Cammie’s Neighborhood

Well, once again, I am faced with having to say goodbye to what has become my home, if only my home for a few days. I am going miss Firenze, as I board the train today, Wednesday, for Milan. Milan is not a destination I would choose, except that it happens to be where my airplane will be taking off for New York on Thursday morning. So, it's best to start from there Thursday. I was arranging for my train ride from Florence to Milan and thought I'd try to get a train to the airport and then a cab to the Hilton hotel where I'll be staying nearby, except that I thought the name of the rail station at the airport would be called the 'Mala testa', which means headache. However, after some time of not finding a station by that name, I remembered that it's not called 'headache', it's 'malpensa' which I think means 'bad thought.' Well, maybe it's someone's name, and maybe it doesn't mean anything like that, but it brings up worrisome thoughts for me. As if we had the bad taste to name an airport after people who had died in plane crashes—Patsy Cline International, or …......... I've always felt pretty good about landing and taking off at John Wayne in Orange County, since many of us can remember when he piloted the ill-fated plane in the film The High and Mighty. Anyway, I will try to do some research about the name of Milan's airport, though I'm not sure I really want to know.

I'm going to miss Italy, but I'm especially going to miss speaking in Italian every chance I get. And I'm going to miss gelato. Oh, we do have gelato in Berkeley, but it's not really the same. Yesterday I stopped by the little gelato shop in the picture and tried some melon flavored sweetness that had little chunks of melon in it—perfect for a hot afternoon. Later, I tried the pineapple and cocoanut. To be honest, I have not been having gelato that often. I see the tourists slurping it down sometimes, and it just loses its attraction. But, it can be very, very good.

I am also going to deeply miss the wonderful art and buildings of Florence, and of Italy in general.  This morning I had the privilege of spending as many hours as I wanted to just sit and stare at and ponder about the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci and Botticelli and so many others of the Renaissance time.  I could choose a detail like hair or eyes or feet and look at the various ways Botticelli managed to make them look so beautiful and life-like and what made his style different from others'.  I wondered, too, at how many years ago these pieces were created and at how well they have been kept and restored for posterity.  I felt blessed to be here for that if for nothing else.  I don't know much about art, but I'm an appreciator and am simply in awe every time I look at something here.

I'm going to miss the Piazza Signoria where I like to hang out and watch the world go by with a beer and some olives.  This is the same square Savanarola was put to death.  Presently, there is a copy of Michelangelo's David and several other fine sculptures.  The one shameful thing is a large television screen which is  recent addition and which seems to be showing some documentary about work being done or having been done, or something.  I just couldn't bring myself to stand there and watch it.  But I do enjoy gazing at the Palazzo Medici, shown here in a shot I took at night.

I'm going to miss the dinners in the trattorias where I am continually flabber-ghasted by the meat dishes that arrive at other peoples' tables looking like giant piles of road kill, decorated with potato chips. Hmm, probably not that wonderful sounding, but really, there is enough meat on these 'secondi' plates to feed at least one family. I ordered a chicken breast, and when it showed up in front of me, I was embarrassed that that chicken was so well endowed, and felt sorry for having ordered it knowing I could barely eat a third of it. Faced with the overload of meat, I've taken to ordering white beans and spinach or a salad (also enough for four people) instead.

I am not going to miss the crowds of Florence. While I have, over the years, discovered my own routes around the town that help avoid the tourists, I am often reminded that sometimes the sidewalks just aren't safe. The streets are very, very narrow, as you can see by how close the buildings are. And, the sidewalks are narrow. So, if one is walking on the sidewalk but encounters a tour group led by a stalwart guide bearing a flag, look out! These trails of (often) dazed German nationals do not share the sidewalk and will force the lone walker such as I to take her life in her hands and walk in the street into on-coming scooters, taxis, buses, and (very often) ambulances. So, when I see them coming, I duck into an alley. Note white flag in photo I took just this morning.

I will not miss the college age Americans who come here to 'study' but don't have a clue about how to act in a restaurant in a country that is not their own. Just because there are Sephora and Foot Locker stores, and McDonald's and Louis Vuiton, doesn't mean they can be rude to the waiters, speak loudly and rudely about Italians and brag about how drunk they were the night before. If I ever do teach a semester in Florence for DVC, I will do my part to educate these young people about manners before they ever get off the plane. Their air of entitlement and privilege are probably just as evident when they are at home, but when they are so obviously on display, here, they are shameful. I know I'm sounding old and crotchety, but it makes me feel sad and embarrassed. Phew!!

I will blog again from New York. Meanwhile, arrivederci!

 

I arrived here in Florence on Saturday afternoon after a rather long, boring wait at the train station and then a long, boring ride on the train.  But arriving in Florence was not boring at all.  I found the city as crowded and as chaotic as ever, yet maybe, maybe just a little less crowded than the last time I was here, possibly because of 'the economy', but the restaurants and the streets just don't seem as full as I've experienced them in past visits. That doesn't mean, however, that the streets aren't full of cars and scooters and people trying to cross in all the wrong places. 

 

Although I have stayed here at the Hotel Basilea before, I'd say the room is probably one of the smallest I've ever stayed in.  It's a double room for one person, they say.  Yes, that's about it.  The bathroom, a picture of which is NOT included, does have a shower, but one has to use one's imagination.  There is a shower curtain that keeps the water from spraying the toilet, walls, bidet, and other parts of the bathroom, but the floor gets absolutely covered with water, as there is no enclosure, per se.  I'm not complaining.  It's just interesting. There is a terrace off the room that I could use, but the first two days it was raining, so I didn't get used to using it.  The best part of the hotel, though, is the free wi-fi available in the hotel lobby, a feature I've been making use of since I got here.  Quite a luxury after having none inVitorchiano.  But, when I got to Florence, I missed very much the peace and quiet of that lovely village.

 

Now, I've gotten used to the hubbub of this city, though in previous trips I learned how to avoid the tourists by taking the little known back streets, and it's very easy to find one's way around.  I set out yesterday on a mission to find a leather jacket.  Now, there are lots of leather shops, everywhere, so the problem is really a matter of going in an out of the shops until one finds the jacket one wants.  The other problem is that in many of the shops, the sales people are way too eager to sell you their products.  The first couple of shops I went to had some nice jackets, but the sales people were like car salesmen.  I found a jacket I could have bought, and the price on the ticket said 1250 euros.  Oh yeah!  But the salesman promised me a better price.  650 euros!  Still too much, I said.  The guy, for it boiled down to one I guy, instead of four, that I was dealing with, and he said, “Okay, for you, 400 euros.”  Still,  I was tough and said, “No, I can't do that.  How about 250?”  I wasn't being ridiculous.  That was what I had decided I would pay.  The guy started telling me what a great jacket it was and how I wouldn't find this leather anywhere else.  Then some guy in a white suit walked in.  Well dressed, important looking.  It was The Boss!  My guy went over to him and said something in his ear.  Then, the Boss looked at me and said, “400.  No lower!”  I said, “Thanks!  See you later.  Nice meeting you!” and walked out.  They didn't run after me.  But then I noticed that in some areas, every other store is a 'leather factory.”  So I just looked in different stores and got an idea of what they were running.  Certainly not 400 euros!  So, this morning, I passed by a store, started talking to the salesman.  He was Persian, so we spoke Farsi.  He had learned English in Denmark.  He showed me a jacket, it fit, I liked it, and he gave me a great deal.  I was happy.  He was happy.  I now have a very nice leather jacket.  Shopping has been fun, something to do between going to museums and galleries.

 

Eating has been good, too.  My first night, I went back to my favorite trattoria in all of Italy.  It's called Trattoria San Zanobi, and it's a couple of blocks from my hotel.  Best tortoloni tartuffata!  That's tortolini in a truffle sauce.  I went back again tonight.  The same woman has run the place for a long time.  It's kind of sad to see that she is doing all the serving herself now.  The first time I went there, back in '97, she had two waiters.  They were doing a huge business every night with tour buses stopping and all.  Now, it's very quiet, and the neighborhood, sadly, has gone down hill a bit.  But the food is still the best. 

 

I've taken a lot of pictures of the Duomo, which is the main cathedral in Florence.  I can't help marvelling at it every time I pass by it.  This is the most famous church in Florence with the giant dome created by Brunoleschi.  I used my telephoto lens to capture some of the details of the facade, and because of the wide angle, fisheye effect, the tower looks like it's curved, but it's not, really. It actually looks like the buildings are all bending in to fit in the picture. Tourists hang out in this area by the thousands. 

The baptistry opposite is an octagonal building that is located where once a temple dedicated to the god Mars once stood..  It was in this building that Dante was baptized back in the late 13^th century.  Dante is one of the literary heroes of Florence, and there are  plaques everywhere commemorating quotations from his works, The Divine Comedy. For political reasons, he was exiled in later life and is buried in Ravenna. 

 

Tomorrow I will be visiting the Uffizi Gallery.  I have an 8:30 a.m. reservation, so I will end this now and continue tomorrow.   Ciao!

So busy have I been working on my memoir, that I haven't had much time to work on my blog. That's a good thing. Besides, uploading photos and blogs in Viterbo turned out to be not as easy as I had hoped, so I couldn't get the first Viterchiano blog posted.. However, that will happen as soon as I get to Florence, the city I am headed for right now on a regional train I took from Orte, which is near Vitorchiano. Once in Florence, I know the hotel where I am staying has internet access and two computers in the lobby. Besides, there are numerous internet points in the city.

I felt sad leaving Vitorchiano this morning. It had begun to feel like home. Linda and Sergio were very kindly and generous in having me over for dinner several times. Night before last I fixed Linda a faux Persian dinner. She said she needed a lesson in how to fix rice Persian style, so I told her I'd be happy to show her, though it was not going to be truly authentic, since the only kind of rice available in the town is arborio, which is notably mushier than basmati, which is what I usually use. In any event, I made up a khoreshteh badam jun,, which is a kind of eggplant stew, to go with the rice, though it, too, lacked a majorly important ingredient. Never mind, it worked okay, and we had a good time. I also had fun taking some pictures of Linda for possible use as her promotional photos. I have a pretty good camera with me, so I was able to do some nice portraits, especially outside in her lovely patio with one of the local cats looking on. This cat has a perpetually concerned look on its face, but it was quite cute.

I had grown accustomed, too, to the inhabitants of the town. It's such a small village, that their faces became familiar to me, and they began to seem like an ensemble cast of characters I would see one day at the outdoor market, and another day walking by my door. Like the woman with the pink dog. Not exactly pink, but the thing had an outer layer of white fur streaming down over what might have been orange or brown, so that the effect was pink. You can see it in the woman's arms in the market picture. And the man with the pony tail who spoke to me in English at the nice restaurant said 'ciao' to me later in the piazza. And so on. I never learned any of their names, but they were friendly with me, as long as I smiled and said 'buon giorno' or 'buona serra.' The people at the coffee bar came to know my order—capuccino without chocolate cream, which was delicious the first time I tried it, but way too rich for my first cup of coffee. Oh, yeah, and a delicious croissant with some different kind of filling each time.

All in all, my stay in Vitorchiano, except for the lack of internet, could not have been better. Still, if I would have had internet access, I probably wouldn't have gotten so much writing done. And, as it turned out, I did get a lot written. Not all of it will fit into whatever narrow niche my actual piece fits into, but writing about one thing led to something else, that led to something else, and so on, and I can now honestly say that writing DOES lead to discovery. And it's a good thing, too, because that's what I teach my students.

The train is jiggly, making typing a little difficult, but as I look out the window at the green and golden hills of Tuscany, which I believe we have just entered, I am reminded of California, especially of the Napa valley, though there are not as many vineyards visible from the train window. I had thought that having very limited phone service and no internet while in the village, that I would become homesick. But, no, I don't feel homesick at all. I do want to come back to Vitorchiano maybe even for a longer stay. The pace of life is seductive, and in my California dialect, I would have to say that there is a very 'good vibe' there, excellent for writing, and excellent for learning Italian if one wants to make the effort. Sitting in the middle of everything in the evening, I soaked up the local atmosphere and noticed the families were out, children were playing in the little playground, men stood with their friends passing the time with stories, and women congregated, older women outside by the fountain, younger women with babies in strollers stopping to talk to the older women. Young men standing outside the bar, smoking, and talking. Talking, everyone talking. The sounds of everyone speaking in such melodic intonations was hypnotic to me, as if music in itself. I wanted to record conversations I heard outside my door. It was more like singing than talking. I''m a trained linguist, and making such judgments is frowned upon, but, really, Italian IS musical.

Before taking the bus to Viterbo on Wednesday, I noticed it was the day of the outdoor market. One of the vendors was a rather elaborate affair that began being set up at about 7 am. I took some pictures of people buying their produce that came from all over. One thing that struck me as I watched was the amount of talking that goes one when making purchases. Someone doesn't just say 'give me some tomatoes.' They are much more specific. It's more like 'give me two tomatoes shaped like this, and one or two like that, and make sure they have whatever on them.' Obviously I didn't listen to what they said exactly, but I realized that there is so much back and forth between the vendor and the (mostly) women shoppers, that there is no way I could shop at one of those markets without some serious help, language-wise. I would need a script. Give me the quiet, keep-to-myself shopping in the supermarket where I don't have to say anything. This is true for me in the US as well, where I never know what to tell a butcher. So, someone would say we've LOST our ability to communicate. Well, maybe. I would have to be here quite a while, though, before getting the courage to buy a slice of water melon with as few seeds as possible, per favore, because then the vendor would make some comment that I wouldn't understand, and maybe it would be an insult, or maybe he would say something like, of course, and I'm sorry that it is not as beautiful as you are, signora! Or something like that.

Well, my hope is to upload all this when I get to Florence, and then you will be hearing from me all about that!

Ciao for now!................

My third day here, in Vitorchiano, and it's a holiday. It's the day of the republic, a relatively new holiday, I'm told. Not unlike 4^th of July in the states, but without the fireworks. Walking around town, it's interesting to see what is open and what is closed. The tobacco store, a veritable hub of activity where the locals gather and chew the fat all day, is closed. Yet, the faithful are still gathered there, watching the world go by.

At first I felt intimidated by having to walk past them, being stared at and probably talked about. It's such a small town, especially inside the walled area, they are probably just curious about where I come from and who I'm related to. I probably don't resemble any family who live here, so I can hear them thinking—who is she and why is she here? Today I walked through them with my umbrella held high, and I have taken to looking back, with eye contact, and even a smile. Let them talk about that! Also closed is the little grocery store where the produce is lovely and fresh, and the man behind the counter is puppy-friendly.

Last night I cooked dinner in my little kitchen—Tuscan chicken and pasta (all that means is lots of butter and garlic and pecorino cheese) and needed a lemon and managed to get to the little store before it closed (at 8 pm). It was wonderful to crank up the old ipod and crack open a bottle of local wine, dancing around and cooking with abandon.

But what IS open is the teensy little 'bar'. The quotes around the word bar are because in Italy, a bar isn't a bar like an American bar. Although you can get alcohol there, the main feature, for me, anyway, is the coffee, and secondarily, sandwiches and sweet rolls. So far, I've squeezed myself into the place two mornings in a row for a cappuccino and a croissant. Noisy and friendly with locals standing around talking, or more like shouting, about God knows what. Probably football. Too bad they don't have wi-fi there, or I'd be installed at the counter for hours.

My writing lesson was wonderful. Linda gave me some very helpful ideas for ways of developing my book. She has written several books, one of which is Katherine's Wish, a novel based on the life of writer Katherine Mansfield's life with her friend (lover?), Ida. Her other novel The Etruscan, is based on the local history, I presume. She has also written a book on writing and is putting together a book, as well, on the spirit of place. The notion of the spirit of place slipped into my psyche as we spoke, and yesterday afternoon, after a short nap brought on by the delicious lunch prepared for us by Sergio (pesto pasta and spinach and eggplant and wine, of course) I went to my writing table, again the ipod shuffling up the tunes aptly, and wrote a preface to the book, having found an opening, a way to get to what I want and need to write. Why not just start with where I am right now? So, for once, then, something.

Today, I am invited to Linda and Sergio's for aperitivi at noon. I hope to write the rest of the day. Tomorrow, which is not a holiday and the buses will be running, I will go to the big town nearby, Viterbo, where I will, hopefully, be able to upload my posts and photos which are collecting in my laptop.

Ciao for now............................

Arrived here in the small medieval village of Vitorchiano, which is about an hour's train ride (with a 20 minute cab trip, following) northwest of Rome. While the old section is mostly 13^th century, its earliest residents were Etruscans. As the years passed, it became Roman and then it was subject to the larger town of Viterbo, leading to a siege, which, with the help of Rome, ended by Vitorchiano being sovereign but pledging allegiance to Rome. In fact, historically, the town is famous for its contribution of its young men to the Roman Guard. Perched high on what is called 'tufaceous' rock, it sits over a dramatic gorge. There's a path leading down into the gorge into thick trees and shrubbery, and one can here the rushing of water in something like a creek below. From my window, I can see this gorge, and it is gorgeous, as it were. I'm not sure about taking the path down into the overgrowth, as it would mean walking back up. But, who knows.......

My hosts are Linda Lappin and her husband Sergio. My little flat is on the bottom floor with low, beamed ceilings, a lovely, tiny kitchen, a bedroom, and a open workspace overlooking the gorge. Tonight, my first night, they have invited me for pizza, from the town's pizzeria, at their house, as it is Sunday, and there isn't much open tonight. I'm looking forward to going to the supermarket (yes, they have one here!) to buy provisions tomorrow so that I can do some cooking. I'm absolutely thrilled with the place, and while the town is definitely small, its peace and quiet are a welcome change. Tomorrow Linda will begin her lessons with me, and I will, I hope, start my writing.

The only problem as of this moment is a lack of internet. If I can't find a free network here, I'll go to Viterbo on Tuesday to upload this posting.

Later....Having just returned from our pizza dinner augmented by wine and wonderful conversation, I can hear the rain pouring down outside the door into the narrow street. Sergio walked me back to my place, all the while carrying on a conversation of pleasantries with one of the old ladies of the town. Our dinner was quite informative about the politics of this new Italy that they both see as going in the wrong way, with laws against immigrants and laws going against the middle class, institutionalized racism—the whole gamut of ultra conservative laws that would never fly in the US. Well, there is nothing like talking about a country with its own citizens.

I am grateful for the opportunity to be here and to be able to open my mind in new ways, to new things. And, the wine is splendid! Tomorrow, my lessons begin with Linda at 11 a.m., and then I shall write!

Ciao!

 

Actually, I'm about to leave Rome after three nights here. Arrivederci a Roma! I'm leaving the city feeling immersed in Italian culture and ready for a new adventure. Four days in Italy is not enough, really, to say I'm immersed, but I feel sufficiently grounded in my primitive Italian to be able to get along somewhere where I can't fall back on my English. Just now I spent some time at Feltrinelli, the large Borders-type bookstore where I was able to find a novel in English to read, have a sandwich, and relax for a while. The cashier was more than happy, and quite proud, to practice her English with me, and I obliged. This will not be the case in Vitorchiano, the medieval village to which I'm traveling this afternoon.

This morning, as I was inquiring about getting a cab from the hotel to the train station, I was surprised to discover, not happily, that the main road to get to the train station, Via Nazionale, is closed today because of a big bicycle race, il giro d'italia. Sure enough, as I tried to make my way toward the Pantheon, my usual hangout, I had some difficulty crossing a major street or two because of the passing throngs of riders. While it appears that there are some serious riders in this race, there are also a good number of families and not-riderly looking folks having a go at the route. It's quite a big to-do. Didn't see any naked bike riders or drunken float pullers, but it's a little like stumbling into the Bay to Breakers. So, rather than taking a cab, it looks like I'll be schlepping the suitcase up Nazionale to the train station on the crowded sidewalk.

 

 

 

One of the best parts of my trip so far has been my excellent guided tour of the city by my friend Kathy Rinne who just happens to be an expert on Roman water systems. Indeed, she has been dubbed 'the water lady' and can tell you anything you want to know about any fountain here—the date it was made, the sculptor, its source, etc. I was very fortunate to experience a water walk with her my first day, and was quite thrilled in the heat of midday to be able to quaff from one of the many drinking fountains well situated just for that purpose.

 

Kathy showed me the church of the four fountains, where a fountain is built on each of the four corners. The fountain of Triton, as well, is located in the middle of a large intersection He is blowing water through a horn upward, as bees crawl up his stomach. I took a few detail pictures of some other fountains that caught my fancy. The big 'aha' for me, thanks to Kathy, was that there are no pumps in these fountains. Their spouting comes from water pressure that builds from the way in which it flows downward from the source . Kathy has written a book about all this that is coming out in September, published by Yale University Press. Here is her very informative website if you are interested in learning more about all of this, meanwhile: www.iath.virginia.edu/waters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last night, which was my last night in Rome, Kathy and I ate dinner in a lovely outdoor spot near the Palazzo dei Ricci. As it was Saturday night, and much seemed to be happening in the city, a helicopter was circling just above our heads. Before dinner, another tour of the area around the Campo dei fiori. I now know the difference between Baroque and Renaissance architecture and can tell the work of Boromeo from Bernini, sort of. In any case, my instruction has made me look with far more appreciation at the architecture of the city.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Having seen the movie 'Angels & Demons' before leaving home, I recognized the Maria Sopra Minerva church located near the Pantheon. It's not very lavish from the outside—in fact it looks like a rather ordinary, square building, but inside, it's quite ornate. Since the movie, it's become quite popular, it appears. Kathy showed me the flood markers indicating how high the Tiber has spewed into the city on occasion. I took a picture of the elephant sculpture in front of the church. It's one of the many Bernini's to be found here. A few details appear below, as well some details of the fountain in the Piazza Rotonda, which is just in front of the Pantheon. This fountain is by Giacomo de la Porta, and it was built in 1575.

 

 

 

 

 

Funny, after just writing about the helicopter that serenaded us from above last night, I can hear another one circling my little hotel at this very moment, which tells me that it's time to set off for the train station and my further adventure. Ciao!

Two nights in New York......

I know, I know, it's been over a year since I've written a blog. What's up with that? Just daily life and feeling there hasn't been much to blog about. But, here I am on another trip, but not to Hawaii this time. This time I'm actually out of the country, and currently in Rome. Before talking about Rome, though, which I will do in my next blog, I want to say a little bit about why I'm taking this trip, which began in New York on May 25^th.

Why does anyone take a trip? To get away from where they are and see something new and different. To recuperate from daily life. To use their frequent flier miles before the airline folds. Yes, all of the above apply to me. So back in March, I must have known that the end of the semester, end of the school year, would be hard, and I booked my flights and started reserving hotels. My middle class guilt almost didn't let me do it. I felt like I needed permission to do such a thing. Somehow, the permission arrived with 'what a great idea' or 'you'll need that' from friends and family. So, I did it, and here I am.

Luckily, the time I chose for my trip, right after the turning in grades, turned out to also be when Karen's son, Neevon, would be graduating from medical school in Brooklyn, so I felt that it was the right decision to stop in New York first, go to Neevon's graduation and then go on to Italy. The other part of the plan was to use the vacation as a chance to begin writing my own version of my life with Karen J. and what it was like during the five and a half years of her illness and our relationship, with a few other things thrown in. So, I looked for, and found, a writer's workshop to be held in Vitorchiano, Italy, a small medieval village just north of Rome. Everything was perfect about it except that by the middle of April, it became apparent that the workshop was not going to happen because there were not enough participants. The workshop teacher, however, Linda Lappin, of Il Centro Pokkoli, offered me a deal: I could come to Vitorchiano, stay in my own flat, and have three personal classes with her, and dinner and discussion while there. I couldn't pass that up!

When the semester ended, I was exhausted from reading student essays and putting up with students wanting to know why they didn't get an A in my class when they had B's and C's and had attended every class. This kind of student entitlement can really wear thin, and I was getting very crabby. It was time to go! Unfortunately, the stress helped me lay myself open to getting sick, and I did come down with a rather nasty cold just before leaving.

But of course, I got on the plane early May 25^th and landed in New York five hours later, unable to hear after the descent into JFK sent snot into my ears, and I was feeling like I was under water. Nevertheless, I was excited to be back in Manhattan, back in my favorite upper west side neighborhood in the most affordable hotel on the island, the Amsterdam Inn. It's a no nonsense bargain in a perfectly delightful neighborhood, at the corner of West 76^th and Amsterdam, where I saw the smallest sink in the smallest bathroom I've ever experienced anywhere. But it did the job. I spent two nights there, and, happily, my ears unclogged soon after arriving.

Neevon's graduation was going to be held at Carnegie Hall. This was going to be my first visit to the hallowed concert hall, and having always longed to see the place, I was very excited. The graduation was quite nice. There were speeches, and an awards of honorary degrees made—one to a man who was famous for his work in male erectile dysfunction. The main commencement speaker admonished the graduates to stay humble and not be doctors because of the money, the candidates marched up onto the stage, whoops were hollared. the hippocratic oath was administered, and the proceedings ended. Afterwards, Nahjeen and Brian (her fiance), Neevon, and Neevon's dad, Houshang, and I walked over to their hotel near Radio City Music Hall, and we took pictures and then went to Bar Americain for dinner. The next day, Neevon and Nahjeen were going to Greece, and I was going to Italy.Of the whole event, I felt like a proud mama, having first met Neevon when he was a freshman at UC Santa Barbara as he was struggling with not fitting in there.  He had just had jaw surgery that rearranged his teeth.  He was uncomfortable though doing well, academically.  When Karen's daughter, Gita, died in 2000, he left UCSB and transferred to UC Berkeley--an excellent move.  Now, this young man that Karen and I called 'the boy' or just 'boy' is Dr. Neevon Esmaili, and I know Karen would be (and probably is, somewhere) very, very proud.  Pics below are of Nahjeen and Brian and Neevon with yours truly.

Before getting on the plane on Wed. the 27^th, I made a quick trip from my hotel to the Metropolitan Museum to see the Francis Bacon retrospective. I was very impressed by the size of the collection they had gathered and was amazed by his work, in general. While I always like to see my favorite sights in the permanent collection when I'm there, I had to dash back to my hotel and get a cab to the airport.

Next blog: Getting to Rome!

Now that I’m back in the Bay Area, I need to find a new banner for my blog.  Not that I wouldn’t like to keep the lovely rainbow/mountain shot I was fortunate enough to grab on that lucky day in Hawaii.  But now I have to go to higher ground, instead of a fourteen story building, to try to get a good shot of the San Francisco skyline. (As you can see, I've changed the banner to the appropriate location--thanks, Cammie!)

 

In order to do that, I decided to drive up to the Sunset View Cemetery, where Karen’s ashes are buried.  It’s way up the hill in El Cerrito and offers a good panorama of the bay. So, this morning I did just that.  It was a clear, brilliant day, and the air was clean.  For a change, with not much fog or haze, visibility was quite good.

 

This was my second visit to the cemetery since the ash ceremony on January 4^th, when we interred Karen’s ashes in her plot next to her daughter Gita’s grave.  The first time I visited, on February 18^th, to observe the seventh month after her passing, I couldn’t find her headstone.  I remembered the approximate location, but even though I walked all over the upper reaches of the grounds. with my eyes focused on every bit of grass, I couldn’t locate it.  After an hour of wandering, sadly, I left, disappointed.  Later that day, after asking for directions from Karen’s daughter, Nahjeen, I was able to find it, and I was able to spend a little time in quiet contemplation, wishing there was a way to talk to her. That was a sad experience for me.  Today’s visit was easier.  I had no trouble finding the marker, and when I did, I gazed down at Karen’s photograph, the one that was taken when we saw Gladys Knight at the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas.  It’s the lovely picture she wanted used in her obituary, and the photo I put on the program for her farewell party.  In the picture, she looks happy and vibrant, even though it was taken after she had been diagnosed with ALS. 

As I gazed at her picture, I heard laughter coming from an area opposite where I was standing.  Gathered around a single tombstone, one of the many upright tombstones in an area apparently inhabited by people of Chinese descent, were a number of people having a picnic.  Some were sitting and some were standing around a blanket covered with platters of food and drink, and they were laughing and talking boisterously.  It seemed like a happy celebration, even though it was taking place in a cemetery.  At first I resented that they were having such a good time when I was standing there in tears as I contemplated my loss.  However, as I thought about it, it occurred to me that this was probably what that relative who had gone one would have wanted them to do—have a good time enjoying each others’ company as they had when the person was alive.  I can’t say that it made me want to laugh and celebrate, but it made me appreciate and respect

what they were doing.  Maybe this was the way to do it—to make the best of a bad situation.  I decided to think about it some more and try to feel a tinge of joy, even though my heart is still heavy. 

 

Last Sunday, I went to the Pt. Isabel dog park in Richmond, hoping to get a clear shot of the San Francisco skyline.  It wasn’t such a clear day, but I thought it would be nice to walk by the bay and watch the people with their dogs.  I was not disappointed.  As it was brilliantly sunny, and relatively warm, there were hundreds of people walking or sitting around while their canine friends were frolicking on the grassy knolls or diving into the bay to retrieve tennis balls.  Karen and I had taken Sierra, her Golden Retriever, to this place many times, and always, Sierra would run immediately to the rocky bolders by the bay and dive in.  As I was walking along, taking in how familiar the whole scene seemed to me, I heard a woman call, “Sierra!  Sierra, come here!”   I turned around to see which dog she was summoning and expected to see our Sierra running around, and sure enough, it was a Golden, but one much younger, as her face was still the dark red of a

younger Golden, much younger than OUR Sierra, who would be gray in the face, but still dripping with murky  old
bay-water.  So, it wasn’t OUR Sierra, but someone else’s.  Seeing people with their dogs or with their partners and their dogs triggered some tears and feelings of loneliness. 

                                                                 

This was the grief that I have been feeling more since I’ve been back in the Bay Area.  Just seeing certain things can trigger these feelings, suddenly and sometimes with no reason.  I can drive by a store in North Berkeley, and that will trigger them.  Shopping at Andronico’s triggers it sometimes, or walking by Barney’s.  I won’t go into what memories come up, or what particular object or place triggers the feelings, but it’s not as if I can avoid going places or doing things, and somehow the ideas happen, somewhere in my brain, and here come the feelings, here come the tears.  I am told that this is normal and healthy, so I just let it happen.  So, there are good days and bad days.  People tell me it’ll get better with time.  So, I’m trying to be patient.  It is some consolation knowing that I’m not alone, but most of the time, of course, I feel like no one could possibly understand—just as I knew that no one could understand what our life was like when Karen was sick, and our life together became so strange and stressful. 

 

I do find a lot to laugh about, just as Karen and I did when things got really tough. Kitten watching, for example, can be quite entertaining!  But music is the best solace, and I’m busy writing songs.  I’ve been noticing flowers, too.  Nature’s eye candy.  Driving to work, I notice the hillsides covered with mustard flowers, and poppies are swarming around the highways.  Noticing beauty is one way for me to celebrate life, as Karen, I’m sure would want me to do.

 

Sorry for these somber ruminations.  Thanks for listening!

 

Mahalo!

Last Friday, I was talking to someone on the phone about cats.  At the time, Gracie was lounging on my lap.  I was caressing her luxurious gray fur as she slept, running my fingers along that little ridge on the top of her head, then around her ears, and she nuzzled deeper into my lap.  Wisps of gray fur floated up from her, landing on my keyboard.  This was a cat-lover’s moment, and I was blessing her for all the wonderful years she’s given me—almost 20, in fact.  She appeared in our Pleasant Hill household when Carmel and Carla were still living at home.  She was the replacement cat after Carla’s ill-fated cat was killed in our busy street.  So, we’ve had quite a long and happy life together.  However, the woman I was talking to, when she heard about Gracie and her present age, suggested, a little timidly that perhaps I would want to, uh, maybe look into getting another kitty to keep Gracie company and to have, sort of ‘in reserve.’  This was something I hadn’t thought of.  In fact, Gracie hasn’t seemed all that lonely to me.  But something about having a cat ‘in reserve’ did strike a certain note for me. 

 

Five minutes later, I was on craigslist, looking at rescue cats, and sure enough, there was one named ‘Amy’ , the spitting image of Spooky, RIP, my previous cat who went on to her next life a year and a half ago.  I’m a sucker for black cats, and this one was just what I wanted.  I was a little concerned about her being a ‘kitten,’ but since the age was 7 months, I figured, how wild could she be at that age?  When I contacted Amy’s rescue person, she emailed me a two page form that I was to fill out and send back to her before she would let me see the cat.  Needless to say, I was on it, answering questions I had never considered, one of which was: How much do you expect to spend per year on your pet?  I had never thought about that.  What would I put?  What would YOU put?  So, I took a wild guess and said $1,000.  I also had to explain how I knew I would be able to care for the cat and whether I knew what to expect with kittens.  I wondered whether saying the wrong thing on this form would keep me from adopting the cat.  One thing the ad said was “She needs to be adopted, as black cats are hard to find homes for.” 

 

A couple of hours later, we had a date for me to go see Amy on Sunday.  I went back and forth in my mind about whether, indeed, I would come home with a cat—a kitten, that is.  Gracie could not give me her feedback, but if I had asked her, I wouldn’t have wanted to know her feelings.  Besides, I found out later what her answer would have been.  But all I could think was how much fun it would be for us to have a new kitty in the house.  On Sunday, put the cat carrier in the car and drove to Rockridge in Oakland.  A nice neighborhood, I thought.  The kitty has been living in luxury, no doubt!

 

Well, from the moment I arrived at the house, I began to learn the meaning of ‘rescue.’  From the curb, the house looked like any other house on the block, an older, shingled two story with a kept up paint job on the trim and porch.  But there was something about the litter of cardboard boxes resting by the door and the several discarded cartons of Budweiser empties.  The welcome mat showed kittens at play.  I rang the bell.

 

“Just a minute!  Get away, Whiskers.”

The door opened slightly, and the woman stood at the screen door. “ Hold on, I’ve just got to keep Whiskers away from the door.  He’ll run right out…”  A few seconds later, she returned and opened the screen door and showed me into the house.  From the moment I entered, my senses were assaulted.  First, the smell was so strong it went right through me.  My nose and eyes were on fire.  Mostly, the house was dark in the middle of the day, but I could see that every inch of the place was piled with trash or boxes of trash, or what looked like trash.  Also, everywhere I looked, there was either a cat or a cat box or a cat feeder.  The woman escorted me into the kitchen.  In the only empty space available, she placed two chairs and had me sit down while she went to get Amy.  I looked around and noticed an array of food containers and dirty dishes covering every inch of the counter, and even more cat feeders sitting around.  I heard her go into the other room and what sounded like a cage being opened.  “How many cats do you have?” I asked. 

            “Oh, six of my own.”

            “And how many rescue cats?” I asked.

            She hesitated, “A few.”

 

As I looked around, I wondered how much food a FEW rescue cats plus her own six cats could possibly eat that would require so many feeders and so many cat boxes.

 

            She came back into the room with little Amy in her arms. Her yellow eyes sparkled with excitement, and she squirmed in the woman’s arms.  It was then I noticed her tail.  It was short.

            “Oh, well, she’s got an interesting tail.  Don’t know if she was born that way or if she got it caught in something….I got the cat from a kill shelter up in Lake County.  She wasn’t feral, but who knows.”

 

            Something about having a cat with a ‘defect’ made me feel uncomfortable for a minute, but when I took her away from the woman and put her on my lap, her soft kitten fur felt fine and normal, and I decided that her special tail would make her that much more of a character.  Besides, there was no way I was going to let her stay in this place with too many cats and a woman of questionable sanity.  At that moment I wished I could adopt the other cats, of unknown quantity, running around the place.  But I needed to get out of there.  My eyes were burning even more from the stench, and I was starting to feel a little queasy.  After giving her a check to cover her spaying, I retrieved the carrier and returned ready to rescue Amy. 

 

            Driving home, it occurred to me that as bad as the place was, the woman no doubt thought she was doing the right thing by rescuing all her cats from certain death, but I wondered what kind of life they were living there in so much filth and some in cages.  Of course, there’s no way to know just how many cats she had there.  She even said that many of the cats she rescues come from ‘cat horders.’ 

 

 

           So, little Amy, whose name I immediately changed because it doesn’t suit her, first of all, and because ‘Amy’ was the name of a care-giver who ended up being abusive to Karen.  I’m trying to call her Spooky the Sequel, but that might not last.  She’s already coming when I call her that, but now I’m thinking that Molly might be a good name.  I’m open to suggestions if anyone has a good name for such a cute little kitty.

 

 

           One thing I learned once Amy/Spooky was set free from the carrier when we arrived home was that Gracie was not going to be happy to have her in our household.  For the first 24 hours, the new kitty pretty much disappeared.  At one time, she installed herself under my bed.  A little later, she ran and hid behind the water heater on the back porch, possibly after Gracie appeared and hissed and growled at her.  Now, almost a week later, the new kitty spends a lot more time in plain sight, but usually she appears as a little black hyphen-in-motion scampering across the white carpet.  One minute, she’s skittery and running away from me.  The next minute she’s butting her head against my calf, mewing and rolling around letting me pet her stomach.  At first, I thought I would have a problem with Gracie being too nervous around her when I noticed the whiskers on one side of her face twitching.  But now she seems resigned to the kitty’s presence and is  able to ignore all the scampering and mewing and climbing activities of the young’un.  And now the kitty knows better than to jump up on the chair where Gracie is sleeping. 

 

So, things are a lot more exciting here on Elm Street.  No nightmares, yet.

Mahalo for coming here!