Italy Travels: “Ci è un'automobile.”

“Ci è un'automobile.”

That was the only complete Italian sentence I knew when I headed to Italy in early September. And it was a good one to know since indeed there were lots of cars—on highways, byways, curbs and what I perceived as impassable alleys. Smart cars everywhere, and creative parking was the name of the game in Rome! I hadn’t planned to pay so much attention to cars, but then I had no idea how fascinating the traffic scene would be. I actually rode in very few cars during my two weeks in Italy.

The most memorable ride was in a taxi from La Spezia to Lucca, less than 50 miles away. My friend Veleda and I had headed out early that morning for Riomaggiore, the first of the five spectacularly beautiful towns along the northwest Italian coast in what’s called The Cinque Terre. When we bought our train tickets in Lucca, the folks at the station said that many trains across Tuscany weren’t running--something about a strike!. “If we can get to Riomaggiore,” I figured, “then we can get back.” So, we hopped on the train.

We gasped in awe as we got our first view of the little town nestled among the cliffs on the Ligurian Sea, and we explored as long as our knees would allow. The train back to Lucca arrived a few minutes late; we boarded as happy, tired travelers.

The stop in La Spezia turned out to be our final destination. “No trains until 21:00 hours,” we found out. Two Texas women who were staying in La Spezia heard the news and invited us to share their room for the night. Another woman from Australia invited us to hang out with her.

But I wanted to get back to Lucca, my new home away from home. After learning that there were no buses at all from La Spezia to Lucca, I found a cab driver who was delighted to drive Veleda and me to Lucca. For a mere 150 Euro, more than $200. We didn’t bat an eye, and within the hour were back in Lucca.

So much for “Ci è un'automobile.” I’m going to write about WINE soon!

Exam Room Etiquette

“Wait, wait,” the doctor cried out as I pulled down my pants. “This isn’t a gynecologist’s office.”

I sheepishly pulled up my britches as the gastroenterologist beckoned me to lie down on the table. She had a different set of manners for getting her work done.

That reminded me of the time I went to another doctor—an internal medicine guy. The nurse handed me a paper top, and I put it on.

When the doctor walked in, he took one look at me and said sternly, “This isn’t a gynecologist’s office.” You were supposed to put that top on with the opening down the back.”

He walked out of the room, and I turned the stylish top around.

Guess I’ve been to way too many gynecological appointments; for the simple act of walking into an examination room causes me to take off my clothes.

I wish I knew the clothing etiquette for nudists in doctors’ exam rooms.

A Bright Future

A young man pulled up next to my car at a stop light yesterday afternoon and motioned for me to lower my window. “Your left back brake light is out,” he informed me. I waved my thanks to him, and then he was gone.

Still basking in the glow of fixing my bathroom sink I decided I could replace the brake light as well. That’s when I pulled into an O’Reilly Auto Parts store. I got way more than I bargained for when I went in. First the clerk found the right bulb (two to a pack). Next he walked outside with me to show me where to unscrew the back light cover. As I was paying for the bulbs I mentioned that I wanted to take a car repair course (which I do). “You don’t have to be a mechanic to work here,” he said.

And then he handed me an application. “That’s the store manager over there,” he continued. “Talk to him, and then you can work here with me.”

I left the shop in a giddy mood, knowing that my future was definitely going to get brighter. I pondered my new life as a part time employee of an auto parts shop. I liked the way it felt.

Early this morning I set out to replace the defunct light bulb. When I saw my neighbor Sandra pull into her driveway, I ran down to get her. (Without a second person, how do you know if your brake light is working?) First, Sandra confirmed that the old light was burned out. Then she waited for me to replace the bulb so she could confirm that the new one worked.

Sandra waited. And she waited while I tried to remove the old bulb. I twisted, turned and pulled. The bulb wouldn’t budge. I asked Sandra to come back after I had finished so she wouldn’t have to stand in the hot July sun. That’s when she uttered the magic words: “Why don’t you check the owner’s manual?”

I got so excited by this novel concept that I jumped up and down. “What a brilliant woman you are,” I exclaimed to Sandra. “Brilliant.” It didn’t seem like such a brilliant thing to Sandra. I imagine that it didn’t seem that brilliant to 98.9 % of the rest of the people I know. But it was a grand epiphany to me.

Within seconds I had replaced the bulb, according to the directions in the owner’s manual. That’s when I asked my neighborhood genius to pose for this picture. O.J. the neighborhood cat got in on the action as well. We tried out the new light, and it worked like a charm. I quickly replaced the light cover with everything working.

Now I’m taking a second look at that job application. I think I would make a very good clerk in an auto parts store. I have empathy, sympathy and great customer service. And I can change a brake light!

It's a plumb messy job

I have completed some mighty fine plumbing work on the bathroom sink in my little bungalow in my reverse-chic South Austin neighborhood. (Let me digress here: It’s really IN now to describe small houses as bungalows; mine is a bungalow-ito.)

My bathroom sink has been draining very slowly for 4-5 months; last weekend all draining stopped. For a few hours I used my kitchen sink to brush my teeth, wash my hands, believing that the stopped up bathroom sink would be ok in a few hours.

(Wait—does ANYONE CARE ABOUT MY PLUMBING ISSUES? If this is too boring for you readers, you are excused. I must admit it’s titillating to me!)

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, the plumbing fairy godmother was doing her best to dissolve the clogged up pipes, I’m sure, but the water remained in the sink over night. That’s when I decided to take care of the plumbing issue my very own self.

I borrowed a plumbing snake, removed the standing water in the sink, cup by cup, and smartly placed a huge pan underneath the sink. After unscrewing the curvy pipe (so glad for the big pan), I rammed that metal snake back and forth in the straight pipe until something happened. I don’t know exactly what except that some black goop started rolling out of the pipe, into the carefully placed pan.

Thinking I had fixed the problem, I turned on the water. Since I had not plugged up the hole for the stopper, the water poured into the pan. After putting the stopper doohickey back into the pipe and tightening the screw, I tried once again. Lo and behold the water ran right down the pipe—just as the god of plumbing intended.

So far, the drain is able to handle all the hand-washing, teeth-brushing water, and this makes me very proud. It’s the mess I left behind that’s the bigger issue.

Cleaning up a mess is so less satisfying than fixing a problem. In this case, however, I quickly put everything in the bathroom back together and I'm now giving tours of my bathroom!

Burn. Scrape. Eat.

My new toaster is way too complicated for me. Why? I can’t figure out how to perform the simple task of toasting bread.

My last toaster had only two buttons, and it always made perfect toast. This new one is far more modern with multiple buttons and multiple choices to make for toasting a couple of pieces of bread. I have yet to get perfect toast from this modern machine.

Toasting some bread for a BLT sandwich at noon took me back 50 years or so. That’s because I used the same procedure for making toast today that my mother did in the 1950s: burn the bread; scrape the toast; eat the toast.

Toast in my childhood home was always scraped, and there were always burned fragments that still clung to the toast; the fragments always stuck to the butter knife. That meant our butter always had little black spots on it.

I didn’t realize until I took home economics in the 9^th grade that there was another way to prepare toast: toast the bread; eat the bread. I asked my teacher why she didn’t scrape the toast before we ate it. She had no idea what I was talking about.

I haven’t had a piece of burned/scraped toast in a long, long time. Like my mother used to do, today I scraped my burned toast into the sink. And like my mother did, I think I’ll leave it there until supper.

Summertime in South Austin

My backyard is big enough to hold a small circus. It’s wooded and beautiful and backs down to Little Williamson Creek. When I bought my house in 1996, I thought I’d live in the backyard. And I did for a few years.

Gradually, however, I’ve moved my outside living to my front yard. My swing was the first sign of front yard living. For several years, I’ve sat outside, just a swinging, and greeting my neighbors who saunter by. Several years ago, I started planting my tomatoes in the front yard; several of my reverse-chic neighbors have joined me in front yard gardening. It gives the neighbors lots to talk about when we walk around the hood.

Now my front yard is equipped with a swimming pool—or a South Austin Cold Tub as I call it. Why would I want my precious grandchildren to be hidden in the backyard when all the action is in the front? Along with the pool, there is a kiddie swing for them, too.

This week I reached a new high (or low?) in South Austin Living. While the children were playing in the pool and enjoying the shade of my huge oak tree, I rolled the barbecue pit around from the back yard and cooked some mighty fine pork chops while keeping an eye on the family and greeting the neighbors and their dogs—all in the front yard.

I still have visions of making the backyard a playground for William and Caroline and growing lots of tomatoes and other veggies. But until then, you can find me in the front yard—just a swinging, swimming and barbecuing. Everything they say about South Austin living is true.

We Can Have It All

Post Cereals has recently launched a new nation-wide television ad campaign: “Progress plays no role in Post Shredded Wheat,” says the actor who is supposed to be the company’s CEO. Then he proudly states, “We put the NO in Innovation!”

Most other advertisements boast that their product is the newest incarnation and will make us better citizens in this fast-spinning world. Post says shredded wheat is fine, just the way it’s been for decades

If shredded wheat were an appliance or an electronic device instead of a cereal, the company could never have taken such an approach. Imagine an ad for an 80-year old paper shredder. “Progress plays no role in our paper shredders,” the announcer would boast. That means we’d still be using something that resembles a hand-cranked pasta maker to destroy our old IRS records and love letters.

And what about an ad that claims, “There’s been no progress in microwave ovens?” There’s certainly no room in my small kitchen for the earliest microwave oven — the one that was 5 ½ feet tall and weighed almost 800 pounds. That 1947 microwave would leave no space for even mini shredded wheat.

Smarter cars and phones, the newest digital recorder, tweeting, and measuring time in nanoseconds—these advancements can put us in a tailspin and leave no time to stop to smell the roses.

Then one morning we wake up and want to check out. That’s when we take a break, sit on the deck at Deep Eddy or trek to the beach. That’s when we head to Colorado or to Jamaica or to Bastrop or Lake Travis. That’s when some move to the country to escape the hustle and bustle of city living and settle into a life that embraces a simpler, calmer time.

And then we start to fret because some of those places don’t have Wi-Fi; internet connections are slow in rural areas; and there are miles and miles of Texas without cell phone service. That’s when we question our decision to check out and wonder why we can’t have it all.

We can have it all — we just have to be clear about what all is, and when we want it. I think it boils down to paying attention and making choices. For even in the most tranquil life and in the most tumultuous one, we can choose what we do and what we pay attention to. Nobody makes up pick up our smart phone the minute our plane touches down; nobody makes us sit and stare at a lake. We’ve always had those choices, and we still do.

Maybe Post is reassuring consumers through their shredded wheat ads that we still have a handle on our cereal even if we can’t decide between the latest PC or Apple or which phone meets our needs. Post Cereals, I’m certain, is giving us an opportunity to philosophize about lots of issues and to reexamine our values. And I bet all they intended to do was to sell some shredded wheat.