Cause for celebration

It is finally over, nine months after the divorce went through. Two years after the separation. Finally it is totally over. We left the divorce still owning a condo that I had bought with money that was a gift to me from my parents. The promissory note stated that we’d work in the most expeditious way to sell the condo. From last April when the divorce went through, to September, there was a renter in the condo who was not cooperative about our efforts to sell it. Additionally my ex did not want to use a realtor. Meanwhile the advice I was getting from people in the real estate field was: It is very important to have a realtor in such a difficult market.

The day I got back from the pilgrimage (where I had done so much work to move beyond the heartache of the marriage and the divorce) I got a voice message from my ex about the condo. The problems with the condo dominated a ton of my energy from July until a few days ago. I resented having to jump back into financial discussions about the condo as soon as I got back from the pilgrimage. I was sick of owning it with him. It needed to sell, a) because the promissory note said so, b) because I needed to be released from the burden of financial discussions with my ex, c) because the market was (according to experts) only going to get worse. Yes, maybe it would get better in a few years, but I was not willing to still be tied to my ex for a few years. I was not willing to go through more headaches with more renters for more years.

In August my ex consented to using a realtor. The signed lease with the renter stated that a lock box may be used. However when I asked the renter if a lock box was OK for him, he went ballistic on me. He had guns and his behavior scared the crap out of me. (Just to show me once more how “DONE” I was with renters!)

He left, luckily, at the end of September and with the condo empty we had more of a chance of selling it. But two challenges remained. We had to cover the mortgage ourselves and we had to fix the place up. It was pretty clear to me that such a buyer’s market we did not have a good chance of selling it with the way the carpet and walls looked. After plenty of discussions with my ex about this, he consented to doing the work with me.

Two days after doing that work, I came down with the herniated disc.

We faced paying the full mortgage and HOA again in November and again in December. At my meager income level this was very stressful. We had more discussions about whether to try for renters or lower the selling price. I won’t get into details, but suffice to say, the discussions were no fun. I so wanted to just be released from all of it.

I saw my therapist and I said: “How can I truly get on with my life when I am tied to my ex and to this location because of the condo? I am 50% responsible for it. If we don’t get a buyer and need to rent it, I can’t leave this area. I have to be available to drive up and deal with things.”

My therapist said that I should not hold back on making plans, (like moving to Italy) because of the condo. He suggested that I make a decision to follow my heart, to step into the next phase of my life–whatever that looks like–and then see if the universe releases me of the condo.

I did that, and on New Year’s day an offer came in. Like a New Year’s gift. Of course then there was the stress of my ex and I getting on the same page with the counter offer. Then there was the great relief when the buyer accepted the counter offer. Then there was the stress of the inspector saying he thought there was mold. I then scrambled to get another inspection and to make sure there wasn’t mold. Then the buyer asked for a list of things to be fixed and my ex said he didn’t want to do any of them. I didn’t want to lose the sale. Losing the sale could mean more months of paying the mortgage in full. Better to spend a few hundred fixing things. In the end it was my realtor’s husband who offered to go in and do caulking and fix a door. I arranged for the furnace to be cleaned. I called HOA and the builders to see if they’d fix a buckle in the laundry room ceiling. I made endless calls daily. It was a good thing my classes at Front Range had not started yet.

Then came closing day. We were told the buyers funds were not in. We were told they’d be in for sure the next day and that my ex and I should go ahead and close. The next day we were told that the buyer’s son was “too busy” to get the wire transfer done. My anxiety was raised again. We were under contract until midnight that night. What did he mean he was “too busy”? All that day I called, or took calls, from the realtor and the title woman. Finally I was assured the funds were coming the next day. My ex and I had to sign an amend extent.

The next day the funds still did not come. I tried to breathe. Then I tried praying. For about 30 minutes I visualized the buyers at the title company. At the table, with their funds. With everyone happy. I brought my realtor a bouquet of flowers. I couldn’t imagine having got through all those stressful junctures without her.

By Tuesday my realtor was calling saying: “The nightmare continues. The funds aren’t in.” I thought I was going to blow a gasket.

Then the funds came in and my ex signed off on the promissory note, that I’d paid him in full. I needed to hand him my profit from the condo in order to give him the last piece of the buyout money from the divorce. I walked away with nothing. My ex got his half and my half. Out of my $30,000 that bought the place, I walked away with nothing, except nine years of stress and headaches with renters, and mess-ups that renters made that cost me a great deal of extra money.

The good news though, is that I am done. I never have to have another financial discussion with my ex. There is no price one can put on being released emotionally. The energy the condo took out of me in the past nine months since the divorce was immense. I now finally can put all that energy into manifesting the next phase of my life. Only now do I feel I can truly get excited about creating my authentic life.

 

My article in Council of Europe magazine

An article that I wrote about my pilgrimage appears in the December issue of the Via Francigena Magazine (The magazine of the major cultural route of the Council of Europe, published in Brussels.) The link below will take you to the part of the magazine where they have “testimonies” by pilgrims. The first one is by an American guy called Eric. Keep scrolling through and you’ll get to mine. To get there, click on the link Chandi_ViaFrancigenaMagazine

 

Lovely notes from my students!

This was the best semester I’ve had since starting to teach college 3 years ago.

As many of you know, I’m an adjunct, which means I’m paid horribly and don’t have health care. But at least I get these lovely appreciative notes from my students–without them there would be no reward. I really adored my students this semester!

—–Original Message—–
From: Keegan Parker
Sent: Wed 12/16/2009 12:06 AM
To: Wyant, Chandi
Subject: Western CIvilization Fall 09-Thanks

Dear Ms. Wyant,

I just wanted to write you a quick message telling you how much i enjoyed your class this semester. Having procrastinated for quite
some time, I finally decided to take Western Civilization. Of all my classes that I was taking this semester (4 courses), your class was
the most well taught and enjoyable. You showed wonderful commitment to your students in times of duress. The majority of your students were not sure what was going to happen after your back went out, and sure enough, you exceeded expectations and made sure that we all were taken care of. It is rare to see teachers with your passion of your subject. Its is refreshing to be taught by professors that match your effort and enthusiasm. Thank you for not treating us like just another semester of kids. All the best wishes. -Keegan Parker

—–Original Message—–
From: Gauthier, Benjamin
Sent: Mon 12/14/2009 2:13 AM
To: Wyant, Chandi
Subject:

Hi Professor Wyant,

Thank you for everything you did for us this semester. It was an amazing class and I learned a lot of new information that I did not know before. I loved your class and it was one of the best courses that I have had at Front Range. I would take your class again in a heart beat. Have a great break!

Thank you,
Ben Gauthier

—–Original Message—–
From: Adele Messenger Bouricius
Sent: Thu 12/17/2009 10:38 AM
To: Wyant, Chandi; Keenan, Catlyn
Subject: Thank you for the class

Hi Chandi,

CCing this to your Department Head, too.

I wanted to thank you for the amazing class– at the start of the semester, I was absolutely dreading taking a history class. I have really disliked every one I have had in the past, because they’ve all been about memorizing specific dates of events or people with no explanation of how they are related.

Then, on the first day, you told us that we’d be studying change over time, not a bunch of dead white guys– this really made an impression on me. That, and the way that you presented the material (tying different events together to give a sense of what a period was like, not just when X battle or X birth happened at X date; providing examples of present-day events that reference the ones we were learning about; etc.) *completely* changed my view of what a history class can be. I really found it interesting and even fun (something I never thought I’d ever say about a history class!)

Anyway, thank you very much– I would love to take another history class with you!

Adele

 

Why I hate the U.S. health care system

The other time I cried about this situation, it was due to pure physical pain. If I was not in major pain during the past month, I was able to keep my spirits up pretty well. But there’s one other thing that will make me cry, and that’s the U.S. health care system….at least when I am vulnerable as I am now, after a month of living with a herniated disc, and not being able to pay to get help with it.

What set me off was the visit to the orthopedic surgeon’s office. I expected the follow up visit to be included. I had paid over $2,000 for the shot. The doc wanted to see me for a follow up to assess the shot’s effectiveness. I was shocked to hear during today’s short appointment, that it was NOT included.

I couldn’t help it, I looked right at the nurse and said: “It needs to be included. I paid over two thousand dollars for that shot.” She looked a bit freaked out and said: “It is not global.” I didn’t know what the heck that meant so I said I’d take it up with the doctor. She said: “OK you can do that but she can’t do anything. The cost of this is determined by law.”

If a law if f___ed up, do you follow it?

When I asked the doctor about it she said she could not do anything to change the fee. She said it was not in her hands. She said: “The government is involved.” I wanted to say: “F__K this government who won’t take care of its citizens.” But I didn’t, I just cried.

Honestly, I have no idea what they mean by “its the law” and “its the government.” It seems to me they could see me for a 10 minute appointment for free if they wanted to– just squeeze me in and don’t put it on the books. If you have to charge me over two thousand dollars for the freekin’ shot, wouldn’t it be fair to include in that price the follow up? You guys really truly have no power at all and some “big brother” government is going to throw you in a dungeon if you give low income patients a little slack?

I told her that due to the acute peritonitis, I had not been able to work for a whole semester and since I only earn about $10,000 a year as an adjunct, that meant that this past year I earned only $5,000. I mentioned the cost of the shot she gave me and the percent of my salary that it was.

I HATED crying in front of this skinny blond doctor in her finely tailored outfit who looked not a day older than me. Here she was, with her big salary and her attempts to not be too empathetic. And here I was, with my below-the-poverty-line-salary, my 16 months of major health traumas, my divorce, and my lack of health care.

I could sense her using her doctor’s training, to not let a patient get too far into an emotional melt down. She did this tiny little “I know its hard” type of comment and then said: “But we need to talk about your back.” Of course she told me that I would benefit from another cortisone injection. I told her flat out I could not pay for it.

I kept thinking of the phrase that so many Italians used when I was last over there, talking to them about health care: “E’ un diritto umano.” It is a human right.

When the nurse said to me “Its the law.” I wanted to say: “Isn’t there a law about human rights too?” And when the doctor seemed to be saying that it was the government who created the charges, and not her, I wanted to say: “What about the hypocratic oath? What about simply taking care of someone?”

I DID make the point that I was not smoking crack. That I was highly educated, but hadn’t been able to get full time work with health benefits and I happened to have had multiple major health issues that kept hindering me from obtaining such a job. I felt it was better to focus on me than on making remarks to her or her nurse about human rights and hypocratic oaths, because I could piss them off and then I wouldn’t achieve anything.

Not that I achieved anything anyway.

The doctor gave me the name and number of the billing person. But I’ve been through that before. They’ll put me on a payment plan but they won’t reduce the fees. I just cannot stomach another cortisone shot at the inflated cost, and have to pay $20 a month for NINE YEARS to pay it off. It just PISSES ME OFF. What am I supposed to do? Fly to Italy to get the 2nd shot?

When I left the doctor’s office, I sat in the parking lot and cried.

 

Why I got the cortisone shot

Herniated disc story continued (see post below this one first.)

That first week I had to cancel my classes that I teach at the local community college. I tried to find substitutes but was not successful. The next week I still couldn’t walk very well and was still in pain. I found substitutes for my classes that next week but was extremely disappointed not to be able to teach for two weeks. For one, I enjoy it and I care about my students. I didn’t want to leave them in the lurch. Additionally since I am “part time faculty” I don’t get sick- leave. If I have to cancel or get a sub, my pay is docked. I was already at $700 out of pocket with the MRI and the doctor visit. Now they were saying I needed a cortisone shot and the cost of that was $1,300 for the shot and $800 for the doc. OVER TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. And I have no health insurance (again because I am “part time faculty”) and it is not like I haven’t tried, but a full time job as a historian is like finding a needle in a hay stack.

Now, people tend to have lots of opinions about cortisone shots. But when I was in that much pain I was willing to try anything short of surgery. There was one night, prior to the cortisone shot that was particularly bad. The nerve that was being pinched due to the torn disc, was sending pain down my left leg. This was getting worse into the second week. It got to a point one night where the pain in my leg was insane and the vicodin was not working. The label said I could take it every 6 hours. I am someone who doesn’t easily take drugs. I don’t know much about them. I had to make the executive decision that night to take one every 4 hours instead of 6. However, the vicodin only gave me relief for 2 hours at the most at a time. Therefore I had to deal with 2 hours of horrendous pain, at each interval, throughout the night. I had nothing else in the house to take, and I was alone.

I have a high pain tolerance. The docs in the Italian hospital said so. But psychologically, at this point, it is very hard for me to handle more extreme pain. The pain that night reduced me to tears. I honestly felt that I wasn’t going to be able to stay in my body if I had much more of that pain. The next day I knew I would try the cortisone shot. Even at the extremely inflated cost, which I could not afford.

It turns out, the shot made me feel way better. I was able to go back to teaching the next week. The students clapped when I came in on crutches. I love those students.

 

I’m back, with a herniated disc

I’m back! I have had to be absent from blogging for the past month due to a herniated disc.

Today, for the first time in a month, I am not in pain and I am walking almost normally! Whoo Hoo! It is very exiting to not be in pain!

Here’s what happened. I had the flu and I was inside, resting and taking herbal remedies and drinking plenty of hot water with lemon and honey. I was standing and my cat was on my office chair. I turned slightly to the right to pet him, my right arm reaching out a bit, toward my cat. Suddenly my back seized up and at first I thought it was going to just be a pulled muscle. Then I realized there was a sharp pain, which felt like something much more… but I had never hurt my back and I never would have thought I could have torn a disc, doing basically nothing.

It hurt that day, but I continued to think it would go away. That night I tried to get up to go to the bathroom. I was surprised that my back was making it really hard to get up. When I got to the bathroom and tried to sit on the toilet, my back would not let me. I was half way down, and couldn’t sit, nor could I straighten up. I hung onto the bathroom counter as a searing pain shot through my back. I told myself: “OK, this is painful, but just breathe and you’ll be fine.” I tried to breathe and relax but suddenly the room went dark, things were spinning, and as I passed out I noticed I was peeing. (Not to over share here, but I since I shared the inglorious details of my Italian hospital stay, I figure this situation is nothing new.)

When I woke up I felt the tile under my hand and I thought: “This is not my bed.” Then I noticed that the tile was wet. I realized I was lying in my pee on the bathroom floor. I wondered how my back allowed me to pass out and end up on the floor when it had not even let me sit on the toilet. Then I realized if my back was that bad, I might not be able to get up. The phone was downstairs. I was upstairs.

I don’t know how I got down to the phone. I remember none of that. I had to clear my brain and think who would be up at that hour. I was pleased to think of Phil. Out of all my neighbors (I live in co-housing so I know all my neighbors) he would be up and he would answer the phone. Thank God for Phil. He answered. He came right over. He found me standing in the living room, naked except for a shirt– a shirt covered in pee.

He got me into the shower and helped me clean off. He shoved a towel across the pee on the floor. Then he got me into bed. He sat for a moment by the bed, and felt my forehead. I remember him saying “Wow, you’re really sick!” and my reaction, in my head, was: Really? I don’t see this as sick. Sick is what I was in the Italian hospital. Yes, I passed out, and I might have a fever, but I am at home. I am not in a foreign hospital where the noise level, and the pain, is excruciating. I am at home, in my bed, I haven’t almost died. So I don’t see this as really sick.

Phil’s help, and my thoughts, were comforting. I slept. The next morning I couldn’t get out of bed. By mid-morning I was hungry. I spent ages calling neighbors, trying to find someone who could come over and give me some food. I reached Sheila and she said her boyfriend Ty would come over. He never showed up. Sheila ran in and gave me a cut up apple. She was too busy to do more than that. It wasn’t until 2:00 that I was able to get a proper meal. I reached Sarah who, in spite of having two young rambunctious kids, came over, heated up soup and stayed while I ate it.

Later that day I thought of Cynthia, a new member of the co-housing community who I had connected with. I called her and she came over and decided I should spend the night at her house. Her husband said: “Are you sure? She has the flu!” Cynthia replied “SHE CAN’T WALK!”

The next week was miserable. I barely get myself around the house and I was in a lot of pain. It was a few days before I obtained vicodin. My only bedroom and bathroom are upstairs. The food and ice-packs downstairs. Even if I could get myself down the stairs, I couldn’t stand long enough to cook. And I couldn’t bend to get the ice-packs. (My freezer is below the fridge.) I had no dedicated person. I spent a lot of energy (energy I didn’t have) calling people to try to get help.

Toward the end of the week my neighbor Ligia came over and called a handful of orthopedic surgeon’s offices to see who could fit me in. (I’ll just mention that Ligia started coming over almost daily, sometimes twice a day, always with food, and put way more effort in than any other neighbor. She’s the star here!)

The visit to the orthopedic surgeon led to an MRI which showed a herniated disc (same as a torn disc) of small to medium size. The orthopedic surgeon did not recommend surgery. THANK GOD. It would be really really hard for me to face another surgery after last year’s emergency one, and after only recently getting over the trauma that went along with it.

 

A day in the life: Living in Italy

A post about a day in the life of living in Italy (from when I lived in in a small village called Settignano, above Florence 5 years ago.)

I go to a pharmacy to get the schifoso liquid that I have to drink for the colonoscopy. I had been amused when my doctor used the word schifoso (disgusting) to describe the liquid. I didn’t expect him to be so blunt. He was describing the preparation process to me and when he got to the three liters of liquid I have to drink he said “Questa è la parte schifosa”. “Really?” I asked him, a bit horrified. “Yes,” he continued, “È schifoso”. “Is it the taste?” I ask him. “No, not the taste, it gives you diarrhea and you have to stay on or near the toilet for three hours.”

I buy the schifoso liquid and then I try to find a green grocer’s shop that is still open. It is almost 8:00 pm. I walk from Via dei Macci down to the volta and find one. It is one of those little shops where you cannot select the produce yourself. There are two people working, each occupied with customers. I watch as an elderly man announces to the proprietess the first item he wants: “Fragole” The woman uses a stepstool to reach the box of strawberries. She lifts the box down and then begins to place small handfuls of the berries into a plastic bag. I watch the other shopper being helped. The man helping him greets him by name. The patron names the first item: “Pomodori” and not until the bag of tomatoes is filled does the helper ask him “poi?” (next?). The next item is named. Meanwhile the woman has finished filling the strawberry bag for the other customer. She places it near the weighing machine, turns to the shopper, “Poi?” He thinks for a minute, then, “Zucchini”

My feet are aching. I stand shifting back and forth, marveling at the indolent pace. Finally it is my turn. I name the first item: “Carrote” “Quante?” the man asks me. “Cinque piu´ o meno” I answer. They’re deposited in the bag and the bag is placed by the register. I anticipate the familiar “Poi?” and name my next item. Once my groceries are paid for, I step into the cobbled pedestrian street, the small plastic handle of the flimsy bag quickly becomes sweaty and uncomfortable and I wish I had my backpack.

I push towards the bus stop on my aching feet and wonder why I’m not in tennis shoes. In Piazza Ciompi I wait 10 minutes for the electric C bus when a stout elderly woman with ankles pouring over black-heeled pumps asks me if the C bus has passed. No, I tell her, I am waiting for it. She asks if another will pass since it is after 8:00 pm. “Oh, the bus doesn’t come after 8:00?” I ask.

“Smettono alle venti” (They stop at 20:00), she says and my heart sinks. I am feeling decidedly weary. The woman begins to ask everyone in the street if another C will be coming. The A bus pauses briefly and she asks the driver, he says one more C should be coming. We wait 5 more minutes but when another A passes and no C we give up.

I run through the bus routes in my mind to figure out a solution. I realize I can walk to Piazza Beccaria and take the 12 to Campo Marte, cross the bridge over the station to a stop where the 10 to Settignano passes. I hike up to Piazza Beccaria, cross the busy viale and wait 15 minutes for the number 12. I have now waited more than 30 minutes and I am not even at the stop for the number 10 yet. Once on the number 12, a man in a dirty trench coat who is talking to himself shuffles slowly in front of me as I stand up to get off. I think he is going to get off but he stops and blocks my way. I can’t get past him and the bus moves on. I am almost too weary to walk to the front of the bus and say something to the driver. But I am glad I do as he takes one look at my face and kindly says “Vuoi scendere?” (You want to get out?).

“Posso?” My voice is quiet but pleading. I explain that the matto (mad man) blocked me. The driver throws out the ubiquitous Italian phrase “Non ci sono problemi” (no problem) and slows to a stop, not minding that he’s not stopping at a proper bus stop.

With my heart a bit lighter I step off the bus and climb up the rickety bridge over the station. On the other side, I read the schedule at the bus stop: a number 10 passed 8 minutes earlier. Another isn’t due for 45 minutes. It has gotten dark. The poor excuse for a sidewalk is less than a foot wide between the wall and the road. I lean against the wall and wonder if there is any way to get to Settignano other than wait in this dismal spot for 45 minutes. I am in a strappy dress. Cars with male drivers slow down to look and honk. I am too tired to be embarrassed.

When I finally get home I have to shower before I can even think about cooking. The erratic shower comes out in a dribble.

 

The perfect kiss

OK, that’s pathetic, I did only one blog post in September. I am not writing about the pilgrimage any more on the blog because I am working on the book about it. As far as my personal process I feel very much “out of the woods.” I am stepping into my new life but I haven’t wanted to write about it yet. Therefore, I’m going to do some posts about the Italy of my past. Afterall, this blog is about “Italian Dreams”!

This one is called “The Perfect Kiss” What’s been YOUR prefect kiss?

The July sun pulses through the cobbled streets of Florence. At night we surface in our skimpy dresses when the air turns gentle. The beautiful boys and girls emerge; double up on scooters, and clutter the entrances to gelaterie. Girls with shiny manes and tiny skirts hang on to boys who straddle their scooters like young Marlon Brandos with their rich tans and ubiquitous cigarettes.

Rosa, who the Italians call effervescente, is at my side. I see the boys out of the corner of my eye, as we enter the piazza. They lean against a stone façade of a bar. I note their wavy black hair, their carefully selected Saturday night shirts, their beautiful Florentine shoes. I hear the sexy sound of their voices. I am aware too, of Rosa and I, and our lissome bodies moving under our thin summer dresses; of the way our long honey-colored hair floats in the night like incense.

The boys, who I doubt are more than 20, call out to us.
“Siete stranieri?”
Rosa and I shout “Americane!” over our shoulders. We lift our heads and stride into the piazza like two fillies stepping out of a barn, ears pricked forward, taking in the sights and sounds of the sultry Italian night.

The boys trail after us.
“Dove andate?” they call, “Venite qua!”
We laugh and wave, feeling like movie stars.

We trek up the river to the dicso. On the outdoor dance floor we merge to the middle of the crowd as the song of the summer spins out its lyrics under the Tuscan stars.

Two young men come close to us—long legs in faded jeans and dark eyes under thick brows. I nod yes when Marco asks if I want a drink. We chat in Italian, I learn he’s a carabiniere.

Marco and his friend give Rosa and I a ride home. They drop Rosa off first. Then we drive to the edge of the center. The car is not allowed down my street so Marco’s friend parks a block away and Marco walks me down the narrow, empty via to number 4.

My back is against the chunky palazzo wall. My hands behind me feel the stone, smooth and cool. I look up at him and laugh. And then he kisses me.
“Sei stupenda” he says, and indeed I feel stupendous. He and his kiss and the two-in-the-morning medieval street: Tutto stupendo.

It was the perfect kiss and the sexiest night, with my last Italian.

Marco was my last Italian before I did something I perceived as “sensible” and married a placid American. And when I pull up the memories of that night, I feel the unrequited desire, not only for a carabiniere named Marco, and for his perfect kiss but also for the life in Italy I saw in front of me that night, which I thought would be mine.

 

A rich birthday

So, I read this comment on grief the other day and it reminded me of why I did what I did on my birthday recently.

“As the grief diminishes, it is tempting to wave it goodbye, only to have it return and feel loss and desolation as birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas celebrations come around. It is like a carousel, which circles us, with varying degrees of intensity and distress.”

I wasn’t going to have another sad birthday. Last year I was sick on the couch, having recently returned to Colorado from the nightmare in the Italian hospital. I was still very ill, and I was facing entering into the acute phase of the divorce. The two birthdays before that, I was on the road to separation and thus did not spend those birthdays with my husband. But after so many years with him, I looked around and wondered what the heck to do for my birthday and who to spend it with. While I did spend those birthdays with people I care about, there was still a definite underlying sadness. The sadness wasn’t exactly about the struggle with my marriage, it was more that I knew I was not where I wanted to be in my life. I was in a limbo place, separating from him and from what was, but not yet stepping into a new life. I felt alone. And it wasn’t a good feeling to have on a birthday. That happened for two birthdays in a row and then came last year’s…. sick on the couch from sepsis and a horrendous case of pneumonia. It hurt to breath. It was hard to climb the stairs to the bathroom. I still had major yeast problems from the weeks of intravenous antibiotics. And I was about to file for divorce.

This year’s birthday came around and it seemed I had no one in Colorado I could really count on. My friends seemed very wrapped up with their own lives. I was not going to have another sad birthday. So I got a sub for my Friday class, flew to California, and went with my parents to the cabin in the Sierras that my parents own. I grew up going to this cabin every summer. It has always been one of my most favorite places.

Being up there was so deeply nurturing that I wanted to stay for weeks. The Forest Service had ordered us to change the color of the trim on the cabin windows. I loved painting with my dad in the morning and then swimming each afternoon with my mom. The lake was unusually clear… the September light putting a golden glow on the green water. It was wonderful to be outside everyday and not in front of a computer.

Once, when my mom and I got back to the cabin after a late swim and the air had turned cold, we jumped into the outdoor shower together. We suddenly looked at each other and said: “Hey last time we were in a shower together was in the Italian hospital!” We giggled about the crazy hospital shower that flooded the floor, we recalled the nurse’s reaction and we laughed. It was good to laugh with my mom about an experience that had been rock-bottom traumatic for us both.

I realized that’s all I wanted for my birthday. To be at the cabin, to help my dad paint and to laugh with my mom. Nothing could have been richer for me.

Link to the post about the Italian hospital shower

 

The “wild beast” woman

On the fourth day I faced one of the hardest parts of the route: Steeply up the Apennines. I had been walking 5 hours when I came to the village of Castello di Casola. It was 1:00pm, a perfect time to stop for a trattoria meal. I knew the village to was too small and too remote to have a trattoria but I hoped there might be a little grocery store. I asked the first man I saw and received the response:

“Non c’e’ niente qua. Deve andare ancora quattro kilometri.” (there is nothing here, you must go another 4 km.) At that point, four kilometers may was well have been the other side of the moon. I needed sustenance NOW. I sunk wearily to a bench at the edge of the village and drank the last of my water. An old woman with a wooden pole walked slowly toward me. I began to chat with her and she sat on the bench next to me. She called me “cara” and was quite upset that I was alone. She kept telling me there were bestie (wild beasts) in the woods. The only wild animals I could think of, that I might encounter in those woods were vipers and wild boar. I figured I could handle that risk. It wasn’t like I was walking alone across the Kenyan plains.

She asked me who would know if something were to happen. I told her I had a cell phone. I told her that other pilgrims had done the route alone. Nothing assuaged her. When I tried to steer the conversation to another topic, she reverted to warning me of the bestie. She kept saying “cara, non puoi farlo da sola, non puoi!” (dear, you cannot do it alone, you cannot!) I found myself laughing when she brought up the bestie for the 5th time. It was not like me to laugh when I am supposed to be polite to the elderly. I wondered if I was light-headed from the heat and from the lack of food. Was I dehydrated? Why was I giggling?