Help Tucker He Knotted His Tie Too Tight

When a pundit starts a phrase with, I’m a Christian, watch out here it comes.

“I’m Christian. I’ve made mistakes. I believe fervently in second chances. Michael Vick killed dogs in a heartless and cruel way. I think, firstly, he should have been executed for that. The idea the president of the United States would be getting behind someone who murdered dogs is beyond the pale.”

Tucker Carlson, on Fox News, sitting in for Glenn Beck.

Wow, I think Mr. Carlson knotted his bow tie too tight and it’s cutting off the air to his head, oh if the problem were that simple. In one breath Carlson believes in second chances, deplores the killing of dogs and promotes the killing of human beings and claims that he believes in the redemptive foundations of following Jesus Christ.

In the quote Tucker is talking about the Philadelphia quarterback, Michael Vick who served prison time for dog fighting, a horrible act by any stretch and president Obama’s praise that he, Vick was given a second chance; something else that Tucker claims to believe in.

So, I’m left wondering, what Bible does Carlson read, and what is really behind his statement of cultural cannibalism, could it be that Carlson has a far more prejudiced agenda at work here? One can’t help but wonder. Perhaps Tucker would like to sit down with me for a bit o' Bible study.

Snakes, snakes, snakes, snakes.

The tone of her voice wasn’t a quite a shriek, but there was definitely a panic like edge to the tone.

“Do you know what was on the deck today? A snake, a serpent was on my deck right in front of the sliding glass door for the living room.”

And so the saga of the spring time Rat snakes began.

For weeks the phone calls bounced between the antics of the snake or snakes that had taken up residence upon or under Marmy and Daddy’s deck and the biddy baby birds that were beginning to hatch also in residence on the deck and the pergola covering said deck.

When I’d tried to point out that birds, especially supple, delectable baby birds bring snakes, that fact didn’t really seem to register or if it did, it didn’t matter.



Of course living in the marshy, humid, sub-tropical climate of eastern North Carolina doesn’t help the snake situation either. The swamps and marshes of the down east empire present a Valhalla for reptiles. The bird, snake situation is further exacerbated by my Marmy, who makes a habit of feeding the birds every other day, so her yard is a veritable Audubon spectacle of avian busyness.

Is it no wonder that word spreads throughout the reptilian community that there is a birdie buffet on East City Road.



Such was the lead up to my Memorial day break at the house on East City Road 2010.

My first morning there was spent in cautious trepidation. As we sat on the deck, looking at the water, watching all of the birds, talking and drinking coffee; I kept one eye peeled for snakes. I inherited Marmy’s phobia of snakes, or so I thought.

The morning passed quietly and peacefully with no serpentine interlopers. Marmy, Daddy and I retired to the kitchen to make our lunch and whilst inside the decision was taken that we’d nosh while sitting upon the deck.

My food was prepared first and as I exited the house through the sliding glass door something liquid like started pouring down the left front post of the pergola.

It smelled rancid and in an instant I saw a huge snake on top of the pergola and it was voiding itself of mostly digested baby birds. Oh you vile cur, you horrible creature, I thought.

“Snake,” I announced.

Marmy was right behind me and in peering over my shoulder she quickly determined what the snake was doing.

“Where? Oh, gross…oh goodness…oh Larry, there is a snake on top of the pergola. Michael don’t go out there. Oh Larry it is crapping all over the place, ew, gross, oh how horrible, oh ew.”

By this time I’d put my sandwich down and had grabbed a broom and made my way to the deck. Daddy was right behind me with one of his canes and we attempted to get the snake off the lattice on top of the pergola. The problem was that the snake was HUGELY bloated in its middle after having feasted on some biddy baby Mockingbirds and eggs. Thus, we couldn’t get the hugely engorged serpent through the holes in the lattice. We had to bat at it with the broom and cane hoping to dislodge it.

My mother gave a running commentary at full speed while we worked to remove the snake.

After what seemed like an eternity the snake fell to the ground. Maybe it jumped, the poor thing was most likely weary of being hit with a broom and poked with a cane and perhaps weary too of my Marmy’s vocal antics.

While daddy and I were torturing the snake, Marmy’s running commentary went something like this…

”Oh gross, ew, Larry, oh yuck, oh it crapped all over the deck, oh God, Larry oh Michael, there is crap all over the post and the lattice and the rail. Oh gross, ew, oh yuck, kill it, oh careful, kill it, kill it. Don’t step in it, careful, don’t step in it you’ll fall, you’ll track it all over the place. Oh, gross, ew, kill it, kill it…KILL IT.”

You get it?

So the snake finally fell or jumped to the ground and decided that there was most likely safety under the deck, away from the maniacs with a broom, cane and anxiety filled running commentary.

I don’t know why, but I took off after the snake, my phobia all but slithered away.

The commentary continued, “Michael, you don’t have shoes on, Michael come out, oh gross, Larry he’s under the deck with the snake. Michael it’s going to bite you, oh Larry make him come out. Larry make him stop. Michael come out. Larry make him.”

Daddy ended the diatribe with the command to Marmy, “Go get my gun.”

“Which one?”

“The rifle.”

“Where is it?”

“In the case.”

All of my dad’s guns are always in the safe, locked up and well…safe.

Maybe it was the drama of the moment, but Marmy asked, “Where’s the key.”

At moments like this my Daddy gets such a wonderful wounded look. I didn’t see it but I sensed it because I was still under the deck with a broom and the snake. Marmy disappeared to get the rifle and I managed to get the snake onto the lawn.

“Here Larry, here’s the gun, Michael get back. Larry shoot it, oh gross, oh God, Larry kill it. Kill it, kill it, shoot it Larry.”

Marmy was clearly undone.

At this moment I had the oddest thought and I said, “Daddy either shoot the snake or shoot her. One way or another we have to shut her up and calm her down, if we don't she's going to have a stroke.”

Daddy pointed the gun at the snake and said, “She’s a pretty good cook, so good bye snake.”

Daddy aimed and with one shot, the snake was dispatched. Daddy is a great marksman.

That done, we went inside to eat our lunch, we cleaned up the mess on the deck after we ate....inside the house. The snake carcass was gone by coffee time, it was most likely taken away by a large bird of prey or a Turkey vulture or perhaps a fox.



The next day, after church there was another snake on the deck, most likely the mate of the now dead deck defiler, we however didn’t kill the new snake. We stunned it, dropped it into a five gallon bucket, and Marmy and I took it to the park and released it. All three of us felt guilty and sad after killing the first snake. They are vital and have their place but better to shoot the snake than shoot Marmy.

Billy Elliot and the infantile eating machine

Billy Elliot

Oh, I’m sooo excited, finally I get to see “Billy Elliot.”



Living in the south has its advantages, long summers, short winters, beautiful scenery, lovely beaches and nearly three fourths of the year very tolerable weather wise. There has been a downside, no theatre to speak of until recently, a cultural desert aside from some fairly decent community and collegiate theatre, but no real first run kind of stuff.

My beloved Durham got smart and built the DPAC, or Durham Performing Arts Center. I was so giddy that my friend Ray and I immediately purchased season tickets.

In season one there was a feast of shows, “Mamma Mia,” “Wicked,” and others, oh I had fallen in love again. Go figure....I love musical theatre.

Season two has a bit of a different flavor in its line up. “Billy Elliot,” Shrek,” and other features that might encourage the attendance of...

CHILDREN.



And...

THEIR PARENTS, folks who don’t realize that just because a show features children that the show is appropriate for children to sit and watch.



In season one, we sat way up high, but for season two, my friend Ray and I decided that we’d really treat ourselves and move down to orchestra level AND center section. We’re not complete snobs so we didn’t spring for way down center; more of a modest, self-congratulatory center.

Showtime.

Ahh, we’re early, we can settle in, read our programs and eagerly anticipate a good show.



Things went well until about two minutes into act one. Then from behind us a commotion, “Excuse me. Thank you, no um, move over one, that’s right, right there.”

“Here mommy?”



Yes, dear, there, do you want a treat now? I know you must be hungry.”

“What?” he chirps out in all but a roar.

“Do...you...want...a...treat...now? Or...do...you...want...to...wait...?” mommy answers in perfect theatrical diction.

“Now.”



Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp. “Mommy, what’s happening?” comes a mouth full question in a stage whisper.

“What’s that dear?”

“Mommy what’s happening?”

I’ve already had enough so I turn and I give the third grade teacher evil eye hoping that my dissatisfaction and powers of mind control will settle this situation down and bring the center section of the orchestra seating back to civilized dignity.

Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.



Those noises are like daggers through my heart.

Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.

If this continues I’m going to loose my mind.



Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.



Those sounds, they’ve invaded my head. I can no longer hear the singing on stage, I can no longer hear the dialogue, and I’m being consumed. My head is going to explode.

“Mommy what’s happening?”

“Billy is dancing dear. Would you like a soda dear? After all of that salt and sugar you must need something to wash it all down.”

“What mommy?”

“Shhhh, keep it down, would...you...like...a...drink?”

“Yes.”

Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp, glug, glug, glug.

Focus Michael, concentrate on the show. Let the antics behind you fade away. Focus, focus on the show. That’s it, breath, focus in, find your che.


Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.



Nertz, it is no use. Oh if only I could summon some super powers. Some eyes in the back of my head that shoot X-Rays that would evaporate the people behind me, not charitable I know, but oh would it be effective.

Perhaps I could summon Super Mike and maybe he’d gag mother and the infantile eating machine.



Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp, belch.

Maybe, my infantile eater will become so sugared up that he’ll bounce off the walls, brining a flurry of diligent ushers and usherettes to escort the eating machine out of the DPAC.

Perhaps the audience around them will become so fed up that they’ll grab pitch forks and run them out to the lobby and burn them at a stake as a mob of angry villagers might.



Nope, they stayed until the end, eating, slurping, chewing, belching, talking and picnicking so that all of us sitting near them could share their Billy Elliot experience and oh, the infantile eating machine, he could have cared less about the show but I was reduced to an emotional heap of protoplasm.

Splish, Splash, Splish

I’ve known for a few weeks that I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts. My body has felt kind of off my game, a little shaky and just kind of spastic.



Perhaps it was the ten days in Rome and the monkey wrench of time zones and jet lag?

Perhaps is was an hour fall back a week after returning from Rome, and just as I was finally becoming acclimated to U.S. daylight time?

Perhaps it has been trying to launch a new division in my business all the while keeping up with the stuff that I’ve done for seventeen years.

Perhaps it was a trip to Smyrna at the beach and back for Thanksgiving? Nope it couldn't be that.



Or...

Perhaps it is just the way I am.

Today as I was making my morning rounds of email, Facebook, WRAL.com, CNN.com and a variety of other online morning diversions, a voice kept calling out to me from the half bath.



“Michael,” was the sweet siren call.

“Michael, come in here, I need attention, you don’t want guests to come round and see that I’m nasty and then by default see that you're nasty, do you? Huh, do you, huh?

It couldn’t be. The toilet in the half bath needs cleaning again I thought. Didn’t I do that before I went to marmy and dad’s house for Thanksgiving? I know that I did. Still once that voice gets into my head, there is no fighting it.

Out comes the comet and out comes the magic toilet brush, a good one that really gets in there and gets the job done.

But wait, as I approach the vile cur there is something stuck to the bottom of my slipper and although the lid to the porcelain throne is open. I must stop what I'm doing and inspect the bottom of my bedroom shoe.

I don’t know how it happened, but my slipper did just that, it slipped and splash right in the drink.



Now I must clean the toilet and wash and dry my slippers because there ain’t no way that shoe is going back on my foot until it has about thirty minutes interaction with some Tide.

The Chairman's Voice

Chairman Meow’s Little Red Book

He, Super Mike, is away; oh the bombastic notion of being super, albeit tongue in cheek; and to add insult; leaving one’s blog open, thank heavens. But oh the humiliation I feel, for me to read and to learn of my gastrointestinal distress in print.


Yes, on Monday I did have a minor upset stomach caused by my ingesting copious amounts of my own fur. What else was I to do but hack it on the floor? Does he think that this was a pleasant experience for me? Well it wasn’t. I suppose I could have gacked on the wood flooring, but it would have blended in and been difficult to see.

Plus, you can just imagine the abuse he’d heap upon me if I should let my lustrous black and white suit get tatty.

I lost my breakfast too boot and had to wait a full eight hours before my moist supper arrived. Why I thought that I’d perish and all the while he was sitting and tippety, tapping on that box thing AND making light of my infirmity. Oh boy, there are things that I could and should tell you about…him.



First my name, it is Chairman Meow Tse Tung or Fez, that’s it, one formal and one informal name, but he uses these only about fifty percent of the time and often calls me by other monikers when we’re alone together and rarely when others can witness the insult.

He sometimes refers to me as Nebuchadnezzar or Little Nebby. Let me be clear, I am only like Nebuchadnezzar with respect to my wisdom and Little Nebby is just plain foolish.

I'm called Baby too. I am not and never was a baby; I was a kitten of the cutest kind and have grown into a full grown tom who knows how to cherish his pride.

He is good to me. My litter box is cleaned daily, I get two helpings of wet food and clean water and kibble are always waiting for me on the floor.

He is sometimes loud and when home alone only with me will sing at the top of his lungs.


Or talk to himself.

Or laugh uncontrollably at seemingly nothing.


Still, he allows me to puddle up on the bed with him and purr to my heart’s content.

And when the monsters come to the house, I can manage to open the closet doors and find a dark quiet place to hide.


I do not however appreciate him making light of my gentle constitution.

Q

I love the game. I love the excitement, but seriously, something happens to my manners and decorum as I watch.



Perhaps it is the bouncing ball. The constant thud on the hardwood flooring causes me to leak I.Q. points and forces my sensibilities as a southern gentleman to ebb.

At the ACC tournament three years ago my dear friend and fellow big mouth Dee taught me how to scream, “Sit down coach.”

Dee directed her howl at a well known and respected ladies coach from Chapel Hill.

Oooo, I loved the way it sounded as it echoed off the hardwood floors at Greensboro. “Sit down Sylvia!” Oh my, it had such a ring to it. Perhaps I loose so many I.Q. points during games that I lack original thought or the ability to adequately filter.

So in Raleigh, last night watching my team play Old Dominion University, I tried my version, “Sit down coach.”


She didn’t and I doubt that she heard me. Ten minutes later and in the second half, I bellowed again. Bear in mind that we were now some thirty minutes into play and I’d leaked a whole lot of I.Q. points and my sense of decorum and manners was all but gone. Why I’d venture to guess that perhaps I was half a generation out of a cave.



Similarly, it would never occur to me that my mouth, petite as it is, might bother a fellow fan and especially one pulling for my beloved Wolf Pack Ladies.
But oh the agony, Super Mike was wrong, I know perish the thought, Super Mike ruffle feathers, no way; especially not a kindred spirit, a fellow woolfie; a pack follower. Alas I was wrong or perhaps she was just a witch who’d infiltrated our ranks; a woolfie who turned and scolded me with the look and demeanor of an angry third grade teacher.


“Are you serious?” she asked.


Holding my gaze with a very accusatory look and repeating her question with a look of disgust and disdain. Just like my third grade teacher.

She went on, pointing at our beloved coach and stating, “She stands the whole game. So, are you serious?”

I weakly apologized stating that I didn’t mean to offend. Still her look of disgust held until she turned to her companion and related to her what an uncultured, oaf and buffoon I was and that I was in fact lower than a one eyed snake belly.


I was cut to the quick, mortified and humiliated by the fact that I’d caused a fellow fan distress and angst. I remained silent for the rest of the game. I clapped and I threw my arms up in the air, when we finally pulled it out at the end, but alas there was no more bellowing in Historic Reynolds Coliseum; well there was bellowing but my voice didn’t join the chorus. Lesson Learned.

You can't defy physical science

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I love my morning coffee. I will sometimes get up early to start my day with a nice strong cuppa. If I miss my cuppa or two, or three or heck…the whole pot; well then I can get a wee bit cranky.

This morning I awoke to Chairman Meow gacking all over the house. Thankfully my first appointment wasn’t until ten am so I had time to seek out and clean up vile hair balls mixed with Meow Mix. Oh what a foul cat I have. Toxic waste comes out both ends.

After clean up and removing my hazmat suit I even had time to languish over an extra cup or two of piping hot, sweet, creamy coffee. I can write my blogs, I can surf the net, I can read other blogs and the news all whilst sitting in my jammies; watching the sun come up and sipping on coffee. Life couldn’t get much better.

But, my coffee maker doesn’t always get my coffee as hot as I like it.

And…

The light on my microwave oven that displays the numerals is, well, on the fritz. I have to kind of guess at the cook time I’ve punched in. Typically a minute thirty seconds does the trick for heating up my coffee but this morning I must have punched in four minutes thirty seconds. Way too long, too long I tell you, but easy to do, the numeral one sits directly atop the numeral four. Plus, I have huge fingers, kind of a handicap when it comes to mashing buttons.

My coffee was boiling; but stopped bubbling as I carried it across the kitchen.



Intellectually I know that adding Splenda to very, very, very hot coffee lowers said liquids boiling point. This morning however, I'm Super Mike and the laws of physical science shall not defy me for I have cleaned up massive amounts of toxic cat waste.



I couldn’t.



My coffee exploded all over the kitchen with just one itsy, bitsy spoonful of Splenda.



Maybe its time for a new microwave oven.

It must be Monday

Ooooo, my bed is so warm and so safe.

I could stay here in the dreamscape forever. In my dream and in the distance I hear a steam locomotive coming. What a serene and peaceful sound and setting.



The dell is golden with blooming apple trees, why this is an image right out of Little House on the Prairie. Soon, I hope to see Laura and her sisters running down the hill through the cacophony of blooming wild flowers.



Gosh, that locomotive is getting loud.


It is sounding rather violent too. What is that? I’m not on the prairie, this is Durham. It’s Monday and that train isn’t a train, it’s my cat the Chairman Meow and he’s gacking all over my rugs. That notion that I was hearing a train is the cold hard reality of a hair ball.

Could this happen on the hardwood flooring?



Nope!

Happy Monday.

November musings

November musings

Home Schooling

I do think that if children are home schooled that this should be considered for the right reasons. Those being, the child needs special one on one attention that the public and private school systems cannot provide. That the child is unable to function intelligently and rationally within the confines of the system and is then considered to be a disruption and must be removed from the school for the greater good. Personally, I don’t believe keeping a child home based on Christian principals is the right decision.
What exactly do the scriptures say…

"And it came to pass afterward, that He went throughout every city and village, preaching and showing the glad tidings of the kingdom of God: and the twelve were with Him.." Luke 8:1.

That’s what Jesus did; He went into the world, into every city and village preaching and SHOWING the glad tidings. Jesus is our example not to hide from, or run from the world but to go into the world. How sad it is that many who home school their children miss their commission to show the world what it is we’re made of. Why in some circumstances it might be fair to ascertain that those who hide from the world are just as bad as those in fundamental madrassas who promote violence against the world. Those who hide from and shun the world have given up on it and that is a sin. The sin, again from scripture;

And Jesus came and spoke to them, saying, "All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age." Amen. (Matthew 28:18-20)

Simply, this commission cannot be achieved whilst hiding out at home. How will others see what we’re supposed to be doing when we’re hiding out from them? Parents who train and teach their young ones well have nothing to fear from a school system. Perhaps those most fearful are those who’ve fallen the most short in their job to train their children well, with strong morals, ethics and steadfast belief in who they are and what they believe.

Oh I expect to hear lots of whining that “Our children can’t pray at school.” That, “God has been removed from the school.” “That the schools are full of persecutors.”

This is all poppycock. At no time in my life when I have either shut my eyes or not, to pray has anyone prevented me from doing so. If God has indeed been removed from school, well then who is to blame for that? Could it be those who’ve taken up their marbles also known as their children and packed up and forsaken the system with a refusal to participate? Maybe. Could it be that those who’ve cut and run are creating spiritually weak offspring who when grown will not be able to function with, confront and respect those of a different mind, perhaps.

To wrap it up, many of those who’ve cut and run are demonstrating that they don’t love or care for their fellow citizens, they have shunned them and in that shunning, they have shunned God’s light in those who they’ve forsaken.

My Pathways to God: The Telephone Nazi

My Pathways to God: The Telephone Nazi: "Telephone Nazi I spend a lot of time day in and day out on the telephone. I use voice mail constantly and I hope that I use voice mail c..."

The Telephone Nazi

Telephone Nazi

I spend a lot of time day in and day out on the telephone. I use voice mail constantly and I hope that I use voice mail correctly.
I have several clients and have had a business partner who I will classify as telephone or voice mail Nazis. A telephone voice mail Nazi is an individual who phones and leaves the following message, “Hi Michael, this is Mary, call me.” Click.

In this instance the telephone is being used as a nearly lethal weapon, a control weapon, and electronic leash or cattle prod. My challenge is how I cope with this electronic terrorism.

I typically tend not to phone back immediately. Over time I’ve determined that these folks have nothing pressing to discuss with me. Typically when I phone back I’m faced with people who don’t remember why they’ve phoned me in the first place, people who really don’t have a question, comment or concern at all, but simply want to revisit some obvious fact or matter. I’ve also discovered that these jerks on the electronic leash come toward the end of a business day, in the evening when most folks are engaged in family time or toward the end of my work week; late on a Saturday afternoon. The risk then for me is that my patience is low and I’m tired and fatigued.

So…over time I’ve learned not to phone back on the day the jerk on the leash arrives. I phone back the next morning or on the next business day, when I’m fresh and can field whatever might be thrown my way, which is typically NOTHING. In the case of my former business partner, she would amp up her requests for a return call, even going so far to say that the nature of the call was an emergency. It never was, in every instance Henny Penny was simply clucking that the sky was falling.

I’ve noticed too, that if I happen to fall into the call back trap and then try to move away from it, the jerks on the leash become more violent…so to speak. With the advent of text messaging, texts come, emails also come, but the nature of the call is NEVER shared. Seems to me that by its name "voice mail" would clue folks in that like a letter, there would be a salutation, a body with the meat of the message and a signature or sign off.

I know that the phone and communication is the life line of my business, but I am going to give props to my friend Ray who ascribes to the notion that my telephone is for my convenience and I will therefore return calls when it is convenient for me. Perhaps this is the best way to cope with a telephone voice mail Nazi.

Stand in God's shoes....

When you get so involved in politics that you begin to hate those with opposing view points, stand in God's shoes and remember, God loves them and you should too.

When a driver cuts you off in traffic and you feel as if you want to get them, stand in God's shoes and remember, God loves them and you should too.

When someone hurts you, and you feel as if you have to hurt them back, stand in God's shoes and remember, God loves them and you should too.

Folks typically don't set out to hurt, they sometimes just don't think and that's when we should remember to love them.

Rome

Rome

Up until my last full day in Rome, the eternal city, I struggled with trying to find just one word that captured exactly what the city did for me. I tried exciting on for size and that seemed too pedestrian, beautiful fell short too and in the end my friend Ray delivered the word directly to me…inspiring. For me, Rome is inspiring and I think that I’m hardly alone in this feeling. For millennia the eternal city, the city of seven hills, the city on the Tiber has inspired humanity.



I could easily point to a thousand ruins or church edifices or frescoed ceilings but I actually found my inspiration in more ordinary settings. I found the layers of the city captivating. There is the obvious new tacked upon older, tacked upon even older and then integrated with ancient which I adored. There are also the layers of level, something at level with a building above at an odd angel followed by an arch connecting other structures followed by spires and domes gently floating above.



Rome’s layers don’t always draw the human eye up; this city draws the eye down too.
Most dramatically the Tiber has been boxed in on its level, low; followed by ribbons of walkway running along the banks some ten feet above water level to streets, promenade, parks and the city itself resting fifty to a hundred feet above the river. There is Trastevere set below the road yet above the river, there are ruins set below the city but above the river, there are catacombs which start at present city level and run way deeper than the river. Like an Artichoke’s leaves Rome is layers of civilization gently resting and pushing against one another reminding all who visit and all who reside that this has been and still is a very complex place.



Romans like their city are a complex layering of behaviors, habits and idiosyncrasies. I have never visited a city where so many people smoke cigarettes in so many venues. I saw a man light a cigarette up in the Vatican, no not the basilica but at the Vatican museum courtyard. There were no ash trays, no butt cans and no butts on the ground, a rather uncommon situation, but nonetheless this man did light up. The tracks at Stazione Termini are littered with millions of cigarette butts. No one seems to ever clean them up so they pile up. The streets are littered with butts too but I imagine that those missed by clean police eventually end up in the Tiber. Other than butts, Rome is clean, in large part to a veritable army of clean police who sweep, scrub and pick up the piazzas, the graffiti is troubling though.

Roman traffic and driving patterns are an experience in insanity and idiosyncratic behavior. Taxis fly at well over the speed limit, scooters jockey in and out of traffic, horns honk, drivers gesture and the streets seem always busy and busting at the seams. Yet, let a pedestrian step into a cross walk, stare down the manacle vehicle drivers and everything comes to a stretching halt. If in doubt that traffic is going to stop, I suggesting finding a nun or grandmotherly type to follow into the street and you’ll be assured traffic will stop…buses too. In the narrow streets around the piazzas and off the beaten track, Roman drivers will not hesitate to sneak up behind pedestrians and blare their horns forcing all into doorways or crevices between parked vehicles.



Waiters and wait staff run the gamut too. Meals are events; they are not intended to move quickly. Drinks are ordered, delivered, the meal is ordered and eventually delivered and then, you are left alone. Anglo Americans should be quick to speak up and question if they perceive things to be wrong. Roman waiters can be quick to lay blame on a victim or under served.

While eating in Campo de Fiori on Wednesday I ordered a bruchetta as an appetizer. Our waiter, we’ll call him Paulo, was inattentive from the start and I made note to my friend Ray that Paulo was not tuned into us. I ordered mineral water with gas and before he’d left the table to put our order in he had to ask me what I wished to drink for a second time. Paulo was also very interested in a soccer match playing on a television next door to his café.

My first course and drinks came and the food was exquisite. My brushetta also came but Paulo tried to deliver said appetizer to our neighboring table. Our neighbors politely pointed out that they’d eaten their appetizer. I watched the interplay, I watched Paulo spin around the patio looking for the orderee of the brushetta and then disappear into the kitchen. A side note here, there were perhaps four occupied tables that night. We finished our lovely meal and asked for the bill; another European necessity, don’t wait for it to be presented or you’ll spend endless hours waiting; using the international, my index finger is a pen and my other hand is a pad pantomime is fully acceptable so long as wait staff is looking your way. Paulo delivered the bill.

My brushetta was on the bill. I gestured and another waiter came to my table, Paulo was busy with something else, maybe watching his game. Waiter number two found Paulo. Paulo and Mario for lack of a better name conferred in Italian about the bill for brushetta and then approached the table. To whit Paulo quipped, “You didn’t get brushetta?”

Pleasantly I stated, “No,” but I also noted that I’d seen the brushetta come out, visit the table next door and then return to the kitchen after a waltz around the patio. Paulo wasn’t happy.

He retorted, “Why didn’t you say something? You should have told me.”
Yes, perhaps I should have. I didn’t and that was a cultural faux pas on my part. I used that rather snobbish American attitude that I shouldn’t have to tell someone else how to do his job, and I was wrong for that. I give myself comfort though…Paulo shouldn’t have been so enthralled with soccer and the hostesses and should have been more tuned into his paying customers and yes I let my huge mouth get the best of me.

Wittily which didn’t read across cultures I said, “I didn’t want to distract you from watching your soccer game.”

It didn’t go well and Paulo offered me a lame denial that he was watching television, yet he knew, I knew and the diners to my left knew that I’d embarrassed him.

My revised bill was brought back to me, less the brushetta but some three Euros higher in cost than it had previously been and lacking was the actual ticket. Paulo had only brought the debit slip for signature. Now I really was invested in the conflict with this waiter. I stood and went into the restaurant. In error I'd given Paulo my debit card without the bill in proper order trusting that he'd simply make it right.

Once inside Paulo immediately confronted me and asked what I wanted. I told him I wanted to see my bill. I was asked why. I said that why really didn’t matter; I wanted to see my bill. By now he was in front of me, blocking my way and really challenging. I was not going to back down or back away and he knew it. So…

I said, “This slip appears to be wrong and I’d like to compare my bill with the debit slip that you’ve provided for signature. I believe that I am being overcharged. I don’t think that this is an unreasonable or difficult request.”

Paulo and Mario then embroiled in a somewhat animated conversation, the shuffled through papers, they retrieved slips from the trash can, they compared a slip to my debit slip, they tapped on the computer screen that sends orders to the kitchen, they talked some more, all in Italian, and then Paulo returned and said that it was not possible to provide me with a slip that it was all on the computer. By this time I’d snagged a menu and I said, “Well then let’s add up everything we had to eat. It wasn’t that much and I ticked off everything that had been dined upon.

The owner or manager who’d been sitting inside eating was now up and standing with us. Paulo knew I had him and quickly without any consultation to the menu the owner/manager quickly opened the register and handed me nine Euros. The cost of the brushetta was six Euros plus the mystery three, a sarcasm charge I believe.

So, long story short, Paulo was so unhappy with my quip about his soccer watching that he not only did not remove my appetizer but he tacked on a three Euro tip. I was wrong for insulting this man’s machismo and for not speaking up and snagging my appetizer.

This episode had been preceded the night before with a four Euro charge for bread. Ray and I had wandered into the Ottavanio neighborhood adjoining the Vatican, San Angelo and the covered elevated walkway built to link the two, the Passetto. The neighborhood is a charming amalgamation of sixteenth century buildings and really has a very neighborhood feel. We found a lovely outdoor restaurant and in spite of a chilly night we dined outside. The food was fantastic and the host was very interested in us, where we were from and he shared that his grandfather was Italian and his grandmother was from Boston, MA. A cool story I thought. Grandma had fallen for a dark Italian...gee I wonder why?

Our bill came and there was a four Euro charge for bread. Ray was paying so this battle wasn’t one for me to invest in. We hadn’t received any bread. When Ray questioned our waiter, who by and large had been very disengaged and short, the waiter dumb-foundedly questioned, “You didn’t get bread?”

A simple succinct no was tendered and this waiter then had the audacity to say, “It’s not a charge for bread, it’s a service charge.”

The bill clearly said bread in clear bold letters but the fight wasn’t mine, had it been, some bread would have been going back to our flat at Bianchi Vecchi in a bag. Ray took the high road and the bread charge was the waiters tip. That little episode set the stage for my dealing with Paulo at Campo de Fiori, in Café Campo Fiori, located in the north corner of the piazza, just in case you're in the area...you might want to skip it or make sure to double check your bill and leave your sarcasm in your hotel room.

The final waiter episode involved the acceptance of a debit card for tea. After ordering, drinking and sitting at a café in Piazza Navona on our last day I was going to pay for our drinks with my debit card. The waiter told me this was not possible for just drinks. Anything else yes, drinks on a Friday afternoon no. Jokingly I related that I had no cash. The waiter seriously said, “You should have asked before you ordered if debit cards could be used.”

Here again we have a cultural friction. I am of the opinion that it is not my job as a guest, client, and customer to inquire about any establishment’s idiosyncratic rules or mores. My response was quick and to the point and I told this waiter that I did indeed have cash and that it was his job to inform his clients or customers as to the rules in his establishment. This interplay was very quick, simple and really didn’t register on anyone’s radar but mine. It does however illustrate just how different cultural expectations can be. I did learn to be very direct and perhaps this is why where I grew up in northern New Jersey is so spot on direct, there is a huge Italian American population. Being direct isn’t rude, it just is. My lesson is learned. By and large our waiters and dining experiences in Rome were outstanding as was our apartment.



Ray and I stayed at 27A Bianchi Vecchi just off Camp de Fiori and Piazza Navona. We were on the third floor, which is really the second floor. It seems that almost anywhere but the U.S.A. that the main level of a building at street level that is, has no number, one flight up is one and then two and so on. So we were on two but it was really three. The front entrance was secured by a key and the doors were lovely. The flooring inside the common space was all tiled and the rails wrought iron. The doors to the apartment were also double doors and they opened into a wide hallway with maple colored laminate flooring. To the left and at the front of the building was a large living room/salon with double windows which looked onto the street.

The living room was approximately twenty feet long by sixteen wide. The ceiling height was at least fourteen feet, there were two sleeper sofas, a huge entertainment console with flat panel television and an acrylic table between the two front windows. The décor was a cool fusion of antique and modern. To the right of the entry door was a kitchen and breakfast area and beyond that a lovely tile bath. The bedroom I stayed in was directly across from the front door and was perhaps fifteen square with a French door that opened to a courtyard. The flat was well appointed, well furnished and five minute’s walk to St. Peters and less than a mile to all of Rome’s other ancient and modern highlights. The only transport we used in the nine days in the city was the bus to the Appian Way Park and the catacombs at St. Sebastian. Rome is an easy city to manage on foot and it is amazing how fast one can literally walk out of the city.

I can count it one of my life’s joys that I wandered through the Vatican, through countless churches and along the Appian Way, which was splendid as was Villa Borghese. I stood amazed at Rome’s modern monuments, ancient ruins and interesting people. The Palatine hill was a tremendous experience as were the Aventine and Spanish Steps. I count it a blessing to have been able to have prayed in so many ancient churches to have been able to watch the changing of the honor guard at the Italian defense ministry and to have been allowed to saunter through Rome’s neighborhoods peeking in on her people. I found the fact that there are so many religious folk in the city refreshing and was impressed by the fact that Romans, young and old embrace La Dolce Vita. Still yet, Romans are amazing builders. In countless neighborhoods doors stand open and artisans paint, mold clay, restore antiques and ply their wares. Children visit classic Piazzas and learn to draw perspective as their forefathers and mothers did, accurately and scientifically. Rome wears its love of art, beauty, music and food like a badge of honor.

I think that I’ll always remember last night, when at Campo de Fiori, our host was coaxed by his co-workers to sing two songs for us in full beautiful voice. Our host like so many others in Rome feel no anxiety to openly and fully express their zest for life in full voice and for that I am grateful, enlightened and blessed.