Vacation planning should be completed months before the journey. Thus, my friend Susan and I agreed that we would not complain when our last-minute plans to visit one or more Greek islands went awry. How bad could it be? The entire country is historic. Being in the euro-zone, our credit and ATM cards would open doors to all amenities.

We were locked into the last week of August, because Susan was extending a business trip. I told her it was not auspicious that my frequent flier program had many openings for Athens that week. As far as accommodations, anything remotely affordable was booked for every island we had ever heard of. Forget Santorini, Rhodes, Crete, and any island that merited at least a page in the guide book. Boldly, we selected an island glossed in one paragraph: Ikaria, site of Icarus’s burial. Was the Greek god’s flaming finale a metaphor for our tardy planning? Every hotel and guest house had ample room. Why didn’t anyone else want to go to Ikaria? “They booked early,” we groaned, “and are joining the beautiful people on Santorini.”

Missing in Athens

Susan and I agreed to meet in theAthens’ airport boarding area for our 40-minute flight to Ikaria. With just one flight a day, we were fortunate to obtain the last two tickets. I decided to surprise her and meet her earlier. She must be dawdling, I thought, so I moved from the baggage claim area to a café where I would be sure to see her walking down the concourse. She must be shopping, I thought, so I moved to the departures gate. The plane took off without Susan, and I strained to recall how we were supposed to get from the airport to our hotel. She had said something about a bus.

The airport, open a few hours for the daily flight, is a barn with a luggage belt. I could have carried all the luggage from plane to belt in the time it took luggage to arrive for forty passengers. In that time, I ascertained there was no bus. As Susan had the phrase book, I searched for an English speaker. The car rental man found a taxi driver who was willing to take me to the village of Armenistis  for “just” 70 euros. “Sixty,” I sputtered feeling as fleeced as the sheep on the surrounding, barren hills. The setting was Biblical; my mood was not.

Wild ride to the Aegean Sea

After a hundred or so hairpin turns on gravel, mountain roads, I realized that 60 euros was a deal. Every village of four or more houses has a tire repair shop. Approaching Armenistis, the only clue I had to our hotel was a photo on the website. And there it was, Atschas Livadi Beach Hotel. Our room, clean and simple, was forty feet above crashing waves. We had read about the deadly surf, but we were there for wading. It was difficult to leave my balcony view of the turbulent ocean to stroll twenty feet to the restaurant.

The hotel’s terrace restaurant has a similar ocean view. John (pronounced I-o-an-nis) who grew up on the island is prepared to cook to order from 6 a.m. until midnight.  The moussaka was splendid, and I learned to pay 2 euros extra for tzatziki to slather on bread. This is the cucumber sauce used on gyros.  John’s recipes, handed down through the generations, take full advantage of Ikaria’s bounty. He uses produce from his farm, locally made cheese, locally baked bread, and locally slaughtered goat. For 10 euros, I feasted above the salty sea spray. Fortunately, I was too full for dessert, for John does not serve dessert. He offers melon for what he calls a “finish.”

Arrival of an adventuress

In bed, I had a passing thought about Susan, but was too quickly in the arms of Morphes to fret. I woke about 4 a.m. surfing on the sound of waves and feeling more relaxed than I had in years. I woke again at noon and ambled to the terrace for my morning coffee. Susan appeared looking refreshed and unencumbered. A delayed flight out of O’Hare put her in Athens 30 minutes after the plane to Ikaria departed. Being in an island mood, she flew to another obscure island,Samos, had a lovely fish dinner and no problems finding an inexpensive, clean room. She enjoyed a four-hour ferry ride from Samos and caught a bus to the hotel.

She ordered white beans with a spicy tomato and vegetable sauce and laughed about her luggage, somewhere between Chicago, Newark, Munich, Athens, and Ikaria. She had her bathing suit in her backpack and I loaned her a tee-shirt.

We were on the beach by 1 p.m., just a forty steps down from our room. For 5 euros a day, we could rent two beach chairs and a thatched umbrella. A beach bar offered cold drinks and snacks. The weather was perfect for swimming, or in our case, wading, and we did not see a cloud. We were happy that the beautiful people were on Santorini, whose beaches were undoubtedly more crowded and with bodies that would make us feel we should jog instead of eat, read, and yawn.

Back to basics

That evening our conversation drifted regrettably to finances. John told us that the closest town had two ATMs. One was broken and the other was out of money. Therefore, we should go when the bank was open. The hotel does not accept credit cards. For 40 euros a night for both of us, we were not inclined to complain. It was a 20 euro taxi ride to the bank. One way. Susan was short on euros, but I had enough for us both if we adhered to our main objectives: sunbathe, wade, read, eat. We had a little refrigerator in our room, so we decided to dine on the terrace only for morning coffee and our evening meal.

The next day, a kindly taxi driver delivered her suitcase for no charge. We hiked ten minutes to a micro-mini mart for crackers, cheese, olives, yogurt, Nutella, and peaches. Two days later we hiked twenty minutes in the opposite direction to the picturesque village of Armenistis for similar provisions and postcards. We learned that Nutella and yogurt make a fine breakfast, and that there is something delightfully Grecian about eating cheese, olives, and peaches on a beach Homer would have immortalized in verse.

We could have hired a car for 50 euros a day and seen Ikaria’s other attractions: ruins of ancient baths, radioactive mineral springs, a castle, an archeological museum, more idyllic beaches and flat tires. Another option would be to spend a few nights in a remote cottage owned by the hotel. It was just an hour and a half hike, John explained and required a guide. He looked us over. “Make that a three-hour hike.”

We settled for doing what we had come to Ikaria to do: relax. We agreed that we have never relaxed so completely. Perhaps the relaxation factor contributes to the Ikarian’s unusually long life-span. Ikaria is one of the world’s few “blue zones” according to New York Times best-selling author Dan Buettner. He discovered that Ikaria has the highest percentage of 90-year-olds on the planet – nearly 1 out of 3 Ikarians live to their 90s. They have 20 percent less cancer, 50 percent less heart disease, and almost no dementia.

Ferry to Athens

After six cloudless days and more than ten books crossed off our reading list, our luck ran out on the ferry. Our only option for returning to Athens were deck seats on a six-hour evening sail. While Susan struggled with mal de mer on a cold and windy deck, I passed through the passenger lounge with longing. Carpeting, comfortable seats, a lovely lounge – all for people who planned ahead. Despite the gift shop and other amenities of a hotel, the ferry had no Dramamine. Susan turned greener. We arrived in Athens after midnight and, no, the hotel was not within walking distance as advertised. The taxi line was shorter than we had feared, and we were soon settled in the ancient city with a real tourist agenda.

“I want to see the Acropolis,” Susan said, “but I’d skip it for another day on Livadi Beach.”

Amused at first at her cultural blasphemy, I realized I agreed. After Ikaria,Greece will always be a beach surrounded by mythic cliffs and majestic waves.

or why I killed my inner accountant

South of Naples, Positano is one big cliff rising from the Bay of Salerno. The town’s one road winds, turns back on itself, loops around churches and villas and trees that have been here since donkeys determined where the road would go. The advent of the automobile gave Positano to the world. Yet, despite metallic din drowning whispery breezes, I have not found a corner of Positano that lacks an avian chorus. Perhaps natural selection increased the volume of birdsong to give visitors the music they did not know they missed until they arrive woozy and white-knuckled from the hairpin road fromNaples, vacation nerves jangling, inner accountant snapping, “You paid a lot for this, and you better get your money’s worth.”

Thanks to a friend of friend, I am not paying for this. The friend once removed rents guest rooms or apartments in his 17^th Century villa that clings to the cliff. He had no paying guests scheduled for the time I was there. If I had considered paying for this, my inner accountant would admonish that I had regressed to that irresponsible child blowing her allowance on bubble gum.

The power failed after the housekeeper left for the night and after my host called to say he was delayed inSwitzerland. I was alone somewhere in time, but not in this century. And that’s when I killed my inner accountant without remorse.

Light was fading, radiators were cooling. I rounded up candles, a down comforter, and a bottle of limoncello from an assortment of other interesting liquors, including grappa. I’ve learned to stay away from grappa, but that’s another story, something about serenading a tollbooth on the autostrada. From the salon’s library of books in four languages, I selected a book I have been meaning to read for twenty years. I passed the grand piano with the first sorrow I have felt over giving up piano lessons for gymnastics. Imagine playing Mozart with keys illuminated by the antique candelabra. Imagine playing Mozart looking over an iron balcony at the lights of Positano winking on below. So much for double back flips and tarnished team medals.

Something was missing. Dinner. I could walk uphill to an osteria or downhill to a trattoria, but I was in the Renaissance and truculent about leaving. Using ingredients on hand and cooking by candlelight in an old kitchen modernized with appliances was a hazardous pleasure. I boiled pasta in unsalted water — not a culinary tip, I simply could not find the salt. I sliced garlic, onions, basil from a pot on the kitchen terrace, a tomato and my thumb. The pasta was tasty, although I could not tell if the red stuff I was eating was tomato or blood. However, the dish did not taste unsalted, and that’s where I jumped off that train of thought.

In a brass bed, under two down comforters, I read Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own by the light of three candles. The limencello expanded my understanding of Woolfe’s premise, which evaporated by morning leaving me with a personal premise. A room of one’s own in a deserted villa is a decadent delight.

I woke to the hiss of radiator, redundant because my face was warm from sun shining through the terrace’s glass doors. I drifted into the fragrance of sea air and roses and looked down on the bay. Fishing boats and yachts looked like bathtub toys. The cliffs on both sides have mythical grandeur. Is this a scene Homer envisioned when he wrote Ulysses?  On the terrace, generously blooming potted plants and meandering vines thatched a privacy screen. I sat on a wicker chair and felt as if I were sitting in the lap of God. My spirituality is broader than Judeo-Christian, so I took off my nightgown, lay on a lounge chair, and gave my body to Apollo until sweat dripped on terracotta tiles.

A long soak in a deep tub was like one of those optional tour excursions that cost extra. I paid for the bath with an hour that could have been spent exploring Positano. Like the gondola ride inVenice, it was worth it. Green marble tiles, little chandlers flanking the vanity mirror, a warming rod. Toilet and bidet are up three stairs and through an archway. A round window provides a sky view for mundane duties. But in the tub, light was diffuse and so was birdsong and so were my thoughts except for one. Showers are for hotels; in a villa, one bathes. After replenishing hot water for the third time, I realized that it would be considerate to take my host to dinner to compensate for the gas bill.

And where was the mysterious host, caught in a Renaissance of his own? While waiting for pruny skin to smooth, and dithering about what to wear, I heard footsteps, whistling, and a short burst of celebratory piano music. The mystery man had survived the autostrada and was happy to be home. Now that my inner accountant was in rigor mortis, I felt no shame in calculating how many relatives I would have to fleece to make him an offer on his villa.

John Steinbeck wrote, “Positano bites deeply.” He used the wrong verb.  Positano burrows. It takes root in your soul and leafs out in memories too dear to have appraised.

(ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN  SILVER KRIS AND VENTANA MONTHLY)

I was not inclined to be labeled an amateur, and I never had thousands to waste on printing books that would sit in my garage. Thanks to that supercilious attitude and my fiscal responsibility,  two books I believe in went unread for a decade. I tried the traditional publishing route. While no agent or editor said I could not write, their responses were: does not fit a particular genre,…book is too short…but where would a bookstore shelve it…too many unicorn books (it is NOT a unicorn)…and so on.

Publishing on Kindle is free , and I no longer care what people call me.

And so, these two books are available at amazon.com kindle store:

SHELLS TURNING TO SAND – contemporary fiction that is “too short”

HER STORY TOLD TO ITS END: young adult fantasy that is NOT about a unicorn.

My next book CURRY, CIAO, AND CORNDOGS will be posted soon.

I do not expect to get rich. The benefit to me is that the time and passion I put into these books no longer feels wasted. Those who like my style will find me. Those who think they do then hate the book can get a refund.

We all win!

Carol Stigger (my real name and my pen name)

U.S. citizens are strongly urged to avoid political demonstrations

as these can quickly turn violent.”—US Department of State

 “In India, they turn implacable.” – Wandering Woman

(an oldie I found on my computer)

After interviewing microcredit clients in Wardhi, India, my driver headed home to Nagpur, the navel of India. As I was mulling over the 11-hour snow-induced traffic jam in Wisconsin, I had another smug attack. After 20 Chicagowinters, I was not in the snow. I was in India. Sweating.   As I was pouring bottled water over my head, I noticed our SUV was stalled waiting for the million agricultural-walla march over the bridge we needed to cross. Two miles of ragged farmers trudged past. Finally, we turned onto the bridge. I was thrilled to be at the tail end of a political demonstration protesting policies that are giving agricultural workers such punishing lives. I felt righteous being a part of the protest as I recalled agricultural horrors such as bonded slaves, child labor, starving from harvest to harvest, bare feet in cobra-infested fields. So righteous that it took a moment to realize that the road was silent. Had we all died? It is the law that to pass a vehicle, the passer must honk to warn the passee. And, since everyone must always get there first, every road is honkier than a bar full of Mississippi  rednecks.

Lanes are merely suggestions, but I finally figured out that the entire bridge was blocked by trucks, busses, rickshaws, cows, goats, carts, bikes, scooters, etc. headed north along with us – while facing us, the entire bridge was blocked by a similar entourage headed south. No one was shouting. No horns were blaring. Every face had that implacable Indian expression that means: I am not moving. Even the camel beside our car looked implacable despite its copious drooling. The water buffalo with blue horns facing us looked merely bored.

After an hour or so of being broiled in one spot, two police arrived on foot, which was the only way across the bridge. One by one, they coaxed vehicles and animals to turn around, getting an argument from each driver. Gradually, they created a lane going north, a lane going south, and chaos in the middle. The driver lurched our SUV to one side. We were on our way, honking victoriously and yielding only to a bus filled with implacable passengers hanging out the windows.

Next we visited Gandhi’s ashram, which could have been a place for quiet contemplation if it weren’t for students trooping intelligently over the grounds and through the huts. I am sure they know more about Gandhi than I do.  One thing I learned is that Gandhi instructed everything to be built by local people using local materials. Riding home, still dazed by the heat, I applied Gandhi’s philosophy to the Chicago suburb where I teach. Naughty students could be released from detention, bussed to the mall, and smash four cars for every family. They could construct waterproof metal shelters with automatic windows powered by generators appropriated from Home Depot.

Finally, we passed the obelisk in Nagpur marking the navel of India. “It’s an ‘outie.’” I scrawled in my notebook.

Sunstroke.  In February.

Betsey was born in the shadow of the Dundee Goat weathervane still on the steeple of the 1834 Baptist Church. It is in the register of historic buildings, but the house next door where she was born lost its shingles and its dignity decades ago. At 97, she often forgets where she left her walker in the assisted living center, forgets she needs assistance until she feels a tipsiness once steadied by grandpappy’s wooden cane. She refused a steel cane, but grandpappy’s hand hewn one had become an acceptable companion. She treats the walker with an uncharacteristic carelessness. Not an heirloom or tradition, it could be left unattended. Where was the tragedy if it were stolen?

Of some concern are her memories. Who but she was left to know that formidable Aunt Fanny took her all the way to Louisville to select her trousseau? Aunt Fanny certainly knew her lace and lingerie. Her mother, Aunt Fanny’s sister, sanctioned the marriage of her only child but could not bear the pain of transition, would not look at the fancy nightgown. That is why she and Frank Kelly eloped, no matter what people whispered behind their paper fans. And who but she would remember that grandmammy was blind to her grandchildren sneaking their hands under the covered dining table to steal a roll or slice of pie left over from lunch and waiting for the dinner bell. “Leave them be,” she told stern Aunt Mae. “I want them to remember hiding under their grandmammy’s dining table and thinking I did not see.”

Who but she was left to know that grandpappy sat on the porch every Sunday beside the dirt road in the “one horse” town of Trisler, inviting every single passerby to dinner. There was always room at the table. Trisler was no longer on the map. The home place was owned by strangers, the dirt road was paved, the one-room school great-great-grandpappy built was a wooden ruin still waiting for the storm that would put to rest the spirits of farmers who prized education along with honor, well-fed cattle, and well-tilled fields?

She sat on a comfortable sofa in the common room, satisfied from dinner and thought about assisted living. It was kind of like the old railway waiting room where everyone knew the posted schedule was a hope, not a fact. She did not know when she would go home or what home that would be. Probably not the gracious home Frank Kelly built in 1949 with four bedrooms for the children they had planned to have. The children still in her heart. Frank Kelly died thirty years ago. Their home had needed some repairs. “Why bother,” she said as a matter of fact. “I won’t be here much longer.” Eventually, she had the roof replaced and the windows caulked.  The house stayed snug, if slowly going out of style. And those spiral stairs to the bedrooms? Eventually, she limited herself to one round trip a day, but at 97 she thought that was an accomplishment, one she would not give up without a fuss.

The commotion over her last fall was justified, she supposed. She was content that this level place spared her the need to rise to the occasion presented by those stairs. Her family rose to occasions. Her daddy rose to the challenge of her spinster Aunt Mae, whose excuse for not marrying – someone needs to care for mammy and pappy – expired at grandmammy’s funeral. Like all of the family, Aunt Mae was educated, educated enough for Betsey’s father to go to the county school board and suggest she be hired to teach in Tristler’s new four room brick edifice. Aunt Mae rose to the occasion by teaching two generations of Ohio County children with her steel gray hair in a bun and a firm grip on the ruler that reinforced the rules. When Trisler lost its post office, a corner in the general store, and was no longer a freckle on the map, Aunt Mae retired and made apple butter on the iron stove of the family homestead and slept unspoiled in her childhood bed. Betsey suspected that the occasion she rose to was more than teaching, it was to arrive at the heavenly gates a virgin, her penance perhaps for provoking a duel over her hand. One young man was killed. The other, well, now how could a staunch Christian like Mae marry a murderer? 

And who but she was left to know that Uncle Walton endured Aunt Fannie’s tyranny by decamping to the basement for three-day benders in his teetotalling household in a dry county. 

Sad to take so much home, and it was clearer every moment that grandpappy was inviting her to dinner and grandmammy had her favorite peach pie –with a B for Betsey pricked in the crust — on the table beneath a red and white checked table cloth that protected the Sunday spread from flies.  Maybe she would take the long way home, and A.J. would land his plane in her high school yard and fly her home like he did in those days, flying high over the Dundee Goat.  That was before she met Frank Kelly, and she had not allowed herself to think of A.J. in all those days of her marriage and widowhood.

And who but she was left to know her freest, fullest moments were sitting behind A.J. in his flying machine.  Frank Kelly was so fearful of flying, he never set foot on a plane. How could she tell him that their new Cadillac was grand — but somehow too grounded for her heart to swell no matter how soft its leather seats? Today, at last, she was thinking of A.J., of taking the long way home. She had no fear of flying. She had no fear of going home. There had been so much in her life to love, but now there was this walker. No matter where she left it, someone gently reminded her.

Home was a place she could  fly to, soaring over the Dundee Goat, with daddy and grandpappy looking up from the fields as they had that day and running to meet her full of god almighties that one of their own had risen to the occasion and boarded this newfangled mode of transportation piloted by her dashing new beau.

The Dundee Goat, she had been told, was now a tourist attraction. Oh, my. What stories it held in its zinc wool coat still turning with the winds.

(If you have any, let me know)

I am a substitute teacher in a high school class, a well-disciplined class, reminiscent of my high school except the skeletons. I do not recall bones, bleached and glued on a humanoid tree. Back when I was reading Gone with the Wind and Forever Amber, I could not have imagined reading what I am now: Best American Essays 2010 and deciding which electronic reader to buy.

The notebook I grabbed on the way out the door is the one from my last trip to Italy. Notes from an interview: In Venice, winter is magical, empty, and Carnavale is not as wild as New Orleans.

Have I finally outgrown New Orleans, it’s funky, musty rooms? Café DuMonde, walking through cemeteries to a jazz beat?  I miss the gumbo, the occult, but Rue Royale lacks Venice’s elegant decadence, serpentine lagoons, and damp bridges arching over moldering secrets. Despite Anne Rice, Venice has a more macabre literary legacy than New Orleans:  Death in Venice, the Comfort of Strangers. These works are all the more creepy, because their fictional characters could be walking across St. Mark’s right now plotting suicide and murder.

There was no Confraternity of Pitiful Virgins in Venice as in Rome. Venice simply turned its girl orphans into elegant whores. I could not have been an elegant whore. I’d fall into canals, slip on cobblestones, giggle at pretentious nobility. I imagine being shackled and pushed across the Bridge of Sighs, condemned for a passionate adultery with the husband of a doge’s daughter. I never think things through to their bad end.

And so I preside over an anatomy class where skeletons rattle in a climate controlled breeze and my teenage self dreams of Medieval England and courtly love and spring meadows where a knight rides on tomorrow’s grass. She writes a skeleton of a sonnet about one caress releasing all the fragrance of spring into a bell jar that keeps fancy fresh or dried depending on the flow of serotonin she once called hope.

Sextus says there may be no truths, only moments of clarity, passing for answers.

The act of throwing someone or something out a window

I know.

The Daily Word has become less daily as I try to focus on the positive while feeling smothered by negatives. I have defenestrated everyone in my life who annoys me, and that cleared a lot of space. Now the main person who annoys me is me. Imagine living without scapegoats and with the belief that to defenestrate myself would be a tragic waste, or so my dogs imply by their excitement every time I return from work, the store, or even the mailbox across the street.

Yesterday, with nothing to do but watch the on-going drama of two dogs with one bone, left over from the Christmas ham, I thought of the Italians’ New Year’s celebration of throwing everything they don’t want out their windows. Wow. Much more fun than bagging up discards for Vietnam Vets and leaving the bags neatly tied on my porch every second Tuesday of the month. I could break old dishes, worn out toys, and several village littering laws all in one toss. And, if I bagged a corrupt politician with the old Farkle dice, that would be a bonus.

But when all the unwanted things are defenestrated, I would still be left with unwanted parts of myself. On the (almost) eve of my 67^th birthday, I confess that I have a lot of work to do on my life work of being a good and useful person. Sigh

Maybe that is why a photo on FaceBook made me smile so wide I felt my face crack side to side. A red bird surrounded by snow. Probably a cardinal. The comments got mixed up with my cousin’s reference to a BILSIL and my inquiry as to the meaning. A BILSIL is that rare bird, a brother in law’s sister in law, but in the world of FaceBook, that red bird is now a BILSIL, a rare bird from down under who has a pocket like a ‘roo. I wanted to post the bilsil because it is a lovely sight on a snowy day, but it has vanished from FaceBook.

But not from my spirit. Yesterday, I saw a bilsil. That memory will not go out the window. It is little things like bilsils that help balance the negatives when the clock is ticking close to 70.

Or how they took “class” out of “classroom”

My attempt to understand the future Masters and Mistresses of the Universe is occasional substitute teaching stints at local high schools. I have come to terms with low riding jeans and appreciate the benefits of this fashion statement. If a kid runs off with my wallet while holding up his pants, I can probably catch him. This fiscal consideration compensates for Friday’s full moon. I am sure the student expected his boxers to stay up when his pants fell down, but he did not factor in tired elastic and the law of gravity.  He denied it. However, I not only know a comma splice when I see one, I also know a gluteal cleft when I see one.

The young ladies at this particular high school know how to keep their pants up as they are more concerned with lowering their necklines. As a substitute teacher, I appreciate the distraction they provide. The more boys staring at breasts in a state of shock and awe, the fewer discipline problems I need to deal with. I have also learned to let sleeping students snooze, or as in a recent case, sleep under a lab table. A comatose student is not a discipline problem. Friday morning, I had eight sleeping students, most at their desks, one under the lab table. He used his back pack for a pillow, an idea that did not occur to me until my third international trip. He is failing physics, but he will survive Third World guest houses without a sprained neck.

The students at this high school are well groomed as most young ladies come to class with a mirror, comb, brush, complete set of make up, nail polish, and remover. But can they remember to bring a #2 pencil? Oh, please, that is just too much to carry. A pencil? For class? How Leave it to Beaver. No matter what the subject, the learning activity is grooming. Grooming occurs alone or in groups. As this is an absorbing, quiet activity, I have learned to let the groomers choose purple eye shadow over a test grade and lipstick over a viable future.

Parting students from i-Pods and cell phones is as painful as performing surgery without anesthetic. I cannot bear the trauma and simply call security to amputate these vital body parts.

All and all, I thought I had come to teams with today’s youth and am aggressively pursuing dual citizenship before these kids reach voting age. Yes, the Mafiosi are bad, but they have manners.

And then, she flossed.

Her teeth.

In science class.

It could have been a teaching moment. I could have pointed out that thanks to gravity, dental gunk fell on her desk instead of wafting around the room.

I should be grateful for gravity.

But, no. I am grateful that this week I am teaching at another high school. The students are spirited, but they are respectful and someone took the time to teach them manners. Some learning goes on. 

They remind me why I wanted to be a teacher.

 SPQR is the immortal cipher appearing all over Rome, even on sewer lids. It stands for the Latin Senatus Populusque Romanus: the Senate and People of Rome, and sometimes it means Sono poco questi Romani: they are pigs, these Romans.

 Most of the pigs I’ve met in Rome are German, which is why the Roman poco I encountered stands out like SPQR on a new sewer cap. He was a waiter at a restaurant (the one by the old well) on Borgo Pio, a street lined with outdoor tables and overflowing with tourists. Any restaurant on Borgo Pio looks popular for it is the most convenient street for refueling after visiting the Sistine Chapel. The poco waiter ignored me relentlessly. Water took 15 minutes, a menu took 30. He deigned to take my order about a week later and served the pasta carbonara after curing the bacon. He dawdled so long over the check, I left a 20 Euro bill and no tip on the table. His squeals of outrage followed me to Piazza Navona.

There, annoyance evaporated. Where in the world is an expanse like Piazza Navona? Three fountains, an obelisk, benches and artists, Romans and tourists, all surrounded by Renaissance palazzos, the white napery of outdoor restaurants, a toy store, and an ATM. Piazza Navona invites one to stroll, maybe several times around, while pondering the weight of history and the lightness of being – of being in Rome. Two thousand years of history at my feet and a freshly made gelato in hand.

 Well now, how could I be annoyed by one Roman poco? Particularly when Pasquino, just a few steps from the piazza, was standing by to display my protest. The weathered torso may be more than two thousand years old, but he still takes complaints. My post-it note about the poco on Borgo Pio may have lasted no longer than the next breeze, but as Marcus Tullius Cicero said in the 1^st Century B.C. “History is the witness that testifies to the passage of time. It illuminates reality, vitalizes memory, provides guidance in daily life, and brings us tidings of antiquity.”

And my tiny bite of history provides guidance to SPQR and its visitors to stay clear of the poco on Borgo Pio and eat at La Vittoria’s instead.

The first person you meet after leaving your house on some special occasion

…or as I am spinning it, any occasion

They litter my door with colored flyers; they stuff my mailbox with pleas; they stand on my porch, overtly well groomed with perky, practiced smiles, earnestly pushing the broken doorbell; they bleat from CNN; they spam me relentlessly. (Spam means “spare parts and minds” in my lexicon for I have never seen a whole thought expressed in a single unwanted email.)

They covet my vote and my soul. Yes, the world is ending next week and I know where I am going: to the grocery and maybe to Kohls for some new socks. Yes, the election is soon and I am cognizant of the issues: too much crap in my mailbox, too much littering on my lawn, too much paper under my windshield wipers, too much bleating in sound bytes.

Go away.

You cannot fix a broken society or a broken world. You are either optimistic or a fraud. Or, you are an optimistic fraud.

I want the first person I meet (in person or on paper) to be in the spirit of Julian of Norwich who has been saying since the 14^th C “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well,” and was plagiarized by T.S. Elliot in the 20^th C (so I must give credit to both). Julian won’t pester me with “Are you SAVED?” and won’t lobby for my vote as the saint of the millennium. She simply assures with serenity. No need to shout about it, buy an ad, print 5 million flyers, spam me, speechify, or ring my dead doorbell.

I am leaving the house in a minute on a special occasion — I must have a Panera turkey and artichoke panini because it is Tuesday and I am hungry. The qualtagh will say “for here or to go?”

And we shall share an enigmatic smile.

(As for my doorbell, I silenced it ten years ago for a reason. Family members have keys and friends know to knock.)