Tales of a wandering lesbian

Have you read the book “The Alchemist”? Several people have been telling me to read it for a number of years. On my trip home to Idaho before I struck out to Italy, my sister handed it to me. It was one of those rare moments when I decided to do a bit of reading for pleasure. After the first chapter I realized that I’d tried to read the book before.  That time I ended up putting it down somewhere, where it stayed. This time, however, the book grabbed hold, and I spent the next day absorbed in it.

Somewhere toward the end, the boy in the story makes a deal with his heart, that if his heart would stop protecting itself by making him fearful of everything, he would listen to it, and really hear the messages it was sending.

I liked that idea very much, so I made the same deal with my heart. If I could be released from the daily doubts that cluttered my heart, I would listen to the little voice that whispers advice. So far it’s worked fairly well. The crippling self-doubt I’ve felt in the past is, for the most part, gone, and I’m listening and hearing. Sometimes, however, the little voice needs to yell a little to be heard over the excitement that can distract me. Today was one of those days.

My friend Franca , who is the regional secretary for the largest labor union in Italy, invited me to attend the sindacato manifestazione. Best I can tell, it’s a million person rally in Rome for the rights of workers (constitutionally guaranteed). Coolness. But a little voice wasn’t so sure. Damn. Really? But it’s a huge political rally IN ROME! I put in motion plans to go. I asked Franca for details and looked up the train schedule while cooking lunch. I’d meant to ask my friend Frank for his thoughts about the rally, but hadn’t. Maybe I’d do that in a bit…

When you’re tasting tubular pasta to see if it’s done, make sure there’s not scalding hot water hiding inside. This is a good tip, and one I shouldn’t have needed. The hot water shot into my mouth and onto my lip and chin, painting a great red stripe down my face. Damn. That sucked.

The pasta wasn’t done, so while I let it boil a bit more, I went to take care of a stray whisker (yup). I reached into my bag, feeling for the tweezers, and found a razor with its cover askew. What in the world is that doing there? It took a moment for the blood to come to the surface of my knuckle. Looking down at my red thumb I was a little miffed. What the F was going on? (Please pardon my abbreviation.)

I wrapped up my thumb and hurried back to the table to read about the rally on the union website, throwing myself into the chair. SMACK!!! I rammed my kneecap straight into the table leg – hard. Are you joking me about this?

Over the last year I’ve really tried to listen to the cues I’m being given. Today, it seems that the little voice was tired of being ignored. It had gone from an uncomfortable whisper to a full out scream. So I sat back. “What? Just what?” I was a little impatient. “Don’t go.” It wasn’t the answer I wanted. So the rational part of me emailed Frank, my local political expert, to see if I was missing something on the surface of the situation. It was totally unfair to pit him against the little voice, but he had the answer I wanted. And he had an invitation. Come to coffee and meet another writer/political thinker.

I sent a confirmation text to Franca to see if I could crash at her place after the rally, and I grabbed the car keys. I’m really lucky the little voice didn’t crash a meteor into the car on my way to Barga.

Still, I had a nice drive up, found a parking spot and managed to locate the café where Frank and Tom were sitting. It turns out that Tom really is the brilliant political thinker that Frank described. In the 5 minutes I had between Frank’s invite and leaving the house, I was able to do a quick Google search and read a piece Tom had written for the Huffington Post regarding health care. The next hour or so was consumed by rabid discussion of foreign policy, sprinkled with the niceties afforded a stranger. The guys, who clearly walk the same intricate paths they walked today with some sort of regularity, and had to keep each other at bay with “now, wait” and “let me finish,” were generous when it came to listening to the views of a newcomer. They sneered only slightly at the hyper-optimistic policy suggestions I’m prone to give.

When I left the evening it was with an updated understanding of US policy in Afghanistan, a firmed up concept for my next post, and another really interesting contact – something I would have missed out on if I hadn’t emailed Frank to ask his opinion regarding the rally.

And the little voice was quiet again. While I was sitting with Tom and Frank, I’d received a text from Franca. Giovanna’s mom was in town, so there was no place to stay after the rally. We’d have to try for next time. It made me smile.  Now I’ll have the weekend to nurse my face, thumb and knee. And to practice my listening.

I’m going to talk about my boobs. So, if you can’t handle it, now’s the time to look away.

Generally speaking, I’m a really healthy person. I eat well, I exercise regularly, I don’t drink, smoke, engage in recreational drugs, and I even do my monthly breast exams. Other than surgery a couple of years ago, that I’m pretty sure was necessary because of the miserable and stressful situations I’d placed myself in at work and generally, I’m an insurance dream. I’ve always had insurance, even when I was unemployed (except for two days between coverage when I stayed home from softball practice, just in case). Even without a job, I was able to get a super-cheap individual policy because of just how healthy I am.

So, that brings me to my boobs.

About 6 months ago, after returning from my first trip to Italy, I found a lump. Well, I wouldn’t call it a lump, I guess, but it was something new and strange. I freaked me the hell out. I ran in to Leigh to have her confirm. “That’s not normal, right? I mean, I don’t want to overreact, but that wasn’t there before, right?” Then I found another.

For anyone who has had a similar experience, you will understand the terror that ripped through my head, my body, my everything. There is no history in my family of anything that would lead me to think the worst (knock on wood). And still here I was, poking myself with my ex-girlfriend, trying to figure out if I should call the doctor at 10PM or if I could wait until the morning. And I cried. I slept in Leigh’s bed that night, looking for some kind of comfort, and she did her best to give what she could. The memory is making me tear up now.

The next day I called my gyn, and when she wasn’t available until the next day, I called my GP, desperate for an answer.

I don’t even want to imagine what women go through when they get bad news in this type of situation. My GP poked around, told me not to worry – to come back at the end of the month, but not to worry. My gyn was totally unconcerned as well. I spent about 5 mins in the room with her and she sent me on my way with a smile and a shrug. I went back at the end of the month, and it was the same. There was a thickening of tissue, but nothing to worry about. In the middle of the exam I realized that I had noticed the change after coming back from Italy…where I had been drinking coffee for the first time in about 2 years. I’d continued after I returned. Relief washed over me. I mentioned my theory to the doc, and she nodded. Crisis averted.

Flash forward. It’s 5 months later, and I’m preparing to leave for Italy. I’ve left my job, and with a couple of weeks of insurance remaining I’m applying for new coverage under an individual policy. I’d been covered by this company before under an individual plan. In the background raged the debate over US healthcare policy. Literally. In the background, on the tv while I filled out the online application, the President delivered his healthcare speech to the nation.

While in Italy I’ve had occasion to discuss health care with my friends. It comes up every so often and I patiently try to describe our system. Or I translate the code on the insurance cards that I unintentionally carried to Italy in my wallet – proof in the US that I was part of the elite, those with a good job, able to afford insurance, able to pay for medical services. Here they are meaningless oddities.

“Yeah, so if you get sick, you find an in-network doctor, and then you show them this card, which tells them how much your insurance company will pay and how much you will pay.” “How much you pay?” They look baffled. “Yeah, you have to pay a percentage, depending on what your policy is. You might have to pay like the first $2,500, depending on your deductible, and then 20-40% depending on whether the provider is in-network or out, and then depending on whether the service is covered, and the usual and customary cost of the service. And then you pay your co-pay and insurance is billed. Then you get a bill for what’s left-over. Unless you have a secondary insurance…” Blank stares.

Yesterday I got an email from Leigh. “Regence denied your request for insurance.”  Interesting. The reason? “Unresolved gynecological issue.” Really. Well, my surgery was for fibroids, but they’re resolved. The one thing the underwriters asked for? More information regarding my boobs.

When I was filling out the online application, I reached a point where my lawyer alarm sounded. Buried in a long list of common and not-so-common health issues, the form wanted to know if I’d had any consultation with any medical personnel regarding breast health. Now, I realized that, if I checked the yes box, I’d be prompted for more info. I also realized that, if I checked the no box, I was potentially committing insurance fraud, and jeopardizing any coverage I might secure. So I said yes.

Then it asked me for my diagnosis and treatment. Bastards. I didn’t have diagnosis or treatment. I had a smile and a shrug of the shoulders. Does that count? Where’s the check box for that? I wrote in something like “N/A. Diagnosis: healthy” and pushed the submit button. But the letter I received from the underwriters said that wasn’t enough, so my doctor sent over 45-pages of chart notes. Let’s just pause for a moment. I’m a bit curious to know what, exactly, my doctor was talking about in 45-pages. My boobs are pretty great (really they are), but 45-PAGES?!?! I mean, come on.

When I left for Italy, the underwriters were still considering my request (probably debating how great my boobs must be to have my doctor write 45-pages about them). I left for Italy without insurance. I brought a bike helmet and a safety vest, but not insurance.

I’m lucky. I’m an attorney, which means I can pay the $35 or $50 to join the ABA and then I’m eligible for group insurance. It only cost me three years of law school for that privilege. I’ll be fine. What about my friends who have to compromise their happiness to stay in jobs that make them sick, in order to keep insurance for their kids? My softball coach determines who will play which position based on who has health insurance at any given game.

Maybe I should stop doing my monthly exams. I mean, If going to the doctor when I find something disqualifies me from insurance coverage, even when it’s nothing, why check? Maybe I should have consulted the world wide web and made my own medical determination as to whether it was a lump or not. Maybe I should have made an economic determination as to whether removing the fear that kept me awake that night was worth the insurance I would potentially lose.

I’m done explaining the US healthcare system. From now on all I’m prepared to say is “it’s bullshit.”

There is snow in the mountains. You can see it from the balcony in the morning. My friends in Oregon are starting to talk about the ski season, and my mom is writing with snow updates.

Ryo, Luigi’s father, asked if I’d like to go with him and André, Luigi’s little brother, into the mountains to check out the snow conditions. I’m always up for new terrain, so I put on 4 layers and packed up everything warm that I brought with me to Italy (I came fairly well equipped – we’re talking the Alps here).

We started in Barga and wound our way up from 400 meters to 1500 (I think). Through quiet stands of poplar and along mountain ridges we wound, chatting about Italian driving and life in the mountain towns. The landscape was striking and, at times, startling. It reminded me very much of the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho where I grew up, except that in Idaho, you would have had to hike for an hour or so to reach a mountain ridge like the one we were casually driving along.

André, who is something like 20 months old fell asleep on the ride up the mountain, tranquilly dreaming as we drove.

We reached a village perched astride a steep ridge, and Ryo pulled over. “This is San Pellegrino. Want to have a roam around?” He stayed with the car and the child and I struck out toward an old archway and a sign to the sanctuary.

I stopped inside the church that was tucked inside the rocky tunnel, but missed the mummy (evidently there’s a mummy). I left an offering and took a holy card then headed back down the passageway that lead from the streets of the small town out onto the ridge. I fell in love with the view from the tunnel and spent quite a lot of time trying to capture it.  By the time I emerged, my hands were nearly numb.

I turned to look at a cat sitting in the alpine sun, when a little Dachshund came running up behind me. She sniffed my pants and ran up ahead into the snow on a mission of her own. My attention was captured by a placard that explained the history of the place. I walked over to it and began reading, but was interrupted by a shrill and persistent bark coming from just behind the placard. The little Dachshund was suddenly barking at me and did not appear to have any intention of stopping. Her ears were flapping as she jumped with each bark.

There was nobody around and she was raising quite a racket. So I did the only thing I could think of: I bent down and put my bare hands in the snow, made a snowball and tossed it in the air for her to catch. It was exactly what she was looking for. She ran and jumped and pounced and champed. Ball after ball I threw as the little dog danced around in utter delight. After maybe 5 minutes of this, I said “ciao, ciao” and continued along the path to look at the shrine perched at the furthest point out on the ridge.

I took pictures, admired the scenery and pondered the complex in utter silence and solitude. Until my friend reappeared. She came from below the trail and started barking again. So, my hand finally thawed from our earlier game, I reached back down and started again. She was absolutely transfixed. Every snowball was magical to her, worthy of total exploration and attention. She would thrust her face into the indentation left by a missed catch, searching out every last bit of fun. We played our way back to the arch, me tossing increasingly shorter throws to reel her in, her short legs carrying her through the snow. Before I left she chanced a tentative poke at my hand and then ran a few feet away waiting for another toss.

The cats came over to see what was up and I bid them all “ciao,” heading back through the arch, past the church and out into the town where Ryo and André were both asleep in the car. We stopped for a quick cappu and headed down the mountain to the ski slopes that were our real destination. As soon as we crossed over the ridge at San Pellegrino, there was snow everywhere, the landscape completely transformed.

Down the mountain we wound, the bare tracks of the ski slopes sliding in and out of view as we drove. It became increasingly clear that we would not be skiing this weekend. The parking lot at the bottom of the slopes where we stopped the car for lunch was completely bare, and the tennis courts below were green. Still the trip to the slopes brought us to a lovely place for lunch, where we had pasta frita (fried pasta dough) and gelato with blueberries. Fantastic.

And I learned the valuable lesson: even if the waiter says it’s pasta with funghi, confirm that it’s not also with meat. Bastard meat sneaking in places it doesn’t belong… Anyway, Ryo was kind enough to share, and André liked the meaty mushroom pasta, so it all worked out. Then we headed up the mountain for a hike to check out the snow.

Once again, my Vasque Blur Gore-Tex shoes were awesome, if a bit unnecessary. The snow, at deepest, was about 4 inches – not so good for skiing but just right for a hike and breathtaking scenery.

We headed back, collected ourselves, and started the descent from the parking lot to Barga. Along the way, Ryo brought us to Sasso Rosso , a notoriously beautiful town set into the side of the mountain, and built out of the local, pink rock. It looks like a giant grabbed a hunk of the hill, crushed it and then rearranged the pieces.

On our way from the pink town, André started to melt down. It had been 5 exhausting hours of excitement in the mountains, and he had had enough. We tried singing and little piggies. We tried peek-a-boo and cookies. Nothing worked. Something would hold his attention for a short time bringing a smile to his little face, and then the smile would fall into a tragic, gaping pit of despair, wailing about his boots, always his boots.

André has a pair of yellow wellington boots. They’re perfect for going to the horse arena, or into the mountains. He loves his boots. He loves that they are yellow. “Lello.” He calls them. Today it was:

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!”

There’s something about a child crying – I mean really crying their heart out – that has an effect on people. I think it can go one of two ways, usually. 1. A person will want to comfort the child, in order to make them stop crying. 2. A person will want to kill the child, in order to make them stop crying. When it’s a child I don’t know, it’s a toss-up for me, comfort or kill. When it’s a child I do know, though, I just laugh. I know it’s not helpful to the situation. I know it won’t make them stop. But the honesty with which a child will cry when they are truly melting-down is amazing, and André was crying with complete honesty.

We had taken his boots and socks off when we got in the car. It was warm, he had wanted them off earlier, and there was really no need for them now. Or so we thought. After the initial 5 or so minutes of negotiating about the boots staying off, we thought the situation was solved. He was grumbly and obviously tired, but so was I. We drove, sang, talked. And then it hit. Full on tantrum. It took us at least another 10 minutes to figure out that he was still upset about the boots. After some excellent kiddy translation by Ryo, he reached down, tugged a boot off the floorboards and handed it to André. Quiet. Then “two.” So I reached back, picked up the other and handed it to him.

He clutched the boots to his chest and a great, shuddering sigh came out of his little body. Ryo and I chuckled. There are times to put your foot down with a child, but this was not one of those times. If he wanted his boots, that was totally fine with us. The next 10 minutes was quiet. André flirted with sleep, his boots pulled to his body, his breath coming in great heaving gasps.

Ryo and I looked at each other and smiled.

We were fools.

“ONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONON.” Ryo was first to reach back and pick up one of the fallen boots. He had it on André’s foot in about 2 seconds while maintaining perfect control of the car on a mountain road. “Is he saying ‘on’, or ‘no?’” I asked, fumbling for the other boot. “On, I think.” André was definitely awake, and the presence of the boots was no longer enough. I jammed the other boot on his bare foot thinking how difficult it would be to get it off later.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!!!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!”

I tried to tell him softly that they were his; that nobody would take them from him. I imagined him in therapy years later, clinging to a pair of yellow boots, talking about vague memories of a stranger in aviator glasses taking his most favorite thing in the world and how is dad let it all happen.

“DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY!” “Yes, André, I’m right here.” “DADDY!!!!!”

There was nothing for it. Ryo comforted his son as best he could, and André did his best to scream himself out of the car. I just laughed to myself.

There are times when we can communicate our wants and needs so clearly that, with a single bark, a stranger knows to throw a snowball for us. And there are times when we want something so terribly much that we want to scream ourselves to sleep. Even after we get it, the wanting is so intense that its memory won’t let us go.

When I dropped Ryo and André in Barga on the way back home, I was ready for some quiet. And I was happy for the invite from earlier in the day. “Want to come to dinner tonight?” “Sure, Ryo, that would be great. Thanks. What can I bring?”

Lucca, as well as being a super-cool city, is a stone’s throw from a ton of other cool places. Florence is an hour bus ride away, and Viareggio, on the Mediterranean Sea, is about 15 mins drive. I spent one glorious day and evening in Florence with Giovanna and Franca, and one lovely morning in Viareggio with Gio.

For my last day in Lucca, Giovanna suggested that we make the run to Viareggio, a coastal city that plays host to a range of VIPs. This cloudy day, however, in the middle of the off-season, it had the feel of Coney Island in the movie “Big.” Many shops were closed, the beach vacant, and even the dark-skinned vendors that usually harass passers-by with their umbrellas and counterfeit goods seemed unconcerned with us, busy themselves contemplating the vast, empty beauty of this place.

We headed first to the beach, having to walk some distance to find an entrance between the pay-to-play beach stands that stretch the length of the waterfront. The swimming-pools stood empty and the umbrella stands littered the beach, giving an eerie feeling to this amazing, contrasting landscape.

We spent a fair amount of time walking across the sand, snapping pictures, considering the waves, examining shells.

When we found our way back to the street that runs the length of the beach, we found it equally empty.  Growing up in a tourist town, I understand the concept of slack.  For locals, it’s a time of quiet.  A time to recharge, and to prepare for the coming onslaught of the next season.  The majestic buildings lining the street stood witness to this reality; quiet, waiting, a great exhale seemed to come from the city.

We found a favorite record store of Giovanna’s and picked up a few cds then walked along the great jetty that extends from the city out into the water.  Fishing boats lined the jetty, their masts standing tall against the grey backdrop and giving rise to a stark picture.  The Madonna stood in the harbor, high above all, eternally blessing those who venture out, welcoming those who return.

Outside the protection of the jetty stood another shrine.  One evoking great sadness.  A constant reminder of those who do not return from the sea.

The quietness of the day, the cold sea and distant cranes building naval vessels put me in mind of my grandfather, who survived a perilous morning at Pearl Harbor, and survives quietly, night after night its memory.

—

Then it was back to Lucca for another fantastic meal, scarf-shopping and a train ride back to Fornacci.  Back to the present, back to my adventures – a great exhale in my journey through life.

It’s noon here and already I’ve had a great day.

I got back from Lucca last night to do a bit of house sitting for Deb and Sandra while they’re on vacay.  Their son, Tom and I chatted a bit, planned for tonight’s meal, and went to sleep. I’m amazed at how quickly I’ve come to think of my little mattress as home.  I had a fantastic visit to Lucca, but I felt a sense of quiet as I climbed into bed last night.  The sounds and smells are familiar now, and I know where I am when I wake up in the night.

This morning when I woke, I started the laundry, fed the dogs, warmed a brioche and made my best cappu yet.  I even managed to get out of the house with keys in hand (if you forget the keys, you’re sol, as many Italian houses don’t seem to have doorknobs, requiring the use of a key to enter.  One morning spent in the cold in my pj’s taught me that lesson.)

Looking around at the scenery, I saw what I had been unable to take-in the night before.  While I was away, the mountains had been coated with a brilliant snow.  Beautiful.

On my way down the stairs, I heard Berti calling my name (or something like it).  “Giorno!”  We then carried on a 10 minute conversation in Italian during which we understood each other probably 60% of the time, planning who would be looking after Tommy today, whether the dogs had eaten, and the status of the tubo.  Wow!  Apparently,my time in Lucca did quite a lot for my vocabulary and confidence.

Then I headed out the gate to the Micra.  My first test of Italian driving.

It’s me, no?

So, I popped in my new Noemi CD (as far as I can tell she’s the Italian equivalent to Adele), put on my driving glasses and headed up the hill.

First, I want to say that the Italian conception of what “good driving” is is a little different than what you might experience in the US.  While in the US, stopping distance is important and almost everyone will talk on their cell while driving, in Italy, a 6 inch to 6 foot stopping distance is considered adequate, while the idea of talking on the phone without a hands-free device is considered completely unsafe.  As I backed out of the driveway, I wondered if I’d make it up the hill without pissing off half the residents of Barga and how I’d handle parking once I got there.

As I pulled away from the first stop sign, the little Micra peeled a little rubber – surprising, given how much Deb makes fun of the little car’s lack of pick-up.  Frankly, I felt like I was in a race car.  I see now why Deb uses the parking break instead of the foot pedal.  I’ll have to practice more to get that down.  Winding my way up the hill, I felt completely at home, even becoming irritated by the slow van in front of me (I say slow, but I really don’t know how fast I was going.  Like the Euro, the Km is so foreign to me that it all seems like pretend denominations).  I did not, however, pass the van, risking a three-across situation on the road as I’ve experienced a number of times riding with Deb.  Evidently, this is common, but I’m not used to it yet.

When I got to Barga, I found the little street where we park every morning.  Unfortunately, a larger car had totally screwed-the-pooch (That’s a terrible phrase, isn’t it?  Which is worse do you think:  screwed-the-pooch or shit-the-bed?  I like shit-the-bed, honestly.  Either way, that’s what this guy did) for all of us by parking over the line.  After about 10 mins of psyching myself up, I put my big-girl panties on and made an attempt at the already too-small space while a nice man sitting on a bench across the street directed me from afar using hand signals.  It’s so fun to have an audience for things like this.

In the end, I actually made the car fit without scraping, rubbing or bumping anything.  I’m not sure how I got out or how anyone else will get in, but I’m sure we’ll work it out.

After figuring out which key opened the studio, and turning on the lights (bonus) I sat down to write and bask in the glory of my morning.  Then I walked to one of my favorite places for pastry:  Caffe Lucchesi.  It’s a great place (I think) where they make pastry and chocolate daily (I’m basing that on the smells that come from the inside when you open the heavy doors, and the overhead flat-screen tv that shows someone working away on a vast stainless steel surface somewhere out of sight.)  The only problem with Lucches is that they are so eager to help me that I have to force us all to speak in Italian, me pointing and them patiently talking me through the pastries.

This morning it was cappu and a pasta con pera (pear pastry).

The pastry is light and lovely and the pear seriously melted away when I bit into it.  Amazing.  For 1 Euro 90 I have a practically-perfect second breakfast that would easily cost twice that in a busy coffee shop in the US.  And a view of the mountains.

The Italian word for “happy” is “contento/a”.  I like it very much.  It doesn’t have the connotation of manic expectation that “happy” has for me.  Just easy contentment.  Sitting there at an outside table with my coffee, pastry and Harry Potter book, I let myself be still,  awash in the feeling that has crept in over the last week.  There is nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here right now.

One of the hazards of being someone who looks toward to future, toward an ideal construction of whatever it is I would like to see in the world, is that I often lose sight of the beauty of what is around me and within me at any given moment.  I’m working out the next move, the next manipulation in order to bring about that which I would like to see in the world.  One of the great gifts I am receiving is the ability to experience right here, right now and to let go of my expectations; to let things evolve and unfold naturally.

That leaves me time to think about just how long I can live on my savings.

Sono contenta.