You don't believe we're on the eve of destruction?

I saw Lee Harvey Oswald shot on television.  My sister, Betty, screamed.  The TV was in the den...the back room behind the garage...the only one on concrete with a linoleum tile floor...it felt different under the feet...and sounded different, too.  There was a big window to the backyard and a door on the side that opened for access to the backyard, which was fenced in.  A simple and bucolic room, sparsely furnished in Danish modern style. We watched someone be murdered. It was horrifying.

This was on top of the horrifying event of the murder of a beloved President.

I woke up days before my high school graduation to the news on my little green and white transistor radio that Bobby Kennedy, candidate for President, had been murdered just the same as his brother.  Not long after a civil rights leader had been murdered.  Martin Luther King, Jr.  At this point, I felt the world had gone mad.

I never really thought about how those events affected me.  I was young, I felt lost, without purpose or direction.  But was it the time or was it my personal circumstance?  Both?

In the 70s I joined the gun control movement.  I lived in Manhattan and my group was headed by a lovely professional couple.  They happened to be black and they lost their only child, their daughter, to a random bullet.  She had been an attorney.  All of our meetings were at their beautiful and warm apartment.  When John Lennon was shot in 1981 I quit.  I lost the wind beneath my wings.

I grew up with "Father Knows Best," "Ozzie and Harriet,"  "The Donna Reed Show," "Leave it to Beaver."  And in spite of the fact that my life did not meet the expectations of perfection that those shows depicted, I ate them up, I loved them and I believed them.  I believed that people were good.  I believed in the welfare of others, of everyone.  I believed the myth that everything about America was the absolute best.  Other countries were "interesting" but America was "the greatest land of all."  Drive your Chevrolet through the USA, America's the greatest land of all!"

I knew Reagan was a mistake.  I never knew a single person that voted for him, and yet, he won NY state.  Another  horror.  That was the first time I stopped watching television news, at least when he was on....I could not bear the phony folksiness and carefully planned speeches.  I couldn't stand the sight or sound of him.  And  then it began...the selling out of America.

All this while, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing was being done about the rise in gun violence.  Nothing.

Sandy Hook was the last straw for me.  I was a child in school.  My child was a child in school.  School was a safe place, surrounded by educated adults... who cared about us.  School was a haven when your family was hell.  School had food.  Maybe just a hot bagel or a personal pizza...but there was food.  And camaraderie.  And safety.  Always safety.  Safety for me and I hoped for my child, although....her experience was markedly different as she got older.

Sandy Hook was the last straw.  If a society of "good" people who care about the welfare of others allows ...I don't care how many...it was 20....it could have been one.....allows a 6 year old child to die by gun violence because that country is more invested in the NRA and the misinterpretation of the Second Amendment...(LEARN TO READ!!!) then that country is lost and doomed.  That society is depraved.

I went to school and felt safe and rightfully so.  Every child should have that right, most especially in the US in the 21st Century.  Instead of these hideous events ending the day police were puking and photos would not be released because they were too grisly and upsetting showing 20 babies shot to death, shot to death in their safe haven....the violence continued to escalate.  Americans now wake up to school shootings on a regular basis.  No one is doing a damned thing about it.

Sandy Hook was the day America died for me.  Sandy Hook and the lack of any action by anyone - in Congress, in Senate, at local levels...citizens in the streets....no, instead, we had a small bunch of nutcases say it was a hoax.  A hoax. Please say that up close and personal right to the face of a parent who lost a child.

Now there are cops shooting at children.  They shoot people's pet dogs.  They shoot old men who are deaf and can't hear them.  They shoot unarmed black males by the dozen.  They shoot.  Shoot first, ask questions later.  Only it's too late for the dead guy, or gal, or child or innocent dog.

Access to guns increases gun violence.  It is, it really is, that simple. It has been proven time and time and time again.  I am sick of the insanity.  I am sick of an ignorant minority determining policy.  I am sick of the corporate takeover.  Ah, but who cares?  Nobody, apparently.

I grew up believing the Cleavers or something nearly like that was possible.  Never in my wildest imagination did I think I would approach my later years living "The Hunger Games" but here we are.  Here we are.

It seems to me that a society that allows, indeed enables, the death by gun violence of young children, unarmed people and pets is depraved and failing.

The human race is tragically flawed.  We are about to pay the price for that.

I thought I knew you...what did I know?

Years ago, when we used to visit quaint little towns with quaint little shops and antique stores, there was one store in New Hope, Pennsylvania we would always frequent.  Sometimes we were just browsing and other times we made purchases, a wedding gift, a fancy bird feeder for the backyard.

I have a few chickens and roosters in my kitchen.  They have accumulated over the years.  Some were gifts.  One large rooster came from this very store in New Hope.  It was not expensive at all, especially considering its size.  So, there I was browsing in this store and I saw two small guinea hens.  They were adorable.  I considered getting both but realized I only had the perfect spot for one, so with difficulty, I chose the one I favored the most.

I brought the cute little hen up to the very pleasant gentleman behind the counter.  I had seen him several times before and we even had a few chats in the past.  As he was wrapping up the cute little hen and entering the price into the register, I turned to pull out some cash...after all, how much could it be?  It was a good thing my back was turned when he said, "That will be ninety dollars and 46 cents."  !!!!!  I felt like a cartoon character with my eyes popping out of my head.  I quickly stuffed the money back in my wallet and pulled out my credit card.  Choke.  Gag.

The very nice gentleman was then telling me that these hens were completely hand made and painted by a local artist and now there was only one left. (Yes, I knew that....thank heavens I didn't take them both!)   I made a mental note to myself that from then on I would check anything decorative for a signature and ask the price before boldly marching up to the counter.  My husband was slightly annoyed and needled me about it for a bit but not too badly.

So here we are in Italy.  We left a whole bunch of stuff behind.  We realized that we now have no centerpiece for our dining room table.  I love that room, we love having our dinners in there because the window by the table looks out at the sky and the town and the hills beyond.    I think in this house it is my favorite room.

We began to go on a quest for a vase since we left the previous one behind.  Why did we do that? Because of space considerations and the fact that the vase was really cheap, had no sentimental value and there was no sense in having it take up precious space.

We saw a verdigris vase/pitcher at a housewares store in town.  Hmmmm.  Maybe.  Let's think about it.  A couple of days later we decided it would work just fine and went back to the store but the vase was gone.  "You snooze, you lose."  I said, "No matter.  We will find something one day."

Then we wandered into another housewares/gift shop.  I have an LED candle from this store that looks remarkably real when turned on.  It was only 8 euros.  I also bought a wonderful ceramic pan there that I use nearly every day.  Ok, let's look around.   Too big.  Too small.  Too white.  Too elaborate. There was one my husband liked but I thought it might be too "sophisticated."  I was still fixated on something resembling a pitcher.  Hmmmm.  Maybe.  Let's think about it.

A couple of days later it dawned on me that the vase he saw was perfect.  It had the same colors as the previous one and was the right size.  We decided it would work just fine and went back to the store.

My husband stayed outside because we had a rolling cart of groceries plus a bag - too cumbersome to bring into a store full of glass objects.  He handed me 20 euros.  I was thinking that might not be enough and he said, "How much can it be?"   Ahhhhh….I'm remembering cute little hen...….

I marched back, located the vase (Yes, it is perfect) and checked the bottom.  Sure enough....it's way more than twenty.  It's sixty.  It is also hand made glass, like Murano.  It has a card inside in four languages explaining it was hand made in Firenze (Florence) by master glass artists.  Snarfle.   I take it to the counter, bank card in hand.  I wonder what my husband will say.....but he is not annoyed.  His response was that Murano costs twice as much and we don't need another thing at his point.  Not until we get the back room sorted out properly. Well, yay.  Feeling just a little more like home.

What's that sound?

I am old and all alone.  I have no family.  I never married, I have no children.  There is no one.  I live alone.  I live on the second floor.  It is a lovely place…I am comfortable and I have a sunny balcony where I keep my beloved plants.  There is also a window outside my door, in the shared courtyard, where I also have a few plants.

It is getting harder, though, to get up the stairs to my home.  It is a long stairway.  I go up one at a time, like a child.  I bring my groceries up.  I bring the garbage down.  It is getting difficult.  I am all alone.

The apartment next to me is empty except on major holidays.  They come to see their family and stay for a week, or maybe two.  Then they disappear again.

Downstairs there is no one.  I hear people come and go and I don’t really know what is going on, but no one lives there.  I am alone.

I fell a few months ago, outside, in the street.  It was cold and snowy.  I fell and broke my wrist.  I messed up my face quite a bit too.  I was in the hospital.  When I finally returned home, I had help.  People in healthcare would come to check on me and I had some physical therapy for my broken wrist.

Today was Palm Sunday, the Sunday before Easter.  I was just taking the garbage out.  Coming down the stairs.  I am not sure what happened.  I slipped.  On the very last stair.  And then I was on the floor.  It was very cold.  And dark.  The courtyard light is on a timer and goes off too quickly.  I was on the ground, cold and dark…and alone.  There is no one here.  I am alone.

                                                                            ****

She was not alone.  Thank goodness.  We moved in, downstairs, five months ago.  BUT, if we had not been here, she would have lain upon that icy cold ceramic tile floor for more than an hour until the sometimes upstairs people arrived for Easter holiday.  But we were here and we heard a strange sound.   We were just about to settle in, on a rather chilly and rainy Sunday afternoon, to watch a movie.  But….that sound….what was that?  You had better go check……..!!!!!!!

She was on the floor…a slipper had flown off her foot, there were blood spatters on the tiles…we just had gotten a bench for outside our door….so my husband helped her to her feet and gently placed her on the bench.  I got her some water and tissues, he got cotton pads and peroxide, and Harry gave her some sweet licks.

I don’t know how old she is, but she must be in her 70s if not close to 80 and she is very tiny.  Almost like a miniature person.  She should not have been in backless slippers.  That was not a wise decision.  She was trembling.  Her left hand and wrist were swelling.  We got ice and put it in a plastic bag and I wrapped the bag around her wrist, gently, with an Ace bandage.  We gave her two aspirin, with her consent.  

As she sat, as I tried to communicate in my poor Italian, I was not getting a clear picture as to how she felt.   I think she was afraid….I know she was a bit in shock.  The severe trembling worried me.  The swelling and redness (so soon) worried me and then I started noticing a large lump on her forehead that was getting larger by the moment.  And turning bluish.  I know it is good to have a lump….rather than having internal bleeding or swelling, but it was still alarming. 

Is there someone I can call?  No, I am alone.

No one?  No one.

Do you want to go to the hospital?  We don’t have a car……

She smiles. I don’t know what that means. 

After about fifteen minutes, the head lump is looking really ugly and she is still trembling very badly.  She needs to go to the hospital.  I ask her again about anyone and she says the lady across the street is her friend.  Fine. Done.

I put my shoes on and out into the chilly rain I go, across the street – the house looks dark, but I will try anyway.   Now I’m the one afraid I will fall because there are three steep steps up to the door and they are wet and slippery and there is no bannister.   Ring.  Ring. Ring.   Yep, the house is empty, no one is home.  What now?

The man who is a woodworker and helped the night my husband arrived with his luggage – he is next to this house…..also dark, but I try anyway.  No one home.

There is a lawyer couple across the way….they are on the third floor.  My next stop.  Ring.  Ring.  A voice from a window three stories up.   “Chi e la?”

Of course, the natural human reaction overtakes me – I am now in panic mode…..all coherent Italian promptly leaves my brain.  Ciao!!    I blurt words….the woman…my neighbor…fell…stairs…she is hurt…”Non capito”..I don’t understand.”…..omigod.   BLOOD!  The Stairs!   Finally…”Dove?” (Where?)….IN OUR COURTYARD!   Oh, oh….I understand…….

Geez….I think sometimes people, in general, hear an unfamiliar accent and tune out…..she didn’t understand me……why?  I said the right words!

Anyway, after knowing SOMEONE  with a car was coming to help, we headed back to the house and a car was just pulling in…another neighbor (she has an ancient Great Dane mix sweetheart of a dog) pulled up with her dog in the back.   When she got out of the car, I took the opportunity to say, “Signore, per favore”….she knows a bit of English, but it didn’t matter, SHE understood my Italian…and she came right in and took control.  She went upstairs, into the neighbor’s apartment and got her coat, her handbag and keys and checked the place and turned everything off…..finally the lawyer lady arrived…dressed to the nines….pumps, fancy coat, makeup……Oh!  Someone else is here!   I heard the Dane gal explain that she drove up and saw us standing in the pouring rain…..

Together they got our neighbor into a car…the Dane car….Great Dane included, by the way……and that lady got her to the hospital.

I thanked them both.  The Dane lady said, “Non, grazie a voi”..No, thank YOU.

The lawyer lady brushed us off, but politely….I said I was sorry for bothering her.

Our neighbor is spending the night in the hospital and she DOES have a broken wrist…yet again.

There is an emergency number to call, but we don’t know it. We think of asking and then conversations take other directions and we forget. 

Much like other places, it was probably faster to get her to the hospital by car rather than waiting for emergency services, but we really need to know the number.  We also need the number of the people across the street since they are the only people this lady has.  It was a lesson.  This was a lesson.  Things can happen and you don’t have warning and you need to be prepared.

Since she fell in December I have been afraid of something like this.  If she had tumbled from the top of the stairs she could have died.  It also makes me wonder if we should consider getting a small car sooner rather than later. 

We should have known what to do.  We should have been better prepared. 

Have you ever seen the rain...

Comin’ Down on a Sunny Day

It is the second week of April, on an obscure hill in nowhere Italy.  I was not the only one struck by what happened just a little while ago.

I am five thousand miles away from where I grew up.  I find the climate here reminiscent of northern California…as I lived in the San Francisco area for three years once, a long time ago.

At any rate, I have a so clear memory of being in my living room…in Commack, New York  (Long Island)..I was probably about twelve…about the time when my parents divorced, only no  one ever said THAT word or broached the subject, so I was just supposed to understand via osmosis what the hell was going on.  My grandparents were visiting (my mother’s parents, I barely knew my father’s mother)..and we were in the living room…ahh…the living room….with the soft lilac wall to wall carpet that only looked good just after it was vacuumed because it had a pile to it that moved and changed with each foot step and drove me out of my mind.  I hated that carpet and I hated the color.  The walls, three of them, were white, and one, the front one that faced out to the street, was a deep pink.  There were mostly pink floral curtains with an underlay of white sheers…layers, mind you…layers.  We had the old sectional couch out there…a semi circle…in shades of pink tweed….a wall size mirror from Brooklyn behind it…the piano and the stereo.

The stereo was about to become my best friend, but I did not know that at the time.  At this time, Robert Goulet was singing, and I didn’t mind at all.  I thought he was wonderful and also wonderfully handsome.

I was sitting in the side chair..also a tweed, but more gray than pink.  I was in my raincoat.  It was reversible, solid blue one way and a blue print the other.  It was Spring.  April.  My parents split had happened the previous October…their anniversary.  How a propos.  How typical of men. 

I was there that afternoon, in that big, comfy chair…and the sun was shining in the back dining room window….filling the room…with so much light….pure, bright light.  It was so beautiful.

And I remember that the sky was not so…..beautiful…it was sort of gray…and cloudy..and the day promised showers ( I was in my raincoat after all) but the sun was shining through nevertheless.  Bright and pale yellow.  It was spring.  Spring.

I had not seen that in so very long.  So very, very long that I thought, perhaps, it would never happen again.  Spring stopped being the harbinger of warmer weather.  In fact, Spring simple stopped altogether.  It seemed that winters wore on and on and then suddenly, one day, it would get hot and stay that way for months.  It was impossible to enjoy the daffodils, the dogwoods, gradual greening of the landscape.

But it happened this evening.  On our little hill, tucked away in nowhere Italy…it happened.  A spring sky, a spring sun, a spring somewhat rainy but not really, sort of…day.  The light.  The pale but bright light…birds singing their little hearts out.   Spring like the springs of my youth.  It took my breath away.  I tried to capture it with our poor contemporary excuse for a camera….I doubt that I did, but I tried. 

The sight made my heart briefly sing….and remember those springs of the past…those normal springs….when we never questioned if they would ever end.  How could they ever end?  Nature can always be counted on…as sure as the sunrise, right?

It is just a brief sojourn and I know it…..I’m grateful, though, to have witnessed it once again.

Nothing lasts, people change...

The Only Constant

Language is always changing.  I have often been accused of being a “grammar nazi.”  Yet, when it comes to things language related I think of myself as being fairly flexible. 

In my education I have learned that language is an ever changing, living thing and it never remains “the same.”  The same as what?  Latin died.  Yet, remnants live within many tongues.   Just like music and probably also body language, it is a fluid and morphous thing with countless hybrids cropping up.  So, who am I to be a “grammar nazi” although I try to draw the line at understanding.  When language becomes incomprehensible, then there is no “language” at all.  The entire point is to communicate.

I mean, imagine being suddenly thrust into a world where people are talking about making bread, and being groovy, and bad really meant…well, bad….and not good.  When no one in their right mind ever said, “Yeah…no,” without being completely misunderstood.  It wasn’t so long ago.

Those natural changes to language I have come to understand and accept.  Lexicons, vulgarisms, everyday phrases…..I get it.  I accept them.  What bothers me the most is the political takeover of language, of labels, of meanings, of symbols.  That is disturbing, unnatural and dangerous.

George Carlin gave a scathing speech about it years ago.  Political speech.  Calling things …not what they are.  Calling them something more palatable that the masses will swallow.  Something no one will truly understand but they will think they do and they will repeat it and repeat it because, gosh, it sounds so good and everyone gets so excited!  Right to work! (The right to get fired from a job for no good reason whatsoever)  Citizens United!  (Those “united” citizens are wealthy beyond your wildest dreams and united in their quest to become even more wealthy)…

And now the big bad word is “socialism.”  Socialism is a theory, an idea.  It’s a basically nice one, one that values the good of the whole society over that of one individual.  Our forefathers referred to it as “the common good.”  Yeah, that is scary SOCIALISM!  Run!...No…please don’t.  It isn’t scary and it isn’t bad.   There actually is no working pure socialism in the world and people who purport to scream “Aggggh!  Socialiaism doesn’t work!”  are just playing word games.  Playing word games to scare people. 

The countries where “socialism” if you will, if you insist, works…are ALL over Europe.  I live in one.  They are all combinations of democracy and social contracts and capitalism….controlled capitalism, social programs for the good of all society, and democracy..you know….by and for we..the people.  Remember that one?  Anyone?

My mother once told me that the only constant was change.  I found that scary and sad.  Over time, however, I also found that she was exactly right.  Language changes.  Music changes.  Governments change. 

Yet it seems we keep fighting this same fight over and over and over again and it doesn’t seem to change.   The yin and the yang, the wrong and the right, the good and the evil, the rich against the poor….will it ever end?  Or have we already orchestrated that end? 

My sense…and it is not a happy one…is that we are a terrible species and we, as a whole, were never able to learn…not enough of us…I think we came close…oh…so close, in the 60s….flower children, all you need is love, what the world needs now is love, everything is beautiful…..We came close, but we failed.  And the only constant is change…which is not a constant at all.

Stuck in the middle

 A Year in Purgatory

There was a brief but strange interlude, living in a hotel for two months.  Crammed into one large room with a kitchenette.  Not that there was much in the way cooking that could be done under the circumstances.  Poor Harry having to get used to going up and down in an elevator. 

Little available on the cable TV.  The real estate shows and fixer, flipper uppers were beginning to all blur together – same premise, same formula, same, same, same.

There were up sides to it.  The weather throughout that September and October was spectacular.  Each day still warm, each day sunny with clear, blue skies.  Perfect weather for air flight.

The hotel breakfast bar was a nice feature and I was partial to the scrambled eggs.  I noticed that my nails got stronger and grew faster. 

Three evenings a week they had “happy hour,” which included small, hot snacks.  It was a diversion and a reason to get out of the room for a little while.

There was also a small, very small “gym,” which I utilized in order to get off my bottom and out of that room, too.

Lurking underneath the friendly smiles of the staff and residents, though, there were sad stories at the hotel.  “Our house burned down.” “I’m taking care of my mother, she’s dying.”  Even the regulars, those that came for their jobs and stayed for a month or two at a time, were sad.  “Nice dog!  I have a dog at home, I miss him.” 

Finally, near the end of October, the denial arrived from the Consulate and with that, ennui turned to panic.  Start the appeal process or just wait and try again?  Well, you don’t get a lot of time to mull it over, there are rules and regulations and time limits, so you better hurry up and make up your mind. 

One thing we knew for sure was we had to get out of that room, that sad hotel.  Panic is by far more productive than ennui.

I hit the internet and made a list and then I whittled down that list to those places that were “affordable” and allowed dogs of Harry’s size and also offered short term leases.  After all, how long could the appeal process last?

Then I started making phone calls and I spoke to Jason in Delaware.  Yes, dogs are fine, yes, we have short term leases and yes, we have a one bedroom available.

My husband, he of little faith, said “I have never seen anyone get an apartment in one day.”  And I thought he knew me, but clearly, he does not. 

We drove down, Harry in tow, we looked at two apartments and decided on one.  Leases signed.  Done.  In one day. I hate to say “I told you so.”

The first of November was still warm and sunny.  The lovely maple tree outside “our” door was bright yellow.  The rented furniture arrived right on time.  Cable man did, too. We learned we were just a block away from the community’s laundry, which, while close, was terribly overpriced.  The kitchen was adequate and clean.  The bathroom a disappointment, as there was little in the way of water pressure and it took nearly 15 minutes for the water to heat up to a comfortable temperature. The surrounding grounds were green, hilly, covered in massive trees and very pretty.

Then winter set in, almost immediately.  The place leaked like the proverbial sieve.  Cold air was leaking in through the kitchen cabinets and drawers, every window, the bathroom vanity, everywhere. 

We discovered the floors were pitched. (What’s underneath us?) So, with time, everything creeped to the other side of the room and we had to constantly pull back the rugs, the chairs, the table.

Then the ants began to appear.  First in the bathroom then in the kitchen.  Literally hundreds of them. (What’s underneath us?) We waged a mighty war against them.  Some days were better than others but we were rarely ant-free.

While we are not religious, we do celebrate the holiday season.  Like most people, we were brought up with family traditions and we have settled on those things that bring us pleasure and comfort.  We had none of those that December.  We had a string of lights in the window and a little twelve dollar table top tree.  The only music we had were the TV channels.  I wasn’t feeling up to cooking anything, so we went out and got crab cakes. 

It must have been in the stores, at the malls, that we managed to get sick and caught some kind of flu.  Being miserably sick in miserable conditions was a special kind of torture but sleep came easily, often and lasted for long periods of time. 

How long can an appeal take?  It can take six to nine months.  Had we been psychic, we would have opted for a year’s lease, but no clear answers were ever given to our questions.  As winter dragged on, we had to decide what to do once again. 

This time, we opted for a year’s lease, because the rents climbed sky high for each month less (short term) and the penalty for breaking the lease was always the same – two months’ rent.  Still ridiculous to pay one thousand dollars a month for a tiny freezing box with ants and no water pressure.

The days, weeks, months became a succession of sameness.  Nothing to do.  Nowhere to go.  People aren’t very friendly anymore, hardly anyone even says “Hello” when you pass by.  We are isolated, bored and bleeding money. 

The weather was frigid and often there was ice on the streets.  It was so cold, every night I wrapped the heaviest throw around me and became a human burrito. 

We fell into a routine of television watching, pacing shows out so we would have something to see each evening. “NCIS,” “Bull,” the cheesy and ridiculous “The Affair,” “Poldark,” “Better Call Saul.”  Sometimes there would be a Rick Steves travel show on, or Lydia’s cooking. 

Grocery shopping became a special occasion, particularly if it were to Costco or Trader Joe’s.  Somewhere to go!  Something to do!

We decided to renew our passports, since the process was easy and they were coming down to their last year. 

At long last, after every stall, every delay was used up, the court in Rome denied our appeal.  Our attorney was chagrined and angry and at a loss to explain why. 

The question then was, when do we chance reapplying for a visa?  By this time, it was spring, heading into summer, and the thought of spending another winter under these circumstances was disheartening, to say the least. 

Although I was terrified, we decided to plow ahead.  Now we were experts, right?  With trepidation, I made an appointment with the Philadelphia Consulate.  It was nearly the very same date as our appointment in New York the year before. 

We got the paperwork together.  We collated the information and placed the papers in color coordinated folders.  I rewrote the “letter of intent” making sure I said not a single word about Italian culture.  Instead, I spoke of Penne, the town where our house is, and how much we missed it and the people there that we already knew.  We kept it all simple and to the point.

Not knowing how long we would wait at the Consulate, we opted to have Harry spend the night with the veterinarian – we scheduled two nights, just in case – and got up early on a lovely day in August to drive into Philadelphia.  It only took thirty minutes.  So we strolled around, taking in some sights, until 9:00 am. 

There were some people gathering at the entrance, but not a huge crowd like in New York.  One nice guard lady sat behind a reception desk and had us sign in and gave us name stickers.  Then up the elevator we went to the 10^th floor.

Unlike New York, with a dingy office in a basement, the elevator opened to a wide hallway with marble floors and enormous golden chandeliers.  A large window looking out over the city was to the right.   We followed the signs to the visa office, to the left, then right, then right again and at the end of the hall.

The room was surprisingly small, but bright with daylight from two windows behind the glassed in counter with space for two people to work.  The counters were wider than those in New York, so one could actually rest the papers down rather than fumble with them.  There were only eight chairs and they were filling up, so I grabbed one quickly, again not knowing if we would have to wait there for three hours.  

One young man was behind the counter – well dressed, good looking.  He was helping someone already but was done in less than five minutes. 

Then I heard my name.  I heard MY NAME!!!  I nearly fainted.  We went up to the counter and the young man said, “How are you?”….uh, nervous, shaking, sweaty palms…….”Very good, and you?” 

He took the papers, discarded all but one of the folders, but remarked, “Well, this all looks very good.” He said that since we had decided to fly in October that we had “plenty of time” but that “you will hear from us in about a week.”  About a week?  About a week?  Was he kidding?  NY took THREE MONTHS to get back to us!  “Yes, we will call you.”  Omigod.  Call us.   On the phone.   My heart. 

We left nearly giddy that it was such a different experience than our previous encounter at a Consulate.  Shell shocked.  We stopped at a deli for egg sandwiches, suddenly feeling starved.

The week passed by with the usual sameness.  Then, sure enough, exactly seven days after we had applied, the phone rang.  It was “Roberto.”  He said our visas were ready and we could come pick them up.

Once again we got up bright and early for the short drive to Philly.  We signed in and got our name stickers.  The visa office had a woman working that day. She was finishing up with someone and motioned for us to approach.  She found our passports quickly and showed us the visas.  Well, hallelujah!  I felt giddy and afraid that I might cry.  “Parlate Italiano?”  “Io parlo ma non molto bene.”  She smiled and said, “Big changes!  Best of luck!” 

At that point it seemed like everything was suddenly happening at once and there was too much to do!  We tried to give the furniture away, but the only taker was an old guy several doors down.  He took most of it.  We had to work through the food that we had and not accumulate any more.  Clean everything up.  Pack bags. I had to contact Airborne Animals and make the arrangements for Harry’s flight.  We had to sell the car.  We had to contact our realtor in Italy and make sure all was well. 

We took Harry to the vet with the necessary travel documents.  The next day a man came to pick him up and with that my great adventure began.

I worried myself sick about Harry, I worried myself sick about flying, I worried myself sick about having enough time to get through customs in Lisbon, I worried myself sick about what questions they might ask me.   I knew I would not be able to sleep.

And then the day in October, 2018, came.  We got to Newark way too early and decided to catch a bite at an airport café.  Terrible “grilled cheese” sandwich, grossly overpriced and they were so ridiculously slow we began to fret about the line forming for the international gates and had to complain to someone or we were going to leave.  Should have.  Should have left, it was so awful. 

The line was pretty long and the guy in front of me had major body odor.  When I got to the point where there were two people to check documents, I watched where he went first and I went the other way. 

I had no second thoughts.  I looked out the windows and said to myself, “Goodbye, America. I may or may not be back.”  It was time to swallow my fear of flying and proceed on to the next chapter.  And thus, with a silent thought and a glance, the year in purgatory came to a fitting end, one that was flitting and mediocre, and ultimately unsatisfactory.  The flights and the entry to Italy were smooth.  Perhaps an omen.

Tell me, what's going on?

Members of the European Union can travel freely within the participating countries.  They can work, set up businesses, buy homes, live in them.  Americans have other hoops to jump through.

Within eight business days of arrival, one must file the application for the “Permesso di Soggiorno”…permit to stay.  That we did, in the Postale. 

The Italian post office is more than just a place to send mail and packages, they are an arm of the interior ministry and you can pay utility bills and taxes via the post office.  They are very modern and set up much like the Social Security offices in the U.S.  When you enter, you go up to a computer and select the button that describes why you are there.  The computer then issues you a number and you then wait to see it displayed on the LED screen.   For us, it seems, there have never been big crowds and they have an adequate number of people working, so our waits have been very short.

When we filed for the Permesso, the postal clerk gave us an appointment at the Questura (Police Department) in the county seat of Pescara. 

That day, November 19^th, we took the hour long bus ride down to Pescara and had already arranged to have our realtor show up to help us translate. 

The Office of Immigration was easy to find and the door opened to the street.  The scene inside was less than pleasant.

It is a small room with a dull, grayish (possibly dirty) ceramic floor in a herringbone pattern.  The walls are a sickly white.  There are, on either side, metal benches in black with only enough room to seat 6 people.  The far end of the room, like a bank tellers’ counter, is glassed in with a mere two desks and clerks.  There were at least thirty people crowded inside, milling about and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to what anyone was doing.  Although there was an old fashioned dispenser for paper numbers (such as at a deli stand in a supermarket) it was empty and there was also an LED display high up on one wall, but it was not changing. 

Trying not to panic, we were greatly relieved when our realtor arrived.  She managed to wiggle her way closer to one of the clerks and she figured out that they were calling people up to the windows based on the times of their appointments and they were not up to ours as yet.  Phew!!

In another stroke of luck, when one of the clerks got to us, she called out our name rather than the time and I heard her loud and clear.  Yay!

The clerk had our files, verified everything and handed us a piece of paper to take elsewhere.  Again, without Daniela there, we would have been lost.  At that point we had to go to the actual police station, which is behind a solid locked steel gate manned by an officer in a fortified cubicle. 

Inside the gate was actually quite nice, with a small garden area, a soda machine and an office building to the left.  We could not find the room we had to report to, so Daniela asked an officer who happened to wander by. 

Once where we were supposed to be, two officers then checked our photos, fingerprints, verified our height and that was that. 

We were told to expect an email communication in approximately six weeks, to let us know that our applications were being processed. 

So, imagine my surprise when, just three weeks later, I got a text message (not an email) that the permits were ready.  I was pretty sure I understood what the message said, but I checked the translation anyway, just so there would be no misunderstanding, especially with my anxiety ridden husband.  The message said to show up on December 21^st at precisely 9:04 am.  I was thrilled, since they open the doors at 9, so we would most likely be the first people called.

Not so thrilling was the fact that my greatest fear happened – my knees gave out.  I had done too much, too soon and for too long, like someone starting a new exercise routine and overdoing it and then having to be bedridden for a few days.

I did my best to rest and I applied ice and elevated the left leg.  I could walk around just fine inside and I could even go uphill, but going down an incline caused excruciating pain.  So, with lots of worry and trepidation, I awoke on the 21^st at 5:30 am, in order to allow lots of time to make the mostly downhill stroll to the bus station.

I put a soft knee brace on my good knee to give it extra support.  We took it slowly.  When we came to the first incline, I went sideways (as suggested in an article I read on the internet).  Luckily, that early in the morning, no one was around and lo and behold, going sideways worked.  Lastly, there are a series of gradual stairs to the station.  Taking them one at a time, like a baby, got me to the station without triggering the pain.

We discovered that there was a non-stop bus to Pescara, so we hopped (hahaha…I struggled to pull myself up the bus steps) on that.

Feeling a bit groggy, it was hard to stay awake, but once we got to Pescara I roused myself and my husband, since I could see the station.  Good thing, too, because this non-stop did NOT stop in the bus station, but just outside and we nearly missed our chance to disembark!

It was chilly but nice, perhaps in the low 40s and the sun was just coming up.  On our slow trek to the Questura we stopped in a café for cappuccino.  So far, so good.

We continued on our way and made it to the Questura with 10 or more minutes to spare.  Another big crowd was waiting outside the door to the immigration office. My first thought was, “I’m so glad we have an early appointment.” 

Then someone came outside and said something I couldn’t hear and the next thing we knew was some young woman was handing out numbers…paper numbers!   What!  I grabbed one when I could because, why not?  But I finally got her attention and told her I had an appointment. Her response?  “There are no appointments today, take a number.”  I thought she worked for the Questura, but she was just another person waiting.  I think she was Russian.  She saw my look of horror and told me to follow her, she would help me inside.  Already, this was chaos and I could see my husband having a meltdown.

The door opened and the throng piled in.  Two muslim women with two small children, one with a bad cough.  Some Asian men and women, a lot of Africans, and those of us who are nondescript. One big, disorganized crowd moving almost as a single organism up to two little windows.  

The Russian gal did manage to make her way through the all the people and asked the man behind the glass about my predicament.  He said the permits were ready (as I thought, but what about the appointment?) but take a number and wait.  Well, I already had my now wrinkled and slightly sweaty little number and it was 19.  How the hell long is THAT going to take?

The seats were all taken, we were crammed into this room like a NY City subway during rush hour, and the LED was displaying the number 93.  93? (Turns out they go up to 100 and back to 1) 

For the sake of my knee, I did my best to evenly distribute the burden on each leg.  But sometimes it became too much, so I had to balance on the just the good leg. 

Someone stinks.  Really, really badly.  There is a very strong filthy body odor with an extra added layer or alcohol wafting over to me. It may be emanating from someone’s clothes.  Not wanting to start retching in the middle of a crowded room, I tell my husband I have to get outside. “You can’t go outside, you will never get back in!”  He may be right.

With difficulty, I managed to wiggle over to a corner by the wall where I was not exposed to whoever stinks.  Still standing.  Number 99. 

The Questura computers keep going down.  They are on the second reboot.  Number 2.   Now I have to move again, because I really can’t stand up on my own anymore.  So my husband props me up for a while so I can relieve this weak knee.

While there are all sorts of much younger and seemingly able bodied men sitting on the benches, another older lady behind me is saying “Signora!  Signora!” and she is offering me her seat.  “Grazie mille!”  Even here, the same old, same old. 

Numbers 4, 5, 6, 7 moved along pretty well until they got to 10 and had to do another reboot. 

Waiting…..waiting……and I am wondering why on earth this Questura is so primitive?  One day they have a system – call people by appointment.  Another day they are handing out paper numbers.  The post office is ultra modern.  The banks are ultra modern.  The office where you get a tax id is ultra modern.  What is the deal with the Office of Immigration?  Why even send me an “appointment” if the appointment is meaningless? 

Number 17.  At that point I stood up again.  Hurray, Number 19!  At long last!  It was the same man from earlier and he remembered me.   It took, literally, about three minutes for him to find the permits, verify our fingerprints (THAT they have, an electronic fingerprint machine) and we were OUT of there.  So the 9:04 “appointment” became 10:15.  And although that doesn’t sound like such a long time it did seem, as it unfolded, like a never ending, uncomfortable, interminable eternity.

We slowly made our way back to the station and were able to catch an 11 o’clock bus back, bringing us home by 12:30 pm.  By that time, the weak knee had begun to throb and was more than ready for rest and ice.  But we made it.  We did it.  We are legal residents.