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.