Global Globber

I am a globber. This is my globsite.


My brain is jet lagged into the upright and locked position.
I went to bed at the decent hour of 7:30 p.m.
I woke up many hours later, at 9:00 p.m.
I woke up many, many hours after that, at midnight.
Now, it's 4:00 a.m. and I'm starting my day.


The dawn is a beautiful thing.
I don't know why they say dawn "breaks."
I just watched it and it wasn't a breaking thing at all.
Rather, it was a gentle flow, like an exhale.
Dawn breathed.

22 Hours

Dear US Airways:

Thank you for making my transatlantic flight yesterday as interminable as possible. Those narrower seats were so cozy. And, the absence of ALL legroom corrected a silly, life-long habit I've had of crossing my legs while seated. I know, bad me. When the circulation to my lower extremities is restored, I'm confident I won't have that problem again.

The screaming baby from Central Casting gave us travelers an unforgettable performance! What a talented kid! Perfect pitch. I'm actually glad my "On-Demand Audio and Video System" didn't function. Otherwise, I might have missed some of the piercing high c's.

Canceling my connecting flight was the perfect way to clear the cobwebs from my brain and heighten my awareness. That action gave me a badly needed energy boost and helped get me through the eight hours of waiting for the next available.

The midnight arrival in O was special. I mean, if I'd arrived at my scheduled time I probably would have had to fight the crowds at baggage claim. I'm sure that realization was what caused my uncontrollable weeping at the luggage carousel.

In conclusion, USAir, you did it again. You got me home AND provided me with an "Outward Bound" experience I'll not soon forget. You are amazing.

I can't wait to tell my analyst all about it.

Thank you and keep up the good work.

Global Shift

Things To Do Today: Pack.

Things To Do Tomorrow: Suffer.

I'm flying back to O in the morning. I'm not sure how I feel about this, although it hardly matters since it's out of my hands. The ticket has been issued. I'm a goner.

I'm returning to get to work on all that needs to be done. The Man will remain here for another week, wrapping up what has been done.

It's not easy contemplating going back to O-land. My brain doesn't want to wrap around the concept. It sputters and goes "Huh?!" whenever I try to make it think about being back there.

My brain has Transition Deficit Disorder (TDD).

So, maybe the eighteen hours of travel time are a good thing. A brain-numbing buffer between here and there.

Buffers are good. I'll have a double, please.

Today I received a comment from our good friend Robert Brodie Booth, writer. (Hi Robert!) He was kind enough to leave a few nice words in spite of the fact that he's a dog owner and probably read my recent posting about...well...the one about inviting various barbaric tribes back to sack the city of Rome and asking them, among other things, to rid the city of all dog owners AND their dogs, etc., etc.

I felt badly because Robert is the nicest, most charming, generous, good-hearted person in the world and he has, what I'm sure is, a wonderful dog and I really wouldn't want either of them to be dragged away in chains by some hoarding mass of blue-faced barbarians. Then I started thinking that a lot of my friends have dogs, and I shouldn't be so mean-sounding because how would I like it if someone said something really awful about cats?

So, okay, I'm sorry. I was a bit harsh and I can only attribute it to a massive sensitivity lapse. Now you have caught a glimpse of my dark side and The Man is happy because he thinks you'll all feel sorry for him for having to live with such a nut case.

I have also written the Huns, Goths and Vandals asking that they scratch the "dog" part of my pillaging requirements.

Okay, we should be all straight now.

And, Robert, thanks for writing.

The After Party

Here I am with my new bfr&rs (best friend rock & roll stars) after the concert.

These guys are so nice, really down to earth.

They want me to be their new bouncer.

I'm thinking about it.

My First Time

I had my first Rolling Stones experience last night. O.M.G!

They were in command. As hard as nails and smooth as butter.

Awesome to the eighth power.

Mick Jagger put us in the palm of his hand and took us for a ride. He rolled us into a mass of blubbery dough, flattened us out and cooked our hides in a raging oven of ecstasy.

I was sitting in the front row. I know Mick saw me and winked. Keith sat on the stage right in front of my face. He winked, too. I could feel the spray of their sweat and smell Keith's cigarette smoke.

I was dancing in my seat. I didn't want it to end. Everyone was rocking and rolling.

It was incredible. And, it only cost me 7 Euros. I just walked over to the Farnese Cinema and saw "Shine A Light."

From the center of Rome I was suddenly transported to NEW YORK CITY, where my clothes caught on fire and I was jumping up and down, screaming and yelling with THE ROLLING STONES!!!!

Is technology great, or what.

Open Letter to Huns, Goths, and Vandals

Dear Descendants of Geiseric, Alaric I, Totila and Brennus:

I cordially invite you to return and sack Rome.

Your ancestors were here a long time ago, about fifteen hundred years now, but you must have heard about all the fun they had! You probably have fond memories of sitting around the campfire listening to old fish stories about how great-great-great-great grandpa kicked some royal Roman butt.

And, a good kick in the rear is what most Romans need right now, hence this invitation.

It will be my pleasure to assist in facilitating an easy invasion and ultimate sacking. I am qualified for the task as I happen to know all the bus routes and which metro stops to avoid after nightfall. As proof of my expertise, here's some free advice: Stay off the 64 bus. Take the 40 instead.

In exchange for my services, however, I insist on the following conditions:

1. No raping. The only exceptions being approximately 110 rotten senators who are avoiding prosecution because of their "appointed" positions. And, you may do as you will with the leaders of the various mafia groups. But, that's it.

2. Impaling would be reserved solely for those mentioned above.

3. As for pillaging, feel free to take any of the following items:

- Sedan-like vehicles with a blue flashing light affixed to the roof.
- Flat-screen tv's located at train terminals, metro stations, grocery stores, etc.
- Accordions from brain-dead street musicians playing "My Way" for the one millionth time.
- ALL cell phones
- Rain umbrellas (These are the ultimate Roman WMD. There's nothing worse than the carnage left behind after a witless, umbrella-wielding old fart pushes through a crowd.)

I also require that you remove the following forever:

- All politicians who have been in office for more than 75 consecutive years which constitutes about 85% of the current members of Parliament.
- The Camorra, Cosa Nostra, 'Ndrangheta and their associates, especially those serving as members of Parliament.
- All plebian nimrods who cannot grasp the basics of the modern escalator, who reach the top, step off and then STOP right there to fumble with their cell phone or contemplate the origin of the dust mote, effectively blocking the way for the hundreds of others using the same escalator, ultimately causing a human clog resulting in many being sucked into the moving stairway and ground to smithereens.
- All dog owners. I know that 5 people out of the 4 million dog owners in Rome actually pick up their wuvy-duvy doggies' poop, but why quibble. Take them all! AND their dogs, too. Re-introduce the cat to Rome.
- All those television "celebrities" who have absolutely no talent, but who remain on television no matter what, most notably Pippo Baudo and Emilio Fede, oh and Simona Ventura! In fact, add these to the "To Be Impaled" list.
- SUV's and the dickhead drivers that drive them down Rome's tiny streets.

Thank you for your kind consideration. I look forward to your reply.

Sharing

A plate of delicious pasta is delivered to me at the table. I place my napkin on my lap, grab my fork, start to dig in, but stop in mid-dive because there is another fork already in my food, twirling spaghetti within its tines.

I stare until the intraocular fluid evaporates and my eyeballs fall out.

This is called sharing. And I seem to have a problem with it.

The Man sees my eyeballs rolling around on the table and tells me I don't know how to share. I tell him "sharing is when I've had a few bites of something good, say 'mmmm, would you like a bite?,' you say, 'i sure would,' then I proceed to select a piece of whatever food we're talking about and place it on your plate. To me, sharing is NOT looking down and watching my food being devoured by a detached third hand!"

We go on and on about this.

More often than not, The Man actually asks before he dips into my plate. But, if i say "okay" he thinks that entitles him to indiscriminately grab whenever the impulse strikes throughout the rest of the meal.

I spend a lot of time thinking about this. Do I have a problem? Or does The Man?

I have tried ordering the same thing he does, thinking he'll have no reason to covet my plate. Wrong! He still wants to taste my food because he thinks it looks better than his.

I am the Queen and The Man is my royal food taster.

The Man always offers me his food. He doesn't have a sharing problem. He does have an obsession with hot oil and dried chili peppers, which he pours or sprinkles liberally over everything he eats. For some reason I can never seem to remember this until AFTER I take a piece of his pizza, gasp for breath, grab my burning throat, fall on the floor and then hiccup for the next ten minutes grossing out the other patrons at the restaurant, all the while listening to The Man tell me, "oh you should have taken this piece. It doesn't have any hot peppers on it, here, right here, this piece here..."

Father Laurence

Today we ran into Father Laurence, a priest and our friend. We have a long history with this man. We probably first saw him ten years ago. He used to eat lunch every day at a favorite local trattoria. We would go in there, see the priest, nod a hello and go on with our meal, never actually speaking. After a few years, the trattoria changed hands and cook, so we stopped going, as did Father Laurence.

One day, two years ago, we were having a coffee in a local bar and there was the priest. We introduced ourselves, finally, and started talking. He is from England and entered a monastery when he was about 17 years old. He's well into middle age now. He came to Rome and began teaching at The Venerable English College, a seminary in Rome for the formation of priests for the dioceses of England and Wales. The seminary was founded in 1579 and is located on the site of an old Hospice of St. Thomas which was founded in 1362. This makes The English College the oldest English institution outside England.

Last spring, just as we were about to leave and return to Ohio, we talked with Father Laurence and he told us he'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had been told he only had a short time to live. It was such sad news. We'd come to like him so much. We parted that day, sadly, thinking we would never see him again. He told us that he would probably be returning to his home in England during the final days of his illness. Through the summer I often thought of him, wondering how he was doing. But, alas, we had no way of knowing.

But then this year, there he was, walking down the street, carrying out his duties as before. He said he'd been feeling well and was hopeful for his diagnosis.

We see him every month or so, in the piazza or on a street. We always stop and chat. He has a wonderful way of speaking, very British, very deliberate and always interesting and charming.

Today he asked about Pope Benedict's visit to the U.S. He said he liked him very much. He told us the Pope is an introverted man, a brilliant scholar, and an accomplished pianist with a preference for Mozart. Father Laurence is also a pianist and he once performed a concert with the, then, Cardinal Ratzinger. When Ratzinger was elected Pope, Father Laurence was there. As the Pope passed by he suddenly recognized Father Laurence and said, "we played the piano once together." Father Laurence said, "yes, we did." Well, the Pope said, "come, let's play" and took Father Laurence into a beautiful chamber with a lovely piano and the two proceeded to play together.

We thought that was such a great story. We wonder about who Father Laurence really is. Why, for example, was he there when the Pope was elected? We are curious, but respect his humility. Today is gave us his mailing address so we can write him from Ohio.

I regret that we hesitated for so many years before speaking to this man of gentle spirit and easy humor. He's a special person and we are privileged to call him our friend.

A Pleasant Stay

We had a great time in Sapri and nearby Villammare. This area is beautiful and, better still, undiscovered. It does get crowded in the summer and there are tourist camps near the beaches and holiday hotels. But in spring, the place is calm and quiet. It was so empty at our hotel that one night we returned from dinner to find the place completely empty. The manager had decided to go out with some friends. Luckily, he'd given us the key to the front door so we could let ourselves in. There we were, in a big hotel...alone. The only sound was the crashing of waves outside on the lonely, dark shore. We laughed about it, thinking that if we only knew some people we could invite them over for a great party.

One morning we took the train one stop south to Maratea, an upscale town with lovely homes built on the steep mountain overlooking the azure sea. While waiting for the bus to take us from the train station up to the historical center I walked over to gaze through wrought iron gates at an old villa and garden. Suddenly a man appeared at the front door. I waved and said Buon Giorno, feeling a bit embarrassed because I was almost trespassing. He came out and quickly cut a huge bunch of spring flowers, calla lilies, irises and another wild flower that I can't name. He presented me with the flowers completely surprising me. But, he was just being kind and could see that I liked his garden. After talking for a bit, he invited us in to see the home which was built by his grandfather in 1928. He took us into each room and up the marble staircase showing us the tiled floors, painted ceilings, family portraits and furniture from another era. It was wonderful. The garden area was very large and filled with roses and fruit trees. He also gave us two of the most beautiful lemons to take home with us. This man's kindness was genuine and touching. I hope someday we can return there and greet our friend, the man of the Villa Rosa.

Aging Gracelessly

Time passes and here we are.

Or, rather, here I are, approaching my 54th birthday.

I would say that I'm middle-aged but, if that's true, then I have to live to be 108.

I don't know what to say about it. I don't feel 54. Why is that, do you suppose? We feel eight when we're eight, and sixteen when we're sixteen, but after about 28 we stop feeling our age. At least, I did. A cultural thing? Or, maybe organic. Whatever, it worked for me.

I keep thinking I can put on a shirt, short skirt with tights, brush back my hair and go. But, glancing in the mirror I see there's more and more, with each passing year, that needs to be done. A little makeup to cover the wrinkles, a little lipstick to moisten those dried lips. The skirt's too short and my baggy knees show. Pants would be better, not to mention more comfortable. And, the hair...well, the hair.

I feel myself becoming one of the "disenfranchised." A floater. This, in spite of the fact that I am at my peak of brilliance. I could intellectually wrangle with the best of them. But, for what? So, I can shake down that seventeen year old cashier at the grocery store?! The one who doesn't know the difference between an avocado and a kiwi?!!!

The Man is taking me south tomorrow, not specifically for my birthday, although it does coincide.

We're going to Sapri, south of Napoli, an untouristy town on the Bay of Policastro. We've gone several times before, always to the same hotel. Our room has a terrace that overlooks a small beach and the sea beyond. We'll be the only guests. That is what usually happens. The season doesn't start until May or June, so the hotel is hardly open yet, still half asleep.

While there I will acknowledge my birth anniversary.

I will give thanks to my parents who raised me and tried to keep me in line.

I will give thanks to The Man who praised me and taught me there's a big world outside the line.

Then, I'll probably buy some shoes.

Uncle Columbo

Columbo's on every Sunday night at about 7:30.

It's been running for as long as I've been coming here. That's over ten years.

I like Columbo. Call me crazy, but that show is eternal, always enjoyable. Even when you've seen the episode seventeen times, you still sit there happy. You're tickled pink that "Uncle Columbo" has stopped by for his Sunday evening visit.

Now, here's the flip side to that happy story. They also run another show from the States, Walker, Texas Ranger. They run this program every evening at 8:20. That's right. I said "every" evening. That's seven days a week, year after year after year.

It is, arguably, the worst show ever produced. It's so bad, you can't believe it, so you sit there with a look of dumb-incomprehension on your face thinking, "this is so bad," but you keep watching because you can't believe anything could be this bad.

It's all dubbed into Italian, so if I look away and do something else the sound of the dialog and, most importantly, the sound-effects of skidding tires, country western theme music, spinning and kicking become part of the atmosphere. This is Walker country, partner.

It's on right now as I type this. We are both at our computers working. The only sound, other than our keyboards tapping, is the sound of Walker's boots on the floor and some fire bomber explosion shooting out of a helicopter outside the 25th floor of a skyscraper window.

Heavenly.

If I had a bigger apartment, I'd leave the room. But, to do that here I'd have to walk outside and stand in the stairwell which would be stupid, I guess.

We don't have a television in Ohio. Turned it off and tuned it out about seven years ago. It wasn't hard, if you're wondering. We never missed it.

We keep connected here for the opportunity to practice the language. At least that's what we tell ourselves.

We turn on the set almost every evening at 7:00 for the national news, followed by the local news at 7:30. Then there's about an hour and a half of void before the evening movie begins. It's in this void that Walker runs. But, a "void" isn't good enough for this show. It deserves a "vacuum." It should be loaded up on the next space shuttle and shot out into space to orbit the earth before slowly re-entering the atmosphere, burning and disappearing forever.

There's something wrong with a place that subjects its people to this on a nightly basis.

But, then there IS Columbo on Sunday's. Maybe Walker is some kind of penance you have to pay. Seven nights of Walker for an hour and a half of Columbo.

Walker - violent, evil-doing secular world, fancy hat and boots.
Columbo - Italian, wise problem-solver, probably Catholic, to boot.

I have a headache. I must be on to something here.

Terminal

Terminal F, Charles de Gaulle Airport, waiting.

It's a nice terminal, new. But, there are a few things wrong with it. First of all, there aren't enough seats for the waiting passengers. Perhaps they weren't expecting eighty million people at once, as were there the morning of our flight.

Secondly, the two concession stands are inadequate and located in the center of the gate area down about 10 stairs. I mean, picture yourself, loaded down with all that carry-on baggage you just had to bring with you, and you want something to drink. To get it you must lug all your stuff DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS?! Little "rolling" bags are rendered useless. And, why did they think it necessary to put people in some hole in the middle of the floor while they eat. It's not appetizing to look down on a eating area. As I stood there debating whether or not to get a cup of coffee, it looked like feeding time at some creepy zoo. All those beings down there, under my gaze, just sitting there chewing. It was depressing.

I went back to a seat The Man was saving for me near our gate. He was calm, reading. I was calm, too. I was calmly planning an insurrection. "Come on, People! Follow me! We are human beings, not animals! We can't allow such abuse. They stormed the Bastille for less!" - all with "La Marseillaise" booming on the p.a. system.

The Man decided to go find the bathroom. I told him, "you have to go down the stairs...over there, mon guerrier." He left and I went back to my revolution.

A while later he returns.

she: Did you find the stairs down to the bathroom without problem?
he: No, I took the escalator.
she: You can't take the escalator. It goes to the first class lounge.

(Pause while storm clouds of comprehension gather in her brain.)

he: Yeah, I know.

He said he saw the people sitting in a very nice, comfortable area and decided to join them. They gave him free coffee and cookies. He sat for a while before deciding he'd better get back to me in the kennel area.

I asked him, "Didn't they ask to see your ticket when you entered?" "Didn't someone stop you?" He said, "No, two guys at some desk were talking and they didn't even look at me."

I think he "Obi-Wan-Kanobied" them.

If I had tried that they would have had the equivalent of a Gendarme Swat Team, weapons aimed, yelling at me to "Drop. Now. On your face, dead woman!" I would have been hauled away, humming "Non, je ne regrette rien," never to see the light of day again. I almost certainly wouldn't have made my flight.

But, the Angel Boy just saunders right in there and has a good ol' time.

It's a good thing he didn't sneeze. That would have been the dead give-away.

A Proper Sneeze

I just watched him sneeze, the worst sneezer I've ever met.

His whole body hunches up and convulses as if in pain.

It's like each sneeze is the first sneeze he's ever had, a completely new event and he's not sure what it is or what he should do about it.

I have been trying for years to explain to him that it's a very simple matter to cover one's face during a sneeze. You just place both hands lightly over nose and mouth. I explain about how 40 million molecules of bacteria are released each time one sneezes and that if you can blow most of those into your hands, the rest of the planet will be saved!

But, he doesn't seem to get it. Instead, he balls his right hand into a fist and then sneezes on that. I watch amazed. Does he really think that the fist is going to stop any germs? No, I tell him, the germs are diverted, but they keep going. I can practically see them!

I ask him, "why don't you just get a rock and hold it up to your face?"

Save your fist the effort, I say.

But, I'm not going to mention it to him ever again. First of all, I'm convinced he just can't do it. Secondly, I think he's becoming extremely self-conscious about it, he's convulsing more than usual. And, thirdly, he caught his cold from me so in a way the sneezing is my fault.

However, he did not catch my cold from some errant molecule that got blown out in a sneeze. I know how to cover my face properly and I usually reinforce the barricade with a hanky or kleenex.

That is unless I'm alone in a barn, in which case I really let that sucker fly.

Paris Overview

It's impossible to "make" something happen like this trip. It was just one of those times when everything worked out well. We stumbled in there, stayed in a comfortable hotel in the 7 th, met up with Jon, Miranda and the two best little troopers, Isabella and Emily, and we had fun.

All we did was walk around, eat some food, and see the sights. What better place to do that!

Paris is a very civilized city. Or, maybe I'm just desperate for some kind of order and cleanliness after six months in Rome. Paris streets are clean, the food is fresh, the sidewalks are for human traffic, not dog poop and motorinos. The Parisians don't push and shove to get to the head of the line, they don't talk loudly and endlessly on their cell phones, they dress well and throw their trash in receptacles, not all over the streets. The city is spacious, the avenues and boulevards are user friendly, with plenty of shops, cafes and eateries.

The Parisians we spoke to were very pleasant and helpful, even though we spoke minimal French. We did our best with the language, but it isn't an easy one. Still, we at least tried to communicate. I remember one moment on some street where we were trying to find the correct bus back to our hotel. The Man (aka "Jacques") started speaking Italian to some woman, asking her directions. I was fiercely muttering, "Oh, no. Don't speak in Italian. She's French! Blah, blah, blah." Then, I heard the woman responding in Italian! And she and The Man have this conversation. How does he do that?

Another time this bus driver took us back toward the city center from Versailles and gave us very specific instructions (twice!) in English, on which Metro trains to take the rest of the way. He was really nice. We told him we liked bus rides. I think he was happy about that, but he seemed pretty happy about everything. Passengers entering his bus greeted him like a dear friend, exchanging pleasantries, kisses on the cheek, etc.

Jon and Miranda, eight year old Bella and Emily, five, are the best of adventurers. They arrived, dumped their stuff and off we went. They were inspiring. You can't believe how Bells and Em just walked all over and jumped off and on Metro trains and busses without missing a beat. They spent hours in the d'Orsay museum without complaint. We had a good time together. The only problem was, it was all too brief.

We left them there on Friday. We returned to Rome. They remained to continue with their adventure, Prague to Paris to London. I'm so glad we got to share a part of it.

Fluffy and Muffy Hit Versailles

I have to say that F & M are the worst looking shoes I've seen in Paris. But, I don't tell them that because they are serving me well. I've walked many miles already and climbed in and out of the Metro stations, but my feet are happy and dry. So, this entry is dedicated to my shoes. This trip wouldn't be as enjoyable without them.

It wouldn't be as enjoyable without The Man either, but he talks back to me. He gets demerits for that.

We took a train out to Versailles on Tuesday morning. Cool, but sunny. We entered the gates and just stood there. It's an impressive sight, immense and full of prople. We asked the gatekeeper if we could go around back without paying any entry fee. He said, "oui, oui!" So, we didn't go in the palace or have tea with the King, but we did go in the backyard. And, it's a very big backyard.

Afterward, outside the grounds of Versailles, we talked to a bus driver (who spoke excellent English) who said he could take us back toward the center of Paris, then he gave directions on how to proceed after we left his bus. He was so friendly and kind. In fact, everyone we've dealt with has been helpful and pleasant.

We got back to Paris just fine. Later that afternoon, we took another long bus ride all over the center of Paris, the Lourve, d'Orsay, Tuillerie areas. It was great. We got a feel for the layout without wearing ourselves out.

It's really great here. We both like it and the people. We could live here.

I'm feeling pressure to get a move on. Paris awaits. Must go hitch up Fluffy and Muffy.