Nero and Me

Yeah, yeah, it's raining here,
the Tevere is flooding and
here in the Center the bridges
are at flood stages.

But, look, LOOK at my hat!
Isn't it cute!

I feel a bit like Nero. Whilst Rome burns - or in this case drowns - I'm fiddling...
with my hat. I'm sure also that when Vesuvius erupted there was at least one
Pompeian running around moaning, "I'll never get the ash out of this toga!"
Speaking of which, I was at Pompeii once and it was very depressing.

But, getting back to my cute hat, I bought it in the Land of O and brought it here
or, rather, returned it here to Italy where it was made, coincidentally! It's so perfect
for the winter and all the walking around outside that I have to do. You can tell
that The Man really likes it, too. You can see the envy on his face. I think that's envy.
I always get envy and irritation mixed up.

Now to the rain...the rain. The Tevere is a swollen torrent, the likes of which no one
has seen in a hundred years or something like that. Rome is once again under siege!
We've been to the riverside several times and watched as a houseboat, broken loose
from its moorings, rammed into the pillars of the Ponte Sisto. And, there are several
boats piled up and jammed against the arches of the Ponte Sant'Angelo, seen in this
link in better days.

Small islands of detritus floated by, containing trees, refrigerators, wooden pallets,
tires, children's balls and even a naked baby doll which gave me a start when I first
saw it, and an upholstered, upright recliner that needed a passenger, I thought.

Yesterday morning it was sunny and bright and the waters had receded a bit, but
last night it started misting again and today it's very dark and stormy. The rain is
expected to continue for several more days. We'll see what happens.

For me, the worst part of all this is I refuse to go outside when it rains anymore.
The Man says I have a weird fear of umbrellas and I guess it's true because I've
said it before and I'll say it again: The Romans are DEADLY when armed with
an umbrella. I don't know how many times I've nearly had an eye skewered or
a shoulder pierced by the exposed tip of some nimrod's broken umbrella. I've seen
entire lines of people at a tram stop bopped in the head one after the other by an single,
passing, inconsiderate, oblivious numskull. I am absolutely convinced that one brigade
of umbrella-wielding Roman nitwits could end the war on terror. Send them all to
Afghanistan or Pakistan or wherever trouble brews, let them work their magic on
some other enemy, real or imagined, just get them out of here so I can carry on with
my life on rainy days.

I'm not allowed to use the word "hate." Therefore, I hayt dealing with this and I just
wish the rain would stop so I could go to the store and get things done outside all the
while wearing, what many believe to be, the cutest hat in Italy!

Ponte Sisto

Bridge: crosses the Tevere (Tiber) River.

Old: dates from 4th or 5th century, but was partially destroyed in 770.
You remember 770 don't you? Anyway, Pope Sixtus IV had it re-built in 1473
and everyone was so happy they named it after him, Sisto, which is the
Italian equivalent of the latin Sixtus, both meaning Sixth! Which means
that Pope Sixtus IV, technically, was Pope 6th the 4th. Which makes me think
of that bank in Ohio called First Third Bank, the name of which always gives
me a splitting headache.

Significance: takes us to visit Giacomo in Trastevere and to Isa's bar for
coffee. Maria also lives over there, as well as James and Alex and, well, we
use this bridge a lot and can never cross it without stopping midway to
admire the view.

Status: It's a footbridge, no cars or motorinos allowed anymore.
Heroin addicts and their wild dogs, street musicians and their instruments,
Africans selling black market designer handbags, okay.

Warning: You don't want to fall off this bridge. The waters are pushed along
on their way to the Mediterranean Sea by a heavy current. Also, the Tevere is
polluted. However, if you choose to fall in and are an eternal optimist, remember
that the river is full of eels, a delicacy enjoyed in ancient Roman times as well as
today. In fact, eel is a traditional item on the menu for Christmas Eve dinner.
So, pick up a few on your way out. You'll be the envy of all your friends this holiday!

Magical Places in Roma Score: 9.5

Private Dancer

This is what grasshoppers
do in the face of disaster.
They dance.

We ants watch and worry.
No disaster required.

The Better Bacon

Guanciale (gwon-cha-leh), the cheek of a pig, the pig's jowl - is not to be confused with pancetta or speck or any other bacon-like meat in Italy. This is distinctly Roman, a regional delicacy normally only available in Lazio (aka Latium) and boy am I lucky to be here because these people really know something about the nuturing and harvesting of bacon trees, let me tell you! (I hold fast to the belief that bacon is a fruit, not a meat, thereby eliminating any conflict with my vegetarian ideals.)

Last Sunday The Man and I went to get a coffee at our friend Isa's bar over in Trastevere. Then, our dearest friend Giacomo came in. The next thing I know, we were over at Giacomo's house having lunch with he and his wife, Virginia.

Giacomo had made the MOST INCREDIBLE pasta all'amatriciana that I'd ever tasted - and I've been to Amatrice twice and eaten that town's signature dish. But, this was better! I asked what gave the dish such distinctive flavor. Both Giacomo and Virginia answered in unison: "Guanciale." I've seen the name in butcher shops, but I never knew what it was used for. It's one of those defining foods that culturally identifies one Italian from another. These people are very serious and proud of their regional foods.

And, if that wasn't exciting enough, toward the end of the meal Virginia turned on the television to watch, I assumed, the 2:00 news report. But, then, there was her brother, Marco, right there on tv. He was at some big gala dinner wearing a tuxedo, standing up smiling. Then I saw Donatella, his wife, sitting beside him. And, there in the audience I recognized the actress Judy Dench. Virginia explained that it was footage from the European Film Awards, the equivalent of the Academy Awards held the night before in Copenhagen, and that Marco had won the Best Cinematographer Award. Not only that, but his son, Matteo Garrone, won Best Director for his film "Gomorrah." In all, the film swept the awards winning Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Actor and Best Cinematography.

It was a big night for Italian cinema and Virginia's film-making family. Virginia herself is a director of documentaries for RAI, the state-owned television company. The Man knows the family well and I've met Marco several times at his wife's restaurant. Donatella has run the restaurant for many years and serves some of the best food in Rome. It's a private dining club, you pay a yearly membership and then can eat there, lunch or dinner, whenever you like. I don't think we've ever paid the membership, but we've eaten there a lot. Donatella's place is often full of film people and film wanna-be people. She also runs a casting agency from this location. It's a place that attracts a mix of talent, casual but chic in its exclusivity. I don't care about any of that, though. All I know is when we go there I'm going to stuff MY guanciale!

Anyway, I was so excited to see Donatella and Marco on television. I've never known anyone who had received such a prestigious award. "Gomorrah" is a potential nominee for Best Foreign Film at next year's Academy Awards and I sure hope they get the nomination.

Sizing Things Up

Our apartment appears to have shrunk. I can't believe it was always this small.
This morning in the bathroom, while drying off after a shower, I made the mistake
of bending over and got wedged between the sink and two walls.

While there, I started thinking about that LeBron James guy who's so famous.
Well, he might be something but if they had a shower-taking contest in our bathroom,
I'd whup him so bad!

So our apartment is small. Stefano the builder showed up today and he's going to
build us some shelves. Then we'll have more room to store our stuff. The shelves
will enable us to eliminate a cabinet and a small bookcase; hence, more floor space.

Our apartment was built in the 1500's for little Italian people. Nobody figured that
someday big giant white people from the extremely-new world were going to invade
the joint. This should be a lesson to us all. When you build, always figure guys bigger
than you are eventually going to show up!

This sheds a whole new light on the philosophy of "waiting for the big giant," I think.

Other than that, Rome still stands. Everything appears to be moving along in its
normal chaotic way. I am readjusting to the hazardous lifestyle of the big city
pedestrian, striving to avoid altercations with motorinos, cars, buses, trams, potholes,
other pedestrians - particularly those with open umbrellas.

My survival instincts are clicking back into gear...making that popping sound your knees
make when you stand up sometimes. I figure that by tomorrow morning I should be
back in the game. I'll put on my shoulder pads and snap on my helmet and trot out onto
the "field of flowers" (Campo Dei Fiori) to start play in this year's Rome Bowl.

Unless, of course, it's raining...in which case I may wait another day. I'm not kidding about
those umbrella-wielding Romans.

Time Travel

This was there, now it's here
and where I sat was here
but now it's there
all rolled together in a red balloon
of dispassionate duality

As for me, or me for as
I'm neither here nor there
but somewhere in between
waking in a warm tub of altered state
challenging reality

This in-between place
is fuzzy at best
taxing my mind's sensitivity
running time off it's back
with duck-like propensity

The Man is my guide
his hand keeps me steady
his eyes watch for cracks
with keenness, ability and
The Cat In The Hat's agility

"Rock and Refrigerolla"

I'm saved!

Within the dark recesses of a forgotten cupboard
I found three boxes of Annie Chun's instant soup!
Wow! Three mealtime conundrums resolved.

You see, to make my solitary existence interesting
and in an attempt to begin living a more sustainable
lifestyle, I've created what I call the "Rock and Refrigerolla"
Challenge.


Here's how it all started. You know how you go up to the refrigerator, open the door and look
in there, and there's all this stuff jammed inside, jars of mustard and mayonnaise and peanut
butter and nuts and raisins and celery and carrots and moldy cheese and you start wondering
if maybe some sneaky squirrel hasn't been secretly hoarding its winter food supply in there,
and finally with a sigh of resignation you close the door and say, "Geez! There's nothin' to eat!"

Well, that's what I was doing soon after The Man departed. I was too lazy to take those
random ingredients and prepare something... and this made me feel guilty. I mean, how
can I stare at my stocked refrigerator and say I have nothing to eat. Others should be
so lucky. I read a recent statistic indicating that about one half of the people on this planet
live on less than $2 a day. Then I got to thinking about sustainability and I made up my
Challenge.

I decided that I would not do any grocery shopping before leaving to rejoin The Man.
I will eat up what I have in the house. There are plenty of canned goods, the freezer is
full of unknown mysteries (including a lot of nuts, oddly - I'm thinking squirrel again),
and there's certainly no shortages in the refrigerator, so I should be able to creatively
prepare meals using existing ingredients.

I have purchased fat free milk and a jug of apple cider, but other than those two perishable
items and ordering Chinese take out one night that lasted for three meals, I've stuck to the
rules of The Challenge.

It was necessary to make some adjustments. For example, I ran out of olive oil about two
weeks ago. So, I'm using some fake spray butter I found in with the squirrel food. I'm also
out of fresh greens, like salad. But, I don't mind. I found a frozen bag of edamame beans
and got a big vitamin B and protein rush. Whoa!

Oh, and that jar of applesauce I discovered the other night was a godsend. I hadn't had
any fresh fruit for days and was afraid I was going to develop scurvy or something.
Although, now that I think about it, maybe I need citrus to avoid scurvy...or breadfruit,
whatever it was Captain Bligh and those mutineers aboard the Bounty were after initially.

My Thanksgiving feast consisted of stuffing with celery and carrots, onion and old
mushrooms made using an old bag of bread cubes I had in the cupboard; whole berry
cranberry sauce right out of the can; some potatoes; and some more of those edamame
beans. I enjoyed it immensely and it was all so simple with hardly any clean up.

I'm happy as a clam, full as a tick and emptying my cupboards all at the same time.
Who would've thought doing without could be so much fun. That less truly is more.
I guess it all depends on how you look at something.

The Man and I celebrated Thanksgiving
early this year. Several weeks ago, we
were driving out in the country through
the small farming town of Florence and
saw a sign that read “Turkey Supper –
4:30 to 7:00.” We made a note of it and
actually remembered to go on the
correct day, November 8^th.

We left home about 4:00. I was
yammering about how early it was
and nobody eats this early and why
do we always have to be the first
ones there, etc. But, The Man said
farming people eat early, so we
better get there. We only got slightly
lost on the way, and we pulled into the church parking lot at 4:40.

It was packed. Luckily, we’d driven the Geo and easily maneuvered into a tight parking place.

Inside we were immediately met by an elderly man and woman selling the tickets.
They told us they’d been partnered, selling the tickets for this dinner, for the past
40 years! Can you imagine that?! 40 years! Every year since 1968 they’ve been
selling these tickets.

Then, we had to put our names on a clipboard held by another man who was doing
something, but I didn’t know what. I noticed all these people sitting inside the
sanctuary and assumed they must be attending a Thanksgiving service or something.
We went on into another room asking directions to the dining room. We were told
we’d be called when there was a place available and that ALL those other people in
the sanctuary were ahead of us!

So, we settled in for the wait. Neither of us had the slightest inclination to go.
We figured if all these people were here it must be for a darn good reason and
we wanted to know what it was.

We sat and talked to some other people. Everyone was very, very friendly. We were
like guests at an amusement park where everyone is happy to be there because they
know they’re going to have a good time and they won’t have to do any clean up or
wash the dishes.

It was an older crowd, the average age being around 65, I’d say. There were a lot
of permed heads and polyester knit pants suits walking around, escorted by large,
experienced bellies. A lot of these folks knew each other and were there in groups
of eight and more. One old guy walked over to talk to the ticket-seller couple and
he pulled a piece of string out of his pocket and did the most fantastic magic trick
with it. He had to do the trick about three more times to other people sitting around
because everyone was so amazed by the trick. We all sat there mesmerized, trying
to figure out how he could knot the string around someone’s finger then place his
own finger tip against that person’s finger tip and then, miraculously pull the
string free. We were all dumbfounded because it appeared impossible to do without
breaking the connection between the joined fingers. It’s hard to explain. You had to
be there. But, it was great! As the old guy walked away The Man called out, “hey
how’d you do that?” but the old man was hard of hearing and simply disappeared
in the crowd. We all just sat there shaking our heads in unison knowing we'd
shared something unique .

Anyway, after about 40 minutes of waiting our name was called.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. We’d been sitting there smelling the food for a long time
and we were ready!

We walked into this room full of people, smells, plates heaped with food being carried
from the kitchen to the tables, everyone laughing and talking and making merry.
We were directed first to the dessert table to make our choice. The table was laden
with big slices of about thirty different types of homemade pies and cakes to choose
from. As I started to walk away with my apple pie the woman there said, “you
want some whipping cream on that?” I looked at the huge bowl of homemade whipped
cream she was holding and I said “Absolutely!”

Then someone directed us to our seats, the last two at one of the tables set for twelve.
So, we said hello to our tablemates and they in turn started passing us plates of turkey,
stuffing, mashed potatoes with homemade gravy, a delicious cranberry sauce, rolls
and squash. Everything was served family-style and the plates were replenished as
necessary by the serving staff. It was really fun.

Everyone was eating away. I looked over at the man between bites and saw him
accepting more dressing and another roll and more turkey and I felt a little guilty
because I never prepare food like this anymore. He’s been so deprived!

Just the day before this event I had been reading my Dr. Dean Ornish heart book.
I like to refresh my memory every once in awhile and I’d read the chapter on
“Holiday Dining.” He gave tips like, “Only eat one or two small bites of your
dessert.” “Spend time talking to your fellow diners, make conversation between
bites.” “Fill up on vegetables.” “Eat slowly.” Well, those things actually occurred
to me as I sat there, but it was impossible! It was as if I were the victim in one of
those comedy routines where my arms are clasped behind my back and someone
else sticks their arms through mine and starts gesturing and moving the arms
like they’re mine. It was like that! My right arm was completely detached from
any signals coming from my brain. I’m a vegetarian, but this alien arm was
shoveling in huge forkfuls of turkey and gravy and pie and I sat there struggling
to consume it all. I think I actually started sweating I was eating so hard.

But, it was good. I mean, good. The Man's pecan pie was the best pecan pie I'd
ever, EVER tasted. Seriously, I wanted to put it on the floor and roll in it.

We did a head count at one point. There were approximately 170 total, diners
and servers. Every seat was filled and when a seat opened up, it was immediately
filled by more waiting customers. It was a steady stream that continued all the
time we were there. We weren’t rushed at all and spent a little while enjoying
our coffee and talking to some interesting people at our table. They were from
nearby Oberlin and, like us, had happened by days earlier and had seen the sign
out front. They were surprised too by the number of people and the excellence
of the fare. We'll probably see them there next year.

We were all so happy. It was a most enjoyable dinner. It was like having Thanksgiving
with family, except no one got drunk and there were no fights.

Thanksgiving is The Man’s favorite holiday. He said his dad, Chet, used to always
bring some homeless or family-less person home from the tavern he owned to
enjoy the family’s feast. This guest was always a last minute surprise for The Man’s
mother, but he said it always worked out okay.

In memory of Chet’s thankful spirit of sharing and giving,
I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving.

If The Hat Fits...

You're not going to believe it,
but I did something stupid.
I know that this is a shocking
revelation and that many of you
will have a conniption fit,
fall out of your chairs and
bump your heads.
But it's true.
I did something stupid.

It is truly amazing since I'm
known for my brilliance.
It's an innate quality, I humbly admit.
It requires no effort on my part.
It's just like being right all the time,
I don't have to work at it.
I'm some kind of mental freak, if you will.
That's why it's just incredible that
I did something so stupid.

In fact, it's so out of character that I'm convinced
there's something terribly wrong with me.
And, this is the scary part.
You see, I've been to Mexico and I've eaten pork tacos.

I know I don't have to explain what I'm talking about here.
I'm sure you've read the horrifying account in the newspapers.
I don't have television but I'm sure this must be a top story on
all the networks and that Katie Couric is doing a special on it.

Well, anyway, I'm sure the worm in my brain is the reason I dyed my hair!
(Oh, note to The Man: You don't want to read this. It'll only upset you.)

As I mentioned, I don't watch television. However, I'm still (apparently)
affected by societal pressures to fight the natural progression of age by
buying up worthless, over-priced, snake oil elixers and concoctions that
countless men and women AND even intellectual giants such as myself
across this great nation are purchasing with their last dollars in a futile
attempt to remain youthful and attractive forever!

Okay. So, now I've got the worm and society working against me.

Anyway, I happened to catch a glimpse of myself recently and noticed
how grey my hair is and how old and decrepit and fat and...did I mention "old?"
I made this observation a number of times in the past week.
It turned into a minor obsession, one which if The Man had been here,
would've been thumped on the head and sent to bed without it's supper.

So, now I've got the worm, society and the absence of The Man.
A deadly combination of Grecian mythological proportions.

The next thing I know I'm possessed (the worm!) by this obsession (society!)
and I find my lonely self killing time at Walmart of all places (The Man!)
I'm standing there in the hair dye aisle and I select a color..."Hazelnut."
How perky sounding!

I'm not sure who gave it that name.
A color-blind, nincompoop would be my guess.
Or a demented, lying-dog, trained squirrel maybe.

A more appropriate name would have been:
Vampira, Mistress of the Blacker-Than-The-Hole-of-Calcutta Night,
because that's who I look like, only chubbier with dark circles
under my eyes because I don't use concealer. A goth horror.
All I need now is some black fingernail polish and I'm on my way to
see Release The Bats perform at the next Drop Dead Festival!

However, there is a slight silver lining around my cloud of humiliation.
1. It's winter and hats are necessary.
2. They'll have to shave my head when I have the worm removed.
3. The dye I used is semi-permanent. It'll fade in time.

Time, of course, is a relative thing. Waiting for Christmas morning
or that wisdom tooth extraction scheduled for next May - those are
things that time will bring and I can patiently await.

But, hair that makes me look like Severus Snape is beyond the pale!

Oh well, I suppose there are more important things to worry about.

I can't think of anything right now, but I'm sure there's something.

I've been having strange dreams.

This morning I was awakened at 6:40 a.m.
by what seemed to be the beam of a
flashlight scanning the room and the
sound of a raven's wings fluttering rapidly
just above my head on the bedstead.

Why can't I just wake up all dreamy
and snuggly like normal people?

I opened my eyes but the light and
bird were gone, thank goodness.

I thought perhaps someone was in
the house so I laid there and just
listened for awhile but I only heard
the heater.

Then I decided to get up and see
who had died because that’s what I
figured the raven's flapping sound meant.
Death.

Geesh! This solitary existence is
making me morbid!

Not that I'm known for my optimism
even in the best of times, but still!

Other people get away from their
spouses for a few weeks and have a
good time. Party on, Dude! Whoo-hoo!
Dancing with lampshades on their heads,
and all that.

But, Me? Oh, I'm having nightmares
and being visited by Edgar Allan Poe
symbols of death!

'Course on the other hand, maybe
it wasn't a raven. It was probably
a big, fat DO-DO BIRD!

Because I can tell you for sure that
The Man isn't having bad dreams.
He's just snoring away in dreamland,
happily skipping down the yellow brick
road with the Georgini twins, I betcha!