It's that time of year...

And above all the bustle you hear....silver bells.....

 Even in Italy people's nerves can become a bit frayed around the holidays.  My husband and not one, but two doors left to slam in his face the other day while running errands.  

I witnessed an older guy pull up to the pharmacy...right in front of the door (not supposed to be done) with the headlights on and glaring into the floor to ceiling windows.  He then got out, leaving the car and headlights on, and sauntered into the pharmacy without a mask (also not done, there is a mandate here).  I was next and I was able to go in because there was no one else there, but I kept my distance because of maskless Marco.  By the time I entered the dottoressa behind the counter was already scolding him.  To top it off, she was by herself when there are usually two or three people working at a time.

"Aspetta fuori!!"  Wait outside!  He traipsed back to his car, still leaving the lights at full blast, while she proceeded to fill his request.  Apologizing to me, she went out to his car with the prescription and soon came back in FUMING because he apparently asked for another item.  I told her not to worry, it was not a problem.  But Mr. Entitled took up a good portion of time out of either selfishness or cluelessness.

On the other hand, the town looks festive and while chilly, the rains have ended for now, so the skies are clear and crisp.  The kids have their ice rink up and running.  And I got a little surprise.

Every Natale we give cakes and large bottles of prosecco as gifts to certain friends.  Last year, we had stopped at the pasta/bakery near the wine store and stocked up on tortellini and pizza dolce for ourselves.  By the time we were done in the wine store, we were loaded down with so much stuff!  Our cart and extra bags were full and we were getting tired, still with a bit of a trek ahead of us.  Then I was informed that I was eligible for a free bottle of wine!  My husband said we had too much to deal with already.  😕So, we went on our way.  

Between Covid and the fact that this store is a long walk away from our door, we have not been back in an entire year!!!  However, they still had me on their computer for the "gift" bottle!  Gosh, I didn't expect a gift and figured after a year that little pleasant surprise would be null and void.  Che carino!

This morning, while having my big, hot cup of strong, strapping black tea, I was perusing an article on the internet about a man who was bequeathed an old, dilapidated house via his grandmother and happened to find an underground safe hidden in a closet. In the safe he found a very valuable coin collection.  Then I started to hear a strange sound and at first I thought it was intrusive advertisement from the website.  I had four cats in the room with me and all their heads went up, eyes wide with fear and WTF?  and then they all SCRAMMED for parts unknown, like under the bed and to the back room where they feel safe.  I'm still sitting there wondering what the hell is going on????  The sound, it seemed was either coming from the street or the courtyard.

(I should add that our front buzzer was buzzed and my husband was in the courtyard expecting a delivery).  It wasn't a delivery.  I gathered my senses and opened our inner door to see the lady in the apartment next door, one of the part time people from the second floor who are here for Natale and my husband listening to a man dressed in Alpine garb playing what looked somewhat like a primitive bagpipe.  Yes, it was musical...but like nothing I had ever heard before.  Something like a bagpipe but also sort of like an accordion.  I would have taken a video but he was done with his little concert.  My husband did manage a still shot.  In lieu of carolers, which we don't seem to have here, this was another pleasant, although a bit novel, surprise.

I have another hospital stay looming in the very near future, so this blog will be quiet for a while.  I'm hoping to be home by Christmas day, hoping all goes well. 

In the meantime, enjoy whatever holiday you choose and let us all hope for a better New Year to come.  

Here is Imp.......

She's as cold as ice...

 I had to do my nails tonight.  Do you do your own nails?  Most of my life I have...

I used to watch my mother and my older sisters "do" their nails on a regular basis.  I chewed mine, for the most part.  But that was then and this is now.

I don't like "nail salons"....not at all...hate the whole idea of it.  Hate the noxious smell.  Hate the subjugation of the women who "do" the nails....hate it, hate it, hate it.  

I never felt comfortable...ha!  Comfortable???? I felt like a freaking leper!!!  What am I doing here?  These women all staring at me...why?  It smells bad in here...am I being poisoned? 

Usually I went because I got a "gift."  Yep.  A gift.  So I had to use it.  Oy.  And vey.  I don't use nail polish....I tried, on some rare occasions....but I always felt like my nails were being suffocated.  And it always looked like crap in a day or less...so what was the point?  And...frankly, it's stupid.  Why?  Why? We aren't born with colored nails....why?  And before you compare it to clothes...we can take them off....this shit is painted onto your body......and has to be removed with MORE toxic chemicals.  No. No. Not for me.  Do men really care?  Do I really care if men really care?  I just didn't want to walk around with whore nails....had no desire or inclination.  I didn't feel like it made me "pretty."

So...I had to "do" my nails tonight.  I have to do them when big fat orange Percy isn't around because he is nuts about emery boards.  

I fed the beasts....so Percy is confined to his "bedroom" (don't worry, he likes it...he WANTS to be there, believe me) and then set about to "do" my nails.

Each one had a different nail salon.  I swear.  One nail was so bad, she was yelled at.  "How did you get so bad?"  Another was just a little "off" on top....."Tsk, tsk....it's ok, I fix"....Another one was raggedy...."OMIGOD!!"  Each nail went to their private salon and got themselves prettied up for the world. And then there were the ones who had behaved themselves......silence.

Together they may now enter the world at large yet again.

Hello Darkness, my old friend

 Winter never bothered me as a child.  The cold didn't seem to affect me badly and I had fun with friends and even by myself making forts and snow sculptures and standing at the bus stop with a runny nose and a homemade scarf waiting to see a glimpse of yellow in the never ending white landscape. Even as a young adult it didn't phase me.  I recall distinctly the time I was leaving work during a snow storm, completely unprepared...and cleaned off the windshield and windows of my car bare handed...I had no gloves.  No problem!  So, it's a little cold?  So what?

When my daughter was small I did my best to try and continue to "enjoy" the winter, for her sake.  Snowmen!  Sledding!  Oh yes, we went sledding...I spent an entire day with her going up and down an enormous hill in Ann Arbor.  But I was no longer enamored of the winter chill in general.

Michigan winters were long and dark.  There was a particular weatherman who managed to make me nearly homicidal...I wanted to throw a brick at the damned television every time he described a day as "drab."  Today will be drab.  Today will be dreary.  Today you will want to freaking crawl into a hole and cover yourself up forever and ever and ever.  I hated him.  I hated Michigan.  I hated winter.  I hated "Standard Time."  I wanted it all to end.

As things tend to do, eventually, it did all end.  And now I find myself even older but living in Italy.  The winters here are milder.  They aren't any brighter, per se...because the mountains to the west of us bring a rather abrupt ending to daylight once the sun sinks below the peak, quite dramatically in the winter  months.   But the temperatures are much milder and they bring the rainy season, which also brings the fabulous fog.  I love the fog.  I love "gothic days,"  Hounds of the Baskervilles.  Heathcliff and Catherine on the moors.  A foggy day in London town.  It's spooky and romantic and enchanting all at the same time.

 So once again, winter is becoming charming, in it's way.  A relief from the relentless heat, the lack of water....the sweaty nights.  Now we come inside and cook stews and casseroles to warm our innards....hot cups of tea in the morning to start the day.  Sweatshirts and lined socks... and the heavy winter quilt on the bed. Cats putting aside their petty differences and beginning to make "cat pies" as they seek the body warmth of one another. 

Inside, we are cozy....plenty of heat, if we want. Lots of warm clothes.  We are fortunate, indeed.  And lights.  We used to call them "Christmas" lights....or string lights...or fairy lights.  They have morphed over the years and people besides myself apparently love them.  I love them all year round, but in the summer the sun stays out nearly till 10 pm!  Now is the time for fairy lights and that gladdens my heart.  It makes the darkness less despairing.  It makes winter less forbidding.  A simple string of lights.  Or a few.  We seem to acquire more as each season approaches. We have dinner by "fairy" light.  We have clear bottles (sold all year round here for those who make their own wine or olive oil)..with strings displayed inside them in the living room...on the mantle, on the bookcase.  The daylight dwindles until the solstice.  We will have our lights to enjoy until the spring brings longer evenings once again.  

Nothing to kill or die for...and no religion too.

 I posted this on Facebook.  Social media is such a conundrum.  When I post ordinary, humdrum pictures or comments, I sometimes get loads of feedback.  Then, when I post something I think might spark some controversy, or at the VERY least, a bit of a conversation...some comments...I get.....crickets.  So, I posted this picture.  

It is a work of art done by a local artist here in my little hill town in Italy.  It is being displayed in one of the pharmacies in town because the municipality had a "drive" to showcase local artists....Penne has talent, if you will.  This particular artist's previous work ..the one displayed in the very same venue...was a rather brutal depiction of domestic violence.  It was difficult to look at, and yet, some very famous and important art has been "difficult to look at."  It wasn't my cup of tea, so to speak, but I appreciated the message.

Living in Italy for the last three years has opened my eyes to certain dichotomies.  There is a lot of magical thinking going on here.  Lots of churches, lots of people making the sign of the cross....while at the same time embracing "Babbo"...the Italian version of Santa Claus...and horoscopes....omigod...a really big thing here....and there are others..the Bufana..the witch of the Epiphany.....it's a long story....and makes no sense whatsoever.

So, here is the painting I shared to very little comment on social media.  I personally felt it merited some discussion, wonder, comment...especially emanating from a small hill town in nowhere Italy...so, I share it here.  Feel free to add comments to the blog if you wish.

The title is "It was raining outside."

Let's get right down to the real nitty gritty

 Part Two: 

The Covid test came back negative.  I was wheeled into an elevator and taken up to the 4^th floor.  I was left in the hallway while the transporter brought my papers to the nursing desk.  I heard “Americana!  Americana!” as I waited. 

Another freshly painted hall, spotless, gleaming floor…with the usual rolling carts of supplies and a ………….Madonna.  A rather elaborate Madonna, adorned with real beads and a shawl.  Centrally located mid hallway…by the nurses station. It’s something you just get used to in Italy.

In just a few  minutes a young girl came out and took me to my room, not far at all from the nursing station.  A large but very spare room.  No curtains on the one window…but one of those metal shades that rolls up and down outside, common in Europe.  No curtains between the two beds.  No curtains at all which translates into no privacy.  A small crucifix in the middle of the wall above the heads of the beds.  IV stands, but no infusion pumps.  Meal trays next to the beds, but nothing whatsoever on them.  By this I mean no water pitcher, glass, straw, tissues, toothbrush, toothpaste.  No hospital gown or socks.  Nothing.  I would have to stay in what I wore this morning, which, luckily, was just a tee shirt and loose pajama type pants.  I was wearing slip on Sketchers but no socks, so if I wanted to use the bathroom or get up for any reason, I would have to shove my surgically altered feet into my shoes each and every time.  Patients even need to bring their medications from home, they are not dispensed from the hospital pharmacy. Since the room was spacious but spare, every sound was amplified and bounced off the hard surfaces. After a while it hurts the ears. This is national healthcare.  No frills.

(There is a private hospital in Pescara, a 25 minute drive away, which likely has “frills” but there was no time for that nor would I want to impose upon my friend who was already going out of her way to help.)

I got as “comfortable” as I could.  There was a very old lady in the room with me and I had the immediate impression that she was going to be trouble.  “Buonasera, Signora” she said.  I nodded to her and replied in kind.  Perhaps she didn’t hear me because she repeated her greeting at the top of her rather able lungs.  Yeah…she was going to be trouble.

Before anything else, I grabbed my phone…realizing that it was running out of battery power, and texted my husband for soap, cups, socks, a towel, a hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, change of underwear and phone charger. The only thing I did have was a small portable pack of tissues.

Again, quickly and efficiently, two young ladies (student nurses) came in to do vitals, an EKG and set up an IV of saline solution.

The food staff delivered dinner, but nothing for me.  The old started with her questions ad infinitum.  “Why don’t you eat?”  This would be repeated every day, three or more times a day.  “What is your name?  No!  That’s a  month!”  Oy vey.  “Why don’t you eat? Aren’t you hungry?”

The call buttons for the nurses have a three tone descending ring in the hallway.  Something I would come to dread. My roommate used hers with abandon. 

Turned out she was 85 years old, never married, lived alone and she fell and screwed up her entire right side but mostly the shoulder and hip.  She was confined to bed.  Her mind might not be as sharp as it could have been but her mouth worked just fine.

A nurse came in and started antibiotics.  While I am accustomed, obviously, to US hospitals and all the accoutrements that they include, IVs without infusion pumps work just fine.  In fact, the many, many times I had to have medicine infused for RA, those damned pumps often developed some kind of problem, making it necessary to redo the elaborate set up, fiddle with the controls and hope to get it working right again.  Why?  Is it only to add expense?

And clearly, not providing niceties such as a comb, toothbrush, soap…saves money and has nothing to do with good medical care.  Just wish I had known prior to leaving the house.

I was tired, in pain, uncomfortable, hungry, thirsty (I didn’t even get water) and trying to adjust myself in the hard bed with a hard pillow, when I saw a nurse coming toward my room with a Trader Joe’s bag.  Hurray!  Supplies!  I could brush my hair, brush my teeth (with my trusty IV by my side) while wearing socks, and get my phone charged up. 

The night was surreal.  I was overtired and very unhappy.  And trigger happy roommate kept the nurses call button busy all through the night. The good news was that no one ELSE disturbed me…no middle of the night vitals and the hallway lights were off until six a.m. Problem was, I finally fell asleep somewhere around five.  One hour later I was awakened for a blood draw.

Housekeeping came around and did the floors and bathroom.  IVs were kept going all day, bathroom needed to be used about every two hours, shifts changed.  In the early afternoon the young students arrived and they were all so sweet and enthusiastic and they wanted to practice their English on me!  One young lady has a father who lives and works in Australia.  She remarked how she can understand “American” English so much better than “Australian” English.  The other, actually the same girl who originally brought me to the room, stuck her head in just to say, in English…”Hi, guys!”  A young man has a friend in New York and visited there four years ago.  He was lamenting how much money he spent.  Yeah, tell me about it!!

Wednesday was much the same except my pain was diminishing and sometimes I had the IV bottles removed for a while.  So, I asked if I could take a shower.  Well…………you can….but….the shower is broken. !!!!?????  I tried anyway.  The shower, which also had no curtain, had a considerable leak in the middle of the flexible hose.  I could “shower” with the pressure low…but there was no way I could wash my hair.  It helped, at any rate.  Cleanish me, clean underwear, clean socks.

That day my admitting doctor and another older doctor marched in.  The older one gave a cursory “exam” and told me I needed surgery.  Surgery??  I was told I didn’t need surgery.  Now I need surgery. This was the first I heard.

I said I thought the treatment I was getting was sufficient.  With that the older doctor got huffy and raised his voice and said the pain would come back again and again and again.  He turned away from me and marched out of the room.  Well, that didn’t go very well.

When I was admitted I expected to have surgery ASAP.  Then the admitting doctor told me there was a non-invasive treatment…the IV antibiotics.  Then I was told surgery again.  Now?  No, you go home and schedule surgery “if you want.”  OMIGOD…here we go again…if you want.  What if I want your damned medical opinion????

I spoke with my husband…I thought about it.  I was not sure how this was going to be reconciled.

Needless to say, my sleep once again was fitful. 

For a brief period, this one night, we had a third person in the room, another ancient woman, even older than the mouth.  Another victim of a fall.  Tiny little slip of a woman.  Her daughter, it turned out, was a doctor…una dottoressa. Also a smoker…I could smell it and see it by her skin.  At any rate, she only stayed the one night and was moved to another room the next morning.  The good news was that her mere presence kept the mouth quieter for the one night even though sleep eluded me.

Thursday.  Lights on at 6 am.  “Why don’t you eat? Aren’t you hungry?”  My admitting doctor, the snot nose doctor and yet another march in.  This one I managed to catch a glimpse of his name on his jacket.  I knew the name….he was recommended by a dear friend who is now also assistant mayor of this town.  He is also the head of the department but soon to retire. I wondered if our friend had anything to do with his appearance.

He examined me.  He spoke a tiny bit of English.  “You are from New York?”  “Yes, but I live here now.”  He said he would advise that I go home but schedule surgery for the near future.  I agreed.  “Ha!  But she didn’t WANT surgery yesterday!” said Dr. Snot Nose.  I replied, in Italian, “I needed time to think.”  Both my admitting doctor and the head of the department had no problem with that. 

Before he left I asked when I could go home.  Friday.  Tomorrow.  YAY!!!  “O forse sabato” (or maybe Saturday)…..No!!!!  hahaha…just kidding.

Finally, I was given something to eat….a boiled piece of chicken cutlet and overdone (thank goodness, the only way I like them) carrots.  A cup of tea.  Magnificent.  Manna from heaven. Menus for the patients are one more thing not present in "no frills" health care.  You get what you get.  Period.

For the first time, I slept about 4 hours straight.  Tired, relieved and something in my stomach after  5 entire days.  If the mouth called the nurses station, I didn’t hear it. 

Morning came and I was hyped.  I got up, brushed my teeth and hair…packed up my few things…and lo and behold, there was my admitting doctor at only 7 a.m.!  One last check, one last IV antibiotic…he wrote the papers, scheduled surgery…and I was free to go! 

No frills…but I am forewarned now and know what I will need to bring with me next time.  Overall, but for one snotty doctor (like I never encountered snotty doctors in the US?) the care was very good.  Everyone else was attentive, cheerful, kind and most of all, competent.  The building is old, possibly post WWII or soon after in the 50s….but clean.  Some of the misunderstandings I am sure were cultural and due to my language difficulties. Really, I have little to complain about.  And, by the way, the bill is ZERO.

Diamond bracelets Woolworths doesn't sell...

Part One:

To be truthful, I started having occasional sharp, fleeting pains months ago, sometime over the course of the summer.  I naturally ignored them, hoping they would magically go away.  Of course, they did not.  They got worse.  And worse.

I had “an attack” in August.  Calling on my limited knowledge from many years of working for doctors in hospitals, I wondered if this was a gallbladder attack.  Or my old umbilical hernia?  Or a hiatal hernia?  Was I dying?

That attack passed in a matter of hours and all was well again, except for those nagging, fleeting stabs that came here and there.

I had an appointment with my primary doctor here, not for this problem, but because I felt that my arthritis was worsening over time.  We (my friend/teacher/translator) mentioned the pain to the doctor but got all caught up in the arthritis issue and blood tests and specialists……and that was that.  That was a Thursday.

Friday the pain persisted and was markedly worse.  Saturday continued in that vein. By Sunday I was in significant pain, unable to eat, walk…think.  Other than that I did not want to enter an ER or hospital on a Sunday.  I suffered through…all night long…until Monday morning when my friend/translator took me to the local hospital’s ER. My first experience with this institution.

As a small, obscure hill town in the least populated part of Italy, the locals pride themselves on this hospital.  Its existence is one reason we chose this town.  It was, in fact, the Covid center of the region throughout the quarantine.  My friend and neighbor calls this hospital “a gem.”

I did not get a sense of what the actual edifice looks like.  I was somewhat indisposed.  It was a gorgeous, sunny, perfect autumn day.  The first stop was the registration desk.  We had to wait in a small room with only about five chairs….until the gentleman in front of me was done.  Then we entered another tiny room…two chairs and a man behind a desk.  Name, health card, what’s the problem?  Tap, tap, tap into the computer.  Then we were directed across the way to another location.

This was the waiting area for the ER (Pronto Soccorso), and there were quite a few people there.  I am not sure if they all were patients or with someone else, but I was ushered through the automatic double doors immediately (hurray!). It looked like…an ER….gurneys and curtains.   Someone came and started using his fist against places in my back (checking for kidney problems) and then he punched me in the gut!!!  Seriously!  I cried out, doubled over…..

I was put on a gurney, bloods taken, IV started, three Covid swabs and an ultrasound ordered. *I didn’t feel a thing…totally painless. Except the swabs.

Rather quickly I was moved to a wheelchair and taken up to ultrasound where I lost my companion.  They would not allow her in due to “radiation.”  While it was obvious the building was very old, with some worn spots in the floors (which were spotless) the walls were freshly painted.  I waited.  I have no idea how long I waited….maybe close to an hour.  Finally a young doctor arrived, apologizing, saying he didn’t know I was there.  He spoke English pretty well and told me he had a friend in NY and visited him recently on the birth of his first child.  He also told me I had gallstones.  Che sorpresa!

Then I was wheeled to the surgeon’s office.  I had no idea where my friend was or if she had any idea where I was.  Swell.  The surgeon was also young.  His “office” was very large, with a gorgeous view of the mountains.  There was also an exam table  with surgery lights available above.  He examined my swollen and very sore abdomen.  Then I sat in the chair in front of his desk while he perused by lab results and the report from the radiologist.  Oh, how I wish my friend were with me!!!  I can speak “everyday” Italian, but I am not familiar with medical terms and my brain tends to go completely blank when I am nervous.  I was nervous times ten and tremendously uncomfortable. 

If I understood him correctly he was telling me that I didn’t need surgery at that moment, but perhaps I should stay in the hospital for treatment “if I want.”  If I want?  If I want?  I said I could not go home “like this.”  In broken English he said “You want to stay with us?  If you want….”  Si!!

Having worked in the US for doctors for so long, I assure you my “bosses’ never proposed a treatment to someone, much less a hospital stay….”if you want.”  I was baffled by that.  What is YOUR opinion, Doctor?  What should I do?  I don’t have a medical degree! Give me some guidance!

Then I got wheeled back down to where I started, outside the ER and just a minute later my friend showed up!!!  “I’ve been looking for you!”  Well,  I think it’s all done now, although I don’t quite understand why……….

I told her there was no need to stay any longer…PLEASE go home….You’ve done enough……so grateful just for the ride alone.  She hesitated but did head home.

I had to wait another hour or more for my Covid test result to come back.  Since it was my first ever, it had to be sent to the central lab in Pescara, the county seat….tick tock…… 

Can you tell me? What's ailing me?

It is October 21^st and I had my first appointment with my primary doctor here in Italy. 

I had had an initial appointment with another doctor when I first arrived.  I did that out of necessity because I have some chronic conditions that require daily medications.  I wasn’t particularly impressed with the doctor.  She didn’t speak of word of English, which is fine, but she acted like she was afraid of me and wanted to know if I spoke French.  Sure…Bonjour.  Merci.  I took French 50 years ago in high school but not a lot of it has stuck since I never had occasion to use it.  (Although I have been brushing up via Duolingo lately)

Well, here I am, three years later, five years into the “remission” of my rheumatoid arthritis symptoms.  It was a particularly dry and hot summer and I was uncomfortable.  I blamed it on the heat.  That is, of course, until the summer heat gave way to Fall and cooler temperatures and I still felt lousy.  Increased pain. Increased stiffness.  Crippling fatigue. Getting crabby.  I need to see a doctor.

The last time we signed up for the healthcare for the year, we chose another doctor recommended by a friend.  He also speaks no English….but, nevermind.  This is Italy, after all.

I made an appointment and arranged to have my Italian teacher (who is half Italian, half British and raised in England) to come with me.

Off we went today to UTAP…the center of medical offices in the town. UTAP is down the road from the supermarket and Cafe Franco.  To the west are lovely views of the mountains.  It is located in a ridiculous building that is three stories with many, many steps and one little elevator that sometimes doesn’t work. 

Pre-Covid, this is where I walked once a month to renew my prescriptions.  I had to go to the “first floor” which in the US is the second floor…and wait in line to reach a lady at a desk who would take my health pass and my medications and enter them all in the computer and then issue me a number on a little post-it sticky pad sheet and then go sit and wait. 

Just a big room with plastic chairs lining three out of four walls…a Madonna sitting in one corner…Catholic country, you can’t escape it…..and open space in the middle for the line, which sometimes would wind out the door.  Eventually, a lady would emerge from a side door to the right with a fist full of papers and start calling out numbers.  Venti.  Venti uno.  Venti due.  And then you would dutifully march up with your sticky pad and receive your prescriptions.

Covid changed all that.  Covid changed everything.  After that…and to my somewhat horrified delight, we had to telephone for our scripts.  Delighted I didn’t have to make the trek, wait in line, wait again and slog home, but terrified of the telephone.

I practiced what to say.  It mostly went well, sometimes not so well, depending on who was on the other end of the line.  There are one or two very nice ladies who don’t freak out when they hear an accent…and are patient enough to listen and….omigod! They understand me!  There are others who simply hang up or pretend they cannot hear you.  Luck of the draw. As I get more comfortable with the process and the language, the whole procedure goes pretty well most of the time.  Then they send the scripts via email.  You can either print out the bar codes at home or take your phone to the pharmacy and the scripts get filled. (no charge)

To see a doctor, one would go to the 2^nd floor (the third floor in the US) and check in with the secretary and also get a number.  The room has rows and rows of attached seats, much like an airport where the patients wait. There was an LED monitor on a wall which informed those waiting what number each doctor was ready for.  Most internist doctors’ offices were located there. 

Well, back to today.  The elevator was working and I pressed two. Up it went to “one” and then the light went off and I was alone in the pitch dark in a little metal box suspended between two floors.  I was momentarily terrified but then the doors opened and there was my teacher…..(she went up the many stairs) but we were on level one. 

The room where I used to get my scripts has been emptied…no chairs, no Madonna….one desk where there used to be two and the end…and at the entry door  an ad hoc “office” was set up.  Plexiglass barrier….double desk…computer…printer…other office stuff…..I began to slowly pull myself up the stairs to level two when I heard “Signora!  Signora!’…that would be me…..and my teacher explained that the elevator works for level two when they tell it to. 

Ok…back to the elevator…..up to two.  All the airport seats are empty.  In fact, the whole place is empty, like a ghost town.  The once bustling office with two stations and telephones, printers, computers, records….is dark.  “Chiuso.”  The doctors’ offices are there, with their names and hours printed on papers beside the doors.  We cannot find the doctor I am supposed to see.  ?????

So, my teacher goes back downstairs…oh….no…his office is down here.  No worries, we will send him up when he gets here!

Well, for whatever reason, we still had to go back down and see him in a small room that was behind another room on level one. 

He was right on time.  Jeans and a thick knit crew neck sweater.  He’s probably in his forties…he is slim but has a tiny paunch…what they now refer to as a “dad” body…his hair is so close cropped it hardly exists.  He has a nice face, a ready smile….he is told that I ‘speak Italian and I understand if you speak slowly.”  He tries. Hahahahhaa…very hard for Italians to speak slowly…hahaha.

I have a 30 year history of rheumatoid arthritis.  He said what I truly expected a good doctor to say…”You need a specialist.”  Damn it!!!  Why do you have to be a good doctor??!!!!! 

What this means is…the odyssey begins. 

The huge advantage of having my teacher/friend/translator with me was that she managed to finagle me to have my initial bloods drawn here at UTAP rather than at the hospital, which is up a tremendous hill and a labyrinth in and of itself.  My bloods will be drawn in early November. 

As an American, I will have to pay an initial fee for the first blood draw.  All of 60 euro.  My teacher was astonished.  Why should you have to pay?  No!  There must be a way around this!

I had to explain to her it is because we are not part of the EU…it’s fine, 60 euro is NOTHING compared to what I have had to pay in the US for certain blood tests…calm down…it’s nothing. I will pay with a smile on my face. Happily.

Now, her next challenge is to make an appointment with the specialist.  She tells me her husband also needs to see a rheumatoid specialist, so she would have had to arrange something one way or another. 

As far as I know, the specialist is in Pescara, the large beach town and administrative center of this province.  It is about a 25 minute ride.  We don’t have a car, but, as my teacher told me, she would have to take her husband anyway, so maybe the two of us can be seen on the same day?  I was given the name of a particular rheumatologist from another friend (who is now the “vice mayor of our town!) That seems to be how things work here, friend of a friend, word of mouth, call this one, get a name.  Otherwise, the convoluted bureaucracy can become confusing and frustrating.

There is also a little matter of some abdominal pain, which we mentioned, but that got lost in all the other talk, so I am in limbo with that.  Not sure if it is an old umbilical hernia coming back to haunt me or the gallbladder acting up.  I was hoping to avoid an emergency room but between questions in both Italian and English and scripts for blood tests and appointments for blood tests….well. Plus it’s a bit odd having a companion with you at a doctor’s visit. 

Meanwhile, I am still at square one and the saga continues……. 

I can't get no satisfaction

 Ah, life in Italia!  Fantastic food, clean air and water, beautiful surroundings, nice people and so many things that just don't make any sense whatsoever.

Let's see if I can explain this.  

We have Wi-Fi.  Obviously...I wouldn't be here on this blog without it!  Ok...we used to get bimonthly bills which we paid at the Post Office (Yes! You can do that here!) Sometimes going there is a pain, due to weather or long lines, but it is still pretty convenient. 

But, why don't I just go online with my bank and arrange for automatic debit?  Ahhhhhhh, well......THAT is not so easy.  You can't.  You just can't.  I could pay them individually online, but it is not possible to set up a "payee" for automatic debiting in this country.  Why?  Beats me, I have no idea, but people mumble things about security and blah blah.  

In order to set up automatic debit, you have to consult a rather unpleasant gentleman in the Post Office.  I've tried and I've mentioned this fellow before.  The last time he claimed that the "code" (what code?) was incorrect and it could not be done. 

That was then and this is now.  And now instead of bimonthly bills, we have monthly bills that arrive via email, making the little trek to the post office a tad less convenient than it was before. These emails usually arrive at the very beginning of every month. 

All was chugging along as it should until October.  No email.  I checked my "junk" file....nothing.  Hmmmm.  I could call their customer service line, but I know from past experience that they speak very quickly and like all customer service lines, you have to "enter #2" here and "enter #1" there before you can get through to a person and I tend to get nervous on the telephone to begin with, so we went for help.

Aldo is a guy who is a wine merchant with a small cafe around the corner.  He lived in the US for decades, so he is fluent in English as well as his native Italian.  He called the customer service line and found out several things.  One, they seem to be changing the billing cycle yet again, so the bills have not gone out as yet.  Ok...we are not in arrears.  Wait!  Yes we are!  There is a......TWO EURO (!!!) balance on the account and for whatever illogical reason, unless we pay the two euro right away, with a credit card, our bill WILL be withheld and our service disconnected.   WHAAAAAATT?

Fine, I whipped out my international credit card for Aldo to read to the guy on the phone,  Number, name, expiration, code.  Nope.  Not going through.  Why?  It's an international card, I have used it in multiple places over the last three years.  Try again.  Nope.  No good.

My husband then pulled out his AmEx card, good "all over the world."  No, sorry, no good.  

So Aldo pulled out HIS OWN card and paid the damned two euro with his.  His worked.  All is well in Wi-Fi land again and absolutely NONE of this makes any sense at all. Why were we never informed about this two euro?  Why was it not just forwarded onto a subsequent bill?  We will never know. 

Well, fascists are not very welcome here, we are in little to no danger of being victims of a random shooting, it is very unlikely to flood and there is universal health care. 

Sit down, have a glass of wine...it's a lovely evening...ah, Italia!

I heard there was a secret chord...

 I came late to the appreciation of Leonard Cohen.  Well, perhaps that isn't really true.  I was enamored of several of his songs way back in the 70s, but I had no idea who he was and I never bothered to find out.  They were songs.  Songs I liked a lot.  "Suzanne" and "That's No Way to Say Goodbye."  Who wrote them?  I couldn't tell ya.

Life plunged on and I heard some others of his songs, still never registering from whom they came.  I was travelling on the big highway of the USA...highway 80, and in a Starbucks somewhere.  All the stops look the same, so I have no recollection of which one it was, but a song was playing.  Starbucks offered CDs for sale and the one playing was "featured."  I literally lingered inside with my coffee just to hear it to the end.  To the end..."Dance Me to the End of Love"...this one by Madeleine Peyroux.  I was mesmerized.

I was an habitual viewer of NCIS while living in NYC and New Jersey.  On Tuesdays, after a stressful, interminable day at the hospital, I would fervently wish that I would be on a train, and another train and catch a bus home, if all went well, without unforeseen disasters, just to be able to sit down by 8pm and watch an episode.  One episode, at the very end, where everything was tied up  neat and tidy, there was a scene of a man singing a song.  It sounded, perhaps, vaguely religious, but....not entirely.  And it, too, was somehow hypnotic.  I later learned it was Cohen's "Hallelujah."

The truth is, I really only learned about him with his death.  Suddenly, there was so much to read about him, so much to understand.  I regret I had not known sooner.

I am currently obsessed with "Hallelujah."  I was walking on the passaggiata the summer or fall before Covid hit and there was a mother and child in the playground that runs along the side of the walkway.  The little girl was on a swing and singing "Hallelujah."  That was when I realized that the song had been co-opted by the religious.  Certainly, a six year old child could not understand the metaphors and nuances of that song....no, of course not.  They changed it.  They changed the lyrics to suit their purposes.

There are allusions to religious figures in the song...the word itself (hallelujah) appears to come saddled with religious baggage.  It doesn't have to, and it doesn't in this song.  It is an....epiphany, of sorts...an offering of gratitude, perhaps....a celebration....but not of a religious figure or a single flavor of god.  

I read that Cohen had many, many, seventy or eighty...verses of this song and finally honed them down to 4 or 5.  I would love to read the others.  It is a song about a songwriter who is an unsung hero.  The artist painfully self aware that he does not have the recognition he deserves.  It is also about sex.  It is also about loneliness, love and loss.  It most definitely is not about a church..any church...THE church. It makes me angry that that section of society copped this song, changed it and yet, if not for that, the song might never have become well known.  How ironic. 

I had been listening to Cohen's own version of it......and then I discovered KD Lang.  She knocks this puppy right out of the ball park.  Close your eyes and listen.  Hallelujah.

KD Lang "Hallelujah"

The long way home

Funny how random things can spark your memory.  Things long forgotten, maybe not important but....memorable.

Why in the world did I remember this?  Was it people on Facebook posting about concerts? (Things I could rarely afford)  Was it others just popping up songs from "my" era?  

Anyway...way back when I was a struggling working "goil" in New York City...a medical secretary, something I was hoping to educate myself out of, but that didn't happen....I took a walk on a beautiful autumn afternoon.  I had nothing else to do.  Just a walk, to enjoy the "window shopping" and the sunshine and crisp autumn air.

I walked all the way from 93rd Street down to Rockefeller Center, which was not a feat for me back in those days.  I'm talking about the late 70s.

Something was going on.....I saw a sign, I saw them setting up....Rupert Holmes.  Rupert Holmes!!!!  He was going to sing in the Center....in front of "Mercury"...where the ice rink is set up every winter.  I was aware of him, I was sort of a fan, I guess....I had an album.  

So, I decided...damn it!...I am going to DO this!!!  I sat down in the cafe right by the stage...as near as one could get....I got handed a "menu".....and the least expensive thing I could get was single glass of wine.  Even that was a stretch for me at the time...six dollars!!!!  My guess is that would translate to about 18 nowadays.  For a single glass of wine.  Fuck it.  I did it.  I asked first if it was alright that that was all I ordered.  Since it was the middle of the day and there was virtually no one else there...they let me get away with it.  (And yes, six dollars, for me, at that time, was a serious amount of money to blow).

In retrospect, I think that was my very first "concert."  I nursed the wine as long as I possibly could.  It was a long time ago and no one rushed me, no one was rude.  Kind of amazing.  I got to listen to someone I knew from the radio and records...in person!  Right there!!!  I was thrilled.

I was a little nervous about "blowing away" the money.....but, really....the experience and the memory were worth it.  

And the funny thing is, it is mine alone.  I was completely by myself the entire time, the entire day, other than for my cats waiting for me at home.  Sometimes I lament that people with whom I shared cherished memories are gone, either from death or circumstance.  Ultimately, I realize you don't  need someone else to value your favorite recollections. They are all yours, always,

Rupert Holmes - Long Way Home - YouTube

You're starting to criticize everything I do.....

 Imagine.....imagine you move into a new (to you) home.  You make improvements, not only to your home, in and of itself, but to the "common" area.   

There is no legal, binding agreement...it is not a "condominium"...but there is a shared courtyard, just outside your door on the ground floor.  The walls have cracks and stains.  The ceramic floor is dirty.  The courtyard is empty, except for lights that go on, if necessary, when a button is pushed by the front door.

So imagine that you find out that YOU pay for the lights everytime someone uses them.  Not just you, but everyone else in the building.  The building has four apartments.  You pay every time someone turns on those lights.  Even though there is a window at the top of the stairwell, and plenty of light shines in on sunny days, certain people turn the lights on needlessly nevertheless.  On your dime.  Why?  Who knows?  It was set up that way and who knows why....??

Imagine that you decide to rehab the cortile, on your own dime, as a choice.  Get the walls replastered and cleaned up.  Add a couple of benches not only for seating but for packages left by delivery people.  And you decide to add some additional lighting of your own, but only you can turn them on. 

Imagine you get the courtyard cleaned up.  When was it ever cleaned last?  Impossible to say...but you hire someone to really clean it, with actual soap and water and get the tiles clean and shiny  and beautiful again. 

You are approached by a workman to refurbish your historical, ancient wooden door, which you do without hesitation.

You add live plants outside and fake ones inside (the courtyard is enclosed...not enough light or heat for plants to survive)...besides the benches and a couple of pictures of the local countryside. You have had other people tell you how nice the courtyard is now.  You have had neighbors join you in the courtyard for a holiday drink.  

BUT...there are part-time occupants of ONE apartment.  One quarter of the occupants of the building.  These people complain about EVERYTHING.  Everything...everything, anything, everything.  

There was a box of white decorative stones under one of the benches at one point.  The stones were for the plants, obviously...decorative stones.  The box was "a problem,"  Seriously???  It's UNDER the bench, in no one's way...unobtrusive.  Non va bene.   Fine.  We took the box away, although we were not done with it.

You are feeding cats in the courtyard, you should feed them outside.  Really?  You think so?  The MAYOR of the town, via my veterinarian, said to feed them inside.  Cleaner, safer and no one..no one, can tell you not to, because it is YOUR courtyard, not a public space. "Oh.....va bene."

There are ants outside.  Do you have ants outside? We have ants outside in the warm months.  There are ants everywhere outside, in the piazzetta, in the bricks, on the freaking balcony that is seven stories high...there are ants because ....there are ants.  It's nature.  We do not have any ants in the house or in the courtyard.  "These ants are a problem"  Really?  What do you want me to do about it?  There are ants everywhere.  For pity's sake.

Aaaaannnnd now....we have a runner in the courtyard.  A carpet runner.  We had three in the winter months not only to catch water and dirt but for traction (ceramic gets slippery when wet).  Well, golly gee, this runner is yet another damned problem.  It's "dirty."  It's dirty?  Yeah...the old lady on the first floor often brings out her leaky garbage and leaves stains.  The street has bird poop and sand and dirt and cigarettes and food debris and you know what?  That leaves stains too!!! Yeah!  And what's more is...those stains and wet spots are NOT on the ceramic, but in this little runner.  It is keeping the courtyard, as a whole, cleaner.  It is keeping the crazy old lady from falling and cracking her head open on the ceramic tile.  You don't like it?  Oh, golly, that's so, so, too fucking bad. 

We are the "foreigners." These people, who do not live here full time, but only visit occasionally from Milan...I assume because of family ties.....feel that they are superior to us.  They do nothing to improve the property.  IF they know that we pay for the lights, they keep that to themselves and use them with abandon..even on bright, sunny days.  They complain about absolutely every little stinking thing and then they go back to Milan.  WHY are they not going back to Milan???  

I want to write up a bill for them...for three years worth of using the lights, the drain pipe we had repaired, the walls we had repaired, the door we had restored and the major leak we just had fixed.  Write them up a bill and tell them to pay up or SHUT UP!!!

Italy has a 25% unemployment rate, this town is suffering and they do not like "gli stranieri"....well, these stranieri are contributing to the life of the town, to the preservation of the property and care enough, at our advanced age, to learn a whole new language.  But, nevermind....there are ants outside!

Why should we be fated to do...nothing but brood..on food?

Having been brought up in the US in the 50s and 60s, bland food, convenience foods, frozen foods were the thing to do.  I recall lots of "roast beast" and endless mashed potatoes, mushy vegetables.

I started cooking in my teens, trying things that seemed difficult like puff pastry, 5 layer tortes, baked beans from scratch.  Overall, my favorite "cuisine" turned out to be Italian.

So, here we are in Italy!!  And people seem to think that we live on spaghetti  and pizza now.  They envision the menu of an Italian restaurant and think that is regular life here, but real Italians have a much more varied diet.

Yes, the pasta, even from the supermarket, is terrific. Better still is to buy fresh pasta from the homemade pasta shops.  "Passata" is tomato sauce, sold in jars.  Unlike the US, passata comes in smooth variations to chunky (rustica) but not in flavors such as marinara, basil and peppers or arrabbiata.  Therefore, once we landed in Italy I started making my own sauce with my preferred rustica passata.  But even in Italy, people do not live on pasta and sauce alone!

Since this is a small, somewhat remote hill town (and also thanks to the pandemic) our choices for eating out are limited mostly to pizza, pizza and more pizza.  Not healthy in the long run and ultimately boring. Still, an occasional pizza night is fun and a break from cooking all the time.  Our other choice here is a restaurant fashioned after an American diner that offers burgers, wings and fries.  

We live in an area surrounded by farms, green houses, olive groves and vineyards.  As a result there is a plethora of fresh local vegetables year round.  Sure, you can buy frozen spinach, broccoli, peas, green beans.  But the fresh produce is at least half the price of US produce and so much better.  (I do buy frozen spinach in cubes, it is easy and neat, unlike loose frozen spinach in the US).

There were some surprises along the way.  Carrots are very popular here along with hot peppers (pepperoncini). Spinach is a big favorite and also asparagus and artichokes.  You can make it yourself, but "spinacini" are available in the deli section of the supermarket or frozen.  They are lightly breaded patties of ground chicken and spinach, sauteed on the stove top.  Also popular are plain chicken patties and spiedini, which are kebobs, of chicken (or other meat) onions, peppers.  

Fish sticks, just like in the states, but better (Italy does not allow Monsanto, artificial colors, preservatives, etc) along with fish cakes are readily available in the frozen section, too.

Soups (minestrone and pasta e fagioli) are popular in the winter months and bags of frozen vegetable or bean mixes are stocked in the market when the weather gets cold. Making the soup is up to you!!  It isn't hard with broth in large cartons, passata, spices and the vegetable mixes.  I add extra chick peas because I love them. 

What do we eat when it isn't pizza or spaghetti with tomato sauce?  

Turning things into "Mexican" dishes is easy.  There is a plethora of hot peppers and Tabasco sauce is sold. Rice and rice mixes are also abundant.  Beans are everywhere.  A piadina is not exactly a tortilla, but it is similar although slightly heavier and not as flexible.  Making a quesadilla is a cinch.  Burritos or fajitas are simple, too.  When in season, the avocadoes are large and make great guacamole.  Tortilla chips are around and taco sauce is sold in the stores.  Red beans and rice?  Yep!

After a lifetime of thinking Chinese food was complicated, I started making my own fried rice and lo mein.  My next conquest will be eggs foo young.

In the warmer months (should I say hot?) we stick to salads - a bed of lettuce with tuna salad or egg salad on top.  Macaroni salad with eggs and peas.  Potato salad.  I even found Hellmann's mayonnaise here.  Turkey burgers in a piadina with cheese and lettuce, or spinacini or chicken patties, also stuffed in a piadina (lighter than a bun).  Also sliced roasted turkey from the deli counter in a wrap is a hot weather dinner.

Spaghetti piccante is a popular dish for the summers here. That is spaghetti without sauce, just olive oil and a mixture of hot spices which can be found in premade packets.  It can be addictive.

"Il hot dog" is another surprise. I am not a fan of them, but we have them now and then, turkey dogs.  At least in this hill town, hot dogs are everywhere, including sliced on top of pizza or served in a small round of pizza dough in lieu of a hot dog bun. 

In the winter we have quiches, a chicken tarragon "stew" that cooks in the oven with potatoes, carrots and onion, tuna or chicken casserole with a choice of peas, broccoli or asparagus, stuffed peppers, shepherd's pie (Yes, there are wonderful instant mashed potatoes!) roasted onions and carrots with a chicken or spinacini patty.  

An easy skillet dinner is fusilli pasta with chicken chunks, a cream soup mix (asparagus or artichoke) topped with parmesan and walnuts.  

And then, of course, spaghetti...or any type of pasta and sauce, or baked in a casserole with melted mozzarella and/or ricotta and lasagna, chicken parmigiana, gnocchi, tortellini in brodo or with sauce.  

 Potable water, clean air, abundant vegetables, ingredients that you recognize and can pronounce in prepared foods - there are healthy choices and plenty of variety.  Yes, it takes more time to make things yourself, but people do eat very well here.  

I only wish that there were a bit more choice in restaurants, but I won't complain too much.  Overall, things are better here than where we were.   

As we stroll along together.....

 I am getting older.  My body has gone through multiple changes throughout my life.....as we all do...from childhood to adolescence (Oh! The horror!) and for me, as a female, pregnancy (Oh! The horror!..yes, it was...because I puked for four entire months and lost 10 pounds)  and then, finally, menopause....what joy!

So, here I am. Old.  Old by probably every standard....I got notices from AARP twenty years ago!!!  I started taking "senior" vitamins.  When was my last period?  Oh....shit.  How the hell do I know??

There are people wondering why I don't color my hair.  Why?  Is that any of their business?  Do I ask THEM why they continue to color theirs?  Why?  Who are they kidding?   Why does it matter?

I have Frankenfeet....feet that have been ravaged by rheumatoid arthritis, a broken bone and bunions.  Feet that have endured multiple surgeries just so I could remain vertical.  Feet that I sought shoes for, for years, often opting for a larger and larger size just because  I thought that I might be able to walk more comfortably...as a woman....hahaaha...like anyone EVER cared about women being comfortable walking....in shoes.  Or not.

My two Frankenfeet....one done by a top notch surgeon in the NUMBER ONE hospital in New York City.  He was an excellent surgeon, and that foot looks more normal than the other.  The toes are even and sometimes I can even move them at will, finally, after all these years.  I can bend them and even spread them a bit....before I could not feel them or send them "messages" from my brain at all.  That is my more "normal" foot.  It is back to my "normal" size 7.  38 in Europe.  BUT.....but......but....as good as it looks...despite scars....it swells up in shoes. Always.  Doesn't matter what shoe, makes no difference..the damned thing swells and after a not too very long while it becomes noticeable to the eye and uncomfortable,  IDK how many of you have ever had your ankles swell for whatever reason, but that is what it is like.  Always.  In shoes.  So....I avoid shoes whenever and wherever possible.  And people want me to go out.....and have...FUN!

The other...my left foot....yeah....my left foot....is now deformed forever.  It's a shame because the surgeon swore he trained under the surgeon who did my first foot!  So, silly me, I thought he would come through.  And, he seemed like a really nice guy...nice enough that I would have worked for him and even tried to get a job so I wouldn't have my killer commute anymore.  But,.....my left foot looks like a horror.  There is a huge gap between my great toe and the second one and then the other little piggies are all stuffed up at the end in their little piggie corrals, like actual pigs in a pig farm.  It's a mess.

The upshot of all of this is that, for the most part, these surgeries that were supposed to restore my abilities, have left me with toes I cannot feel or move, except a very little bit on the right.  I have balance problems.  My right foot swells in shoes...any shoe.  Makes no matter, even a slipper.

My left foot does NOT swell, but it looks, for all intents and purposes, at a quick glance, like I am missing a toe...the others are squished at the end and I must be meticulous about foot hygiene after every shower.  AND, most of all, for this child who was "swimming" at two months of age, I can no longer swim at all.  My feet are useless.  Feet are necessary for swimming and mine are useless.  So, something I have loved all my life is no longer possible.  Sure, it's a result of disease, but how much is also the result of poor surgery?  

I lost twenty pounds in the first year in Italy, because this is a "walking town" and we walked and walked.  Then came a pandemic and quarantine.  I am attempting to get back to walking...just a little one "around the block" it would be called in the US except here the block includes hills, so that makes it all the better.   

I ran into a neighbor on my walk today..I think she is a bit older than I am.  "Oh, una pasaggiatta?" (A walk?  Perche?)  A walk, why?  Because I am fat.  "No!  No!  You are normal!"  And then the funny part..and "you are tall!"  Tall?  I'm 5'3"...hahaha!!!  I guess to her I am "tall."  

I will do what I can to remain in some semblance of "healthy"..while the environment collapses....I do it for my child and my cats.....So far, life goes on.

Ah! Sweet mystery of life...

Well, now that things locally have calmed down with regard to Covid, it is time to start tackling things once again that have been sitting on the sidelines.

One of those things was arranging to get some straggling bills paid automatically.

With each paper bill comes a receipt that one has to truck down to either a bank or to the post office, which is also a bank here in Italy.  "Banco Posta."  The upside of using the post office as a bank is that they are literally everywhere.  The downside is that their website pretty much stinks.  It has a habit of "going down" frequently, that is. 

And, online banking here is not quite the same as in the US.  It is a bit more convoluted, not intuitive and therefore more difficult to maneuver. Want to add a payee for a one time only payment?  You have to go to "transfers."  ????   Want to add a payee for recurrent payments to be made automatically?  NO can do.  Nope.  No way.  

To accomplish that feat, you have to go in person to the post office.  You must have a little document that also comes with each bill.  This document asks for bank information, address, etc.  It asks for this information more than once, which I don't understand.  Regardless, I filled out two of these little buggers, one for the infrequent water bill and another for the once a month internet bill. 

I have had unpleasant experiences in the past trying to get this mysterious and complicated task done. That is because there is a mysteriously unpleasant person at the post office and this person is the one in charge of activating automatic debits from accounts. 

This time I came with back-up...my Italian teacher. Off we went to the post office, fully expecting to encounter Oscar the Grouch and somehow muddle through.  I am not quite sure how it happened or why, but we were directed to go to a clerk instead.  

That nice lady was nervous, the post office director was standing over her shoulder.  She said, "I've never done this before."  Well, of course you haven't done it before...it isn't YOUR JOB!!!  Oscar G. was in his private office doing nothing with no one. 

She took my little documents, my passport, my codice fiscale (the Italian social security number) my Permesso di Soggiorno and my "citizen ID" card.  I wondered if I needed to pump my fist in case they wanted blood.  She tapped away at the computer and finally asked me to insert my bank card into the thingamajig and something printed out.  All was returned to me, including the little documents, and then she said that it would all goes to you-know-who.....Mr. Grouch himself!  Should we wait?  No....all done.  Arrivederci.  Ok.....not sure what happened, but it happened. We were done.

Forty-five minutes later my phone rang.  "Pronto."  She spoke rapidly and all I understood was "Mi capsici?" which means "Do you understand me?"  Hahahaha.  No. I do not understand.  Oy vey.  So, she spoke more slowly and the gist was that I had to come back on Monday and 10 am.  Why was yet another mystery.  I texted my teacher who said it was no problem for her to be there.

I got up early.  Since retiring, I am NOT a morning person.  I loathe getting up early.  Got up, fed the clowns  (7 cats) and suddenly it was time to go, without having had tea and feeling rather grouchy myself.  It's also very hot.  The good news was that in the morning it was cloudy, so at the very least, the blistering sun was not shining down. Nevertheless, I had worked up a nice sweat when I got there and the line was out the door.  Not a surprise on a Monday morning.  People here, as everywhere else, can get their noses WAY out of whack if it appears you are trying to jump the line.  So, I kept repeating to everyone that I had an appointment. Luckily, they believed me. Perhaps the envelope I held containing every piece of documentation and identification I possess persuaded them.

Aaaaannnnddd, there he was.  Good old Oscar.  I stood at his doorway and he looked at me with no expression whatsoever.  He didn't say a word.  So, I repeated yet again that I had an appointment and with his eyes he motioned me to the chair.  

There used to be a regular desk in here, but now there is smaller, round desk and, of course, there is a plexiglass barrier due to the pandemic.  However, the smaller, round desk with the barrier makes it impossible to put anything down.  I had to start finding my documents, codice, passport and ID's in my lap.  Didn't I do all this on Friday?  Why, yes!!  Yes, I did!!!   But here I was, being asked to produce everything all over again.  Deja vu, anyone??

My teacher arrived, so I knew he couldn't  pull too much nonsense with her around. 

So, yes, he took everything once again that I had given the nice lady before.  After typing and printing and typing some more, he handed everything back.  I put it all away because no one wants to lose their passport or an Italian identity card.  Then he asked for my codice and ID card again.   Alright, I'm freaking fuming now, none of this is easy in my damned lap.  You KNOW it all fell to the floor, don't you??  Finally, I have to sign on the little computer screen that is impossible to see because the recessed lights in the ceiling shine directly on to the screen.  Alrighty then!!!  Is it done?  

Well, the water bill was done.  Supposedly.  Hopefully.  We'll find out at some later date.  And the internet?  "Oh, we can't do that." But WHY???  Some code is wrong, some code on the little document provided by the internet company itself is wrong and does not work, too bad, so sad. 

My teacher pressed a bit more and he actually tried to enter the information.  Nothing. Did he call the internet company to get a correct code?  Don't be silly.  We were done.  Toodles. 

I asked my teacher what had we accomplished on Friday?  She said, "We accomplished having him accomplish it today."  Except it's still only half done. 

To be continued......sometime......I don't know when, it's a mystery.  

I'd be the first one to agree that I'm preoccupied with...me.

** This post was written in a small fit of indignation and is not meant to disparage an entire swath of people.  Just those that I refer to as "snobs."

I will attempt to do this as delicately, as diplomatically as I can.  However, there are no guarantees that I will succeed.  I might hazard a guess that I will fail miserably, in fact...so, tread with care.  I will not, however, apologize for my sentiments or opinions, based on my experiences.  If someone is offended or reads with hurt feelings or, better yet, huffiness and snorts....so be it.

There is a large concentration of people from a certain "kingdom" here in this little obscure hill town in Italy.  Most are part-time residents...or, as locals say, "tourists."  A very few are full-time residents.  

We speak the same native language with minor accent, word and meaning differences.  In other words, we speak the same language, but different dialects.

There is something I have come to despise....a certain attitude that couches itself in small, nearly innocuous phrases and social slights.  

It started with the door.  MY door.  The door to our home.  It had been a kind of a puke yellow.  A really awful nothing "color" that made me slightly sick every time I saw it.  I'm sure there is a wood door underneath...but how many layers of paint?  What kind of shape is the wood in?  It wasn't worth it to find out.  I had the door painted.  And it pleased me.

So, a certain male person with whom we had contact one day said to  me...."Oh..what do you think of that BLUE door???  *he left out, but I heard "that DREADFUL blue door" in his delivery.

Well, jackass, if you hadn't noticed, but you should have, that BLUE DOOR just happened....recently, because I asked for it, I wanted it and it makes me happy every time I see it.  In my opinion, and this is what my reply was..."It beats the hell out of baby shit yellow."

It isn't just "blue"...it is aqua.  It reminds me of the sea, and we are just west of the Adriatic.  It is a bright and snappy color and I love it.  Yet, he tried so very hard to insult me.

There were others....one who, although I thought he was quite nice, decided it was his mission to educate me on the history of this town and was bound and determined to lend me a book to read for my enlightenment.  I guess he forgot.  He never mentioned it again.

A man who is also part-time, with his wife....to whom we have never been "formally" introduced, but we have seen and spoken to, nevertheless, several times.  She never remembers.  "Do I know you?"  "Have we met?"  Really?  No, lady, only about 4 or 5 times. Are their memories so short?  This isn't a very big town.  Or are we just that disposable?  Ah, who cares?  Americans......meh.  Such plebeians. 

We were at an "event"...a night of music and wine....and there they were, this couple.  We saw them.  They saw us.  Nothing.  Not even a nod of acknowledgement. "Have we met?"  We had freaking dinner with the husband!!!  What..ev..ah!

And the latest.  Yet another......so, I see a pattern developing, an unpleasant one.  I do not like to make generalizations about people, but....I'm being helped along here.  So, the latest.  Guy is boisterous and has a big mouth...well, yeah, ok..boisterous.  Big smarmy smile...HAHAHAHA.....always laughing.....life is just a bowl of treacle.....at any rate.....in our "conversation"....he said he looked at a place that had "a view of the parking lot!  BWAHAHAHAHAH!!!!"...yeah...that's us.  Yes, there is a parking lot below.  Not visible in the summer, only when the leaves fall in the winter.  And so what....it is a panoramic view..not JUST of a parking lot...in one small lower quadrant...but...this....

The cityscape to the west...gorgeous no matter what the season or time of day,

And this.....

 Olive groves, farms and vineyards...and the Adriatic...some "parking lot."

It seems to me that certain people go out of their way to slight and insult because they feel so very superior.  I am not sure how or why they are "superior" but they certainly seem to think they are.  I must hone my skills and learn how to dish back what is slopped onto my plate.  Give me a bit of time...I will figure it out.