Grazie Mille

      

       It's Thanksgiving.  Time to be thankful for all the good things.

Grazie Mille

In English, when we want to thank someone especially strongly, we often say something like "Thanks So much/Thanks very much" to express our gratitude.  Other languages often up the praise level.  Arabic says "Alf shukran" (thanks a thousand times!!!). Not just "thank you"  but thank you one thousand times.  Italian has the same way of multiplying their thank yous by 1000(Grazie Mille)

Since our national holiday of Thanksgiving is right in front of us, I realized that I needed to say something...in writing to express my gratitude to all the people who made my life richer and more meaningful.  I needed to stop and say "grazie mille" to at least 1000 people... but I'll try to limit my task to something doable (and readable).   

Where to begin?  Maybe in my own backyard.  

     

          My Backyard and the neighboring plot vastly improved by my neighbor, Ruben

Five or six years ago, my new neighbor who had just moved in from Texas, decided he was going to get serious about cleaning up the horrific mess that had accumulated over decades of neglect behind his house,  So he systematically had trees cut, brush dug up, flowers and shrubs planted and new grass installed and the rotting shed and rusting hulks of useless lawn equipment removed.  Obviously it was a lot of work and I was more than willing to help whenever possible because his upgrades helped me directly.  My property was improved whenever his improved.  Win, win.  So hats off to you Ruben(now back in Texas) for all the hard work...in other words...Grazie Mille.

And then, I really need to offer a special note of thanks to my neighbor on the other side of my house, George Morrison.  This past August, I made the tragic assumption that the weather in August would follow the usual pattern of the past several years, with bone dry days of drought all the way into mid-September.  Surprise!  This year, August came in with drenching rains and lots of hot steamy weather to spur the grass growth to spectacular new heights while I was away baking in the Italian sun.  My grass in the back yard really didn't care where I was.  It was happy to just grow and grow and grow.  Finally,my wife in desperation asked George Morrison if he could come to the rescue, which he did of course.  Hours later and with numerous pauses to clear away the huge clumps clogging grass from his lawn mower, he was finally able to return to his own home victorious.  Just another day fighting nature to a standoff.  So once again, George...Grazie Mille for rescuing my back yard from the racoons.

Not to be outdone, my neighbor one house away(next to Ruben) is Ralph Bennett. Ralph is my go to source whenever I try to do anything involving home repairs or just trying to figure out how a screwdriver works.  Ralph, a former Vietnam helicopter repair expert can weld metals together, mend broken doors(like mine), sharpen lawn mower blades(like mine), fix broken Christmas light strings(like mine), and advise me what to do to fix the stripped threads on my car's oil pan.  His labor of love spanning several decades is to constantly work on restoring his 1963 US Army Dodge repair vehicle which he found rustiing away in a salvage yard nearby and he brought it back to a new meaningful life in his garage/repair shop.  So Ralph, as we both know, I will be back to seek some sort of rescue from you in the very near future and the very far future as well.  Thanks so much.  Grazie Mille as they say in Italy.

     Ralph Bennett securing his Army Repair truck to his trailer for a show,  I'm impressed.

Now lehomemove a bit further afield. My rigid habit in the morning is to take a long walk, no matter whether I'm in Foxboro or in another location, like Lucca.  This routine is what I call my mental health requirement.  My daily walk is institutionialized.  My walk allows me to stroll in Mother Natures Cathedral and to meet delightful people along the way.  It allows me to verify that the world is still here and in reasonably good order.  Fox news can't find me on my daily walk.  Just my friends and acquaintences are there and that suits me perfectly.  People along my habitual route know when to expect me and I usually try to warn folks along the way if I intend to be gone for months at a time.  I have people tell me if I'm late or if (God forbid) I'm absent.  I can honestly say that of the few dozen people who I recognize and speak with on a regular basis here in Foxboro, 98% of them are on my walking route.  My walk is my connection with real (genuine) people.  They help keep me sane.  And they are the reason I keep walking.  Thus, to all the people like Dave Crimmins, Morgan, Brandon,Fiona, and Gavin Steacy, Dante and Patty, Beth and Mark Ferencik, Beverly Lord, Dan Schuster, Phil Lundt, Al Bradner, Ed Baldwin, Lee and Cindy Scott, and all the others who give me daily joy, let me say...Grazie Mille.

      Morgan, Fiona, and Gavin usually know when to expect me to walk past their house.  And they always invite me to spend some time just talking anout nothing in particular.  

Now let's move even further afield.  Let's pretend that I spend several weeks every year in Italy, visiting friends and lounging around in Paradise.  Nice work, if you can get it.  Let's also assume that I regularly write posts about Lucca, in Tuscany and what a joy it would be to share the place with others.  Yawn. For some odd reason, a few people I write to actually got on a plane over the past 14 months and endured the travel hell to physically visit me in Lucca.  My nephew Davis was the first to dare to experience the joys of post Covid travel last October.  Then in June of 2023, my daughter Cotton came with her husband Jason and the 2 kids, Toby and Spencer.  And most recently, my 2 sisters Jean and Barb ignored the pain of the 6,000 mile trip to visit Lucca in mid October.  I've got pictures to prove this!  I was so honored to have these people risk life and limb to come to visit my favorite hangout that I really must say Grazie Mille.  It really meant a lot to have them see and experience what I have been so privileged to appreciate.  

     

                        My sisters Barb (left)& Jean (right) braved the airlines and the distance to visit me.

      

                                Cotton, Jason, & the guys on a tour of the wall in Lucca.

     

                                 Nephew Davis who fell in love with Florence.  Good choice!

When I was much younger, my big ambition was to travel the world and to see lots of "stuff".  The Eifel Tower in Paris, the Pyramids of Giza, the Acropolis in Athens, the Prado Museum in Madrid, etc.  But now my travel objectives have changed completely in old age,  Now I travel to see people.  I know the clock is ticking and I don't have the luxury of youth any more.  Other objectives take priority.  I remember being told during one of my French classes in College that Europeans rarely invite you into their homes because they just don't have the space or the facilities to entertain guests.  Somehow that advice never seemed to be true from my own experience.  Or perhaps when I was invited into other people's homes, I knew it was a special privilege and a window into the local culture that I couldn't get any other way.  Being invited inside someone elses home was to be able to access their lives from the inside.  In so many places around the globe I've been granted access to people in their homes and that has meant the world to me. I get to experience their culture from their perspective, unfiltered.  And so to all those people like Sergio and Rori in Italy, Peter and Tanya in Prague, and Claude Olivier in France  who have invited me into their homes, I must say I am deeply honored and I owe it to them to say Grazie Mille!  

 

      

                  At home with Sergio and Rori for a late night meal.  Very Late!

                                 At home with Peter and Tanya in Prague.  Always delightful.

                               Homemade Tartiflettes at Claudes home in Evian.  Fabulous.

And now to try to wrap this up and get on with thr real business of Thanksgiving...overeating at the overflowing banquet of in-laws,  the Sauers.. Tradition has it that we get invited to my daughters home where they go through all the enormous work of hosting Thanksgiving Dinner for the whole extended family which usually means 20-25 people for the afternoon.  No one could ever talk me into such an undertaking.  I'd never recover from the trauma of trying to cook for 25 people!  But my son in law seems to think this behavior is "normal".  OK.  I'm more than happy to let someone else cook.  So, my eternal thanks must include saying Grazie Nille to James Sauer and family for hosting the entire family around a totally overwhelming feast.

     

                                 Don't attemp this at home.  It will never work for me.

So that's it.  All the thousands of things that have enriched my life throughout the years and we spend a mere 24 hours trying to think of why our lives are so fortunate and rich.  I just couldn't let this holiday slip by without trying to say thank you a thousand times to all the people who make life worth living for me.  It's been quite a ride and it ain't over yet.  Thanks so much.  That's my story this Thanksgiving.  And I'm stickin to it.

GRAZIE MILLE.

                                  
 

 

     

      

         

     

   

Too Soon Old...Too Late Smart

Years ago, when I was much younger, I saw this saying which was supposedly a translation from a German proverb.  It was so simple and yet so delightful that it stuck immediately.  TOO SOON OLD... TOO LATE SMART.

        Sunday Morning. Saturday night is gone and my shoes too!

Mark Twain once wrote that it would be a much better way to navigate life if only we could be born at age 85 and then gradually get younger over the years.  That way we could enjoy the benefit from the wisdom of old age and generally use it as we became younger and stronger, thus eliminating all the horrible lessons of life that we never had access to when we were younger.  Why didn't I understand what life was all about when I was young and was able to profit from this wisdom?  Boy I don't have a good answer.  

As I thought about this short proverb, the thought occurred to me that this subject of getting older was only half of the story.  Without a doubt, most of us learn from our mistakes.  Otherwise why have a brain to guide us through life?  It would be a useless 3 pound blob of grey matter. (I'm not going to take any cheap shots at our political actors!)

As much as we would like, it seems almost impossible for young people to listen to the advice of "old crustations" like me.  I was always amazed how much smarter my parents became as I started to face the same life challenges that they had done.  Why were they so out of touch when I was a hormonally challenged teenager??

Lucca opens me up to an alternative reality about youth

 The allure of this place is that it is the perfect breeding ground for what I can only call "youthful exuberance".  No matter what time of the day or night that I head out for a walk, I always encounter young people laughing, singing, and yes often screaming with delight as they pedal past on their bicycles and bicycle " chariots".  Toddlers are very enthusiastic greeters and horn sounders.  The electricity they bring to the city and to me personally is infectious. 

     

      Lucca seems to be the perfect place for youthful exuberance

Lucca also invites me to look at my own culture and all it's assumptions about aging with a bit more of a wider perspective. I've approached the 3rd rail of senior citizens many times over the past few years.  And I've encountered lots of horrified reactions when I express my "honest" opinions about the "seniors" that now seem to surround me no matter where I try to escape.  I know that there are millions of senior citizens who strive be be surruonded by others like themselves as they ease of into the sunset.  But as for me, I can't imagine a more depressing way to waste away my final years on this planet than in gated, seniors only, planned death community.  Wouldn't it be fun to play golf every morning with all those other hip replacement guys where we could talk about our prostate treatments?  NO!

The thing I've absolutely learned about "senior citizens" is that they may have been well educated and they may have also acquired boatloads of world experience over the decades.  But it doesn't seem to translate into learning how to adapt in the final chapter of their life...exactly the time when they should be able PROFIT from their superior vantage points.  These are folks who were handed the most prosperous, peaceful, informed, democratic, cushy, existence the world has ever seen and they still can't figure out how to repair a water faucet because they have no idea of how to find the 42 YouTube videos on the subject.  These are people who are on 5 different body altering drugs because their doctor prescribed them... all at the same time.  These are people who think an app is something you eat before the main course.  These are people have the world all figured out and they have no need to get out of their comfort zone for their final time on the planet.  I have a very short fuse interacting with fossils

     

        Unfortunately, this is how I view many of my contempories

So what's the summary and conclusion of this idle rant.  I think I would like to believe the "wisdom that comes with age" fairy tale that the AARP loves to foist on the general public.  It's good for membership.  I'm more than willing to admit that I've grown old much too soon.  But I see very little evidence that most of us ever grow smarter... no matter how long we haunt the planet.  Maybe if we had 9 lives like the average cat, it would be different.  But with only one life, I find myself and others around me making the same dumb rookie mistakes that we were making a half century earlier.

That's my story and I'm stickin to it.

Dan

Meglio soli Che Male Accompagnati

Four days ago, my regular morning coffee routine was disrupted.  My friend, Sergio, went away for a week on "vacation" with his wife to Sardinia so I had no reason to go out to our favorite cafe by myself.  

It was a social meeting for us but by myself, it just wasn't the same. So I just skipped the cappuccino and did other things to fill the void. But then yesterday afternoon, I just needed to get out and enjoy the fabulous azure sky and the wonderful afternoon crowds at the central square where the Cafe Ninci is located. So I headed out to have a late afternoon aperatif at the cafe by myself.  When I arrived, I warned the usual waiter that I wanted a "Spritz" instead of coffee.  Otherwise, if I just sat down he would  automatically bring me the "usual" cappuccino.  They know me and my habits!  

     

       I had to inform Ibrahim that I wanted something different.

Ok no problem.  The waiter, Ibrahim, noticed that I was alone and he just changed my usual order.  When I went in to pay the bill, the usual guy at the cash register said something to me which I didn't quite understand.  He repeated what he said, but slowly and with an explanation in English.  What he said was this..."Meglio soli che male accompagnati ".  Loosely translated it means..." Better alone than with bad company".  Yes indeed.  

     

      The typical Tuscan aperitif... an Aperol Spritz. No coffee.

So many times when I travel these days, I am alone.  I've invited several friends and family members to join me or visit the places I haunt.  But it is the rare occasion when someone else decides to spend time and money to explore the places that I enjoy.  I get it.  Other people have their own lives and they really aren't all THAT interested in visiting the oddball places that I seem to like.  I'm used to traveling alone at this point of my life and I've sort of gotten used to the isolation.  The thing that I've learned about traveling alone is that I have a completely different experience to the wider world when I am by myself.  When I'm alone, I'm much more likely to encounter new people and get out of my safe cacoon.  

It's weird but so true, at least for me.  When I'm with someone else, I will usually exclude "outsiders" from my little group.  My attention needs to focus on interacting with the person (or persons) I'm with.  My conversations are directed at my companion.  When Sergio and I meet for coffee, I interact with him and he will interact with others around us.  I defer to him since he knows the culture and the language much better than I do.  When my daughter and her family were here for a visit, my job was to act as a guide and interpreter so I was constantly trying to explain what we were seeing and experiencing.  I really didn't have the luxury of engaging with strangers.  There were four others that I was responsible for and side conversations were out of the question.  Pay attention to the task at hand!

     

      Pay attention.  And keep pedalling. This thing won't move itself. 

The only reason I discovered Lucca was due to my being by myself and Sergio being alone as well.  We were both staying at the same hotel in  Yogyakarta, Java and the hotel seated us together at the same table for a Christmas party for the guests.  Once we overcame the awkward process of beginning a conversation, we could follow up later at breakfast the next day when it was quiet and more relaxed.  As we gained a bit of confidence in interacting, it became easier to chat for extended periods of time.  Neither of us had anyone else there to get in the way.  I was stuck at the hotel waiting for my Airbnb rental to become available.  And Sergio was hanging out there while his wife did a yoga workshop in the nearby city of Solo(yes that's the real name).  Sergio was determined to educate me on the wonders of his home town.  Every conversation seemed to lead to Lucca.  I had no way to prove him right or wrong so I accepted the challenge of visiting Lucca to make my own judgement.  That was six years ago.  I finally had to accept defeat.  Lucca is indeed the most delightful place on the planet... (according to both of us!).  

So traveling alone often turns into a very positive experience.  That's the benefit side of the equation.  But wait.  There is more.

I also need to acknowledge the bad company that accompanies me when I travel alone.  Meeting new people and learning new things is great.  It's something I look forward to.  The thing I really dread about spending days on my own is constantly being in a struggle for my own thoughts. I usually refer to this battle as having to fight with the "guy in the basement".  The guy in the basement is the doom and gloom voice of ruin that lurks deep inside my inner psyche.  I am often not even aware that this creepy voice inside me is talking to me.  So many times I catch myself arguing with some voice in my head that just loves pessimism and despair.  

Yesterday afternoon I went up on the wall to once again bask in the heavenly views of the Tuscan mountains and to chuckle at all the people around me who were out for a good time.  It must have taken me 20-25 minutes to gain the upper hand over the creep in the basement.  The thing that saved the afternoon for me was to encounter a blind man being helped around the wall by a sighted guide.  Here I was in paradise with spectacular vista of rich afternoon sunshine bathing the ring of mountains all around the city, and I was arguing with myself about some lunacy that upset me and wouldn't let go. Open your eyes, Dude.  There's a show going on and you don't even see it!  And you have 2 working, magical eyes.  Wake up and see what's there!

     

     

      Note to self.  Look around. Enjoy the view.  Give thanks.  Amen.

So, I guess what I'm struggling with here is the same thing we all struggle with most of the time.  Do I have the ability to enjoy what is right in front of me?  Or should I be angry that my world isn't perfect?

The battle continues.  But at least now I recognize the bad company inside me...and I'm learning how to be thankful for the good company that seems to find me all over the planet. And the Italians recognize my dilemma.  Meglio Soli che male accompagnati.  

That's my story.

And I'm stickin to it.

Dan

     

Indulge/Indulgence

I thought about this idea and I ran away from it immediately.  It really was a mine field of language twists and philosophy leaps that I thought would be impossible to explain.  But then the spirit with a spine took possession of my tablet and there was no turning back.  

Warning.  If you never experienced the "discipline" of going to a Catholic elementary school run by the good nuns of a half century ago, much of this will seem to be pure fiction.  But let me bring in a quote from a master of fiction...Mark Twain.  He wrote this about "Truth vs Fiction".  Twain said that truth is stranger than fiction because fiction ,after all,has to MAKE SENSE.   I'm going on a wild ride into Neverland and most of those reading this will not make it to the end without questioning my sanity.  I like to think of myself as sane...but then again...

Indulgence.  This is workable idea .  To indulge (the verb) and the noun form (indulgence) are common ideas.  To treat yourself/to enjoy a pleasure/to splurge.  We get that.  Still on safe turf.

Now let's go to Italy and go off the rails a bit.  

     

      This "Indulgence" is granted by his Excellency Niccola Ghilardi

I stumbled on this marble plaque on a small shrine to the Virgin Mary about 50 yards from my apartment.  I've walked past this small nook hundreds of times without stopping to examine it.  Usually there was a car parked in front of it on the street.  And I'm not a big fan of shrines to the Virgin Mary.  Never was.  Never will be.  That's just me.

If your Italian skills are a bit shaky, let me translate this inscription. According to "His Excellency, Nicola Ghilardi (Bishop?) of the archdiocese of Lucca(on God's behalf), will grant an indulgence (forgiveness/pardon) of 40 days to the faithful people who devoutly say Ave Maria  3 times here in front of the sacred image of the Virgin Mary.  That's it.  Just stop here.  Say Ave Maria 3 times and you get an automatic 40 days off your stay in Purgatory.  This is a way better deal than any cash back offer from Amazon!!  This is 40 days erased from your stay in Purgatory. Forgiveness for my sins! And there's NO LIMIT.  No strings attached.  That would mean a sinner like me can just stroll by this shrine as often as I want and repeatedly rack up 40 days off my punishment in the hereafter.  Let's do the math.  I walk past this shrine about 8 times a day because it's on my way into the center of Lucca.  8 x 40 = 320 days of indulgences every day.  If I stay here 60 days, on average, I can bank almost 55 years of indulgences per trip.  Now all my prayers about dying and going straight to heaven have been solved.  I'm just about guaranteed a first class ticket straight to the pearly gates.  There's no way St Peter can deny me entrance.  This offer is carved in stone in Lucca. I have the pictures to verify this.

Maybe the best thing I can do now is to try to give a bit of explanation about the Roman Catholic "story" about life after death.  In other words, what happens to our "spirit"/"soul" after we die.  The Catholic Church has spent 2 thousand years trying to explain this deep human question.  They did a pretty good job over the centuries.  They put their best theological thinkers on this problem and they worked out an elaborate system...a system which coincidentally paid them handsomely.  According to their explanation, the afterworld was divided into 3 parts.  The ugly part was called Hell.  This was a place of eternal suffering.  You didn't want that.  

     

      Hell as imagined by the Artist Botero.  Fire and Brimstone.

Then, there was the spectacularly beautiful place was called Paradise or Heaven, if you like.  This was a place of perpetual bliss.  Lush gardens, great weather, first class entertainment.  This is what was promised to the poor peasants who spent their lives in servitude(or to the holy warriors who joined the crusades).  

     

      This is much better.  Heaven, even for the plump.  By Botero.

But best of all, the Church then invented a middle kingdom.  This was a stroke of genius.  They called this middle kingdom, "Purgatory".  

Purgatory was a holding tank...sort of like the airport boarding area before you can get on the plane.  Purgatory was where you had to wait with a bunch of screaming infants and numbed adults for your turn to leave.  It was slightly better than hell, but you knew that once your sentence was completed you were finally allowed to go through the final gate.   Allah be praised.  

The church elders quickly realized what a winner they had with Purgatory.  Purgatory was the obvious destination of the vast majority of souls on the planet.  And for just a small " donation ", the church could grant an indulgence.  An indulgence from the church would shorten your stay in Purgatory.  And, of course, the bigger the " offering ", the better the " reward" from the clergy.  If you were to gift the Church with your substantial fortune at death, you would have no need to wait with the unwashed in Purgatory.  Head straight to your air conditioned cabin, sit down in a big reclining chair, and wait for an attendant to bring you a hot towel an a glass of Champagne.  There will be a Limo waiting for you to whisk you directly to Heaven's gate.

Some of you may know that a certain Catholic priest named Martin Luther was so outraged by the Church selling indulgences that he traveled to Rome to "protest" this grotesque extortion.  The Pope even granted him a meeting to hear his complaints.  But there was just too much at stake for the Church.  This was the church's gravy train.  And besides.  What was this nutcase going to do?  Go nail his protest letter on some Church door in Germany.  It'll never fly.  

The sad legacy of indulgences was that it lit the fuse that ignited 400 years of religious wars throughout the entire European continent. The Protestant Reformation exploded in the Pope's face.  And the simple role of indulgences changed history forever.  Nobody saw this coming, especially from inside the Catholic Church.  As far the hierarchy of the church was concerned, there was no controversy.  The Catholic Church decided to keep issuing indulgences.  The money kept rolling in.  And life here on earth and in the afterlife was just the way it should be.

So my job here on earth is to try to separate truth from fiction.  It's a constant battle.  But even if the the idea of indulgences is pure fiction, what have I got to lose by just uttering 3 Ave Marias when I walk past the shrine on the corner 8 times a day?  It's too good a deal to just walk past.  It's an offer I can't refuse.  Even if it turns out to be very far from the truth.

That's my story.

And I'm stickin to it.

Dan

Amici Bici

Italian businesses are very good at manipulating language in a very clever way to help customers remember a particular place in the universe.  They also will choose business names which can jump back and forth between 2 languages, usually Italian and English.  I subscribe to a real estate listing service called IDEALISTA.  It is such a wonderful combination of words, meanings, languages, and cultures.  How should I read this?  Is it " Idea + list" or is it "ideal + list" where you have to supply an extra letter to make the spelling conform to the rules?  Better yet, it is probably meant to have a double meaning so you can choose the meaning you like. 

Switching gears (no pun intended), my first business item after I recovered from jet lag was to buy a bicycle.  A bicycle just makes my life SO much easier here in Lucca.  So I WALKED out to check with an American owner/Italian resident of a local bike shop that I had met on my last trip here.  My first hope when I went shopping 2 months ago was to buy a used bike from a local shop that I could just use and lose if need be when I left.  That proved to be nearly impossible.  None of the shops wanted anything to do with selling a used bike.  They would gladly sell me a new bike right out of the carton, but nobody seemed willing to sell me a used rental bike from their stock because they would lose the rental income and they probably just didn't want the hassle of dealing with the repairs.  It was new or nothing.

The name of the shop I wanted was wicked easy for me and my feeble memory to cling to.  The shop was called "AMICI BICI".  It's a play on the sound of two Italian words..."Amici" which translates as "Good Friends" and "Bici" which is the short form of "Bicycletes"... bicycles.

Amici is pronounced  a-mee-chee.  Bici is pronounced Bee-chee.

So when these words are said together in Italian, they rhyme!  Smart. Something even I could remember.

     

       Easy to remember.  Amic Bici.  Good Friends/Bikes.

My luck wasn't particularly good as far as the weather was concerned.  It was steam heat for my first 4 days here in Lucca.  Daytime temps hovering around 105 degrees with not a cloud in the sky.  But my luck was much better when it came to buying a used bike.  Lori, the shop owner, had just taken in a good quality used bike as part of a sale for a new bike for an established customer.  I just happened to walk in a couple days after she got it in.  Total serendipity.  We agreed on a price.  I came back the next day to get it, and the rest is history... as we say.  

But wait.  There is more!

Lori wouldn't let the bike out of her shop until she made several upgrades. It really needed new tires so we agreed to put those on. Just add the tires onto the purchase price.  It also needed a replacement light on the front and Lori just happened to have a spare that she had salvaged from another bike in the shop.  She was unhappy with the old bell on the handle so she replaced that at her expense.  She didn't like one of the plastic hand grips so she scrounged around for a spare one that was more secure.  She adjusted the seat higher so it better fit me as I peddled.  And we added a wire carrying basket on the rear so I could take it shopping.  This is the final result of our (HER) work.  Elegant...it aint.  Practical it is!

     

        My new set of wheels.  Feel the wind in your face

Obviously, if this was just a little anecdote about buying a used bike, it would be kind of a useless waste of time.  But it goes much deeper. This little exchange is the essence of life in a community.  This is why we form relationships. This is why we try to get to know people.  This is what keeps me coming back to Lucca.  The bicycle is just a prop.  The real story is friends, not things.  I come back here because I know people here.  They know me.  We sort of don't need an introduction.  There is no need to negotiate.  I already know they need to earn a living.  They already know I will be an ambassador for them if they treat me fairly.  It's really very basic.  Let's work together for our mutual benefit.  Because, at the end of the day, we are going to meet again.  Lucca is a small place.  Life will be so much more pleasant if we cooperate.

     

       Bicycles.  Friends.  Maybe even a basket for fido.

Friends... Amici.

Bici... Bicycles.

How's about we sit down and have a coffee together.  I'll buy.  Next time it will be your turn.

That's my story and I'm stickin to it

Dan

     

Prague Reality. Tanya and Terezin.

There was no set agenda when I decided to go to Prague for ten days at the end of July.  I just wanted to hang out with Peter Lawson who is one of my favorite people on the planet and to hang out in Prague, which is one of the most delightful cities on the planet with some of the most delightful brew on the planet.  What's not to like?

As my mind starts to forget more than it takes in now, I had completely forgotten what a architectural smorgasbord Prague slaps you in the face with.  Mix in thousands of young Europeans who come for the great food, great prices, and great party atmosphere, Prague just explodes with raging hormones and people ready to have a good time.  So...let's enjoy the trip.

     

     Old Town Square in Prague.  Great fun.

If you dig just a little bit beneath the surface, though, you can easily find another Prague...one that is a lot more tragic than the German love fest that jams the bars and restaurants in front of you.  Prague sits in the middle of central Europe.  For centuries, it has not only been a cultural and artistic magnet but an easy target for any power crazed lunatic with an oversized army.  The Huns, the Russians, the French, the Austrians, the Germans, and now Vladimir Putin.  When Hitler wanted to annex the Czech Republic in 1938, the then British Prime Minister, Nevil Chambetlin just let the German SS troops walk right in and take the place over.  After all, why risk starting a war over some useless chunk of Central Europe? Surely he could trust a fine chap like Hitler to do the right thing in Czechoslovakia.  Just as long as he didn't bomb London, who cares?

And when Soviet tanks rolled into Prague in 1956, the Americans told the Russians how naughty they were to slaughter thousands of people on the streets.  Those naughty, naughty, Soviet boys, just out having a good time in their new tanks.  They should be more careful where they point their howitzers.  Someone could get injured!

So, when Russian tanks rolled into Kiev 18 months ago, the people of the Czech Republic had nightmares of Deja vu...all over again...as the great Yogi Berra used to say.  They had seen all this before and it was all to real for them.

Enter Tanya.  A refugee from Ukraine.  Home for her had been the port city of Odessa on the Black Sea.  But the Russian high command had other objectives in mind for Odessa.  Odessa was much too quiet and way too strategic to just sit there.  They needed to bomb the place to a pile of rubble so it looked more like Russia.  So that's what they did.  

Fortunately, Tanya had friends and family that insisted that it just wasn't safe to stay in Ukraine.  It took about 3 days and a lot of different means of transport to make it to the Czech Republic but escape she did.  

     

     

             Peter Lawson with his new "partner", Tanya

The situation for Peter and Tanya was fun.  Peter had lost his wife of more than 40 years, Blanka, about 19 months ago.  He met Tanya through a mutual friend in Prague.  One thing led to another, and soon they were living together in Peter's apartment.  Peter desperately needed someone else in his life and Tanya needed someone new as well.  Perfect match.  They repeatedly opened up their home to me and I was delighted to enter as a guest.  It was a great resolution to two people adrift who could find a new life together.  That's my happy part of this story.  Two disasters turning into one feel good ending.

Terezin was a different animal altogether.  Peter suggested that I should take a day tour to this place about 50 miles away because it was  " important ".  He was right about that.  He also warned me that it wouldn't be " pleasant ".  Right again.

Terezin is the site of an old fortified 17th century military fortress, with imposing red brick walls that reminded me of Lucca.  But the Lucca walls have been transformed into a public park.  The walls in Terezin were modified to act as a prison.  The Nazi occupiers used the structures in Terezin to hold and then transfer Jews and various political opponents to other " camps" with more remote locations and more recognizable names.  Places like Auschwitz and Buchenwald might be more familiar to most Americans.  But for hundreds of thousands of Czechs, they began their ugly descent into hell at Terezin.  

     

     The grave markers in front of the Terezin "camp"

Terezin was established as a model "camp" where the Nazi propaganda merchants regularly gave tours to Red Cross representatives to show how well the prisoners were behind cared for.  Modern clinics, social clubs, organized sports, work skills training, and so much more were shown off to the world in sanitized and staged demonstrations in the town of Terezin just down the road.  Happy prisoners living the "good life" in Nazi death camps.  

     

     The nearby town of Terezin was used to stage "The Good Life" experience of prisoners.  Note the sign for the Jewish

     Crematorium.  It wasn't that good evidently.

Most people confined to Terezin died from communical diseases like pneumonia because they were crammed into barracks and locked up together regardless of health conditions. 60-80 packed into a single room with 3-5 sharing a single wooden bunk with a sink and a few buckets that served as sanitation facilities.  

     

     It didn't take long for diseases to spread in a place like this

These modern reconstructions can't begin to recreate the horrific conditions that these people were subjected to.  It seems impossible to imagine how any person could survive this ordeal.  It seems even more impossible to believe how an entire world could just pretend it wasn't there.  

     

     This wasn't real was it?  Unfortunately, yes.

In order to make everyone feel good about an outrage like Terezin, the Nazi occupiers, made it seem somehow noble to be in the camps.  They wanted people to feel like their existence there had some noble purpose.  So they invented a wonderful German fairy tale about the glory of work.  Yes indeed, work was what would liberate prisoners from their captivity.  Work would set you free!  And I have the picture of the inscription that proves how liberating work can be.

     

     Just in case you didn't know... "Work Makes You Free!"

I came away from Terezin with a profound silence.  I really didn't want to talk to anyone when I got back to Prague.  It was just too much.  Later the next day, Peter called and invited me over for dinner at the apartment.  It was a good way to get me out of my dark mood.  After a fun meal and a trip out for a couple beers and some dessert, life was back the the beautiful Prague that people come to experience.  

You've got to move on and you have to lean on other people to keep your perspective.  

Fortunately, I had Peter and Tanya to bless the evening.

That's my story, and I'm stickin to it

Dan

    

     

     

.

Bob Dylan in Lucca. Highly Doubtful.

When I first saw the list of performers for the Lucca Summer Music Festival, I thought it was a hoax.  I couldn't think of a more unlikely concert than Bob Dylan in Lucca.  London...sure.  Paris...perhaps.  But Lucca?  It was just bizarre.  Why would Bob Dylan come to perform in Lucca?  So when the date finally arrived (yesterday), my curiosity had finally pushed me over the edge.  I packed a seat cushion from the apartment and headed out to the square just adjacent to the closed off seating area for the concert. I knew that this was a poor man's cop out for a real ticket but I just couldn't bring myself to spring $350.00 for a reserved seat.  I'm not THAT much of a groupie.  

     

.     Why did Bob Dylan choose to play in Lucca?  Strange.

     

       The stage for the Summer Festival in Lucca.

For the first 80 minutes or so of the performance, I was deeply disappointed.  Every "song"/" mumble" that he did was totally new and unrecognizable to me.  I got tired of standing behind the metal barricades and found a place to sit on a step nearby.  I was so proud of myself for having the good sense to bring a cushion.  

Then, strangely, Dylan's musicians and his own showmanship abruptly flipped a switch. The crew launched into a wonderful, bluesy, infectious set for the final 20 minutes.  The audience around me picked up on the vibe immediately.  All of a sudden people lost control of their feet, unable to stop themselves from tapping.  People around me started to dance because it just felt like the right thing to do.  The whole mood was one of joy and being one with the music.  It was one of those transformative moments that I can't describe.  It just "happened" The words being mumbled were meaningless.  It was the magic of the rhythm that was in control.  Why fight it.  Just smile and give your partner a hug.  

And then, just as suddenly as the music started, it just ended.  The lights came on.  The crowd started to file out in almost total silence like monks on their way to prayer, and I headed for home about 10 minutes away.  But wait.  The evening wasn't done with me yet.

It was still nearly 80 degrees outdoors. The city was still not ready to sleep.  The restaurants were teeming with people even though it was nearly Midnight.  Nobody seemed ready to call it a night. No reason to fight the rest of the local community.  I gave in to their common sense.  "Head for the wall" the voice inside me prodded.  Head for the wall.  Good move.

     

      Moonrise over Lucca about Midnight.  Totally unscripted.

I didn't order the moon to rise just as I got to the top of the wall.  It just happened.  Just a few yards along the wall, is the botanical garden in Lucca.  During the day, it's a relaxing place to stop and enjoy the peace of the grounds.  But at night they turn on spotlights to show off the trees on the inside.  I was really delighted by the surprise.

     

      Typical Lucca flair. Don't hurry past.  Sit down and savor.

Normally, I don't usually make the full tour of the wall but  this night wasn't normal.  So off I went.  The pace was slow.  The air was fresh and the aftermath of the concert was still at work.  God was trying to tell me something.

     

      The wall at 1:00 AM.  Still lots of people out and about.

So finally about 1:30 AM when I finally made it back to my apartment, I was ready to collapse.  But it was a good lesson that I took home with me.  I was reminded (as if for the 99th time) that music touches people in a way that words and pictures cannot.  Music is the thing that moves people.  Music is what Invigorates revolutions.  Music is what armies and sports teams use to push them forward. Music is used to access the most fundamental core of our being.  Music is nourishment for the soul.  Music doesn't need words, least of all from Bob Dylan.  I think he knows that.  It's why he still loves performing at age 82.  

Maybe he knew I'd be in Lucca this night.

Or maybe it maybe it was just a weird coincidence.  But for me, it was a happy coincidence.  

So that's my story, and I'm stickin to it

Dan

     

Sex & Toys in Italy

OK.  Now that I have your attention, let me be the first to disappoint.  This isn't going to be a tantalizing post about Italian sex toys.  You can find that with an extra Google search.  No this post today occurred to me two days ago when I went out shopping for a toy for Spencer, my 2 year old grandson.  I missed sending out a gift to him because I was here in Lucca when he turned 2 and I thought it would be better to find something fun for him here since the whole family was going to be here for 8 days in late June.  Easy solution, I thought.

Well, the week came an went and it ended up with no gift in hand (or luggage either).  I needed to fix this.  So as luck would have it, I finally stumbled into a toy store when it was OPEN.  You have to be here to understand how often shops are closed... especially the shops that sell nonessential things like children's toys.  If you want a bottle of wine or a mountain of sweet pastry, those shops are always open.  A SIM card for your phone or a replacement table lamp...be prepared to wait.  Here was a wonderful little toy store and it was open for business.  Allah be praised!

One thing that is delightful about European toy stores is how they offer so many high quality, mind expanding choices for young people.  Toys tend to be a bit expensive, but they are designed to last and to be timeless.  They are also designed to encourage creativity (think Lego).  In short, they are an investment rather than a distraction. They aren't intended to be thrown away after they break.  They are designed NOT to break.  

     

       Delightful toy store in Lucca.  10 feet wide. 40 feet deep.

     

      One item of everything on display.  Buy it if you like it.  They                  might not have another in stock!

So now, finally, we can start to talk about sex.  I promise.  The Italian word for "toy" is  "giocco".  According to the rules of the language, " "giocco" is Masculine.  Every noun in Italian must have a sex.  Oh boy, here we go.  Usually the spelling tells you immediately whether a word/idea is masculine or feminine.  The giveaway is normally the final letter of the word.  Words that end in "o" are "masculine".  Words that end in "a" are feminine.  So the word for "day"..."giorno" is obviously masculine because it ends with "o".  The word for "night" ..."sera" is obviously feminine because it ends with "a".  Hey, this is easy.  I can do this.

But wait. There is more.  Any adjective that explains the word must also agree in both sex and number.  Thus, we are required to say  "buon giorno"..." good day/hello" as the greeting in the early part of the day.  But things must change in the evening.  That greeting is "buonA sera"... because "sera" is feminine and the adjective must agree with the sex of the word in front of it.  Ok.  For me this is like trying to maneuver through a mental mine field.  Is "table" masculine or feminine?  What about 2 tables?/2 days/2 weeks/2 stars/2 dogs/2 bicycles.  Oh God get me out of this quagmire, NOW.  Why am I condemned to always deal with sex.  Maybe I should just leave.

As soon as I begin to speak, any native speaker of Italian knows I'm a foreigner.  Some will just let me struggle on in Italian.  Others, like the owner of the toy shop will just switch to English and save time and frustration.  So I brought my purchases to the cash register and she asked me if the items were a gift.  Yes they were.  Did I want them gift wrapped?  Yes again.  Was the gift for a boy or a girl? (The sex part)  One for a girl and two for boys.  Here is the final result.

     

     3 expertly wrapped gifts.  2 blue bows for boys.  1 pink for girls.

Yes, this is gender stereotyping.  Chill out.  I didn't invent Italian culture.  I'm just buying something.  But this wasn't intended to insult anyone.  It was meant to celebrate the diversity of life.  Sex is baked into the language and the culture.  I'm not going to change the language or the culture with my purchases.  I'm simply going to stuff these into my suitcase and move on to something much more important.  Like..."when am I supposed to meet my friend Sergio for coffee today?" And of course... "Is coffee masculine or feminine?"

(FYI...it's masculine)

That's my story, and I'm stickin to it.

Dan

     

     

You Can Trust Me, Trust Me.

I started writing down my travel experiences and sending them to my close friends and family members because one of my children asked me to do this.  So in a fit of personal pride, I agreed to keep a sort of travel log and to send out occasional short stories about what I was "seeing" and "doing".  It was supposed to prove, once and for all, that I really was somewhere else and I was actually experiencing the events that I was describing.  My travel narratives were evidence that I was spending my time " profitabily".  I was actually "learning" something.

People just had to trust me to tell them the truth.  But how could I verify what I was saying?  Oh I know.  I'll send photos.  That should convince even the toughest skeptic!  Nobody could doubt my reports if I sent " real" photos, right?  Case closed.

But hold on a moment.  Just because I send an electronic message and even if I include dozens of electronic images, how does that verify anything?  I could be making all this stuff up and sitting at home hallucinating all these "adventures", inserting some stock photos from the internet, and claiming that I was really experiencing these events.  People would just have to trust me to tell the truth.  After all, I wasn't some kind of huckster politician.  Right?  Wright.

About 8 months ago, I stumbled upon an art history series produced by the BBC called Perspective. It was kind of a lucky find because my nephew, Davis, had come for a 2 week visit to Lucca and he fell head over heels in love with Florence.  Florence was one of the places I really didn't Know very well and really didn't want to know very well either.  It was a city.  It was noisy.  And it was crawling with tourists (overrun is more accurate).  All the things that I wanted to avoid in Italy was what I saw when I visited Florence.  I started watching this program out of self defense.  I had to at least be able to carry on a conversation with him so I didn't look like the complete country bumpkin I was.  Hey I know a thing or two about Renaissance art, too.

As I learned a little, I started to mello on all the treasures that were strewn about all over Florence.  But much more importantly, I saw art from a totally new perspective.  For most Americans, art is a subject you take in school. You paint some primitive pictures of your surroundings.  You study a bunch of "Famous" paintings.  You pretend to enjoy going to a museum.  You learn a few cool terms like "Impressionism" and "Flying Buttresses" so you can go to dinner where they use real silverware.  And then, later, you can move on to Sunday Night Football.

One of the few things I actually retained from these wonderful presentations was that Renaissance art was a magical invention that allowed artists to make the impossible, possible.  Artists were able to show in graphic details, the unimaginable.  What was heaven like?  What was hell?  What did God look like?  What did all the hidden symbols mean? What did all the obvious symbols mean? How can you show a 3 dimensional vision on a flat piece of canvas? Art wasn't a course you took during the Renaissance.  Art was an integral part of life.  It was everywhere.  It was how illiterate people were able to make sense of the world around them.  It was their illustrated instruction guide for the universe.

     

     Here Satan eats poor condemned souls and then excretes them 

     Into hell.  Not all that much fun.

     

      A carved pulpit depicts the illustrated history of mankind. Indeed.

     

    A glorious illustrated hymnal from about 1400s with musical notes

     

     Paper sculpture of man on a tightrope.  Puccini's home is in the           background.  Lucca paper artists exhibition, 2021

     

      Street art in chalk.  Lucca. 2021.  This will be washed away by             the next day.

I think there might be a summary and or conclusion to this idle banter.  I think (or perhaps, I HOPE) that after nearly six years of traveling, mostly alone, maybe I have learned some important lessons that I probably wasn't able to accept in my past life.  Being alone for long stretches of time has forced me to look inside and to be a bit more honest with myself.  My months away from home base allowed other competing influences to seep into my soul.  I think I have learned to appreciate silence and to accept whatever was thrown in my path.  Tolerance was never my strong suit.  I wanted things to be the way I wanted.  Italy is great teacher for accepting what is.  You will never bend this place to your will.  The deck is stacked against you.  But, having come to grips with accepting what is, you can start to love why it is like this.  You can't speed this place up.  The best you can hope for is to savor the trip at half speed.  That way you can enjoy a leisurely stroll.  You can actually taste a $3.00 scoop of gelato.  You can sit in a cafe and just watch the parade.  You can gaze at the clouds for the first time.  You can learn the difficult art of patience.  And you can relish the thought that you were lucky enough to learn anything at all.  Maybe, just maybe you can even help others see what you have seen.  

I hope you can trust me about this observation.  It's been a hard won lesson.  Trust me.

That's my story. And I'm stickin to it.

Dan

     

a-MAZE-ing

Decades ago Paul Simon wrote a song where he says "When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, it's a wonder I can think at all".  Whenever I come to Italy, those words follow me like a stray cat.  Years ago, when I fist arrived here in Lucca, my local guide Sergio, took me to see the local Cathedral of St. Martin.  It's a fabulous old Renaissance building.  Monumental in size and stunning in it's acid trip decorations, the place was a bit overwhelming.  Sergio took the time to try to explain what I was looking at but it was a syssiphian task.  Words poured in one side of my head and then spilled out the other side just as quickly.  About the only thing that truly stuck was that this was a really big church with lots of art all around the place.  Now... Where can I get a glass of wine?

     

          Cathedral of St Martin in Lucca dating from about 1200AD

I like to tell myself that I sort of remember seeing the white marble carving of a labyrinth located on the right portico of the cathedral next to the bell tower in this photo.  I seem to have at least that much mental stamina.  But that's the end of the line for me.  

Curiously, over the long, long New England descent into darkness (also known as Winter!) I stumbled onto a fabulous YouTube video by a young Canadian architect who took up the challenge of explaining the complex nuance of 2 words we use interchangeably.  One of the terms is "labyrinth" and the other was  "maze".  The technical difference seems to stem from the objective of these 2 things.  Her explanation was that a labyrinth was often a religious construct.  The purpose of a labyrinth was to create a space which allows the user to wander on a meandering path with only one entrance and one exit but which is designed to lead a person on a SUCCESSFUL journey... a confusing and twisting path which doesn't allow the wanderer to get lost.  The idea here was that the person who started on the path would always end up back where they started but only AFTER encountering lots of confusing turns.  Thus many mideaval religious sites offered monks (and pilgrims) an actual space which was designed to be a physical experience of the path we must walk as we go through our lives.  If one had enough " Faith" and trusted in God, you would be successful in reaching a good ending.

     

               The marble carving of the labyrinth at St Martin Cathedral

On the other hand a "maze" was constructed with purpose of causing confusion.  Many ancient cities, especially those which were prone to invasions by hostile enemies, were designed to be traps with no escape. They were designed to be lethal.  There were no religious lessons involved.  A maze had a  life and death use.  Often death WAS the objective.  

I often wonder how I managed to live on this planet for three quarters of a century without understanding some crucial distinctions.  How many other things do I think I understand but I really don't.  Do I really understand how to use a TV remote control?  Do I really know how to eat in a way that promotes good health?  Can I really fix a leaky faucet without flooding the basement?  Can I really appreciate a beautiful day?  Am I able to look at a work of art and understand it?

I want to say yes to these things.  But I have a deep, dark feeling that I probably have HUGE gaps in my understanding of the universe and I'm just wandering around as if in a labyrinth when I'm actually trapped in a maze.

A-MAZE-ing

That's my story and I'm stickin to it.