Random Observations: Italy

• A legging is not necessarily a legging.  Mode of dress for women here from teen to too old is skinny.  Don’t get me wrong.  They all have the bodies for it.  Two variations cover it, in a manner of speaking.  Tall beautiful boots go with tights and skirts.  I should just say sk… because that’s as much as there is.  Very short, very tight.  Leggings with a tee shirt and a short leather jacket.  No long tunics in Italy.  Leggings.  Geometric, animal, swirly, paisley, wild prints with short leather boots or extremely high platforms. 

• Young children are not taught not to stare.  How do I know?  Because they become adults who stare…openly and without apology.  As a dedicated introvert, may I just say how very uncomfortable this makes me?  I try to wait them out…I see that it isn’t going to happen.  So I become bold on the face of it and stare back.  But the southern in me breaks through and I can’t help myself.  I smile.  They stare.  And the eyes go back to the floor.  Where on earth did I leave my sunglasses?

• The moon is the same no matter where you go.  And it always figures in for me.  My first outstanding memory of Europe is from that wild original trip Steve and I took when we were way too many hours on military planes.  At about 2:00 AM in Rota, Spain, I was strung out, tired, and needing exercise.  I walked up and down the street outside the air terminal under palm trees and a beautiful full moon listening to “Cornflake Girl” in my earphones.  Vivid.  When we arrived in Aviano, there we stood at the base of the Dolomites under another full moon.  Then last night I looked out our stateroom door and there stood a beautiful full moon lighting a path straight across the ocean and onto our balcony.  La bella luna.  (No, I don’t speak Italian.  I learned that from the old grandfather on “Moonstruck.”)

• The bells.  They chime the hours, quarters and halves.  They sing.  They war with the protest chanters.  They overwhelm and linger.  

• I have finally figured out the process.  There is some sort of hidden laser that, as we go through customs, labels us “American” on the forehead.  But there is an additional one that they save for a very few of us.  That one says “Gullible American.”  Can I tell you how many times I was approached by panhandlers, people with causes, people selling any little thing?  I stood on the Popolo Piazza in Rome with a young man who thrust a bundle of roses in my hand on behalf of a cathedral there.  I assured him I had no money with me (I didn’t!).  I tried to hand them back.  I gave them to Steve who handed them over quite easily while the young man tied a bracelet around my wrist for some saint.  I’ve tried the “no eye contact” rule; but the laser tattoo speaks for itself.  By the way, if I’m arrested by Interpol, I haven’t really done anything wrong.  It may be because of the petition I signed.  I told them I had no money (I didn’t!).  I didn’t understand how my signature would help because I’m not even Italian!

• Pizza in Italy is a work of art.  So is the division of labor between spouses worked out over the years.  It is understood that I will pack for us, wash out clothes on long trips, take care of details and organization.  I will unpack and nest.  Steve is the hunter/gatherer.  That means pastry and coffee in the mornings and foraging for food when I reach a point where my legs refuse to work anymore (see the footnote on hauling heavy luggage between trains).    So Steve fetched us a pizza in Rome, a pizza margharita with only fresh basil, fresh whole-milk mozzarella and light fresh tomato sauce.  Thick, pillowy, slightly chewy along the edges, crispy and paper-thin on the inside.  A minimum char on the bottom from the brick oven.  

• Women in Italy are casual, beautiful and impeccably dressed.  Young men in Italy wear scarves.  Old men in Italy wear hats.  The young men are handsome and appear quite arrogant (with good reason, I admit).  The old men appear rakish.

• I love Italy.

Firenze

Our trip to Florence did not begin well.  Mountain View Inn.  Aviano.  No taxis.  We were told it was about a mile to the gate where our taxi would meet us.  So we set out, pushing bags over stone sidewalks.  Charming to look at – not so luggage-friendly.  We struggled our way to the gate, grateful for the sun.  As I have said, God has blessed us in so many ways on this trip.  I don’t know what we would have done with rain.  

Just outside the gate our cab pulled up seconds after we arrived.  The drive was exciting as always.  But we enjoyed it because we were not driving, nor were we hauling bags along the street.  The train station in Portenone was charming and filled with helpful, English-speaking agents.  We made our way into the small coffee shop to wait.  Steve got us cappuccinos and cornetti.  (A cornetto is the most beautiful, edible thing in Italy.  It’s large, much larger than a croissant, but shaped like one.  It consists of many flaky layers and is lighter than hot Krispy Kreme donuts.)  

Did I just call the train station charming?  It was, until we had to haul the luggage down a long flight of steps and under the tracks to the other platform.  I cease to be amazed at how fit Europeans are after I’ve shared living areas with them for a time.  Six months over here and I’m sure I’d be much more wiry.  After a beautiful ride through the Tuscan countryside, we arrived in the Venice station and more stairs but only a short wait until the next train.

The Florence station was busy and exciting and, being a hub, was all on one level.  We found a cab and rode to the Hotel Arizona.  Honestly.  This is a small hotel in the center of Florence that is run by three brothers.  We met the youngest one who was fun and delightful.  The only thing he liked better than talking about his city was learning about the United States.  

Our room was on the fifth floor, sloping roof, sky-light – no window.  We were staying in the attic!  But it was roomy, modern and thoroughly charming.  And it had a bed!  After a few minutes to catch our breaths, we set out to explore.  Beautiful and friendly.  And sculptures everywhere.  There is one area where an outdoor sculpture museum subjects the most beautiful works of art to the elements.  

Someday if I can figure out how to get my folding beach chair onto the airplane, I’m going back just to sit on a street corner and watch the traffic.  Tiny narrow streets converge sometimes four or five at sharp angles into a main thoroughfare.  And there are no stop signs!  So the bravest driver wins.  And there is no way for them to see if someone else is coming.  Very exciting.

We somehow found the Duomo Piazza.  It was, well you just run out of superlatives after a while.  Overwhelming, majestic, unphotographable because of its size.  This piazza was not a big open space like most; so we could not get far enough back to include all of the Duomo in the frame.  After we stood around with our mouths hanging open for a bit, we realized that it was getting dark and we were getting hungry.  

Did I mention that the streets converge at strange angles and run in no rhyme nor reason?  I’m still not sure how we made our way back to the hotel.  We had a map and we worked at it.  That’s all I have to offer.

We went to dinner at a restaurant recommended by the hotel, Accadi Trattoria.  We had heard that we should be prepared to invest a couple of hours in our meal.  Dinner is a relaxed social occasion.  The man who seated us was friendly and obviously had a vested interest in the place.  Neither he, nor the young woman who served us, ever seemed to stop.  As soon as an order would appear in the window, they would be there to serve it.  There was a big table with platters of the various ingredients for antipasta that she would organize into beautiful plates.  Our food was amazing and obviously native Florentine.
  

Our server was sweet and friendly and the couple at the next table were as well.  They were Finnish.  Suddenly the kitchen door swung open and a little, old, grizzled Italian man came out with two platters that he delivered out the front door of the restaurant.  Steve and our table neighbor both said at the same time, “Sushi?”  

We all looked a bit confused and continued to eat.  We were chatting with our server and asked her if she was the owner and was this a family business?  She said, “No, he’s the owner.”  She pointed into the kitchen at a Japanese man and his two Asian cooks just as the little old man brushed by with more sushi.  They delivered over a dozen plates out the front door over the course of our meal.  We still don’t know where they were taking it. 

 

Next morning we didn’t have much time.  We needed to be at the train station to get a train to Rome by noon.  I so wanted to go to the Academie Museum to see Michelangelo’s David; but my hopes were not high.  I had read about the great crowds and long lines.  We decided to try anyway.  By this time we knew our way around well enough to make our way straight there.  As we walked up, there were no lines but there were no people there either.  With a sinking heart, I found a man in uniform and explained that we did not have a reservation.  He pointed to an area marked off with closed tape and told us to stand there.  Less than five minutes later, we found ourselves standing in front of a ten-foot-tall David on an eight-foot pedestal.  Again, a blessing I would not have believed.  No crowds, no lines, no waiting, and not enough superlatives to explain what we saw.  We could see the veins in his arms and legs and the muscles in his neck.  There was seating – so we sat quietly and just stared, amazed.  When we finally left the building, the line waiting to go in was a block long!

 

 

Italian Chicken

Serene confidence makes for good waiting.  Steve and I ate yet more pastry and enjoyed another cappuccino before crossing the street through that beautiful fall weather.  We checked in for a flight to Aviano that would hold over one hundred and for which only about thirty people were waiting.  This not only gave us the secure feeling that we would go, but also that we would go in comfort because we could choose our seats once on board.

Always in search of a strong internet signal, we found the elevator and headed up to the USO.    We had grabbed a couple of those lovely European sandwiches, cold cuts and tomatoes and mozzarella on two different kinds of crusty bread.   We left messages and caught up with Facebook while we munched and waited.

Back downstairs at roll call time we were called in the second group of ten and started the check-in process.  Being the friendly, teasing sweetheart that he is sometimes works for Steve, sometimes not.  This time our agent was just as teasing and there was much laughing as we went through the process.  Steve asked for first-class seats; she replied something to the effect that all the seats were first-class.  We were just glad to be on the plane!

We moved upstairs again, happy to be free of those heavy bags.  After a short wait, we were allowed to board and found our seats.  We looked and each other and said, “There must be a mistake.”  We were in first class seats!  We sat down and began to play with buttons.  Our seats reclined; we stretched out our legs and still could not touch the seats in front of us.  It was a regular carnival!

The flight was short, only a little over an hour, and we were almost sorry.  We were flying above heavy clouds and at one point Steve remarked that he thought he saw snow-covered peaks poking up through them.  I smiled and thought, “Sweet man.  Wishful thinking.”  Suddenly just as we broke through the clouds, our plane tipped to the right on our side.  Displayed before us were the majestic and awe-inspiring snowy peaks of the Alps as far as we could see.

Flying Space A is convenient and the price is certainly right.  But we are never far from the fact that it is a privilege and that there are those who are still serving and working for our good.  We shared this plane with a large group of airmen dressed in desert camouflage and bound for Qatar.

Because the flight was delayed to begin with and then we had waited for over an hour on the tarmac in Ramstein, our flight into Aviano did not arrive until after 6:00 PM.  It is a small air base in Italy and there is only one hotel, the Mountain View Inn, named for the fact that it is nestled in the base of the Dolomites, beautiful Italian mountains.  Those of us who were staying the night found our way to a small, creaky blue bus and somehow managed to stuff all our bodies, bags and luggage into every last square inch of space.  

Checked in and refreshed, we realized that we were hungry.  The only restaurant on the base was closed and our only hope was a food court in the base exchange.  We found out that there are no taxis allowed on base (this did not bode well for the next morning, but we refused to worry tonight), so we started walking at a quick pace because we did not know when the food court would close.

We huffed and puffed through doors to the exchange and sighed relief that the restaurants were still open.  All but the pizza place.  So we had our choice between Taco Bell, Burger King and Popeye’s Chicken.  We were hungry.  Finally we sat down, grinning at each other, and toasted our arrival in Italy with a diet coke and a chicken leg.

 

 

Chasing the Sun

Traveling with Steve Horn makes me brave, delights me with unexpected surprises and tries my patience.  Please note that I did not say Steve tries my patience.  Our method of travel sometimes definitely does.  
 
However, we are determined to continue this way of getting around.  It keeps getting better!  Our first Space-A trip was too much of an adventure – from my going so long without sleep that I hit a wall and stretched out on the seats to sleep; to Steve’s inflating an air mattress and bedding down in the terminal.  

 

He has studied the Facebook pages of the travel hubs that we use and discovered the patterns of the chartered Patriot flights.  So for $36 total for both of us, we flew from Baltimore to Ramstein, Germany and from Ramstein to Aviano, Italy on a 767 for free.  We figure the $36 was because they served us both two meals on the flight!
 
Cory and Erika drove us to Union Station on a Monday and we sat and watched public service announcements about what to do in case of a terrorist attack while waiting for our train to Baltimore.  (What has happened to this world in which we live?  You can keep the soap box under the bed; that was rhetorical.)  
 
The train ride was short and we caught a shuttle to the airport.  We were high on the list and settled in to wait without a lot of anxiety.  There were many seats and not that many on the list.

After we grabbed a bite to eat, I went to check the waiting roster.  I heard cheering and applause; I had only eaten a chicken sandwich, so I knew it wasn’t for me.  I leaned over the railing to watch home-bound soldiers pushing their gear on carts through the customs doors to be greeted with signs, balloons, and hearty handshakes.  Boy and girl scouts in uniform at the end of the line handed them candy and held out plastic candy-filled pumpkins to little ones traveling with families. 
 

Our trip over was long; it always is.  The flight itself is eight hours and we lose six more crossing time zones.  We leave late afternoon and arrive in the morning with our bodies screaming, “It’s one AM!  Will somebody please put me to bed?”   We spend the last hour or so peering out the windows looking for signs of a sun rising.  Another hour in lines and going through customs (German customs officers can be a bit intimidating) and we finally walked out into a beautiful, crisp autumn day with bright red and gold trees.
 
I’ll pretty much always choose nature over anything manmade.  But between the trees and the new many-storied Ramstein Inn, it was no contest.  There were beds in there!  We were mentally ready to hunker down and sit, comatose, for hours in the lobby waiting for a room.  Steve walked up to the reservation desk, talked for a minute and turned around and grinned at me.  We were asleep by 10:00 AM!  We slept for a couple of hours and then got up so I could start planning when I could sleep again.  
 
Next morning Steve woke me with hot cappuccino and chocolate croissant.  Twelve hours of solid sleep and I was ready to fly again.  Next, on to Aviano and Popeye’s Fried Chicken!

Creatures of Habit

We ran out of butter this week.  (Please don’t tell anyone.  I’m afraid we’ll be evicted from the state.)  We have run out of milk, bread, flour, sugar – all the basics – over the last several weeks.  Oh, we’ve made our usual lists and planned menus.  Steve and I are grocery shopping machines!  We have this process down to a precise science.

For about three years now, we have had a ritual.  Every other Monday night I would sit at the dining table with the laptop and Steve would alternate between the pantry and the refrigerator telling me what we needed.  Then we would plan meals and make our grocery list.  Tuesday morning we would get up, go by and get a sausage biscuit, drive to Sumter and do our grocery shopping, and have lunch in the big city.  We’d be home by 1:30 or 2:00 and unload the car and put away groceries.  Steve would head for the golf course and I would cram like crazy for the Precepts class on Tuesday night.  Tradition.  Habit.

Several weeks ago due to budget constraints, the Shaw commissary which is always closed on Mondays began closing on Tuesdays as well.  Steve plays golf on Wednesday and Friday; but our Thursdays were still open for our bi-monthly supply run.  We tried making our list.  We tried planning our meals.  But our grocery world had been throw off-balance and we discovered that old habits really do die hard!

As much as we like to complain about it, structure, schedules are valuable in our lives.  School children begin to get cranky toward the end of the summer.  We depend on the habits that are the familiar.

I recently finished reading “Humility:  True Greatness.”  C.J. Mahaney addresses an issue that I have had for some time in his chapter, “As Each Day Begins.”  I have already confessed my need for early morning caffeine and my reluctance to wake up other than in a slow, undisturbed manner.  I have the habit of beginning my day in an irritable mood.  I can stand at the open back door listening to the birds all I like, can even say out loud “This is the day the Lord as made; I will rejoice and be glad in it”; and then turn around and continue my grouchiness.  It goes like this, according to Mahaney:  “As we stumble through our morning routine, we’re not directing the thoughts in our mind – we’re simply at their mercy.  We entertain complaints about what happened yesterday or worries about what’s coming today.  We look in the bathroom mirror and assess the damage, then brood over how we feel.  We’re not in charge of our thinking.  We’re just there.”

Listen to what was for me a life-changing, habit-changing passage from Humility: “Purpose by grace that your first thought of the day will be an expression of your dependence on God, your need for God, and your confidence in God.  Sin – including especially the sin of pride – is active, not passive.  Sin doesn’t wake up tired, because it hasn’t been sleeping.  When you wake up in the morning, sin is right there, fully awake, ready to attack.  So rather than be attacked by sin in the morning, I’ve chosen to go on the offensive.  I’ve chosen to announce to sin, ‘I’m at war with you.  I know you’re there, and I’m after you.’  From the moment I awake I’ve learned to make statements to God about my dependence upon God, and in this way I’m humbling myself before God.”

Basically I’m at war every morning until I’m speaking truth to myself.  I’ve heard that it takes 28 days to change a habit and I’m well on my way.  If you walk by my house on an early morning and look in at the back porch, you’re likely to see me with a cup of coffee in hand and a smile on my face.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Nope.  Check the date.  This is a fresh one, not an old one about Christmas.  Though I do want to linger on Christmas for an instant because that is where the title came from.  Because someone always says it every year.  “I wish every day could be like this.”  Why?  We are closer to the ones we love, a little more giving, a little more patient (at least early in the season), a little more faith-filled.  And it just feels good, doesn’t it?

 

The same thing happened just after 911.  We came together.  We loved our neighbors and supported one another.  We flew flags and talked about God and country.

 

And now Vacation Bible School.  Before you laugh this off, stop and think.  We are loving each other more, reaching out to the community, more giving of ourselves, a little more patient (at least early in the week), a little more faith-filled.  And it does feel good, doesn’t it?

 

We hug in the hallways (although we’re pretty good about doing that all the time), we love on each other on Facebook, we celebrate new people in our midst, we have a heart for getting God’s Word out to the community.  I wish every day could be like this.  No, I’m not ready to add another week on to Bible School.  Doing one wore me out.  But we have been so blessed as a body of believers.  Let’s keep rolling!

 

Ephesians 4:15-16; 2 Corinthians 3:3-6

…but, speaking the truth in love, may grow up in all things into Him who is the head--Christ--from whom the whole body, joined and knit together by what every joint supplies, according to the effective working by which every part does its share, causes growth of the body for the edifying of itself in love…clearly you are an epistle of Christ, ministered by us, written not with ink but by the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of flesh, that is, of the heart.  And we have such trust through Christ toward God.  Not that we are sufficient of ourselves to think of anything as being from ourselves, but our sufficiency is from God, who also made us sufficient as ministers of the new covenant, not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.

Talking to God

Just before I closed my eyes last night, I realized I hadn’t prayed all day!  Don’t get me wrong – I say little thank you’s to God throughout my hours as He provides all those unexpected blessings…a cardinal across my path, a sweet sign from my husband that he loves me, eye contact and a smile from a stranger at the Walmart.  But I mean really talking to Him!

Then I had to smile.  Because I had spent several hours preparing my Precept lesson from Colossians and so many cross references.  I had been in His Word for hours; I had been listening to Him pretty much all day!

Why is it that I always think of praying as talking to God?  I’m not the wise and all-knowing one in the relationship.  And I think of listening as sitting still until He tells me something in my spirit.  And my thoughts drift and I find myself making grocery lists in my head and concentrating on my dogs.  Of course there are times when speaking to Him is appropriate.  I have praising, confessing and thanking to do and people to pray for. 

But doesn’t He primarily speak through His Word after all?  I wouldn’t be surprised when I am finally able to hear His voice to hear Him say, “Why did you make it so hard?  It was all right there in front of you all along.  All you had to do was stop talking!”

Psalm 85:7-9; 42:8
Show us your unfailing love, O LORD, and grant us your salvation. I will listen to what God the LORD will say; he promises peace to his people, his saints— but let them not return to folly. Surely his salvation is near those who fear him, that his glory may dwell in our land…By day the LORD directs his love, at night his song is with me— a prayer to the God of my life.