on a computer this time, no messy ink, chit-chatted about life and the upcoming presidential elections here and in the States. We were all friends. Then, we were done. Our final Permesso Di Sojourno's will be ready in approximately six months. Neat.

Outside we just stood there. What had just happened? The Man looked at his watch and said, "I got those text messages an hour and fifteen minutes ago. We started to walk toward the bus stop to catch a ride home.

Clouds had moved in while we were out jousting today's windmill. A few sprinkles of rain fell and Peer Gynt's "Morning" Suite began playing again faintly in the breeze.

Just Don't Think About It

I'm depressed for the planet today. Sometimes, in spite of my Mother's axiom, "just don't think about it," I have to think about it. And, I guess, today is the day. In the past week I've read stories in the news about the following planetary catastrophes:

1. A new report on the demise of the world's bee population says that the bee population in Britain may be wiped out within 10 years.

2. The Chinook Salmon have completely vanished from the Sacramento River.

3. There are two floating 'continents' of floating garbage in the Pacific Ocean. One area, containing millions of tons of garbage, is twice the size of the state of Texas. Massive amounts, too large to clean up, they say, of human-made junk polluting the seas, the fish, and us, ultimately.

4. The 25 most polluted cities in the world have been determined and categorized based mainly on the amount of raw sewage and toxic industrial waste being discharged unceasingly upon the teaming masses of people living in misery, suffering endlessly.

These are just some of the things I've encountered in the last few days. What are we going to do about it, fellow humans? Just not think about it?

I saw a man today while riding on the bus. He was a young man, but terribly handicapped, mentally and physically. He was walking, aided by another older man, presumably his father and they were headed toward St. Peter's Basilica, the Vatican. The young man was all dressed up and had an expression of absolute joy on his smiling face.

His joy was blinding.

Here was a human being, given the short end of the stick, a lifetime of dependency and suffering, yet he manifested absolute joy.

There I was, sitting comfortably, healthy, with money in my pocket, exuding misery, manifesting gloom.

I'm writing this story in honor of that young man. In spite of his disabilities, he touched me. He grabbed my stupid brain, flipped it around and put it back in my head sunny side up. His impact was brutal, sudden and strong. I honor that and thank him for the gift.

It's like this. Maybe when it comes to world issues I'm as helpless as that young man. Maybe I have to lean on others. Maybe I can't solve all the problems by myself. But, I can still comb my hair, put a gigantic smile on my face, be happy to be alive, and maybe, just maybe, help another person as I stumble along my path. Like a lama, touching others on the head with my peacock feather.

I want to remain informed and alert, but I don't want to wallow, like a Cerberus, guarding the gates of hell. However, I will NOT watch television (except Columbo in Italian every Sunday night at 7:30). The Virgin Mary told the children in a small village in Bosnia-Hercegovina named Medjugorje the following on February 13, 1986:

"Turn off the television and renounce various things that are of no value."

She actually said that, the Virgin Mary. She actually addressed the television issue!

Some people...a lot of people, in fact...will scoff at that one! I actually should because I'm not catholic, but I really like it and abide by it, except in the aforementioned way.

So, where was I. Oh yeah, remaining alert...watching for an opportunity to do some good in the world. Maybe that's what the Big Giant was that I waited for all those years on the curb, an opportunity to do good.

No, it wasn't. The Big Giant was not good.

Oh well. The search continues.

Men In Skirts

The "Scozzese" (Scottish) people have invaded Roma. They're here for some big sporting event, probably Rugby, maybe soccer. They're all over the place, in small groups, beer bottles in hand, walking along the sidewalks and in the piazzas.

They're easy to spot. They're the ones wearing plaid skirts...well, okay, "kilts." But, I say, a skirt is a skirt is a kilt. And, call me crazy, but seeing a man walking along with his hem line swinging... it gives me the vapors! I mean, they're really cute!

They come here every year en masse. (Do you really think a single Scotsman is going to travel to a foreign city dressed like a catholic school girl ALONE?)

I like these guys. They're my people. My Scottish genes get all perky when I see them. I wonder, do I look like them? Is my Scottishness evident? When I see Polish people I always think they look like The Man, but he's straight Polish, not a mixed breed like me.

I probably look more like my French side of the family. Too bad.

Five or six years ago we ran into a bunch of Scotsmen near the Vatican. They were finishing lunch at an outdoor cafe. One man brought out his pipes and started playing. I just stood there frozen, tears streaming down my face. The Man was embarassed, looking at me like I'd finally shut the door and turned out the lights on my sanity. He told me to stop it. But, I couldn't. I just couldn't. I had to cry, you know? For the piper. For my inner Scottish child that yearns to run through the highlands and sing sad folk songs at the top of her lungs.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent;
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content.

Robert Burns
The Cotter's Saturday Night.