Chairs in the tiny town of San Marco del Cimino.  I took this photo imagining two men or two women sitting visiting as some men were in the bar where I had a snack.

It's Sunday afternoon.  I'll head outside soon for a walk.  Most days, I walk.  I walk to get exercise, to find places, to get lost, to get gelato or pizza, to pop into churches and sit in the back, maybe light a candle.  Today I walked up to St. Thomas' (12 minute walk for Daniel's commute -- yahoo!), where Daniel is going to teach one hour of English a day to sixth graders.  The church beside the school, Chiesa della Santissima Trinita, was open, so I went in slowly, afeared that someone might kick me out.  One summer years ago, in hitting the seven basilicas of Rome, I went to Santa Maria Maggiore and was denied admittance: either my shorts weren't long enough or my arms weren't covered.  Frustrated to be stopped by the guard as Italians with less coverage than I had on walked in easily, I was rude to the guard.  I don't remember what I said, but my anger and frustration for the injustice was clear.  It was poor behavior on my part, and, once I left, I knew it.  When I returned days later with long sleeves and pants, I apologized to the guard.  He nodded, not quite giving me the absolution I was hoping for that afternoon. 

Today I had on shorts and a tank top, clearly not church attire.  But no one stopped me.  I sat in the last pew.  The priest was saying the Eucharistic prayer.   I'm pretty sure that I learned in Catholic school during training for a Bible bee that you are officially late if you get there after the Offertory, when the gifts are brought up and we do the "Blessed be God forever" part.  After the prayer, I shook hands with two people and said, Pace.  When it was time for communion, I didn't go up at first.  The Bible bee training was still in my head: you were officially late (not that I had actually been trying to make it there for a mass), you can't receive communion.  But then I thought, Who makes these rules and does it really matter?  So I went up, tank top and all, and the priest gave me communion.  It's peaceful, having communion.  It feels like home for me no matter where in the world I am.  It's a ritual, not just religious but cultural.  Even if I hadn't gone up, just being there was the ritual, but I was there and I felt like I didn't have to follow that rule.  It was okay.

After mass, I sat.  I watched the priest do the double cheek kiss with some folks, kiss some boys' foreheads, visit with a young woman.  He was expressive, gentle, conversational.  I liked watching him, wondering what stories he knew of these people, because he was clearly expressing joy in one instance, awe in another, and sympathy in another.  He had a nice face.  I cannot tell you what I mean by that because I'm not good on facial details.  I finally have down the colors of my husband's and children's eyes, but eye color and hair color and house color are often lost on me.  I remember stories pretty well, but physical details often escape me.  I'll often tell my husband that someone has a "nice face."  And by now, he knows what I mean.  It's a face that's open and attractive and transparent; it looks right out at you so you're not trying too hard to figure it out.  You could keep looking at it for a long time.

I headed to the door, nodding and saying, Buongiorno, to the priest.  He stopped me and asked (I figured out later),  "Di dov'e?"  I explained that I was from the United States, that I am teaching here this year (a verb I really need to learn), that my husband is teaching next door, at St. Thomas' this year.  The priest was pleased, happy both that we communicated and that Daniel is teaching there this year.  We laughed and parted.

The priest is not the only one I see talking with people.  As at home, people are often stopping and talking with each other.  The group that surprises me most is the older men.  They are gathered all hours of the day.  Yesterday, when I stopped for a snack in San Marco del Cimino (on my bike ride to Lago di Vico -- yes, another bike rental!  This one with a motor for the 30 (?) mile round trip to the lake.  I loved the motor.  I loved the lake.  I did not love the cars that went by me really fast or the downhills -- which I had thought I would like best -- during which I gripped the handlebars and breaks so tight because I could slow down only so much and those hills just kept going), four men were sitting outside the bar where I was, chatting, smoking, sipping coffee.  This is a normal scene here.  Older men just visiting with each other.  Just being together, not really doing anything, just being.  I see them in Viterbo, too, outside bars (i.e. cafes), outside shops, keeping each other company, reading newspapers, talking talking.  I have been wondering whether these men live longer than other men because they have these ways to hang out with each other seemingly often.  Recently I've read articles about how being or staying healthy is largely affected by having a good social network, by which they mean not 300 facebook friends (which is fine, but not what they mean), but real true friends that you talk to, connect with, see.  A friend told me about the book The Blue Zone, which also mentions true connection with other people as a component of good health.

So I think about these men, and I feel happy for them.  And I wonder how to create more time for all of us back in the states so we do this, too.

It's time to get outside for a walk to I don't know where.  Could be just the wall loop.  This is a moment when I miss my friends.  My walking friends.  They are in California and New York and Massachusetts and Tennessee, and they have walked with me over many years, over many streets, over many, many conversations.

Snack the Italian way (and I don't even drink coffee!)

Lago di Vico/Vico Lake

Chiesa della Santissima Trinita