Nashville Confidential

miracles happen in rome

I love public transportation as much as -- or perhaps more than -- the next person, but tonight it seemed the whole city was conspiring to prevent a return to my hotel.

At 11 p.m. we found out the Rome Metro was mysteriously shut down. Investigation revealed that this is due to late-night repairs. Of course there are no signs or indication of this anywhere.

Then we decided to get a bus. A lot of interesting folks are riding the bus in Rome at 11 p.m., especially when the Metro is mysteriously shut down. I had a chance to stand cheek-to-jowl (and other combinations) with these fine people.

Let me share Mapgirl Dark Secret #5: I have extreme personal space issues.

Oh yes, my friends, about 8 minutes into the ride, I was silently screaming inside my head. In addition to this I was trying to guard my valuables, and I do not mean that euphemistically. I was trying to keep my purse and camera close to me, remembering that someone else had their camera swiped on the Metro this very day.

And I was sweating profusely. (I know this weblog is 17 percent about me sweating, but it must be said.)

I started praying, "Dear God, please get me off this bus before I have an extreme mental breakdown or, worse yet, have my purse stolen."

Just then we heard a fantastic BANG. I wondered if one of the interesting people on the bus had brought out a firearm, but that was not the case.

The bus blew a tire.

Everyone had to get off the bus. Who says God doesn't answer prayer.

We had to find a taxi, which for a reasonable sum carried us at breakneck speed to our hotel. We lived to tell the tale, and I said another prayer for the interesting people who did not have access to this solution. They had to get on the replacement bus, which arrived during the haggling with the taxi driver. (That's a tale for another time.)

Tomorrow is our last day. We plan to do plenty of walking.

why i cannot play poker

I am not afraid of heights, and the chairlift over the Isle of Capri seems like a fabulous idea. The lift takes you all the way to the top of this paradise, just you in something like a child's swing, with a cable connected to a system that pulls you to the top.

I love this. So why, as I am ascending, my feet dangling over the olive groves and honeysuckle, do the oncoming chair riders keep assuring me I'll be okay? "You'll be fine," the man across the way yells to me. "No problem, it's no problem," the next man behind him says as his chair descends.

I am looking out toward the coast, the ships in the distance, almost floating as there is no break between the sea and the horizon. It's glorious. A cool breeze filters through.

"Don't be scared," one woman, coming to the end of her ride, says with a reassuring smile.

Why do these people feel compelled to comfort me? Is it because I have realized that there is but one thin metal bar between me AND CERTAIN DEATH if I fall out of this blasted thing? Is it that I have seen the steep path of this 12-minute ride and realize that there is no turning back? Is it because I am now clutching the sides of the chair? While I think I am smiling and conveying a deep sense of calm, apparently I am sending out a vibe that says, "Holy ^&*(# this thing really could break."

I laugh. Just a little. And I look out over the town again, and decide NOT to look at what is below my feet or what is ahead but just to enjoy the beautiful view.

(Make your own metaphor for life here.)

I smell the honeysuckle and feel the breeze and feel complete disbelief that I am on the Isle of Capri, taking in all this beauty.

I am near the top now.

A man with a strong accent is just beginning his descent. "Hey, don't be afraid."

"Do I look afraid?"

"Yes ... breathe in, breathe out."

Well, at least people care!

Best 6 Euro I ever spent.

headlines from italy

... The Leaning Tower of Pisa is still leaning. I can now confirm this.
... There are no ugly people here. I am not kidding. There must be some kind of beauty prerequisite to live in the city of Florence. By the way, I am staying in Pratolino, 12 km north of the city.
... I have learned how to say ^hazelnut gelato^ in Italian, and I have found that pretty much gets the job done.
... The weather simply could not be any better.
... Ditto the food.
... Two days are not enough in Florence.

more later as events and Internet access warrant. Hope you are having as enjoyable a week.

ciao

Okay, kids, I'm T minus 24 hours from leaving for my big vacation and all I can say is, get out of my way. You know how I am right before vacation -- completely unbearable. But when I come back, I'm always shiny, happy and well-rested. (At least until I get out of the airport.)

Yes, I anticipate a true Italian Renaissance. I make no claims or promises to record everything that happens, but please do return in October for the highlights and photos.

By the way, would you record the season opener of "West Wing" for me? Thanks.

old hickeaury

My favorite place in New Orleans, at least what I recall of my hazy 1987 New Year's trip there, is Jackson Square. And when I saw Dubya give his press conference from there earlier tonight, I realized why: it contains the exact same statue of Andrew Jackson that Nashvillians see on the State Capitol grounds.

whip it good

Now this is welcome news, and it is fitting that Bill Monroe's mandolin is just down the street from the Ryman. No wonder I never mastered the mandolin. Apparently Bill shared his virtuoso technique with Ricky Skaggs, recommending that he "whip it like a mule."

vespers

Just as I like sitting in church on Sunday morning and thinking about all the other people who are sharing that experience around the world, I liked sitting at the Knitters show last night and thinking about my friends who were at similar concerts across this great land of ours.

C+C were seeing the Stones in Chicago, in honor of his birthday. Happy birthday CHM!

EV and RG were at the Ryman seeing Lyle Lovett. Deep sigh.

I saw Dave Alvin, who never disappoints, with the Knitters. They did a rendition of "Dry River" that was, yet again, different from all the other times I've heard it. I would like to have "Dry River" played at all significant events in my life from here on out. Yes, it will be played at my 40th bday party. It is such a fantastic song, one of the great American tunes, in my opinion.

The Knitters overall were extremely entertaining and really top-notch. But I must confess, their punk / country sensibility just made me miss Jason and the Scorchers.

enjoy every sandwich

Sept. 7 has some hard anniversaries. It's been four years since my cousin Marti passed away on this date, and each year I can't get through this day without thinking about her and missing her and being sad.

So I'll listen to some Warren Zevon, who also died on Sept. 7. Here is a nice tribute to Warren. You gotta love a guy who can write songs about baseball pitchers, diplomats and mercenaries with equal aplomb. Did I ever tell you MCC and I met him? I'm strangely proud of that.

If you ever get a chance to see Warren's final appearance on David Letterman, watch the full hour. His advice was to "Enjoy every sandwich," and it wasn't a maudlin or teary goodbye. It was wry and fascinating. Just like Warren.

how i spent my summer

Bring on fall, my favorite time of year. But as this Labor Day draws to a close, we should not bid farewell to summer without recapping some of the highlights. Truly it was a good one, and I didn't write too much about these things, but I want to let you know I got to spend quality time with some of my favorite people in the world.

These included, but are not limited to, BJC and her family, LHR and her family, EAG and her family, CWM (we missed you, NW), KNS, EIB, HCB, JFA, JAW and MCC & CHM. This seems like a laundry list of initials, but each of these represents some very special moments.

In the mid-South, exceptional times were had with DMJ, TC, EV, KS, Mr/Mrs M, assorted folks at the Family Wash and a few surprise guests.

And then my old world beat a path to my door as VGG, SH, HER, JMS and JRB were here in town within the past few weeks, which was delightful and melancholy all at once.

Let’s not forget about the music. I was talking with MCC earlier tonight and she is one of the few people who understands my overwhelming excitement at these two statements:

(1) I'm seeing the Knitters on Sunday. (MCC just saw them and proclaimed it one of the best shows she has ever seen. That is monumental – and she is not the first person to give such a glowing recommendation.)
(2) Then I’m seeing the reunited dBs the following Saturday. (MCC introduced me to the dBs, and she is beyond jealous. I promised to buy her a commemorative T-shirt.)

This nearly makes up for the fact that I will miss the Americana Music Association festivities this year. Sigh.

couch as metaphor

About nine months after my move, my place is slowly starting to take shape. May I emphasize slowly? One of the key items I have lacked is a couch (sofa, davenport, depending on your dialect). I decided not to buy one until next year, given the other Massive Expenditures of 2005.

I looked at catalogs and on websites and occasionally in furniture showrooms. But I didn’t see anything that really caught my eye. Today I decided, on a whim, to stop into a local furniture store’s going-out-of-business sale. And there it was: the great (as in massive) white couch.

It is very big and very white. It is nigh unto impossible to move. My dad and brother and brother-in-law and nephew (age 6, destined for a supervisory career in later life) all were involved in the transport and relocation of this behemoth. The only thing that could have made it tougher, they said, was if it were a sleeper sofa.

Then they were afraid to sit on it in their sweaty states.

Did I mention that it’s white?

No worries – it’s microfiber, whatever that means. According to the sales guy, it means you can pour almost anything on the suede-like surface and it will clean right up. We do not plan to test that claim. No red wine or Starbucks allowed.