Un Po

June 17, 2013

His words come at me rapidly. I only understand half of them — if it is a lucky day. He likes me. He wants to get coffee together. I am a beautiful. He wants to give me a belt.

italianoThis is what I love about “my boots guy.” Guiseppe continues to speak itlaian to me even though I’m sure he knows that I don’t really comprehend. The thrust gets through — certainly the bevy of baci do — but much of the meaning is lost.

I confess that after 9 months living in Italy, I am still very much an english speaker.

How I failed to learn italian

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Perspective of living — abroad and otherwise

April 21, 2013

As an American and a runner I am shocked and horrified by the bombing at the Boston Marathon. As a student living abroad, I’m even more shocked and horrified by the subsequent reactions and am struggling to find perspective. And peace.

War and war-like actions are the worst mankind has to offer this world. Violence begets violence. It always has been a self replicating and escalating cycle and it, I fear, always will be.

View from the DuomoI am by no means the most erudite student of history on the planet but I grew up in a news-aware home as the daughter of two Peace Activists. Some of my earliest memories are of holding a candle outside the White House and Pentagon. I remember vividly trying to wrap my young mind around the concept of a hunger strike. I celebrated my 8th birthday around a bonfire while participating in the Great American-Soviet Peace March in the Soviet Union in 1987.

In this light — my own perspective — I look at current events.

Perspective, let us share some

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“Barely” Surviving Tough Guy 2013

February 10, 2013

My eyes are locked on my gloved fingers grasping the 4 inch plank between my feet.

My focus shifts past the mud on the beam to the rope cargo net and then the ground two stories below.

“No, Jo, you have to stand up. We have to go across.”

I look up into his eyes. His jokers cap long gone but the jovial still framing his face.

“I know but…” my voice reverberates in my head with the echoes of fear and frustration which drown out the wind, “Ben, I can’t feel my feet.”

We spend a beat or two looking at each other. Then he says, “ok” with authority and conviction and reaches out his hand to take mine.

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