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.  

It's just a matter of time.

The past month is now a jumbled blur.  Between jet lag and so many things to do, so many adjustments to be made and nothing at all familiar, the days and nights have faded into a series of short vignettes and images in my mind.

The dreadful cold shower.  After which I fought and struggled with the box of wine in the now half frozen refrigerator.  I was exhausted, nearly frantic and damn it, I was going to have a glass of wine!  The box was half consumed by the ice taking over the main refrigerator area, but with the help of a knife and by mangling the box itself, I managed to get it freed.  Perhaps it was the ice that helped preserve it, because it was still good and had not turned to vinegar.  In fact, it was very good. Two glasses and I could hit the sack.

Harry's arrival....and his astounding acclimation to a place so vastly different than he has ever known.  Hearing his distinctive bark - "Mom!"

Little girls and old ladies telling me what a handsome boy he is.   ("Cane!  Bello cane!")

Daily hoping to have a shower somewhere and praying I don't begin to smell.

My aching back on these terrible chairs....hardly any furniture and not much choice.

Walking all over the place - glorious weather, sunny, in the 60s.  Willing myself not to make a misstep, still so tired and disoriented.

Buying a bed - a nice platform bed with a foam mattress, delivered the very same day.  Very little in the way of movement transference.  Nice, sound, sleep.  And a nice, upholstered head board for reading.

Deciding that the boiler would be placed inside, since I was buying a new refrigerator anyway.

Listening to Andrea Bocelli and Ed Sheeran, Il Volo and the Carpenters through the tinny, inadequate "speaker" of my laptop, as I defrosted the old refrigerator while a huge thunderstorm worked its way through the hillside. The sound from the laptop was so terrible it gave me an excuse to sing.  All the while desperately trying to remember HOW, in fact, to defrost a freezer and remembering to boil some water in a big pot.  In spite of the lightning and thunder, Harry remained fairly calm.  Pretty sure the music, such as it was, helped a bit.  That and the spectacle of defrosting, something he has never seen and I haven't done in about 40 years.

Taking a strange "bath" in someone else's apartment - neither Banks or I able to figure out how to use the hand held shower head, so I soaked, sort of, in a small tub shaped like a keyhole.  The water was hot, it felt good, I did my best.

The new fridge, in all its ivory and frost free glory.  The two young men who delivered also removed the old one.  To  my horror, as they leaned it back on the dolly, some wicked, red/brown slime liquid poured out and left a trail all the way out the door.  Me, frantically cleaning up the mess with paper towels, trying to keep Harry's paws away from whatever it was.

My husband's arrival.  Six in the evening, already dark.  His taxi was a LARGE van.  He managed to park in the same nook my taxi driver used.  So many bags, so we opt to take the "shortcut" through a residential alley.  Somehow my husband lost his grip on one or two and I could hear them rolling down a street...omigod.  I carried on, trudging up to the house with luggage in tow.  Pretty soon I could hear the rolling bags behind me, catching up.  I got to the door and turned to my husband.  But it wasn't my husband, it was some stranger!  My face registered shock, I'm sure, the poor man was being stared at like he was an infamous serial killer, but I managed to blurt out a "Grazie!"...to which he replied "Niente" (It's nothing).

Three days of insane noise as the plumbers worked to install a new boiler. Jackhammers plowing through 2 foot thick walls.  Draining all the pipes.  Finally, to hear the word "Caldo!"....we have heat!  Hallelujah!

Us figuring out how to use the washing machine and somehow managing to wash one load three times because we are idiots.  😝😝😝

Taking the bus to Pescara.  A 25 minute car ride is over an hour by bus.  I hate to be in high buses to begin with, but the sight of sheer mountain drop-offs as we ride around curves makes the first half of the journey white knuckle time for me.  Pescara for the bank, because I need to straighten out the use of my bank card and access to the account.  Pescara  again because I have to link my Italian phone number to the bank account.  Pescara again to go to the Questura (police station) to apply for our Permesso di Soggiorno. (Permit to Stay)

Finding a place we like to go to for dinner.  Watching in amusement as a large party of teen boys and their chaperones (a sports team or club) descend on the place, the kids making short shrift of the 2 liter soda bottles on the tables. How well behaved they are.  Kids here are wholesome, it is rather like stepping back in time and I admit, heartwarming to see.

Buying some serious walking shoes.  Black with a bit of sparkle.  Shoes are a major fashion item in this hill town and Italians like a little "bling." Then managing, in said serious walking shoes,  to trip on the flat ground of Pescara thereby landing my face on a concrete building wall.  Broke my glasses. Eye bleeding.  Going to have a shiner.  I'm going to have a shiner as we continue, carefully, to the police station.  This is going to make a great impression.

Discovering the Saturday market - clothes, shoes, socks, jewelry, tee shirts, plants, sweaters, household items such as door mats, linens, garbage pails, jackets and coats, fabric for those with the talent to sew...and the vegetable market with cheese and meats, too.  A pretty sweater for 15 euros.  After a huge walk, a stop for gelato.

Hankering for a casserole.  Nights are getting chilly.  Let's figure out the oven! Turns out, unlike the gas stove, the oven is electric.  What to do? Turn the dial....there are no words, only baffling icons.  Turn a dial.  OK.  Ooooh, it's on.  Three, two, one...AND....ALL the lights are OFF!  Fuse box tripped.  Not doing THAT again anytime soon.

Tiny moments.  Banks talking about the time he cooked fish and his place smelled for weeks.  I once did the same many years ago, so I found his story hilarious.

The lady at the little salumeria (deli) complimenting my Italian.  "No, signora, io parlo come una bambina"...I speak like a baby.

The delight I see when people know we are Americans.  They still love us, for some reason.

Getting words mixed up - "How does this wash?"  came out "How does this work?"  Non capisco...aggghh...lavora, lava.....we eventually get there.  I need a pot with a roof....and another compliment.....these people are far too kind.

Finding different ways to get to the same place.  The scenic route or the shortcut.

The locksmith - did I mention my key didn't work in the lock? - an old man...asking about an American president.  Me responding by saying, "Please don't say that name"....and him, a survivor of fascism, looking me square in the eyes and saying "We don't want that here."

Getting my hair cut.  Most salons look nice, but sometimes it is hard to tell when they are open.  I just marched into one that looked busy and made an appointment.  They were busy, but right on time, a very fine tuned machine.  My new hairdresser looks remarkably like Mandy Patankin, a slightly younger version, but Mandy Patankin, nevertheless.  Except he's Italian.  And a hairdresser.  I was very happy with the results and the reasonable price.

Getting sick.  On top of smacking my eye into a building, I got a sinus infection.  It was inevitable, really, just a matter of time. Sleep deprivation, no rhythm or rhyme, stomachs and circadian rhythms all messed up, unfamiliar everything.  It felt like a cold but turned one day.  Rushing to the young man who sold us the health policies.  I was stuck in bed, while my husband watched the young man call and make an appointment for me.  Calling a friend of Banks' to take us there (under normal circumstances I could walk, but not that day)  A young girl....is she twelve?...she's the doctor....but I leave with a prescription for antibiotics.  Trying to remain vertical in the pharmacy, the pharmacist hands over the medication and says, "Pagate niente'..you pay nothing.  Niente? That can't be right.  I feel like I am breaking a law.

Finally, our furniture should arrive in port within the week.  We have health coverage.  We pretty much, as much as we need for now, know our way around.

The next hurdles include: figuring out why the oven tripped the fuses.  Getting a clothes dryer (where the old fridge used to be).  Getting rid of the furniture pieces left here before ours arrives.  Patience.

Patience.  We must learn patience.  Of course...I knew, coming in, nothing would be perfect overnight.  It's only been a month of the most radical move of our lives. Patience.  Breathe.  Breathe the clean air.  Drink the clear, pure water.  Eat the natural and clean, delicious food.  Patience.

It's just a matter of time.

Volare nel cielo infinito

Somehow I managed to remain awake throughout the 7 hour flight to Lisbon, even though it was very smooth.  Then I tried to rev myself up with strong tea at the Lisbon airport.

When I visited Italy to buy a property, the official at the Lisbon customs check in asked me several questions, "How long are you staying?...Where is your return ticket?.....Where are you staying?"  Here I was, carrying a truck load of papers to prove that I had a home and means, etc., and there was not a word.  Just a smile and a stamp. ????  I nearly laughed out loud.  That was way too easy.

The connecting flight was slightly late, but not too bad and took another three hours.

Also in my favor, DaVinci airport was relatively quiet.  The bags came out on the carousel, all three together.....and since there was hardly anyone around, I was able to wrest them off the carousel and onto a cart.  Two airport workers noticed and came to help.  They quickly arranged the bags on the cart so it was easy to push.  That was too easy, too.  It was amazing.

The taxi driver was there with  my name card.  Off we went in a Mercedes van.  I could even put my feet up.  I was so tired, but I wanted to see the countryside, so I willed my eyes to stay open.

The only snafu occurred in Penne.  The driver would not listen to me.  He listened to his GPS and got stuck on Allesandrini, which narrows at a corner turn.  He could not fit.  He backed up, pulled up where there was a little cul de sac and then backed through the corner turn.  I was calling a gentleman here whom we met when we bought the place, I will call him "Banks."  Banks showed up and scolded the driver, I tipped him and he managed to wiggle down and out to wider streets.  Banks and I hauled the luggage to the house.

I don't know how many hours I had been up at that point, but I was fading fast.  The boiler in the house, which we knew was on its' last legs, decided to give up just before I arrived.  That means no heat and no hot water.  My dream of having a nice shower in my own bathroom vanished.  

Banks was good enough to bring over an electric space heater, which actually works quite well, but the cold shower was dreadful.  Really dreadful.  

Being British, I'm not sure that Banks understands what an ordeal it is to get here from the U.S.  He kept asking me if I wanted to go out and meet some other Americans who are planning to move here.  I nearly was in tears and continued to beg off.  We settled on coffee in the morning.  Va bene.

The next day we met at a café for cappuccino.  I met a lovely couple from Ohio and we compared notes and I related some aspects of our year long ordeal.  I picked up some items at the supermarket.  And then I waited for Harry Spotter.  

The people at Airborne Animals and Bliss Pets in Italy were absolutely wonderful and timed everything to the minute!!  I was kept informed of his progress all along the way and was even sent a picture of him, out of  his kennel, after landing in Roma.  

I was standing at the corner up the block (again because the streets are too narrow for vans or trucks) and saw no sign of him.  Then the text said, "She is coming up another way."  Just as I read that, I heard a dog bark.  It sounded like my boy.  I turned around, and there they were!!  Then Harry went slightly nuts, a couple of more huge, loud barks and once I got to him all whimpers and wiggles and the strangest "hah...hah...hah" sound.  But his happy  meter was in full gear!!  Then this tiny woman, Cecilia, carried his gigantic kennel right into our courtyard!  I couldn't thank her enough.

Harry inspected every room, even the bathroom, which is very unusual for him.  And he was happy to find one of his old beds waiting for him. 

We did it Harry.  It was rough, and took a very long time, but we did it.  Bravo ragazzo!

I'm as restless as a willow....

...in a wind storm
I'm as jumpy as a puppet on  a string
I'd say that I had spring fever
But I know it isn't spring.

I am starry eyed and vaguely discontented
Like a nightingale without a song to sing 
Oh, why should I have spring fever
When it isn't even spring?

I keep wishing I were somewhere else
Walking down a strange, new street
Hearing words that I have never heard
From a man I've yet to meet.

I'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams
I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing
I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud
Or a robin on the wing

But I feel so gay...in a melancholy way
That it might as well be spring.
It might as well be spring. 

(Rodgers and Hammerstein, 1945)

But I can dream, can't I?

I was in Italy.  A gorgeous, sunny day, as usual.  There I was, in the piazza, savoring a cappuccino and enjoying watching the people go by.  Happiness filled me up.  Here I was at last.  Back where I wanted to be, back where I belong.  I had finally made it.

Then I woke up.

I saw sparkling lights...

When the World was Young

My father owned several bars in Brooklyn.  I was in one once that was very spare, just a bar and few tables. 

The major one was on Flatbush Avenue, and it was more of a club than just merely a bar.  It was quite large, the bar itself was a horseshoe shape.  There were booths to one side, and on the other was open floor and a bandstand, then further over more booths. In the back was a jukebox.  Over in a back corner was the tiny coat check room. 

Behind that was the kitchen, although no real food was ever served. I suppose it was used for storage.  The stove was a gigantic old, black iron monster that actually scared me.  My father made me a grilled cheese sandwich on it once, which was wonderful, but I never wanted that thing turned on again!

Both long walls with the booths were covered from halfway up and to the ceiling with continuous mirrors.  In the middle portion of the bar, where the shelves of liquor were, the top portion was also mirrored.  In the light of day it was dark, as the walls, what portions were exposed, were painted black.  But at night it was transformed and became a sparkling wonderland, like the twinkling of so many fireflies

.

The basement had the pungent odor of beer kegs, which I used to “ride” and pretend they were horses.

I think I only went to the bar when I was preschool age, as I don’t remember going much afterwards.  Either my mother didn’t want to leave me with my older siblings or, the more likely scenario, they had strong objections.  So I was carted around.

That bar, while I sipped on a 7-Up, was where I heard Ray Charles for the first time.  It was daytime, with wan sunshine coming through the tiny windows, and as I sipped and watched dust particles dance and float in the pale shaft of sun, there was  that unforgettable voice.

At Christmastime my mother decorated this bar. She used scrunched up aluminum foil to spell out “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year” in giant cursive and taped them to the mirror walls. Pink puffy “trees” behind the bar. There was also paper garland, which my father tacked up to the rafters while he stood high up on a ladder.  I watched from below, mouth agape.  Then he dropped a tack.  It made a bee line right down my throat.  The next thing down my throat was my mother’s finger.  Suddenly I was rushed to a hospital or doctor.  I remember the ominous x-ray machine.  Nothing was done.  My mother had to examine my poop until the tack came out, which it did.  No damage done.  I was not old enough to understand what the fuss was about.

Sometimes my father’s regular coat check lady wasn’t there, so my mother would fill in.  I loved being there at night, that was when it was magical

. 

There is nothing that compares to live music.  It doesn’t matter how far technology has come, there is still nothing like it.  And the music was so wonderful.  I knew the songs, “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter,” “Young at Heart,” “Only You,” “Sincerely.”  The jukebox had Chuck Berry, Sinatra, Patti Page, Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis.

  

I would be plunked into the back corner most booth near the coat check room.  I would be given crayons and papers and a soda, and I would sit there quietly and happily.

I looked forward to seeing what everyone would wear, including my mother.  She was a fashionista in her time and had many beautiful dresses and shoes.  She was slim, so everything looked good on her.

Then there were the patrons. All the young men in suits and ties.  But the ladies!  White gloves, heels and belted dresses that flared out, some with petticoats.  Floral prints, solids, modern designs.  Everyone with hair “just so.”  They danced, they talked, they had a couple of drinks.  It was like a party. 

 

I probably fell asleep at some point on these evenings.  The booths had ample space for a 5 year old to stretch out and drift off.  I never, for one moment, felt unsafe.

It feels like a dream now.  Although I know that things were not wonderful for a great many people, the fact is, economically, more people were comfortable then than now.  My mother didn’t have a job.  We had plenty of clothes, furniture, heat, food.  We used to go to the movies once a week.  FIVE of us.  We used to go out to eat.  Nothing fancy (well, sometimes) but nevertheless, dinner out was a fairly regular thing.  So much so that this five year old knew how to behave, mostly because I loved it.

I grew up thinking that was the way things were and would probably always be.  Of course, I understand that was foolish and naive.  Never did I dream that I would go on to work for 44 years.  Never did I dream that the value of the working dollar would go down rather than up.  Never did I dream that health insurance would be a major, fear inducing, finance busting decision on an annual basis.  Television was free.  Telephones and their use was nearly free.  There was a standard of living for “regular” people that was dignified and comfortable and it was the middle class norm.

Most restaurants now are chains.  They are noisy, filled with blaring canned music, multiple TVs that no one can hear, acoustically painful environments where casual conversation is impossible.  Dress up?  Why?  Everyone is in jeans and tee shirts.  The food, usually, is mediocre, much the same from place to place, yet overpriced.

Due to age and arthritis, I don’t wear dresses or even low heels anymore.  But I recently had an event to attend were “dressing” was required.  I chose loose black slacks, a black and white blouse, and a soft, loose black jacket. I wore the sparkly earrings my daughter bought for me.  While there, I noticed that many other older women were making similar choices.  Still, it felt good to “dress up” and be among others who had done the same.  It felt, somehow, deeply respectful and appropriate.

 Later, my husband and I went to a quiet little bar.  The music was low, there was one television, on low, behind the bar.  We, along with the others there, were in a tiny booth and conversations were occurring.  It made me recall those nights of my long ago childhood. 

I know now that my childhood belief was all illusion and lies.  My family shattered to pieces not too long afterward.  Everything I thought was real and true was not.  It took me longer to come to the realization that everything I was fed to believe about my country was also fairy tale and lie, the supremacy of everything American, all of its goodness and light.  All lies.  I understand that now. 

Still in all, there was some truth, and that was the quality of life.  It was better then.  The “happy days.”  We all had enough.  Some had more, some had less, but we all had enough, and that was good. 

The extreme economic disparity that now exists is destroying our society.  It is not that there aren’t solutions, there just isn’t anyone interested in initiating those solutions.  No one should lose everything because they get sick.  People should not need multiple jobs to survive.  We have made small strides in inclusion and tolerance only to be thwarted once again into an atmosphere of divisiveness, fear, brutality and unnatural hatred.  It seems to me there should be some joy to this life, not just never ending work and worry.  And certainly not daily fear.  I know it can be done, I know people can do better because I remember when they did.  I remember it and it was magical, it sparkled, like so many fireflies.