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Castel Sant’ Angelo

Nov29

Leaning against a bridge rail, I squinted up the Tiber River towards Saint Peter’s Basilica. It was drenched in early August morning sunshine practically glowing in contrast to the blue sky and Rome’s iconic, green, balloon pine trees. Along the river, halfway between the bridge where I stood, and the Vatican, was a large cylindrical stone building. Pointing, I questioned, “What is that big, round, stone building to our right?”

The pilgrimage guide standing next to me offhandedly commented, “Oh, that’s Castel Sant’ Angelo. There’s a passageway between it and the Vatican. When barbarians sacked Rome, it was used as an escape route for Popes. We won’t be visiting it on this pilgrimage.” Then, looking around he called out to my fellow pilgrims, “Let’s cross the bridge. The Pantheon isn’t much further.”

A Pope needing to escape from frenzied, pillaging Vandals intrigued me. I loved the idea of the Vatican having a secret passageway to the safety of a castle fortress! Unfortunately, my curiosity wasn’t satisfied during that trip.

Ten years later, my daughter Tammie asked me if I would travel to Rome with her. When I said yes, she ordered, “Tell me what you want to see there, and I’ll make it happen.”

My answer was, “I want to see everything, and this time that includes what’s inside Castel Sant’ Angelo.”

Tammie made good on her promise. On our third day in Italy, we visited the fortress along the Tiber River. In English it is known as the Castle of the Holy Angel. The history of this site dates to 135 A D, when the Roman Emperor Hadrian built a mausoleum there for himself.

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Unexpected Blessing

Nov22

“Tomorrow, we’re going to attend the Wednesday Papal audience in Saint Peter’s Square,” Tammie announced. “This evening we need to pick up tickets to attend. They’re free, but we need to have them.”

Tammie and I had just returned to our Airbnb apartment and felt totally exhausted. The effects of traveling a long distance and walking more than we were accustomed to doing during the last four days had taken their toll on us. As we stepped into the air-conditioned kitchen I asked, “Can we do that later? I want to lay down on the bed to rest.”

Nodding, my daughter admitted, “I want to rest, too. The idea of walking four blocks to the Vatican right now doesn’t appeal to me, either.”

The sky was darkening for night when Tammie commented, “We rested too long. Now it’s too late to get the tickets. We’ll just have to get up early tomorrow morning and get them then.”

The next morning, the dark shadows of night were reluctantly leaving the streets as we reached the entrance of Saint Peter’s Square. Eyeing a tremendously long line of people already lining the nearby blocks, I whispered to Tammie, “It’s only 7:45 in the morning! I can’t believe there are so many people here already! The Papal audience doesn’t begin until 9:00 am!”

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Refreshing Spirits

Nov15

Italian ambulance sirens make a peculiar wailing sound. One raced past our Airbnb apartment as I awoke that Tuesday morning. To my surprise, my daughter Tammie was already awake, uploading and labeling pictures she’d taken the day before. Slipping out of bed, I brushed my teeth and washed my face before going to the kitchen to fry eggs for our breakfast.

            Tammie came into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Pouring two cups of black tea, I commented, “For breakfast we only can have one fried egg apiece, a small wedge of spicy sausage and fresh grapes,” My daughter nodded her approval. Our shopping trip the day before hadn’t turned out the way we had planned. The half dozen eggs we purchased at a market fell on the sidewalk. Four of the eggs broke. Spicy sausage turned out to be so full of red pepper that eating anything more than a bite or two burned our mouths.

Placing breakfast on the table, I sat down and questioned, “What does my tour guide have on schedule for today?”

My daughter thanked me for making breakfast and announced, “I’ve arranged for us to join a tour of the Pantheon. We’ll get on a city bus in about half an hour and it’ll take us within a few blocks of where we want to go.” 

A cloudless sky and a bright sun greeted us as we left the apartment. We didn’t have to wait long for the bus, but I felt fortunate to stand under the shade of a small tree. All the seats on the bus were taken, but when we boarded, two people stood up and offered their seats to us. Surprised, grateful, and slightly embarrassed, I sat down.

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Left in the Dark

Nov8

I turned out the bedside light and lay in the dark listening to the murmur of customers talking, and the clink of silverware against china as they dined at La Soffitta Renovatio, the restaurant located directly located below our Airbnb bedroom windows in Rome. My daughter Tammie and I had just returned from having a meal there. We shared a stuffed and fried zucchini blossom appetizer. Then I ordered a risotto with baby squid, which I loved. Tammie enjoyed a dish made with long bucatini noodles in a red sauce with pepper flakes and guanciale.

It felt so good to stretch out to rest on the queen-sized memory foam mattress. Traveling from Minnesota to Italy had been exhausting. The sound of sirens from ambulances and police cars regularly punctuated the quiet sounds of the sidewalk diners as I drifted off to sleep.

            The sun was shining when I woke. Instead of staying in bed, I jumped up to take a closer look at the apartment. Flat screened televisions hung on the bedroom and living room walls, but all the stations were Italian. In the kitchen, I found a small refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave, and a two-burner induction stove. Above the sink, I found plates, bowls, and silverware in a drawer. The expresso maker I didn’t care about, but wished I had a tea bag when I saw the electric kettle.

            My daughter suggested, “Why don’t we walk to the open-air market that’s nearby and get a few groceries so we can make breakfast and maybe a meal or two?”

            Sticking to the shady side of the streets as much as we could, we enjoyed window shopping, people watching and admiring blossoms on trees and shrubs along the way. As we walked, leg muscles that I hadn’t used much since I retired began to object. At the market, we bought eggs, salami, grapes, and a small bottle of wine. The hot Italian sun burned our skin as we walked back to the apartment.

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Stepping into the Sunlight

Nov1

With a jaw tightly clenched, I determinedly maneuvered my wheeled luggage away from the subway car where moments before, a pickpocket had tried to help themselves to the contents of my purse. I was tired and my feet hurt so badly, all I wanted to do was sit down. The journey my daughter Tammie and I embarked on yesterday afternoon seemed to have no end.

I left the subway behind with relief and struggled up the stairway with my luggage to the city sidewalk. I had no idea what time of day it was. In Wisconsin it would be early Sunday morning. Here, in Rome, it was late Sunday afternoon. I spent two days enclosed in metal airplanes, train compartments, and crowded terminals. The minute I stepped out into the sunlight, I took a deep breath of fresh air and smiled.

Tammie found a bench and sat down, saying, “Let’s sit and rest for a while.” All too soon, my daughter stood up and ordered, “Follow me.”

Doing my best to guide my wheeled luggage over bumps, ridges on the sidewalks and the cobble stone street corners, I questioned, “How do you know where to go? You’ve never been here before.”

Wheeling her luggage along with little difficulty, Tammie confessed, “I’ve virtually walked the streets of this neighborhood several times recently, using Google Satellite to become familiar with it.”

Ridges on the sidewalk made my wheeled luggage almost tip. I complained, “The wheels on my suitcase are acting like the balky wheels on a shopping cart. Why do all the street corner sidewalks have these ridges?”

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Leaving on a Jet Plane

Oct25

Tammie took this picture when we were on the train to Rome. I was tired, but she said I looked “Perky”.

Our plane wasn’t scheduled to take off until later in the afternoon. My daughter Tammie justified the wait by explaining, “If there’s a delay in getting checked in, we’ll still be able to board the airplane on time.” I nodded my understanding.

The building we’d just stepped into was huge and there were hundreds of people moving around, checking in, and dropping off luggage. Tammie pulled out her passport and placed it face down on the screen of a check-in kiosk. It recognized her, and immediately spit out a luggage label and her boarding pass. She instructed, “Now give me your passport.”

I’ve taken three pilgrimages to Europe since 2013. But on those trips, there had always been a tour coordinator who set the schedule and made the necessary arrangements for accommodations and activities. This was my first non-pilgrimage international trip. My daughter Tammie was the coordinator this time. She had bought our airline tickets, rented an Airbnb apartment, and scheduled tours.

Leaving on a jet plane isn’t something I look forward to doing because I’m not a good traveler. I get motion sick easily, my ears ache from changing air pressure, and I dislike being seat-belted in a crowded vehicle for hours on end.

Before boarding a plane, each passenger must go through security where all bags, purses, shoes, and electronics are X-rayed. Then the traveler stands in a scanner. When it was my turn, the alarm went off. Pulled over to one side, a TSA agent gave me a very through pat-down. After walking away, I whispered to Tammie, “Expect this to happen every time I’m scanned. I think my knee replacement sets the machine off.”

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A Career Change

Oct18

I looked forward to attending the Rochester Silo convention because for me it was a vacation from my job as a nursing assistant. My husband Arnie and I would stay at a hotel and attend catered events. A few months earlier, Arnie had decided to go into business with a man from Indiana. They named their joint operation, ‘R&R Sales and Services.’ This career change came as a surprise to me. Up until then, my husband had been a welder and had never expressed an interest in becoming a salesman. The new business sold farm equipment and Rochester Siloes. So far, Arnie hadn’t sold a single silo.

All the activities at the convention appeared to be geared toward pumping the salesmen up to a fever-pitch of excitement. The company claimed Rochester Silos were the best silos in the Midwest. They pointed out with pride how their logo could be seen on top of new silos all throughout the countryside. Everyone attending the silo convention was lavished generously with fine foods and drinks.           

To encourage stronger sales, the Rochester company handed out rewards to their most productive salesmen. The pinnacle of the evening was when the top salesman was presented with a briefcase stuffed with cash.

On our long drive home, Arnie uncharacteristically began talking about what he needed to do to become a good salesman. I suspected he was worried about being a good provider for me and the baby we had on the way. At one point he glanced over at me and admitted, “I need to be able to talk to people as easily as you do.” After a slight pause he added, “I want to be able to start conversations with people in elevators like you do.”

I was surprised.. Did he really admire my crazy ability to talk to anyone who would listen?

In the months that followed, Arnie and I were very busy. He worked on making sales and I was entirely wrapped up in all things that had to do with our newly arrived baby daughter. His business papers piled up on the dining room table because we didn’t have a desk. I wanted the use of the table back, so I made two shelves, one on top of the other along a wall next to the table using four boxes and two planks.

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Cup of Comfort

Oct11

On the other end of the phone, a man identified himself as a Hospital Emergency Room doctor. He said, “I’m sorry, but I must inform you that your husband, Arnie Richardson was brought to the hospital in an ambulance an hour ago, but we were unable to save him. He passed away shortly after arriving here.”  My body felt limp and bloodless as I processed the sudden shock at what the doctor told me.

The minute I put down the phone, doubt flooded into my mind. I told myself that the doctor must have accidentally called the wrong wife. The man who was dead was someone else, not my husband. Once I was ushered into an Emergency Room to identify my husband’s body, my initial shock turned into long term shock. Now, I knew with certainty that the unthinkable was true.

I had a job to do; letting family members know what had happened, plan a funeral, and somehow manage to emotionally live through this unwelcome reality. It was as if I was operating on remote control. During that first week after Arnie died, if someone would have asked me to climb Mount Everest, swim the English Channel or fight off a den of hungry lions, I would have mindlessly, mechanically began climbing, swimming, or fighting.

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“The Look”

Oct4

I kneeled when everyone else did, but unlike the adults, most of my body was below the pew. Uncomfortable and bored, I hooked my arm pits over the wooden backrest in front of me and stretched out my arms to flop them about this way and that. Hearing the thumping sounds that I was making, one of the children in the pew ahead of ours turned around to stare at me.

Mom cleared her throat. It wasn’t a normal throat-clearing sound. It was a signal, and I knew I was in trouble. To meet Mom’s gaze, we both had to lean back a little to see around Daddy and one of my sisters who were kneeling between us. Mom didn’t frown. She just looked at me, but her gray eyes somehow managed to flip switches in my conscience. Her look made me feel ashamed of how I was behaving. Knowing I’d caused her to feel disappointed in me was like a heavy weight on my spirit.

Being a sensitive kid, Mom didn’t need to discipline me with spankings, angry scolding’s, time-outs, or suspended privileges. All it took to hurt my feelings and make me want to obey, was her giving me, “The Look”.

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As Fine as Frog Fur

Sep27

I still get perms and I’m lucky enough to have a hairdresser who is happy to do them for me!

Gazing at the salon mirror in front of me, I watched the hairdresser part my hair into sections to wrap around perm curlers. Without my glasses, I couldn’t see fine details, but that didn’t bother me. I knew I was in good hands because my hairdresser once told me she enjoyed giving perms. Not everyone who works in a beauty salon does.

My out-of-focus vision made me feel sleepy. Listening to the low murmur of conversations between other hairdressers and clients was soothing. Watching Lisa my hairdresser, wet a stubborn wisp of hair, I commented, “My hair resists curling.”

 Lisa answered noncommittally, “Your hair is very fine.”

“It’s like baby hair.” I admitted.

Grinning, Lisa confessed, “At the shop here, we call hair that’s very fine, ‘frog fur’.” After snapping the last perm rod shut, she applied perm solution to my hair. Then, covering the curlers with plastic, Lisa stated, “Now we wait for the solution to do its job.”

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