Revolution of a cyclist: Death by bicycle

Here we are at last, riding again. I took some time off; a month in Sweden and then lollygagging around Florence trying to get rid of a persistent cough. I've been slowly getting back on the bike.

On Sunday Leif said it was "my day" because on Saturday, International Womens Day, we were busy volunteering at a children's carnival. I suggested a ride to Greve, because the weather was supposed to be beautiful and I haven't been there since the New Year. And (this is important to note) it's pretty much a flat ride, with only a couple of manageable hills. My body may be willing but my lungs are still a little weak.

Leif suggested a more scenic route than the one we usually do. You'd think I'd learn, I've been with him long enough to distrust this sort of statement casually thrown out with a come-hither smile and sideways glance. He oozes charm when planning a ride that will push me a bit.

He sort of has his own language. One that tends to gloss over the less desirable parts and sugar coats everything so that every ride sounds like a spin around the park complete with balloons and cotton candy and little cartoon birds chirping merrily. Sunday's argument was reinforced by the fact that the usual route has a section of road riddled with potholes that even mountain bikes struggle to manage, along with traffic that would make my mother's hair stand on end. (hope she's not reading this) Taking that into consideration I agreed to ride the scenic route. And lived to tell the story.

I didn't help my cause much I guess when I mentioned that I'd like to take some pictures to show friends and to promote our business. Those kind of pictures, the ones that inspire people to want to ride here, don't happen at the bottom of the mountain.

But I didn't think of that when we started out. He waited till we were close to the start of the major climb before saying (again casually, as if he hardly need mention it) that we would be climbing for quite a while so take a drink and get in the right gear. Quite awhile translates into about 40 minutes of climbing. For the first little bit I actually did notice the scenery. He's right, it's quite beautiful. But then gravity doubled and my lung capacity felt like it was cut in half and I couldn't tell you what any part of the climb looked like after that.

Sometimes singing helps me to get a rhythm so I tried to remember a song, any song, to sing inside my head. Singing out loud would be impossible as I was saving all my breath to keep from passing out. The only song I could think of was Funiculi, Funicula (which was originally an advertising song for a hillside tram in Naples) so over and over again, whether ironically or in prayer to a higher power to make one appear, the song played inside my head.

Somewhere after gravity started working overtime and the final "last hill" I decided that maybe he was trying to kill me. I know, we're sooooo in love, but don't all those women in movies think their man loves them too much to hurt them, and then hurts them bad? I'm sure the lack of oxygen (both from my exertion and the fact that we were getting into thin air territory) didn't help. It wasn't too hard to convince myself that it was possible, and that it was a totally brilliant plan. Death by bicycle. Impossible to pin on him. I got on the bike of my own free will. There wouldn't be a mark on my body except for the bruises to be expected from the inevitable fall when I lost consciousness. See? Diabolically brilliant.

Then we were at the top, surrounded by views that most people only see in pictures. And he let me stop to take some of those pictures. Once I got my breath back I became rational again. I mentally apologized to him. Then said it out loud as well, just in case I accidentally spoke those thoughts out loud during the climb, although to be honest I can't imagine that I'd had enough breath to speak and ride at the same time.

The rest of the ride seems kind of anti-climactic compared to the beginning. The glorious downhill, the coffee and pastry (because I totally ran out of fuel early) and the mostly flat ride back were very enjoyable. And I think it's important to acknowledge at this point that Leif never suggests a ride that is beyond my capabilities, it's just that sometimes they're beyond where I'm comfortable but probably just what I need to become a better rider. I hate it when he's right.

It was too good to last, however. After narrowly escaping death by bicycle I was a little too relaxed. As we rode along a narrow road enclosed by high stone walls I had to swerve suddenly to avoid being hit by two large and heavy trash bags being pushed out a narrow doorway in the wall. Just my luck I would have lived through one attempt on my life only to be knocked off my bike into oncoming traffic by garbage. Thank goodness the man holding the trash bags saw me and pulled the bags back as I saw them out of the corner of my eye and swerved to avoid them. Another crisis averted. Thank God, because the headline Cyclist Critically Injured In Clash With Trash is not how I want to be remembered.

Remember me?

Remember me? Probably not. I  barely remember me some days. I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me.

It's been a strange winter. What should have been our off-season (down time, time to relax, etc) has turned into a planning frenzy for the coming year. I'm not complaining, mind you, it's just that the break in past years has been kind of nice. That moment to take a deep breath, let it all out, and comment that life certainly is good and where's the wine?

So quick recap.

We returned to Italy early in January just in time for Leif to head up to the Dolomites for a cross country ski event. I stayed home with the cold of the century. Luckily, an angel of a friend gave me a bottle of Nyquil out of her stash (it's not available here) and I've been using it sparingly hoping to make it last forever. Or at least till the cold of the century decides to release it's iron-like grip on my body. Because the cough remains. Annoying.

Leif left again in early February to attend a travel fair in Sweden. I stayed home nursing the cough, courtesy of the cold of the century. I think it rained the entire time he was gone. I didn't get bored though, because even though it was hard to go anywhere I had entertainment. I joined an online art project and kept myself busy doodling and painting and thinking creative thoughts. And coughing.

My son turned 29 in February. Funny, it didn't bother me at all to turn any of the milestone ages, but when your children start hitting those milestones it does make you stop and think about the time that's gone by. I've come to the conclusion that it's been a good life, and will continue to be fantastic. I'm lucky.

In late Februarty we headed up into the mountains north of Florence for another thrilling 10 days of watching dogs and cats. This time the weather was poor to awful the whole time. The electricity went out one day. The heat failed to reset after getting the electric back, but by the time we figured it out the 17th century stone farmhouse had cooled to the temperature of a dank cave and took two days to warm up again. Truth is, it never really warmed up. The owners had lowered the temperature in the boiler before they left assuming warmer weather was on the way so it really couldn't catch up. On the upside, my conversations with the housekeeper have gone beyond "Good morning" and "thank you". We can now discuss the weather! I also answered the phone a couple of times. I've had phone conversations entirely in Italian and we understood each other. At least I think so.....

One of the perks of staying at another persons house is that you have access to their books. Eight walls of books on every topic possible. Like a buffet of words. Granted, some of the words were Italian and some were Swedish, but there were also a lot of English books. I was in heaven. I read The Piano Tuner by Daniel Mason, A Man Without a Country by Kurt Vonnegut, The Hundred Secret Sensesi by Amy Tan, Nellie Taft by Carl Sferrazza Anthony, Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden and The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt. My head probably weighs more, I've put so many words into it lately. I actually would have read more, but it took me a couple of days to realize that I had all those books waiting for me. What a waste.

I've managed to get a few rides in. Well insulated from the cold and rain, and when that wasn't possible I did the grown up thing and stayed inside. The weather is improving steadily now, so I'm hoping to have more regular rides coming up. That 100k ride in June is fast approaching (for all you saying, what? That's months away! Time flies, you know) and I need to get in shape.

I think that brings us up to date. On Saturday the Swedes in Florence will be at the annual children's carnival event for Fat Tuesday (rescheduled  because of rain). We dress up like fierce Vikings and terrorize the crowd. It should be fun.

Three years later....

It's been awhile, hasn't it? No, I didn't fall off the face of the earth, all my fingers aren't broken and we have at least one working computer. I have no excuses except that I was too busy living to write. This takes time, you know.

I got an e-mail from a dear friend recently and she asked me a very pertinent and thoughtful question. She does that a lot. She asked me how we are managing this time when "the romance of geography wears off and eventually the romance of union gives way to the hard work of making your way in the world together." You can't get much more to the point and thoughtful than that.

There's just no short answer for this question. To say everything's fine or peachy or great just doesn't say enough.

She's right....in every relationship (marriage or friendship or working, whatever) there is that honeymoon period. It's hard to remember that no matter how all-encompassing and deep that period may feel, it's really just dipping your toes into the pool. Everything is new and endearing and special. Add to that a geographical location that's pretty much eye candy and it's like being on a year long first date or like being on a never-ending vacation.

I can never forget that I'm in Italy. I'm here because my heart chose this place; not for a job or because I was born here...not even for a lover. Because this place called to me before I fell in love with a man. The romance of geography will recede a bit but I doubt it can ever go away completely. I can never be blase about it. Leif has the same respect for the country we live in. After all, he moved here years before I did simply because it called to him too.

That doesn't mean it doesn't drive us crazy sometimes, that we don't wish Italians could, just once in awhile, be more American or Swedish about some things. But after a short moment of complaining we shrug and agree that if they were any other way Italy wouldn't be the same. We cheerfully (eventually) accept standing in line for hours, seemingly random and over-the-top bureaucracy and that deja vu feeling that happens daily when one lives in a country that's twenty years behind everyone else in many areas.

It's also true that after a long distance courtship being in the same physical space is pretty heady stuff. We spend enormous amounts of time together, much more than most couples do because neither of us has a Job. We have work that we take on and now we are starting our own company so we have a little more control over the work we choose to do, but much of our work happens together.

I think our strength lies in the fact that we also play together. He's teaching me to ride a bike. You'd think once I mastered the concept of balance the lessons would be over, but road cyclists are interesting (to use a Minnesota term) people with a complex code of ethics and even more complex equipment that can't be learned in twelve easy lessons. We eat together. Every meal is an occasion. We aren't consuming calories and nutrition, we're sharing aromas and tastes and conversation and creating an experience together. We rarely rush through the meal to get to something else. Something else will surely wait till we get there, and if not there are plenty of other something elses to do.

Maybe the semi-short answer to her question would be that we wake up every day and know deep in our bones that this is the place and the person we want to be with. Period.

An Italian homecoming

Well, we made it home. Nearly twelve hours of buses, trains and planes, but we made it without missing a connection. It was quite a relief to open the door to our apartment and relax. We wandered around turning on the heat (we turn it off when we leave for extended periods) and the hot water heater (ditto for this) and generally looking around to see how things looked. Turned on the water taps to make sure they worked and looked under the sinks to be sure they weren't leaking.

You might think this sounds a little crazy....how much can happen in an apartment that isn't used for 3 1/2 weeks? Well, a lot it seems, when the apartment is in Italy (ie, where things are never really as they seem).

First Leif came in from the bedroom and said that the radiator in there must have leaked when we turned off the heat. I asked if he was wet. He said not too much. The problem seems to have corrected itself as soon as the metal heated up. I'm hoping that it wasn't so much water that it migrated downstairs. I didn't actually go and look. I figured if he wasn't too worried then there was no reason for me to get all excited about it.

As I was making some food before our trip to the grocery store (we don't shop hungry, even when we're too exhausted to crave anything) I noticed a big rust stain on the floor next to the chimney for our downstairs neighbors wood heater (yes, it runs inside our kitchen) and a much bigger area on the ceiling where plaster is loose. I pointed it out to Leif, who said that we would wait till someone lower complained since they have pooh-poohed out concerns in the past. Eventually all that rust will end up on their ceiling and they'll ask us what's up.

After Leif took a shower he said (at this point a little confused and tiredly) that the shower hose doesn't seem to get the water all the way to the shower head.(we have a hand-held shower) and I'm sure the look I gave him was also a little confused as I had used it earlier and noticed nothing wrong. Apparently the sudden demands we made on it after weeks of disuse caused the connection at the shower head to break inside. It looks perfect from the outside. It's only a couple of years old as it's the first (if I'm remembering correctly) thing we replaced in the first week of moving here.

There was some difficulty getting the stove to light. I randomly wiggled the tops of the burners (yes, we turn the gas off when we leave, some people here do it after every use) and viola! it worked. I have no idea why.

It's the next day and so far nothing else has broken. On the other hand our doorbell, which stopped working before we left, now works. This is part of the allure that Italy has for us. You just never really know what's going to happen, or not happen, next. We live in a constant state of anticipation.

Hello!!!!! Hej!!! Ciao!!!

I've been gone for awhile. Not just physically from this blog, but pretty much in every way possible in my whole life. Just one decision made in September threw my life completely out of balance, and I have only myself to blame.

I have always been something of a workaholic, and while working half-time for less than minimum wage might not seem to be workaholic material the effect on my life, on our lives, was devastating. I bought into the idea that a steady job (ie. A steady income) was worth sacrificing my freedom.

I allowed another person to place a value on my time. Then, for that amount of money I gave her access to all my hours with as little notice as she cared to give. This affected my friendships, my eating habits and my riding habits. My home life revolved around someone else's needs. I didn't really recognize what was happening until I noticed that all these things were starting to affect me physically as well.

That's when I put a stop to everything. It helped that we had a trip to Sweden planned, which allowed me to walk away completely without second guessing myself. I consider it my Christmas present to myself.

Getting the balance back will probably be a journey much longer than the one that brought me to the point of physical collapse but it will be a pleasurable journey. After fourteen days here in Sweden I'm finally feeling healthy again. Nothing hurts and the “cold of the century” has been downgraded to the sniffles. I no longer spend every waking moment feeling anxious and unsure about where I should be and what I should be doing. With this post I'm reclaiming my creative life. I'm excited to start riding again when we get home.

I have so much to look forward to in the coming year, which I promise to share as things fall into place. There are a couple of things you can count on:

I will be in Italy.
There will be wine and amazing food.
Riding isn't something I'm trying out anymore. It's something I do. Expect to hear about it.
I will feed the creative side of my soul regularly.
I will be with Leif, whose smile still gives me butterflies and makes my heart beat faster.
I will write about all these things and more.

And because this post is so very serious you might think I've become a terrible bore, I will take this moment to summarize my time in Sweden up to this point.

People are starting to recognize me on the street. Well, not that they know who I am, but they know they've seen me quite often lately walking around their little town. They hesitate slightly before sending out a tentative “Hej”, probably hoping I won't answer. Or mug them. Then again, hesitating before speaking is common among friends here so maybe I'm reading more into this than I should?

I've had enough Swedish coffee to float a decently sized sailboat. I've had maybe two cups of really good coffee. You'd think in a country where the average person drinks 10 kilos of coffee a year and they spend 60 hours a year on coffee breaks (Östgöta Correspondent, 28 December 2013, pg A4) that the standards would be a little, um, different. On the other hand, their sweets are outstanding so maybe this is their way of finding balance. Great sweets, ho-hum coffee.

I've eaten more meat during our visit than during the last six months in Italy. I think I've eaten the equivalent of a small elephant or at least a full grown Clydesdale.  Ditto for potatoes. Now of course I'm picturing a Clydesdale made out of mashed potatoes with lingon berries for eyes. The mystery to me is how I can eat all this food and still be hungry for every meal.

The only snow I've seen is when watching skiing on TV. I've seen a lot of snow. (reminder: we've been battling colds and don't get out as much as we'd like.) I still wake up every morning and look out the window with hope. I've got seven more days......it could happen.

Happy 2014 people. Let's make it a great one.

You guessed it, at a coffee shop.

An awkward moment

Living in another culture and language means that I live in a series of awkward moments. Some are small and significant only to me, some scream out so loudly that people a block away sense the awkward and turn away in embarrassment.

Recently we were sharing a car with a friend. He was driving and we were sitting in the back as the radio played. Suddenly he turned to me and asked "What does this song mean Michele? What does this mean?"

The deeply thoughtful lyrics in question were "I'm up all night to get some. She's up all night to get some. They're up all night to get some. We're up all night to get lucky." (repeat twenty more times than you can tolerate)

His eyes in the rear view mirror were serious. He really wanted to know what it meant. (Or he was messing with me, also entirely possible, he's one seriously good actor)

I tried exchanging glances with Leif but he just looked out the window innocently, leaving the English translation to me. The chicken.

So I took a deep breath and tried to explain it without any specifics whatsoever. Which I discovered was impossible.

"They're out partying....you know....with friends and meeting new people. Ummmm......well..........." He still looked confused and I was sounding either like an idiot or a prude, that would be a point of view thing. I tried again.

"It's a song about dating. Speed dating."

The eyes in the mirror didn't look convinced. I gave up.

"It's about sex. (big sigh) When you say 'you're getting some' or 'I got lucky' what you're talking about is sex."

The eyes got big so apparently I finally had explained it so he could understand.

You're thinking that was the awkward part, aren't you? You'd be wrong.

The only thing more awkward than translating and explaining song lyrics about sex is doing it next to a fourteen year old girl who is getting top marks in English.

I probably don't even need to tell you how silent the car was for the next several kilometers, do I?

Thanksgiving

My  Thanksgiving ritual is slowly (or quickly, depending on your point of view I suppose) winding down to a single event; a skype session with my family that will start out very organized and end up in a tangled heap of ten different conversations from which we all emerge feeling drained and filled and loved. Those who've had turkey probably also feel tired. I only feel tired because I've had to wait all day to talk to them after they finish dinner. (which is only called dinner on Sundays and holidays, the rest of the time it's lunch)

I'm not really on board with the practice people have started of publicly stating what they're thankful for during November, only because I hate that many people truly believe this practice can be sequestered into a single month and still make their lives different all year long. I hope that they enjoy the practice enough to set aside time each day to find one amazingly awesome thing about the day or the people in it.

That being said, I've realized that the distance between me and Minnesota means that if I don't come right out and say something (or as with most of you, write something) then you don't know at all what I'm thinking or feeling. You don't tune out my endless chatter or hear my profound silence. You don't see that the smile is real or there for show. You no longer know the two weeks leading up to my colossal meltdown and don't know if I'm over or under reacting. You just don't know. If you don't know those things, you might not know other things; important things.

I love my children to pieces. I don't know if they always knew that but I hope that they did. Zach and Jess are such fine humans and rich personalities that it's hard for me to believe I had any part in raising them. I didn't do it alone. Their dad has been amazing throughout their lives and we all need to thank him for that. He didn't have to be present; many fathers aren't, even those who share the same house. I miss Zach's ability to take a short story and turn it into a novel. I love his intense passion for the things that matter most to him. I miss Jessi's hugs. I miss her absolute faith (hard won on both sides) in my opinion. I love her adventurous spirit and take-no-shit attitude.

My parents have always been incredibly supportive of their "different" child. (that would be me) I really did listen to everything they told me growing up. Somehow though, 1+1 doesn't always = 2 for me. Sometimes it = blue or dog. I suppose it's little comfort to know that I actually do start with 1+1. All those lessons I learned from them have made my journey here easier. The majority of my little decisions are solidly straight out of my growing years. How a toilet works, how to ask the right questions to get the answers you need, how to be happy. I love them for accepting my decisions, as crazy as they seem sometimes. I hope they know that my craziness is preceded by a lengthy period of good old fashioned consideration.

I miss my sister, brother and sister-in-law terribly here. There is so much comfort in talking to someone who knows you so well that sentences don't need to be finished for them to understand how you feel or think. It's been hard living in another language, but harder still to find myself so distanced from the ex-pats here. Not many Midwesterners come here and if they do they're from a different socio-economic group. (to put it baldly, they're wealthy and I'm not) Even when we speak the same language, we don't speak the same language. So I miss talking to someone who knows me so well that I never, ever have to provide background. I miss being inside a family that doesn't have a list of topics to avoid at holidays or people not talking to each other. I miss the absolute acceptance we give to each other, although I think my move here has tested that acceptance pretty hard at times. I miss them.

I miss my nieces. I miss Emmy so much I bought a pair of socks with cows on them so I could think of her on a regular basis. She has forever changed my world view on socks. She's not just a sock expert, but also committed to saving our world. If anyone can, she's the person to do it.  I miss Carly's hugs and her voice. Like a magic trick, her voice can be anything at anytime. And like me, she can find the humor in just about any situation. I love her for that. I'm sad that I'm missing the part of Sidney's life where she is becoming. I want to hear her sing, play the piano. I want to watch her face while she tells me about the things that most excite her about life right now. I left before she had a chance to discover stuff. I miss Tasha. Lord, I miss Tasha. I miss her directness, her intelligence, her love. I miss my nephew James. He's crazy smart and rather talkative and very sure of himself. If you listen long enough (don't worry, he'll talk as long as you listen) you'll hear everything you want to know without ever asking a single question. Yes, I miss that.

I miss my friends, old and new. There is great comfort in knowing that there are people you can call and say, "Let's get a cup of coffee," and they will agree without question because they hear in your voice that coffee isn't what you need. They break diets if chocolate is what you need. When you call out of the blue they say "Gosh I haven't seen you in years....of course come over so we can make wedding invitations!" They ask the hard questions and listen to the answers. They truly would help you bury a body and instantly forget it ever happened. It may take decades for me to forge friendships like that here. If I live that long....

I''m grateful for all those things and more, but I'm also afraid. I know that doesn't fit into the Thanksgiving celebration comfortably, but there it is. I'm afraid of becoming a stranger to all these people I love so much, and of being estranged from them. I'm afraid that when I can finally come back for a visit we'll all perch on the edges of our seats in an uncomfortable silence wondering what to say the the person sitting nervously in front of us. My goal is to prevent that from happening. And to take every opportunity, like today, to tell them how much I love them. If I was there you'd be getting a real hug, not the typical Minnesota hug; only from the side and only for a moment. THAT'S how much I love  you.