A Plague of Noise

Why has it become impossible to find a café, restaurant, bar, clothing boutique, elevator or garage that is not blaring some awful non-music noise?  Even at 9am in the morning my local coffee source is playing the mind numbingly monotonous sounds usually requiring a ghastly price in the front row of a fashion designer’s runway debacle.  If you ask them to turn it down in aid of conversation, the principle activity in these places until the stoned adolescents arrive around 8pm, they turn nasty and look at you like a turd in the punch bowl.  It might be tolerable to listen to, say Ray Charles, at this volume but it is currently impossible to find ACTUAL       MUSIC being played.  Since the median age of tourists is certainly over 40 (here in Italy it is probably over 60) and they have spent an increasingly huge sum of money to see an idealized version of our locale, why would anyone think these folks want loud, stupid AMERICAN music played so loudly it precludes normal speech?  Not to mention that the entire population of those under 35 now wears ear buds 24/7 and is living in their own universe anyway.  On my first visit to Europe in the dawn of time – 1965 – I was charmed to hear local versions of our American rock and roll and jazz but also to find the French form, or the German style or the Spanish take.  But it seems that now the music has consolidated into an international drek with no discernible identity.  AND IT IS ALWAYS TOO DAMNED LOUD!   I have even seen the barrista at my downstairs bar actually shooing away the gypsies who play – in truncated and bad form – the clichéd Italian standards which were actually written for the Godfather movies, parts one through nine.   I have heard it said that there are more deaf people under the age of 65 than over now that earbuds are part of the dress code.  I believe it.  I just wish that those of us who can still hear could be left to talk in an environment permitting same.  

How I met Salvatore

On Easter Sunday I wanted to see part of the crazy exploding cart thingy that is traditional in Florence.  This tall pagoda-like structure is covered with fireworks of all kinds and pulled to the front of the Duomo by four giant white oxen where a flying mechanical dove ignites the fireworks.  A spectacular display is said to insure a great harvest or good luck or something.  I only wanted to see the oxen up close.  So I walked over to the cart’s garage and met friends and scoped out the beasts.  Magnificent and huge and festooned with flowers.   After 30 minutes of my gawking, the parade of flag throwers and drummers and gun toters and flowery maidens moved off in the direction of the Duomo.  I began my walk back to the apartment to prepare Easter luncheon.  At the Ponte alla Carraia, I saw that I could sit on the river wall and watch the parade, so I did.  It was all very festive and Buon Pasqua was said by all.  A group of people came across the bridge from behind me and I thought I saw someone I knew.  He looked at me.  I looked at him.  He passed by and immediately circled back to talk to me.

“Are you Florentine” he asked.

“No, Americana” I said. 

“Americana, Americana?” he asked, since many Americans are of Italian heritage. 

“Americana, Americana” I said. 

“Di dove sei?”  Where are you from? 

“California, but I live here.”

“Where?” 

“In Piazza Santo Spirito.”

“IN the Piazza?” 

“IN the Piazza.” 

He said he went there all the time to drink the water from the fountain since it was so good. I said well, I sit in the piazza most days and drink coffee from 10 to 12.  Then he asked me if I liked to dance.  Sure, I said since I do.  Would you go dancing with me?  Sure, I said since I thought it would be completely safe to be in a public place with a man I did not know.  Do you smoke?  No.  I am a little deaf on the right side, he said.  Me too, I said.  He couldn’t pronounce my name let alone spell it so I put it into his phone and took his number.  And then I went home to make pranzo for 10 people. 

He called me later to be sure I really meant it and I said yes I did.  And then he sent a text about 9pm wishing me Buona Notte.  Very sweet.    The next morning was Pasquetta which I thought would be normal but in fact it was even more of a holiday than Easter.  He came at 10 and we went for lunch.  Not finding a cheap restaurant open that day, we bought  food and went to my place to cook.  After lunch we went on a three bus ride to a neighborhood west of the city.  We walked  into a small courtyard between two long narrow buildings:  half of one side was a small bar with everything from coffee to gin.  On the other was a card room with all of Martin Scorsese’s uncles and grandpas, dark coats and slouch hats and all.  I felt like I had walked into one of his movies.   When we entered the other narrow building, we found at least 50 men and women dancing around in a circle to a live musician.  They were all of about the same age as me and Salvatore, in ties and coats and spangles and heels.  The music was a mix of traditional Italian songs, modern pop music and rock and roll covers played by a single guy on a wild assortment of acordians, trumpets, trombones, piano and drums to the accompaniment of an electronic backup group. 

Salvatore turned out to be a great dancer.  He circled me around the floor and grinned and smiled and laughed as we learned to dance together.  He chucked my cheek and kissed his fingers.  He talked in a low graveley voice about my occhi azzurri (blue eyes), he  introduced me to his friends, all women, Carla with orange hair, the two blond sisters with the huge breasts, the siciliana.  All women!  They all said “C’e’ un buon uomo”, this is a good man.  He is.  I was completely smitten.  I still am.  Salvatore describes his first sight of me as a “colpo di fulmine” a lightning strike, love at first sight.  It is very romantic and I am very happy.

Bocci

We took the bus number 31 to the end of the line.  It was going to be the 10 but we missed it.  So “cambiamo il programma”.  It took us to Grassina, a small suburb of Firenze where he wanted to see the cemetery.  He made me promise that I would bury him there.  But we were hungry when we got there and so ate pizza with anchovies and pasta with bacon and pecorino.  After lunch we walked back to the center to the “Casa del Popolo” the community center found is nearly every neighborhood.  These are often large and well equipped senior centers with a bar, a dance hall, game rooms, a garden with outside seating and lots of anziani.  At this hour of the day it was all men.

I said “where are all the women?”  He said “at home, cleaning, making lunch.”   Grrrr.  Typical Italian, women doing all the work.  We wandered around, peeking in the rooms, eventually out past two very busy card tables under the trees.  Beyond was a shed roofed open sided structure with a crowd of men at the sides watching a bocci ball game.  The ancient roof beams and weathered pillars covered a clean swept, slightly dished surface edged with wood and capped by troughs at each end. 

We sat to watch just as one of the teams of four rolled a ball to within 4 or 5 inches of the target, a pink rubber sphere the size of a golf ball.  Two balls seemed to be the same distance from the target so a measurement was required.  A stalk from a broom was cut to fit the space and used to determine the winner.  The winner collected several coins.  A toss of the target and they began again. These vigorous old guys, short, mustachioed, all in jeans, windbreaker vests and athletic shoes, were able to roll the most amazing curves, esses and arcs that stopped on a dime, or straight shots with deadly accuracy, or throws that rolled up the side inclines, circled through the other balls to land practically on top of the target.  Incredible.  Only the 8 were playing.  Another 15 or so watched and chatted and commented.  We sat outside the shed on a bench under the trees.  The language was a dialect that Salvatore didn’t recognize.  The fall day was cool but sunny, the shouts of a football game and the gurgle of the river nearby;   the chatter and laughter of the men a rolling, bubbling comfort.             

Warming Up

Well today felt like the first day of spring. The flea market was in the square and a multitude came to see the crapola on display. It was finally warm, at least in the sun, of which there was a goodly amount. I came out early, despite a late night at Nikkie’s for dinner with the lovely Ennio and Stefano who walked me home, to find Novella had returned from her getaway weekend to Kenya with fancy man Chicco. She brought her six year old with her, the adorable Tappo (which means cork as in bottle stopper) who lugged along a grand bag of treasures which he proceeded to spread along the pavement and sell like all the others in the piazza today. We coffeed and watched as generous local ladies perused the cars and key chains he had to sell. He actually sold quite a bit. Not really sympathy sales but close.
After a browse, we ended up on the church steps soaking up the sun, which has been sorely missed these last months. All the spaces on the steps ended up filled so the denizens were a bit cramped. Janie’s crew arrived after a mass and blessing, not hard to find around here. More browsing. I found some little plates for a sensible price which I had sought for weeks in order to serve tiny dolci, the best kind. Janie found the EXACT piece for her bedroom to hold the TV and maybe socks and underwear. Random visitors were greeted. I went off with Doran to see a trendy furniture show in the former military fort. Nice contrast. More browsing, with wine. More people in the piazza than at any time all winter. Duh. Lots of tripe sandwiches were sold plus honey, cheese, oil, wooden things, books, pottery, picture frames, incense, purses, African masks, 50s jewelry, old shoes, furniture, bed spreads, candied fruit. Everything. One of the best parts of this adventure is to be so close to the action. With the advent of the nice weather and the tourist season, it’s only going to get better.

Italian Bus Incident #67

Well, I have had rather a mess to deal with: my wallet was pinched out of my purse Monday afternoon around 2pm. For whatever idiotic reason I went to inquire about a job opening for which I was totally unqualified since I DON'T SPEAK ITALIAN! (in my defense, they asked only about madre lingua English which of course, I am/have/can/do/whatever.) So I was on my way home on the #6 bus and it was really jammed and well, you know. But I was in a hurry because I had an appointment with a plumber to fix my caldaia because it shut off on Friday afternoon - when it snowed 2 inches - so I was without heat or hot water all weekend so I slept on Janie's couch rather than brave the 12 degrees in the apartment. I was out of cash and had no money for the plumber so I hurried to the bancomat and that's when I discovered the theft. I screamed and swore and attracted undue attention (screaming old lady, nothing to see here, move along). And the fucker cancelled anyway! So I called Sonia (la proprietaria) who was not pleased because I have had to call her 4 times about this and she thinks I'm an idiot because it is usually just the pressure has gotten low (except none of the people I know have this problem with their heating equipment) so she called the tecnico but said he had "un sacco di chiamate" because of the minus one cold so I lose hope. But when I get home the first plumber calls and says he's arriving so I call Nikkie to translate and front the cash. He comes, pushes one little button (WHICH I PUSHED!! ah, but not long enough) and voila, hot water and heat. Curses. I am an idiot. And then we wait until Nikkie arrives with the cash and translates my million questions while I'm making a list of who to call to cancel all the cards and get info about a new passport. And then the OTHER guy calls twice but my phone is dead and the charger is at Janie's but she's waiting in line at the quaestura in -1 degrees (the twit!) because she just HAS TO HAVE her permisso di soggiorno, and I can't get my charger. And then the tecnico actually arrives and we have this awkward two plumbers dance until Nikkie learns that the second guy is really a caldaia specialist so plumber number 1 (P#1) gets 20E and goes away and the other guy tears the boiler apart for an hour and Nikkie goes home leaving a dinner invitation for later. Eventually plumber number 2 (KB: "Tutto bene?" P#2: "Speriamo!" = let's hope) goes away planning to mail a bill (WHICH SONIA WILL MOST DEFINITELY PAY!) and I spend the next three hours calling everyone I need to to keep from having my credit ruined and a billion bad charges on my cards. So I eat with Luca and Nikkie and regale them with the Karma of Kimberly stories and they lend me 50E so I am not totally green. Yesterday at 8 am I went to the consulate (Ma signora, aperto alle nove) with filled in forms and documents of all kinds (thank dog I had copied all the cards in my wallet before we went to Poland) but am sent home to make an appointment online for today, which I do. And then in the afternoon I went to UniCredit to cancel the bancomat card and get 300E out of my Italian bank so I can feel normal and buy coffee. Almost. I still don't have any ATM or credit cards. Today I hit the consulate at 9, am nearly stripped naked, relieved of anything sharp or shiny to stand in line while hapless Italo-Americans plead for succor over lost/stolen/incomplete/forgotten/whatsits. Eventually I submit my supremely efficient materials and learn that I will get a fully valid passport which will save me at least $850 because I won't have to change flights or shovel out cash for an expedited passport which is fundamental to the whole stupid reason I'm going back. And this adventure only cost me $100. Today I went to see the Carabineri to make a "denuncia" (sounds like some Emile Zola j'accuse! thing requiring black balls and pointing). I managed the whole thing in Italian without sounding too stupid, (well except for getting ripped off on the bus for god's sake) Great.
As for Christmas: I am invited to dinner with Nikkie, Luca at Gabriele's who is squatting at the home of Birgitta (she's in Burkino Faso. Burkina Faso?!!?) We will have traditional Christmas Eve fare: tortelloni in brodo. On Christmas Day I will have The First Annual Orphans' Christmas Feast and Gift Exchange. If they all leave on time, I am invited to Fawn's for family Christmas that evening at her Mother-in-law's and I will have a party on 31st here. I am grateful for my friends and hoping to see the ones in Berkeley when I get back. Can I camp at your place occasionally?

Italian Snow

   
It's snowing in Florence. The weather service has been threatening us with snow all week but tonight it finally arrived. I went to dinner with Nina, Kathy and Janie in the center and after a lovely long meal we emerged to find a squishy storm in progress. It is wet and sloppy and turns to mush on the streets but the car tops are white and the blobs fall slowly to the pavement. The Ponte Vecchio, set up for, of all things, a golf driving event (they hit ‘em into the river?) provided a lovely view of the bridges in the strange light that snow provides. We skated and slid to our neighborhoods. In mine I was assaulted by snowballs from the local hangers-out who destroyed my umbrella completely with several well places missiles. I wandered through the piazza wondering at the snowy trees and shrubs which no doubt look much more fabulous in the dark than they will in the cruel daylight. The frequenters of the bar downstairs were admiring the collapsed umbrella over the outside seating, finding it the source of ammunition for another round of snowball attacks. I made it inside in time to remain mostly dry.
It doesn’t snow often in the city itself so the inhabitants are mostly incompetent in the snow. But in the suburbs, especially those in the ridges around the city and further out in the real hills, the snow can be really deep and the equipment to cope is often not adequate. So things kinda slow down or even stop when it snows. Not unwelcome by me, but I suppose if you have to work, it’s misery. When dawn breaks we will see what the world looks like with this new application. Last time there was a good snow storm, the hills were really beautiful.

Knee Repalcement, Part 4

I arrived at The Hyatt Residence (http://www.hyattclassic.com/go/palo-alto.html) on the Saturday following my surgery. I had a nicely decorated private room with TV, armoire, visitors chair, carpets and drapes and a lovely large bathroom (including an accessible shower). It was much more like a hotel room than any hospital room I’d even been in. The requisite adjustable bed was there with call button, reading light and that panel with connections for tubes and wires as a headboard. The whole place was carpeted and nicely decorated with pictures and real flowers. There was a TV room for meeting with visitors and a patio and garden that were beautifully planted. This facility was the ultimate level of a four level senior residence. Most of the other patients in this building needed fairly high levels of care. But there were also several like me who had just had a knee replaced and needed help for a week or so. One of my fellow victims had had BOTH done! That’s brave!
We got vitals monitored and medications delivered and mobility assistance and physical therapy and pretty good food delivered (until you can make it to the dining room). The first full day, Sunday, the OT got me into the shower which was a blessing even if it was strictly forbidden according to the doctor’s instructions (they are REALLY concerned about infection because it is the worst problem). We wrapped me up good and I shampooed and felt completely renewed. On Monday PT began and I was really surprised and pleased at how well it went and how fast I could progress. I used a walker most of the time because you really don’t feel confident about where that new knee thing is going at first. BTW, you don’t use a walker like a shopping cart with it pushed out in front of you as you see most of the time; it’s supposed to be right next to your hip so you can walk upright normally.
The hardest part of the rehab is trying to lift your new knee leg with the muscles of your thigh. It hurts and even if it doesn’t, it’s nearly impossible. Also, no heroics with the meds. Take the pills!!! People don’t get addicted to these things if they are just trying to keep the pain away. And pain relief is critical if you are going to work hard enough to make PT pay off. After my PT sessions I was strapped into an electric contraption that bent my knee for me for a couple of hours to keep it from stiffening up. And of course they ice the knee frequently to reduce the swelling.  I could go up and down stairs the first day and took a walk around the garden the second. I looked for a place to use my computer right away and found to my delight there was wireless in my room. I was urged and had no trouble taking a walk around the facility several times a day. People came to visit and I watched a lot of TV. (Italian TV is just gross so it was kinda nice to watch news and stuff without wiggling floozies.)
By the end of the week I was fully capable of fending for myself so my brother and his wife came to get me and I went north to stay at his house for the rest of my recovery. I used the walker to get in the door and except for a few trips to the bathroom, never used it again. Terry lent me a cane and I was able to walk three blocks home from the first session of PT in the clinic near their home.