A Journey to West Virginia’s Mountains and Hills

On a cloudy morning with a light drizzle, we turned on hwy. 77 on our way to Medina, Ripley, Weirton, and Spencer, West Virginia, three hours away, first on a smooth Ohio road with light traffic, then turning into a paved ribbon road designed so twisted that a slalom competitor would have had difficulty making the sharp curves winding up and down the densely forested mountains in West Virginia. People had not started to travel to their destinations yet to celebrate Independence Day and the roads were relatively clear.

The six senior passengers took their time to load and unload from the Highlander SUV with each stop the driver made. They were all slightly uncomfortable with their knees touching the front seat or the dashboard, but everyone was happy to embark on this adventure to visit Ray’s childhood home and the farm where he lived and worked as a boy.

Graveled side roads disappeared up and down the mountains and hills in the thick canopy of deciduous forests, so dense that it reminded me of a rain forest without the rain. Now and then I could see a small cemetery buried deep in the dim and lush green woods, with no apparent way to reach it from the highway.

The main road was either flanked by big boulders jutting out of the ground or by intensely green flat meadows with deer and fawns grazing calmly and unafraid. We had never seen so many animals either crossing the road in a hurry, grazing peacefully in the meadows, or lying dead in the middle of the road, victims of local traffic and the animals’ lack of fear of human presence – deer, racoons, red foxes, wild turkeys, black squirrels, and other creatures.

Before we crossed the Ohio River into West Virginia we passed by rolling hills, heavily wooded, the historic Zoar Village, a car racetrack, historic Blue Gray Hwy., and Ravens Glenn Winery.

Zoar Village, a historical gem, is in Tuscarawas County, Ohio. It was founded in 1817 by Pietists as a utopian Christian community and survived until 1898. The 2010 census counted the population to be 169.

A few miles across the Ohio River, a local resident in West Virginia had dug up a small and muddy pond, big enough for a couple to have a good time, but not big enough to row a boat on. He had placed a wooden platform with two chairs by this impromptu miniature lake, just slightly bigger than a deep rain puddle.

The “hillbillies” of West Virginia, very proud and private in their daily lives, built their homes in the most concealed spots, with access on gravel roads barely wide enough for a car. I wondered what happens when two cars meet, going in opposite directions. The West Virginians call this living a “holler.”

In the lusciously green land that time forgot, there were lots of mobile homes and huge trucks, elevated off the ground, with plenty of traction should it be necessary in wintertime. Some people are even buried in strange places, close to their beloved hunting grounds.

The two most important stops for this trip were Mt. Zion Community Church and Cemetery and Spencer Cemetery. Several generations of Ray’s relatives were buried there, i.e., grandparents, parents, brothers, sisters, their spouses, and some of their children.

Mt. Zion Community Church and Cemetery were located across from each other on top of a mountain, in a sunny opening of the forest canopy, accessible through a one-lane gravel road, snaking through the wooded countryside. Next to the church was a functional wooden outhouse. I was told the church has a bathroom inside, but they kept the weathered outhouse as remembrance of the old days.

The Mt. Zion cemetery had upright headstones with many Irish and Scottish names, and a few German ones here and there. Entire generations of one family were resting in their final place side by side. The graves looked well-tended, the grass mowed, and artificial flowers on most of them. The dead were certainly not forgotten in these parts.

To the left of the outhouse was a deep ravine, a “holler,” as the locals call it. I spotted a house among the dense foliage, down about 300 feet. It was bathed in the sunlight, like an island in the middle of a vast sea of green foliage. The trees, the incline, and the compact underbrush would have made it impossible for anyone to access this house by walking. The gravel road was snaking down towards it, I was certain.

According to West Virginians, a “holler” is a remote road or area along a narrow valley between the hills or mountains. The narrow valleys are also called “hollows.” As travel brochures describe it, “The Mountain State’s combination of mountains and streams make for quite a few remote areas and lots of hollers.”

When Ray was a boy, eighty years ago, people living on the farms went to town on Sunday and that town was Ripley. Many of the hamlets do not even have a stop light, you blink, and you miss them, but Ripley today has a grocery store, a pharmacy, and three fast food places. We drove for endless miles on serpentine roads without seeing a grocery store, a clinic, or a pharmacy of any kind. We wondered where the people got their groceries, their meds, and their medical care. On a stretch of sixty miles or so, we came across a small Piggly Wiggly.

Going back to Hwy. 77 on a different route, down the mountain, we leaned back and forth, moving in tandem with the winding road, wondering if it will ever be straight again. It never stopped curving until we reached hwy. 77 and everyone took a collective sigh of relief. We were not sure how much longer we could have withstood the nauseating feeling of sideways motion sickness.

 

Travel While You Can

Cherry blossoms 
Photo: Ileana Johnson 2022

Travel will soon become a thing of the past. Not only are the globalists getting ready to shut down commercial airports, destroying all the industries dependent on travel, but air transportation will no longer be available to the masses, it will only be allowed to those who have billions, who can afford their own jets, and have enough money for landing fees at the few remaining commercial and private airports.

Besides the interdiction of a large contingent of combustion engine cars in EU cities by 2050, air conditioning, gas stoves, gas heating systems, wood-fired ovens, and other amenities that make modern life more comfortable and livable will disappear in the U.S. By 2050 only electric vehicles will be allowed on EU roads. No Fossil Fuels-Powered Cars in Europe Cities by 2050 - autoevolution

In the new digital currency world being implemented rapidly around the globe, travel will be a privilege that only the mega rich will be able to afford. The masses are encouraged to join the virtual reality realm if they want to see the real world.

The New York Times is already mentally preparing/indoctrinating the masses with bizarre arguments against travel. The statement that many people make, “I love to travel,” is thus classified by the author, Agnes Callard, as “the most uninformative statement that people are inclined to make.” I wonder how she would feel if only allowed to move on foot within her 15-minute city, in a very limited radius her entire life.

To support her view, the author uses examples from famous people like G. K. Chesterton who wrote that “travel narrows the mind,” Ralph Waldo Emerson who called travel “a fool’s paradise,” Socrates and Immanuel Kant who seldom left their homes, and the Portuguese writer Fernando Pessoa who penned in his “Book of Disquiet” the following, “I abhor new ways of life and unfamiliar places…. The idea of traveling nauseates me … Ah, let those who don’t exist travel!... Travel is for those who cannot feel…. Only extreme poverty of the imagination justified having to move around to feel.”

In this new and twisted view, if you love to travel, you are a fool, you cannot feel, and you are lacking imagination. Who knew that exploration of new lands, horizons, landmarks, and other historical and archeological sites suddenly became passe because the globalists gave the orders to the mainstream media to indoctrinate the masses that travel is bad, and you are shallow and lacking if you do.

Callard wrote that “tourism is what we call traveling when other people are doing it. And, although people like to talk about their travels, few of us like to listen to them.” The Case Against Travel | The New Yorker

I’ve never treated my travels as shallow. I walked in the steps of history with much anticipation and pride and reached places I’ve only dreamed of. I’ve learned more things from my travels domestically and internationally than I had ever learned in all the years I spent in public schools and in college classrooms. And I was paying close attention to the professorial lectures since I was paying the tuition.

The New York Times is also suggesting that we should take pilgrimage-style vacations where we travel on foot. What a healthy idea if you can walk all day. But so many people are unable to do so. Health reasons, handicaps, and other issues prevent them from traveling on foot, but they would still love to have the experience of nature, learn from archeological digs, see paintings, sculptures, beautiful buildings, experience cuisines abroad for themselves. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/19/travel/long-walk-exercise.html

Globalists are suggesting replacing travel with virtual reality, a fake experience that does not begin to fill the thrill one experiences in front of a masterpiece or a statue at the Louvre or the awe of seeing the pyramids of Egypt and the Sphinx.

Billionaires, bureaucrats at the U.N., and mouthpieces writing for leftist magazines do not have the right to take away our freedom to experience history, archeology, nature, other countries, monuments, mountains, lakes, churches, famous statues in person. They are trying to control 8 billion people under the bogus premise that humanity is in peril. They must control everything we do in our daily lives to save us from ourselves because they know better, they are the gods of sustainability, the cornerstone of United Nations Agenda 2030, saving the planet from imaginary carbon emission Armageddon while the billionaires and their sycophant bureaucrats are jetting around the world in their private planes, mega yachts, and other fossil fuel driven machines that emit tons of carbon.

 

 

How Much Did the Equally-Poor Proletariat Travel?

A rare photograph of my mom and dad, second row left and of
my grandma on the first row (taken in the village)

For the first twenty years of my life, I never traveled much.  I have actually seen more of the world since I escaped the clutches of Ceausescu’s communism than I had actually seen of my own country as I was growing up. I changed that in the last five years when my husband and I did cover at least half of Romania. But I still have not seen the other half and I find that to be so sad because Romania is not that big of a country. It is beautiful, with stunning vistas and a rich history, but very small when compared to the United States. And I have seen a lot of the United States!

I wanted to visit the world then, to get away from the communist oppression, but my parents were very poor, everybody was really poor, and the only people allowed to travel were communist elites and their families.

Athletes, ballet dancers, and famous opera singers were given visas to go on tours after much debate, interrogations, investigations, and threats that the remaining loved ones would be imprisoned should they decide not to return.  Political operatives were assigned to follow them like shadows during the entire foreign trip. There were not many opportunities to escape the political babysitters.

The rest of the proletariat was equally exhausted and miserable to care whether they went anywhere or not. It was hard enough to find food and to trudge each day from work to a cold home in winter, no water, no hot water, no toilet paper, no medicine in pharmacies, no food on shelves, just long and endless lines. Who had energy left to even dream about traveling?

People ran from work with a jute shopping bag in hand to join a huge line forming around the block, not knowing what was on sale, but they knew whatever it was, it was in short supply, and they would need it.

Once, Joe told me, a long line formed in Bucharest in the mid-80s to sign a book of condolences for a Russian communist dignitary who had just passed away. People stood in line winding around several blocks and were madly disappointed and furious when they got to the front of the line after hours of standing and there was no food or toilet paper with splinters for sale. I actually saved a small scrap of this toilet paper and have shown it to my students over the years but it seems that the lesson flew by their ears and eyes as they voted in droves for communist “social justice” in this country.

One evening, going home to his safe house, my friend Joe bought a tray of freshly picked cherries for his friends who were coming over to watch a movie. It was common for people who did not own TVs to get together on weekends at someone’s house that had a TV and watch whatever movie was on that night. They ate the tasty cherries in the dark when suddenly, his daughter who went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, screamed in horror. The table was crawling with white worms from the empty cherry crate. Nobody bothered to tell Joe that almost all fruits, but especially cherries, plums, and apples, had worms due to lack of pesticides. Like everything else, chemicals were in short supply as well and fruit flies overwhelmed the crops. The five year communist party plan worked like a charm from the Tower of Babel – nothing made sense, it was just communist rhetorical babble, impossible to translate into real life.

To this day, mom views with suspicion any fruit that I bring her to eat. She even thinks that bananas, when they turn slightly brown, have worms. I wrote a story about her titled, “Wormy Bananas.” http://canadafreepress.com/article/wormy-banana

It was a real treat to go see my aunt and uncle at the Black Sea during summer vacations. Mom and dad scrounged enough money for the train ticket and the daily bus fare to the beach; my parents hoped that Mom’s brother fed me for the duration. I was used to little food so being fed once a day was no big departure from my routine.

I honestly don’t know how I lasted every day at the beach without food and water, without passing out. My skin turned a honey brown hue after a few burned layers peeled off and a few treatments with yogurt to draw out the heat from the burned skin. I had no lotion with SPF to protect my skin nor sunglasses to shield my eyes from harmful rays. And I could not swim at the time. The water was murky black from the algae, hence the name, the Black Sea, dangerous to be in at any speed.

My aunt and uncle were considered much better off than we were simply because she worked in the port and got to bring home whatever things may have spilled in the cargo of a ship, including the famous barter currency, Kent cigarettes, while my mom’s brother worked in a wine factory where it was easy to barter wine for other foods. They were not starving for sure, had a well-stocked fridge and pantry, and a small but much nicer furnished apartment, and they certainly ate well.

My uncle owned a dark green Russian made car that had seen better days twenty years earlier. He drove it once in a blue moon; most of the time it sat in a garage being washed, hand-polished, and tuned every weekend as if it was a prized jewel.

He even bought a motorcycle, an unprecedented luxury that attracted the attention of the financial police. I am sure he bribed his way out of that investigation predicament. His wife and daughter had the nicest clothes from the west, bought from foreign tourists who discarded their clothes upon leaving for home in favor of hand-made souvenirs. Some commercial ships would bring in brand new goods they would sell on the black market to people like them who had excess cash.

I think my aunt and uncle took me once to Tomis, then a beautiful art deco restaurant at the edge of the sea and made fun of my disgust upon seeing for the first time, shrimp, frog legs, and escargot.

I would look at all the foreign young people having a good time in places we, the proletariat’s children were not allowed in, such as discos, but the children of the moneyed communist elites were invited in with open arms.

I traveled in 1977 to Sofia, Bulgaria, shortly after the 7.2 Richter scale earthquake which took place that spring. It was a distraction my parents could barely afford but they wanted me to keep my sanity in college when I had to pass by mounds of rubble of collapsed buildings with the stench of death.

It was then that I realized how truly incompetent the communist regime was in the face of disaster and how inadequate in its heavily promoted care for the people. They were so dishonest in their outright theft that they even stole the donated blankets from the west – we knew because they appeared for sale in certain department stores. The commie elites only cared about themselves and their rich lives.

Once in a blue moon, my mom would pay for me to go on a school trip, usually to Sinaia, at Peles Castle, to a museum, or to Poiana Brasov, then an unspoiled mountain meadow with a winter ski resort for the elites and the European rich. My dad was skittish about letting me go. He always had a morbid image that his only child might roll into a ravine with the school bus. Sinaia was not far away from our hometown, Ploiesti, but it was at the end of a mountain road composed of constant hairpin curves. I never did appreciate my dad’s fear until I drove through it myself, decades later. The vertiginous drops at the bottom of the mountain were breathtaking and scary.

The proletariat was allowed to go on picnics on Sundays, a good distraction from attending church which was frowned upon. Grills were fired up in the communist-owned outdoor restaurant or people brought their own food to eat on a blanket on the green grass. It was such a treat to feel grass under your bare feet because stepping on grass in the city resulted in a big fine and signs everywhere alerted the pedestrians to stay away.

Children were happy, playing ball, hide and seek, tag, and picking wild flowers, not a care on their minds because they did not understand the world around them.

Beer was abundant and relatively cheap at these outdoor booths and many got drunk to forget their dreary lives. At the end of the day, the forested patch of green heaven on the outskirts of town looked like a trash pile. This bad habit to discard refuse in nature has not died today.  I saw with my own eyes the trash dumped in beautiful and pristine areas. At the same time, the tiny trash bins were empty then, absent or overflowing today because nobody empties them often enough.

Ceausescu had hired crews of gypsies to sweep the streets with big brooms made of twigs but the recreational green areas were not tended to with as much care or picked up as much.

The extent of most people’s travels was to the neighboring villages were their relatives and parents still lived, on a radius of maybe 20 miles. The buses were old and rickety, spewing black smoke and the travel was not comfortable and it certainly was not fun. Visiting relatives and returning home with a dozen eggs, a pat of cheese, one liter of fresh milk, or a live chicken helped the family survive for the week.

Baptisms, weddings, and burials were valid reasons for travel but again, relatives did not have to go very far because mobility was not encouraged by the totalitarian regime – you had to have a permit to move from the village to the city. If you were caught living in the city without a permit, you were fined, and possibly arrested. People were born, lived their entire lives, and died in the same town or village, no possibility of upper or lateral mobility.

Trains took us further out but a one hundred- mile journey could take all day as they stopped at every little village. The faster trains that stopped less were much more expensive and beyond the reach of most people. Flying was something only stars did in the movies and the president and his entourage.

The proletariat was rewarded for their hard work with subsidized tickets to a two-week wellness resort run by the state. During this time each person was treated to massages, mineral water wells, mud baths, cafeteria food, and a hotel room. The sad thing was that they could not travel as a family. Only one person per family at a time was allowed such a luxury and they could not pick the time, the communist labor union did.

My parents went together to such a resort years after I left Romania. Growing up, I don’t ever recall when my parents went on vacation together and only a handful of times when they went to a nice restaurant – those were reserved for the fat elites. And children were always left at home.

 

An American in Cluj

“Bucura-te, Tara scumpa, imbracata de parada,
Ca, din alte tari straine, vin prieteni sa te vada!     -  Vasile Militaru, 1936

Our paths have crossed years ago at the Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science, a residential school in Columbus, dedicated to gifted students from around the state who wanted to be challenged by an enhanced curriculum and by the combined expertise of teachers with doctorates in their respective fields.

His interest was not necessarily math and science, Darius Roby loved foreign languages and the wonderful programs offered there by two foreign women, who taught five different languages. His mentor was my colleague, a very inspiring and entertaining teacher from Venezuela, who supplied their fantasies with stories of world travel, especially France, and mysterious places. Her enthusiasm was contagious!

Darius was born in a town close to the Mississippi Delta, a poor region left behind by its own making but rich in culture and music; it is “dotted by antebellum homes and destitute black communities,” as Darius wrote. He described the poverty as self-inflicted by people who “live hopelessly chasing the Pie in the Sky that democrat candidates always promise them and never deliver.”

But his ancestors lived over the past two hundred years in the “Red Clay Hills” area where “Appalachia begins, more ethnically mixed,” where great cotton plantations give way to more forested and hilly regions where small farmers grow crops like corn.

Darius pursued International Studies (Social and Cultural Identity) at Ole Miss and, after graduation in 2010, decided to make good on the promise to see the places that he had spent years reading about in his history books. Europe to him was not just France, Great Britain, Spain, Italy, or Germany; it was Eastern Europe as well with its long history dating back to the Roman Empire. He wanted to see where the “backwoods gravel roads led to and what was on the other side of the hill,” so he chose Romania to study at Babes-Bolyai in Cluj, the Faculty of European Studies.

It did not take long for Darius to fall in love with Romania - discovering her beauty was curiosity, enchantment, and serendipity. On his semester abroad in France in 2009, he decided to visit Moldova but had to spend one day in Bucharest because his connecting flight to Chisinau was canceled. A year later he found himself in Bucharest and, instead of hopping on a flight to Cluj, he decided to take the long route by train, the trip of a lifetime.

“The grey, rather depressing communist architecture around Bucharest’s Gara de Nord [northern railway station], the farms of the Wallachian Plain, the smell of petroleum and heavy industry in Ploiesti, seeing the Carpathian Mountains for the first time and instantly falling in love; passing Brasov and getting my first glimpse of Transylvania was a special moment – seeing little villages that would do any postcard justice, shepherds in cojocs standing on the hills watching over their flock, and familiarizing myself with the new names whenever the train would stop: Sighisoara, Medias, and Campia Turzii.”

Arriving in Cluj by taxi, passing by the old synagogue, the Roman Catholic cathedral, Darius marveled at the Hapsburg architecture, so different from the Wallachian architecture, Darius knew he was in for a fascinating adventure.

Learning Romanian seemed easy to Darius after having spent seven years studying French and two years Russian, but remained a “source of grief.” While the French congratulated him when he spoke French to them, even though he made mistakes, punctilious Romanians made sure to correct him or switched to English every time he made errors. Darius understood first hand that education socialist style was not the feel good, let-me-give-you-a-trophy-for-trying American style education, but it was based strictly on merit and achievement, impatient, you can either do it or you don’t, and much too harsh for westerners.

He met Romanians who lectured him on how Romanian is a Latin language and he should not make certain mistakes. There was so much pride in their language that a Westerner could easily mistake good intentions of perfection for arrogance.

But Romanians are friendly, warm, and kind, ready to offer comfort to someone in need, and very forgiving.  Darius discovered that “Romanians truly appreciated the small things in life because they were not spoiled by them. They might go about their business with frowns on their faces but they will go to the moon and back for you once you become a part of their circle of loved ones.”

Small things in life were lived and appreciated more, Darius discovered.  After four to five months of cold winter, when most fruits were hard to find, it was a special treat to find new potatoes in spring, cartofi noi, or late summer plums, prune.  

When the snow has barely melted on the ground, it is heart-warming to celebrate “Martisor” on March 1, pinning a symbol of spring tied with a red and white string on a favorite girl’s lapel.

He quickly discovered that Romania is a “bureaucratic paradise” and cultural rules of etiquette are quite different. While filling out paperwork for residence permit, for school, and other documents, carrying bags and books, Darius used his foot to shut the door to the health clinic. That simple act of necessity in America earned him a rebuke from the doctor who yelled at him that he disrespected her by closing the door improperly.

Upon finishing his M.A. in July 2012, Darius was offered a job as Chief Editor for the English and French pages of “Clujul Vazut Altfel,” an NGO that promotes the cultural, historic, and touristic attractions in the region as well as the ethnographic value of Cluj County and Transylvania. The salary is nothing compared to what he could make in the United States, but his work brings him a sense of contentment not unlike the Romanian joie de vivre.

“Clujul Vazut Altfel” organizes excursions to villages and cultural sights in the surrounding areas, a wonderful educational experience worth far more than many boring days in the classroom. www.en.cluj.com

Romania is a gem of history, its cultural, historical, and natural wonders are truly breathtaking. “Almost every village has its own treasures – from Roman castra found in the middle of a cow pasture and fortresses that once defended medieval Moldova from the Turks, to waterfalls with stories that have long ago passed into legend. Six years have not been long enough to discover them all - I do not think that a lifetime would suffice.”

NOTE

Darius Roby’s travel blogs can be found at the following links:

http://uatoday.tv/opinion/bakota-the-place-that-no-longer-exists-on-maps-473638.html
http://www.moldova.org/along-lesser-traveled-roads-trip-to-moldova-part-one/
http://www.moldova.org/along-lesser-traveled-roads-trip-to-moldova-fortress-soroca-part-two/
http://en.cluj.com/rosia-montana-where-history-and-industry-meet-progress-and-conservation/
http://www.moldova.org/darius-roby-orheiul-vechi-a-window-on-the-past-2/

 

 

 

 

Flying South for Spring

From the moment I left the house, I did not know what I was going to find on my journey. This time I left at 3 a.m. and I discovered that, even at such an early hour on Easter Sunday, the roads were not exactly clear in the suburbs of Virginia, the capital of congestion and perennially clogged highways and interstates.

On my way south, my airline ticket offered a convoluted route via the windy city. Once aboard the plane, having escaped the unnecessary frisking of the TSA, I started perusing the in-flight magazine – they’ve never disappointed me, bursting with colorful ads, magnificent stories of faraway romantic places that look so much more fascinating in glossy photographs than in reality, and the usual environmental propaganda. This time it was all about “green” coffee, sustainability, community gardens, and U.S. Airways’ one world alliance (part of the merger with American Airlines) that is supposed to compete with Delta Sky Team’s. The name “one world alliance,” meant to help “international travelers better connect with their world locations,“ gave me shivers.

An elderly gentleman seated next to me, a physician, was bemoaning the state of medicine today and how it was Mitt Romney’s fault (he said it at least three times during our incipient conversation) and how people in Chuck Grassley’s office wrote the Affordable Care Act. Not one time did he call the bill Obamacare or blamed those who passed it in the middle of the night. I was irritated and ready to do verbal battle. I don’t know how, but I am always finding myself seated on airplanes next to liberals. I can tell by the way they dress, they behave, the way they hog the arm rest, and how they invade the floor space with their bulky carry-ons and computers. Normally there is no conversation with such people but he started it.

He confirmed my suspicion that he was a Democrat. He told me that he had to stop accepting diabetic patients with Medicare because the reimbursement was under $9,000 per year and he felt like a criminal having to justify to Medicare every penny spent on diabetic supplies. As much as he wanted to help patients, he was fed up with Medicare. And of course, it was Mitt Romney’s fault.

I explained to his seemingly deaf ears that Medicare was stripped of $619 billion over a ten year period precisely to fund Obamacare. He was appalled that insurance plans were so expensive now, could not understand why, but thank God for subsidies, and was hoping that we will soon have a one payer system just like in the UK because it works so well there. He had no problem with the rest of the working country subsidizing insurance for those on welfare, illegal aliens, and Muslims or other religious groups that find insurance abhorrent but demand free healthcare.

I was listening perplexed - I did not want to insult this person I just met. I chose my words carefully, I had to bite my tongue several times, and it was very hard to listen to his outrageously ignorant claims. He became increasingly uncomfortable and, had the plane not been full, he would have changed seats gladly to get away from my logical descriptions and explanations of the disastrous Affordable Care Act that is going to destroy our stellar healthcare. We parted ways hurriedly, and I barely had enough time to hop on the next flight, the last leg of my journey.

After bumping my head because I am taller than the overhead bins on a Canada jet, I happily deplaned on the tarmac of my beloved South, crossing my fingers that my luggage had made it as well. It was a gorgeous morning, cool and not humid, early enough to have breakfast and grits.

I accepted the strange car that the rental agency had reserved for me and whispered under my breath that I hoped it won’t fall apart at the seams. Our secretary had bought a Kia years ago and it had been a lemon from day one. This one was a stylish silver grey and had Soul written all over the black interior. Peripheral visibility was poor and it had lots of blind spots. I clutched my cross and said a silent prayer before I drove off. The roads were not crowded at all, nothing like the congested roads in Virginia with the motto – Welcome to northern Virginia, there will be delays. At times, the highways were almost empty for miles. My eyes were filled with the lush green vegetation, the colorful symphony of wild spring flowers, the hilly landscape, and flocks of animals grazing peacefully in fenced pastures.

The sky was liquid sunshine blue, crisscrossed by what appeared to be airplane vapor trails that did not dissipate for hours. It was so strange, I took a few pictures. I would not have noticed them except the small airplanes making these trails were quite noisy overhead. I don’t understand why some trails dissipate immediately and others take hours.

I stopped in my former hometown to visit the house I owned for 24 years. The street was lush with blooming fuchsia and white azaleas, bathed in sunshine and happy bees. The back of my former home looked like a solid green jungle with vines completely covering the brick steps and strangling the remaining trees. Renters never take good care of someone else’s property. I could no longer see Tiger’s grave; it looked entombed in tons of overgrown weeds, unpruned bushes, and kudzu. The azaleas and rose bushes, narcissus bulbs, tulips, and daffodils had long been obstructed and covered by a green mass.

A weak meow brought a furry surprise from a bush, the black and white kitty I had rescued years  ago and named Princess. She followed me down the driveway, into the street, trying to hop inside my car as I was getting ready to leave.  My neighbor promised to take care of her six years ago when we moved, and he had kept his promise. She remembered me and allowed me to pick her up and shower her with hugs.

The old high school building was empty and up for sale. The local furniture store that has been in business for 50 years was closing its doors. The street I took to work every day for 20 years was the same. It took me five minutes to get to the university. The expertly-manicured lawns were green already and the old trees bursting with flowers. The giant magnolia remained untouched by violent storms. Everything was deserted, save for the gate guard. Even the cafeteria was closed. I was disappointed that I would not get to see Mama Dee, every student’s cafeteria confidant and advisor. She greeted them for breakfast and lunch every day with the same words, “How you doing boo?.” Chef Fidel’s miniature garden had been replaced by bushes and flowers.

The Tombigbee waters seemed placid. I wondered if the resident gators were still hiding in the fishing holes along the banks.

Driving to Tupelo, Elvis’ birthplace, was like putting my mind on cruise control – I knew every road, pasture, home, farm, and gas station along the way. Nothing seemed changed, time stood still. Towns lost mom and pop businesses, national chains moved in, some homes were abandoned and shuttered, but churches were full on this glorious Easter Sunday. I was back in God’s country - everything was closed except for the chain bookstore. Liberals need their place to drink coffee and read free magazines.

Okolona seemed deserted. A few cars drove by slowly. Life seemed so calm and gentle, a welcome simplicity punctuated by the buzzing of bees. I almost expected to see the roads rolled up for the day.

The Turners welcomed me into their home with open arms and hugs – I had not seen them in a year. Lois had prepared her wonderful Easter meal. Life has not slowed her down much. She is just as lively as I remember her the first day we met in 1978. Harold, our WWII hero and veteran of the Battle of the Bulge is 92 years young. He stands tall, moves with purpose and energy, and still drives his truck to the store. He helps with occasional repairs at the flower shop, getting down on his knees better than most young people.

Harold delighted us with one of his war stories. His troops were returning exhausted from overseas and stopped for the night in the Civil War Cemetery in Fredericksburg where they rolled mats and slept on the ground between graves. As a treat for dinner, Harold had prepared them five sweet potato pies with potatoes he had bought from a local farmer. Some of the soldiers were not familiar with the tasty southern dessert but enjoyed it nevertheless. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drive to Fredericksburg without thinking of Harold’s soldiers bunking for the night in the cemetery.

Time flew by and I had to say good-bye once more. I don’t see my adopted family often anymore but they are always in my heart and prayers. Without their advice, guidance, and loving acceptance, I would have never been able to adapt to this country when I first arrived. With their loving encouragement, I became a proud American by choice.

I stopped in Tupelo for a fill-up at the same gas station on top of the hill, not far from Baskin Robbins. A young man with a toothless grin said, “You ain’t from around here.” Yes and no but I miss it dearly. It is the free and patriotic America I discovered and loved when I first arrived. It has not changed that much in this charming southern town. I did not want to tell this smiling and welcoming man that I live in a place where America has changed irreversibly - nobody speaks English that much among the tower of Babel of unassimilated immigrants. People speak a language that admires primitive third world cultures and promote Spanish and global citizenship in schools. Children learn at an early age to hate themselves for being Americans. This man would not understand why progressive Americans speak the language of socialism and communism. This world I see every day is so far removed from the South, it is an alien and anti-American world ruled by crony capitalists and progressives.

The sun was setting behind me in glorious pink, purple, and orange hues. As I drove east, I took in the landscape with the eyes of a child who discovers something cherished and I breathed the fresh air of temporary freedom before returning to the stifling and suffocating alien world of the northeast that crushes the American spirit for financial gain, power, and glory.

 

Sarasota

It’s five a.m. and the bright full moon is casting dancing shadows in the hawkish wind. The dense, tall trees are creaking in the back yard forest with giant limbs swaying. The air is cold and dry; it has not rained in several days.

It’s a far cry from the balmy Florida yesterday. We got up at 6:30 a.m. to watch the sunrise over the ocean. Joan’s cottage is five minutes from the beach. In the salty damp warm air, the street greeted us with pitch blackness. The island has no street lights. The only ambient light comes from the moon and the stars and they were not providing much brightness. Our eyes adjusted to the dark and we walked in silence. I could hear the small geckos scatter in front of our feet. They were everywhere, like tiny beige Velociraptors. The lush tropical vegetation, especially the clustered and dense palm trees secluded any possible light coming from homes nearby. Many were shuttered for the winter season.

I did not see any Palmetto Bugs, the lovely euphemism given by Floridians to huge cockroaches but I cleaned their unpleasant presence in the shower and in the kitchen. I was busy vacuuming for a little while when we first arrived. The cottage had been closed for five months. While in the back yard, I saw a beautiful green snake slither between the tall grasses and the crushed sea shells. I could not search anything to see if it was poisonous or not. We had no Internet, no radio, no television, and very poor phone reception. We were not cut off from the world but it felt this way, not being tethered to some instantaneous form of communication. After a while, we got used to it and enjoyed life more and each other’s company.

It is October but the temperature was 88 degrees every day in Siesta Key. The ocean water was a balmy 82 degrees. We made our way to the beach groping in the dark. The damp sand felt soft and velvety under our feet. There was not a soul anywhere, just the thunder of the waves crashing into the rocky pier nearby. Erosion is a problem – large boulders and a rocky pier control some of it.  A curious and unmoving crane perched on a rock is peering at us in the darkness.

We started walking in silence along the shoreline; the sun will rise on the left at 7:24. It was pointless to shoot pictures – it was too dark. Here and there flocks of sea gulls were still nesting noisily for the night. They did not scatter when they saw our shadows approaching. Waves lapped at our bare feet – I was surprised by the warmth of the ocean so early in the morning.

The tides left pools of water on the beach during the night. They will evaporate when the sun comes up. Small globs of jelly fish pick up the light. A ring of newly abandoned shells follow the shore line. Sea weeds and curiously long cucumber-like plants are scattered along the way. We walked for a good half hour before a tiny sliver of light emerged. Slowly, the sky changed color, becoming a milky dark grey, then hues of dark blue, light blue, and finally rays of pink fanning across the sky, breaking through the dark blue like projector lights on nature’s stage. The ocean appeared bluer from its ominous navy darkness.

I imagined the ocean depths teaming with creatures large and small and felt a twinge of tightness in my chest visualizing how quickly a human would succumb to such a hostile environment. Yet it was so beautiful! The sand took on the color of pink. Behind the condos dotting the beach, a dark orange light emerged, mixed with darkness.  At exactly 7:24 a.m. an intense orange orb appeared. I looked around and saw several people walking the beach, searching for sea shells and a lone fisherman, knee-deep in water. The waves were not too fierce. The sea gulls flocks took off now when more humans approached. The crane was gone. I took pictures of the beach saturated with color. The fascinating palette flooded my eyes with shades of gold, yellow, pink, orange, and blue.

On our way back, we stopped at the Broken Egg, our favorite outdoor breakfast café, where they make the best omelets and a famous buttermilk pancake the size of a huge plate. If it is a place where locals line up to eat and have their favorite table, I know the food is delicious and cheap.

I must not forget Captain Curt’s crab and oyster bar, the first place winner for the best New England clam chowder competition that took place in Newport, Rhode Island. It was delicious! The place was hopping with locals and tourists every night.

The day before, while frolicking in the emerald green crystalline waters, I stopped in awe and fear when three small sting rays gently glided past me in the ocean. All I could think of was, please don’t flip your tails. I encountered fish of all sizes, glittering silver in the waves. One blue mid-size fish, resembling a marlin, swam slowly close to the surface; he appeared to let himself be carried by the warm surface currents.

I could not tell that thousands of miles away tropical storm Karen was brewing. Once in a while I felt a cold current bathing my feet. On our last day, the ocean became furious and agitated, the perfect time to surf on the tall waves. We were alone on the beach, a bit cloudy at first, a lone surfer watched like a hawk by the lifeguard on duty. A five minute quick rain drenched us while we sat in our chairs watching the surfer battle the waves. The sun came out, everything dried and the rest of the day was lovely, snoozing by the sound of crashing water with this paradise all to ourselves.

Siesta Key was voted number one beach in the country in 2011. Why travel to faraway lands when we have such a fantastic jewel in Florida?

Florida was the best acquisition to the United States string of pearls. According to the 1819 Adams-Onis Treaty, Spain ceded Florida to the United States for $5 million and the promise that America would renounce any claims to Texas that they might have had from the Louisiana purchase. Alternately, the Spanish, the French, and the British ruled over this strip of heaven.

But Sarasota and its keys, with the most beautiful beaches in the country are its Tahitian pearls. The dunes, the tall grasses, the sugar white sand, the emerald green waters, the balmy climate, and the lush vegetation blooming year round make it one of the best in the world.

According to some historians, conquistador Ponce de Leon named the peninsula in April 1513, La Florida (flowery land) because of the Spanish Easter Season named Pascua Florida (Flowery Easter). The lush vegetation was in bloom at the time when he landed. From 1630 through the 18^th century, La Florida was also known as Tegesta, after the Tegesta tribe, as it appeared on a Dutch map of cartographer Hessel Gerritsz.

Sarasota is a retirement heaven judging by the numerous hospitals and clinics everywhere. It was not the height of tourist season, some stores were closed for fall, but many were empty, victims of the terrible mismanaged economy of the last four years.

The Lido Beach area in St. Armands Key was hopping with rich tourists, some speaking Arabic, and a wedding party; a lovely couple had just tied the knot on the beach at sunset. Year-round rich locals come out in the evening in the Harding Historic Circle for a promenade with their leashed dogs or in infant strollers and to have dinner at their favorite European style cafes. Our eating experience at the four-star restaurant Crab and Fin was a disaster.

St. Armands Key was an oval shaped, 150-acre uninhabited island when John N. Ringling (1866-1936) purchased it in 1923. Ringling planned a community of expensive homes with a central park. The Harding Park was named after his friend, President Warren Harding (1865-1923).

St. Armands was opened in 1923 when the bridge to the mainland was completed. Mediterranean and Spanish style homes were built after 1945 and more residential and shopping areas were developed later.

I learned that on January 16, 2001, Harding Circle with its associated medians and boulevards was placed on the Register of Historic Places for “its unique early planning and development.” The residents view this designation with pride and accomplishment.

 

The area is now dotted with lovely white marble statues, a stark white contrast to the green palm trees and flowering bushes. The Allegory of Sarasota, one cluster of statues representing the seven virtues “conceived and designed by Edward Pinto,” is looked upon with approval by the statue of a benevolent Michelangelo:

-          - Music (representing the performing arts)

-           - Flora (representing natural beauty)

-          Aristotle (representing the local area research and facilities)

-          Sculpture (representing painting and sculpture)

-          Asclepius (god of medicine, representing the many local specialists and clinics)

-          Bounty (representing the richness of land and sea)

-          Amphitrite (wife of Neptune, representing the gulf and bays).

Downtown Sarasota proudly displays a huge statue called “Unconditional Surrender,” created by sculptor J. Seward Johnson, the anonymous kiss between a soldier and a nurse, a symbol of freedom, a celebrated moment in the history of our nation marking the end of WWII. Jack Curran bought the sculpture and, with the help of various Sarasota county veterans organizations, donated the sculpture to the city of Sarasota.

Sarasota was once the winter home of the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. The cultural attractions include the John and Mabel Ringling Museum of Art (1927), a 66-acre estate on Sarasota Bay, the Mote Marine Laboratory (1955), Selby Gardens (1975), Van Wezel Performing Arts Hall (1968), Florida West Coast Symphony (1949), College of Art and Design (co-founded by Ringling in 1931) and many others.

But for me, the salty ocean water, the spray, the breeze, the spectacular sunsets and sunrises, the pelicans diving for food, the majestic cranes, sand dunes with native grasses tall and willowy in the wind, the turtle nests, and the snow white sand are the main attraction. I cannot have enough napping by the sea, watching nature unfold before my inquisitive eyes, and playing like a kid in the ocean surf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Late September Day in 2012

Between the suffocating smoke wafting to the third floor of my cousin’s villa from burning egg-plants on the indoor grill, the ambulance sirens, the wild dogs roaming the streets all night barking, and the cock-a-doodle of the rooster from the chicken coop across the street announcing the start of a new day, I had no chance to sleep past 7 a.m. The rooster is a bit confused, he cock-a-doodles all hours of the day and night.

I woke up to a cacophony of sounds of a big city, so close to downtown, I could see the cathedral spires from my window and hear the bells toll. The trolley bus running up and down the street below was filled to refuse with humanity packed like sardines, going downtown to work. A mass exodus of villagers occurs every morning and every late afternoon. Driving to work is prohibited by the high price of gasoline, the lack of parking spaces, and the deliberate narrow roads and streets, built at a time when only the ruling elites were allowed or could afford to purchase a car.

I took a picture from the window of my bedroom. The skyline is very crowded by drab high-rises that dwarf my cousin’s beautiful and elegant ocre-colored villa. This section of the street has not been demolished yet to make room for more utilitarian concrete twelve story apartment buildings. I love the red roofs on the remaining homes on Malu Rosu Street. They are so cheery in an otherwise landscape of grey and pollution filth. It has not rained all summer long, it is dusty everywhere and grass, unless copiously watered, is crisply brown.

The street is eight minutes-walk to downtown yet many homes still do not have running water – the city never attached them to the water department system. A few have their own electric pumps. Every morning there is a stream of people bringing buckets of dirty water and dumping them directly into the street drain. When the drain clogs and over runs into the street, the fetid smell forces residents to call the city’s water department.

I am fascinated by my surroundings yet it is so noisy, I miss my quiet home and the solitude of my woods. Anna’s cactus is in full bloom this morning. It started opening last night. The delicate white flower stays open 24 hours and then it dies. I saw it last year when it bloomed earlier. The warmer temperatures this year must have tricked its biological clock and it opened a couple of weeks later.

The hurried urbanites on foot from the surrounding grey and dingy high-rises crowding the landscape discharge into the streets like a huge colony of ants looking for food. True to form, a large portion of the citizens’ budget is spent on food and housing. For this reason, politicians like to bribe the lower class voters with tokens of food during campaigning, luring them to the voting booth on Election Day with food as well, including free bus rides.

Not much is illegal in this country anymore, the corruption is endemic. White collar crime or traffic offenses are seldom punishable. Most people know someone who can forgive their violations for the right cash payment or bartering other types of favors. A favor is not just something you do for a close friend or out of kindness, it is commodity money, and must be returned in kind.

Driving on the highly congested roads is a hazard in itself. Drivers never stay in their lanes because they do not exist as a painted space; sometimes one lane is occupied by three cars side by side and only a native can understand the irate hand signals indicating who has the right of way. Passing takes place on the right, on the left, in-between cars, on the shoulder, and on the sidewalk. Pedestrians are fair game even in designated cross-walks. Crowding three cars in a parking space designed for one and double parking are quite common.

Cousin Ana drove us to the abundant market, full of vegetables and fruits, flowers, and busy bees buzzing the nectar oozing from crushed fruits. I bought a purple mum and candles to take to my Dad’s grave in Popesti. The gas station attendant filled our SUV with $10 a gallon Diesel. I remained silent on the way to Popesti. Memories were flooding back as landmarks flashed by – the country school where my six cousins graduated from, the creek filled with fish where we bathed in summertime. The road was blacktopped and I was riding in a comfortable car instead of the communist bus smoking oil and fumes inside for two long hours, bumping us with every pot hole.

The cemetery seemed over run with weeds in some places but the view to the valley below was spectacular. I stood on the cliff, peering into the distance, re-living my 5 km walk to the country fair with Grandma and cousin Gigi. The trek seemed endless for five year olds but the reward at the end was worth it – a ride on the merry-go-around, freshly roasted corn, and a clay whistle or toy Grandma always bought us.

Wild flowers bloomed around the dilapidated church, which had fallen into disrepair because there were not enough builders for all the construction projects after the fall of communism in 1989.  I had met an architect in Washington State earlier this year who told me that she had traveled to Romania to give pro-bono construction advice in many church projects in Maramures.

Dad’s cross has weathered so badly – he passed away 23 years ago, six months before the fall of communism. He would have loved to have seen the positive changes that took place since the demise of Ceausescu’s totalitarian regime.

I planted the purple mum and watered it copiously. The friendly owner of a house nearby lent me a shovel and gave me a bucket of water. He was playing with his little girl in the yard. I lit the candles and said a prayer in memory of my Dad’s sacrifice. It felt sad and comforting at the same time to be so close to the person who gave me life and freedom, to the places where we grew up and yet I felt such longing for my home in Virginia.

My heart ached for the unfulfilled past but rejoiced in the present. I was well enough to fly 7,000 miles to plant flowers on my Dad’s grave and pay my respects to his life cut short by the commies. America, the promised land, has given me so many opportunities that I would not have been permitted under communist Romania. Had I stayed, I would have been just another daughter of the poor and exploited proletariat. Because Dad let me go, I had a shot at a better life. I never squandered this gift.

The water well in front of the cemetery is dry now; people have their own hydro-pumps. The houses nearby are shaded by pergolas covered with grapevines laden with golden and red grapes, waiting to be picked. The crop is abundant and the grapes are especially sweet.

I took a few photographs and left my Daddy behind, alone but surrounded by such simple peace and tranquility. His resting place is sacred ground – he gave his life for what he believed in most ardently, freedom from oppression. I know he is looking over me from heaven because I escaped to freedom and I am able to carry on his legacy. I have touched so many lives in my career, he would be happy.

 

 

 

 

Santa Maria di Negrar

The narrow winding road from Santa Maria di Negrar to Verona was flanked by lush green vineyards and well-tended gardens overflowing with vegetables. The river Adige with its beautiful Roman bridge, Ponte Pietra, built in 100 BC, dominated the Verona landscape. Higher on the banks was Castel San Pietro, built on ruins that dated back to 1389. The city walls, erected between the bridges Ponte di Pietra and Ponte Postumio alongside the river Adige as protection against 12 ft. floods, could be seen in a panoramic view from the castle’s terrace.

The ruins of a Roman amphitheater built in the 1st century BC are still extant today. It was a difficult hike to the top of the hill. Sitting on the peaceful stone steps, surrounded by balsam trees and so much history of the western world, I was daydreaming about my Roman ancestors and their daily lives, so close to a river that frequently overflowed its banks. The cobblestone road crossing the Adige, archeological evidence of the magnificent quality of thousands of miles of roads that crisscrossed the Roman Empire, held deep grooves worn into stone by chariot wheels passing through “Verona Romana.”

The province of Veneto is a spectacular canvass of green terraced orchards, balsam trees, vineyards, and olive groves, interspersed with dangerous and dimly lit roads. I closed my eyes, white-knuckled, every time Dave took sharp curves too close to the center, unable to see oncoming traffic.

The beat up Nissan we purchased for a song chugged along, picking up speed, never failing us, cranking up every time. When the GMC Jimmy was totaled, the Nissan seemed like a Godsend. Exiting our favorite pizzeria, La Tonda, one night, Dave was hit on top of the blind hill by a speeding car. The sturdy and heavy SUV saved his life.

 

Italians love to speed, take their side in the middle of the road, park where they please, especially on the sidewalk, drive as if their lives do not matter, and act like children when they feel cut off in traffic. Getting on the “autostrada” past the toll roads is like a gladiatorial game of kill or be killed. I have never witnessed anyone being ticketed for speeding but saw plenty of cars smashed beyond recognition on the sky is the speed limit “autostrada.”

I have seen Italian men and women stop in the middle of a busy intersection, get out of their cars with fists pumping in each other’s faces, yelling obscenities and hurling personal insults to total strangers, blocking traffic in both directions in order to get verbal revenge. Pedestrians stop to watch such comical and entertaining display of road rage while drivers honk impatiently in a cacophony of noise. Many get out of their cars to witness the spectacle, further exacerbating the traffic jam.

Riding a Pullman bus to the airport one foggy morning, the driver got out to confront a drunken “motorini” owner who hit the bus. The image running through my mind was the Italian Don Quixote fighting the giant windmills. Instead of waiting for the police that never came, the two drivers started fighting. The bus was intact, we eventually left on our way, but the little scooter was left behind with a twisted wheel. The “motorini” bully was not hurt; we were going way too slow.

There are no traffic rules for Italians, just suggestions. Following the law would be too simple. Why wear seat belts when you can wear a t-shirt with a black line across the chest, mimicking a seat belt, in an attempt to fool “polizia stradale?”

Our Spartan but expensive apartment in Santa Maria di Negrar was overlooking a rolling vineyard with an irrigation ditch that cascaded into a serene waterfall below our balcony. Few had a backyard – the land was too precious to waste on frivolous pleasure – it was used to raise food instead. The owners tended to the grapevines meticulously like a mother caring for her baby. We were delighted to leave our large windows open all the time, shutters and all, overlooking the green hills in the distance, and did not have to worry about flies or mosquitoes – the vineyard was well sprayed for parasites and disease. I wanted to meet the owners but I was afraid to enter their property – below the imposing archway was a huge “no trespassing” sign. A German shepherd and a hunting rifle accompanied the owner on his daily inspections of the grounds. I watched him from afar. We were the only Americans in the small village on the outskirts of Verona. Americans were not very welcome and we stood out like a sore thumb - we are both tall. German tourists, who loved the Lake Garda area, would often ask us for directions, thinking that we were German. We must have looked like giants to the petite Italians.

I loved the cool marble tiled floor and the large skylight on the second floor. I took many dangerous tumbles from the second floor on the moist and slippery marble. We could watch the stars in the absence of streetlights and outdoor ambient light. When the sun went down, we were plunged into an inky blackness, perfect for stargazing.

It was strange that we had to purchase light fixtures, sinks, and other amenities that American apartments offer. Italians rent apartments or homes for most of their lives and are expected to provide chandeliers, kitchen cabinets, sinks, and air conditioning. When they move, they take all these amenities with them, leaving the apartment stripped bare with electrical wires exposed everywhere. Because we were so far north, nights were cool. It was really hot during the day without air conditioning but nights were pleasant.

We never had enough power to run a microwave, a washer, and dryer at the same time. I shorted out the entire apartment complex several times by trying to run the dryer and make a cup of tea in the microwave at the same time. The washer was tiny by design; I could only run very small loads, a couple of shirts and two pairs of jeans at a time. The cycle would take at least 90 minutes to wash and dry a load and it was very expensive. I started using the clothesline on the balcony – the drycleaners were fantastically expensive. Our neighbors saved on their water and electric bills by wearing the same outfits to work all week. It seemed like a European tradition to bathe once a week, on Saturdays, and use bidets the rest of the week. One American home filled its bidet with potpourri to discourage its use by Italian visitors. We were told repeatedly that Americans are too wasteful because we shower every day and change our clothes.

The bank of smart meters would cut off power whenever we least expect it. There was never a schedule but we knew it would be on the hottest or coldest days/nights and it lasted for hours every time. We got used to the pitch-blackness - we were sent back in time, keeping the farming schedule of long time ago before electricity freed us from an agrarian lifestyle.

The underground parking cubicle allotted for each resident was barely enough space for an SUV, with inches to squeeze by sideways on the way out. We unloaded groceries in the driveway and then parked the car in our concrete-walled garage. I will never understand how Dave drove in and out of the garage without scraping the car on both sides of the wall.

The security system was always armed, with speakerphones and cameras for each apartment. No visitor was buzzed in unless recognized by the apartment dwellers. We never saw or knew the property owner - the government docked our required bank account for rent.

To address pollution, the government passed a novel ordinance to discourage driving – cars with even license plates numbers could drive one week and cars with odd license plates numbers could drive another week. Violators caught on the road in the wrong week were fined heavily.

Northern Italians were so glued to their cell phones, they would have had to be surgically removed from their “cellulare.” No matter how remote a place, the familiar “pronto” was everywhere. Service was very good but expensive. Landlines were not dependable and worked intermittently. It was hard to get service in towns built on mountains where lines were difficult to bury a few feet under layers of cobblestone and rock. Roman roads, which were religiously preserved, made it more challenging to bury fiber optic cables, power, or phone lines. Unions had to be consulted before any projects were undertaken and a myriad of notarized forms had to be filled and approved by the arcane bureaucracy.

Italy is a developed country but life there is not as easy as life in the United States. Just paying the phone bill took a good part of the day, following the strange bureaucratic schedules at the mercy and whims of clerks who did not care about serving customers, especially when time came for their mandated afternoon nap. Everything closed down for 2-3 hours.

We loved to eat in “trattorias” and truck stops where a three-course meal cost 5 Euros, was fresh, homemade, and delicious. “Ristorante” was expensive and frequented by rich Italians and tourists. The locals would eye us with suspicion. When speaking Italian, they accepted our presence graciously, but eyed my husband warily since he did not know a word of Italian other than “grazie,” thank you.

And then, there were the Auto Grills, the familiar sight on every Italian “autostrada,” with an array of freshly prepared pastas, sandwiches, coffee bars with café lungo, espresso, café Americano, café macchiato, cappuccino, freshly squeezed blood orange juice, and stinky pay toilets. For some reason, Italians have not mastered the art of providing clean public restrooms for everyone, easily accessible as we do in America. I found that bizarre since the Romans had flushable commodes in their cities and knew the importance of military port-o-potties in preventing disease. In towns, unless you found a pay bathroom, you were in trouble, as businesses allowed the use of their facilities only if you purchased what they sold.

When the Nissan needed new brakes and tires, it took two weeks! We rented a Volvo S60, which I promptly ground to a halt by filling it with gasoline instead of Diesel. The tow-truck came to rescue me. An American would have laughed off my stupidity but this petite and gruff Italian was all business, gesturing “mamma mias” to heaven, calling the dumb American interesting epithets, not realizing that I spoke Italian. It cost 300 Euros in towing fees. I rented a new car with a traditional engine because Diesel was too expensive. I laughed off the offensive disdain for my mistake and my predicament.

Italy is a picturesque country of uncommon landscapes, a jewel of art, history, cuisine, and gelato, with colorful and hospitable people full of charm, but life is very complicated and unnecessarily hard.