You might be wondering what I’ve been doing since I’ve come back. Unfortunately, not much running. You know how it goes, working a lot in January to pick up the slack for the holidays, then, you know, auto accident in February. You know how things go. It’s nothing to get alarmed about, but it did prevent me from running.
Monday, March 12, 2007
L.A. Marathon
Monday, February 19, 2007
SPECIAL POST: Italy Trip Finale
Hello everyone! Forgive my lengthy pauses between posts. It’s been a rather productive new year, and hopefully some great news to come in the months ahead.. So with that, let’s take a quick little tour of my last leg through Italy, where I traveled alone.
First stop, ROME.
I can’t tell you why, but I wasn’t expecting to get real excited about this city, but then I went to the Colosseum and everything changed. I mean, how could I not like Rome? It’s my kind of city. Grand. Outgoing. Hedonistic. I can’t imagine anyone have an in between opinion about this city. Either you like it or you don’t.
Oh and look, my house is just next door.
I stayed three nights in Rome, and fortunately, since I was staying in a hostel that made connecting with folks a lot easier (lots of Australians this time of year). My highlight, though, was while venturing out alone.
Last night in Rome. Two men. Italian. Both with heads shaved bald. Both shared the same birthday (different years). There names: Stefano and Sandro. Great guys. They actually became friends while traveling in America, and we all shared a laugh over their similarities. The best part was when the three of us were walking around, and Sandro turned it into an architectural tour, giving us insights into the how’s and why’s of Rome’s stunning buildings. My experience was made complete when they drive me back to my place in one of those little European cars. It was a blast! At the end, we exchanged email addresses and such, and I had to start laughing, when Sandro asked, “MySpace?” Oh, such a small world we are becoming.
By the time I had to say goodbye to Rome, I didn’t want to leave. I felt like I had become a resident. Well, maybe I dream about that for the future. Right now, LUCCA is waiting. Off we go!
Well, after a stop in Florence, of course. See, I left Florence without buying a pair of boots. Over the course of days that had passed, those boots became a damn near obsession of mine. So the plan was on the way to Lucca, stop in Florence, get the boots, get on the train, and go.
It was going to be my one big splurge. I didn’t even know if by buying these boots, I would wind up penniless at the end of the trip. Oh well, I figured, if that happens, at least I’ll look great at my funeral. But there was a snag in my plan. Or rather, a tear. Seems like the only pair in my size required a little stitching at the seam. If I wanted them to do it, I would have to wait for the seamstress to return from lunch, hours later. Buy or don’t buy?
Oh hell, let’s get ‘em. We’ll fix ‘em in Lucca. And that set the pace for my visit. I was a LOCAL IN LUCCA. I was there for two nights (or one full day) and I had all these errands to do. Laundry, post office, and such, so that’s what I did. I stayed at this adorable place, and had the shared dorm room all to myself.
The tourist information office pointed me to the place to get my boots repaired. The man spoke English because he had lived in Australia for some time, but we didn’t need to speak the same language for him to understand the look on my face when he mentioned replacing the whole seam. I told him to do the best that he could so that I could have them by 10am the next morning.
Then I stepped out, navigating my way through the beautiful historic center of Lucca,
to eat local treats at the open-air market, went to the local post office and successfully handled that transaction in my broken Italian, and even had a bottle of wine uncorked at the local grocery store. I even took a stroll up along the ramparts (the walls surrounding the city). Lions are everywhere in Italy and here is no exception.
And when no one was looking, I even did a cartwheel. (I only do that when I’m really happy.)
And sure enough, the next day, at 10am, my boots were ready, one hem slightly imperfect, but perfectly mine. Then, to make it unforgettable, he wouldn’t charge me. Smiling, he said, “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”
With boots in hand, I hopped on the train again, and continued to head north to CINQUE TERRE.
Cinque Terre literally means “five lands”, and it is five small coastal towns strung together by hiking paths. I stayed in RIOMAGGIORE for three nights, and what an experience!
I made my way to Bar Centrale. There I met Alberto, Richardo, Stefano (some locals) and Kim, whose name received a quick translation: Cassandra. Some hours and quite a few drinks later, Kim and I agreed to meet the next morning to walk the Cinque Terre, and then later that evening, meet up with Richardo and Stefano for dinner. Richardo insisted on cooking for us.
The next day, her and I took a local train up to the first town, Vernazza,
had lunch, and then walked two towns south to Cornegia. Perched high up on a mountain, the trails weave between breathtaking views of the sea and inland farms.
By the time we were down, we couldn’t wait for dinner. Kim and I met Stefano at Bar Ivo, and on our way to Richardo’s home, we stopped and picked up a bottle of wine, from a local grower. Dinner, of course, was amazing and just whole lot of fun.
And then, like that, it was time to leave. Cinque Terre felt so like home that it was strange to get on the train again. And as the train moved north, the sunny sea disappeared and turned into a gray sky and flat land.
Next stop: MILAN. My plan was to only stay a night, because I was really hoping to catch a quick train to Lake Como. Although radically off-season, I wanted to buy my friend, Tania, a poster that she fell in love with at one of her favorite restaurants in Los Angeles. But since I had to stop in Milan, I figured while I was there, why not walk through area around Via Montenapoleone to explore Milan’s most-known asset: Fashion. (Yeah, it was fun.)
The next morning, my plan to go to Lake Como was underway, that is, until I was holding the ticket in my hand, but couldn’t find the train. Unfortunately, there wasn’t going to be a train. But on the bright side, the previous night, while visiting the Tourist Information office, the agent was so generous to give me a gigantic Lake Como wall calendar. So, feeling a little comforted by the fact that I had something, I settled in my seat as the train took me, instead, directly to VENICE.
Well, what started as a short train ride turned into a Day of Misdirection. The hotel I booked was on the mainland, not the island. (Be careful about that should you travel to Venice.) And when I was able to negotiate my way out of my current room, it then took hours to find the new hotel.
In the process, I met Eric. He was trying to get out of his room, too, and I couldn’t have walked in at a more perfect moment. When I said I wanted out, he jumped up. “Me, too.” I thought, “Cool, look at that. I already have a buddy.”
Not so fast. Eric (not his real name since he was born in China), who works for DHL in Germany was visiting due to amazing flight specials offered in Germany, like “10 Euros to Any Destination in Europe.” Anyways, after we finally made it to the new hotel, we went back out to catch a bite to eat and check out the Venice nightscene. And that’s when things took a turn.
Every place we walked into he was rude to the waitstaff, and then he was trying to get all over me. Needless to say, the first chance I had, I ditched him. And of course, as my luck would have it, I have a photo of him.
The next day, under gray skies and light showers, I experienced an almost perfect day. I was just peaceful to walk around, watch people play with pigeons in St. Mark’s Square,
eat gelato, and when my feet started to hurt too much, I sipped on quiet a few Proseccos (a sweet drink native to Venice) during happy hour at Buraco Jazz club. Soon after I decided to leave, it didn’t take long before I made friends at another bar. Eventually a group of four of us all had dinner together. I guess you could call it a feast for my last true night in Italy.
I had a hard time saying goodbye to Venice, and fortunately the slow vaparetto took an hour to get to the train station. That actually did make it easier.
I went back to Florence, hung out at a pub before catching a bus to the airport. And for my last adventure, I spent the night, there, in the airport with a local resident who was flying out on early next morning to visit her family in China.
So we talked on and off, between our attempts to sleep on hard plastic chairs. And then before I knew it, the airport came to life, I boarded my plane, and came home.
With that, I just wanted to say THANK YOU again for making this all possible, for all your support and encouragement. This was an experience of a lifetime.
And stay tuned, because I’m not done yet. It’s time to get back to some running.
First stop, ROME.
I can’t tell you why, but I wasn’t expecting to get real excited about this city, but then I went to the Colosseum and everything changed. I mean, how could I not like Rome? It’s my kind of city. Grand. Outgoing. Hedonistic. I can’t imagine anyone have an in between opinion about this city. Either you like it or you don’t.
Oh and look, my house is just next door.
I stayed three nights in Rome, and fortunately, since I was staying in a hostel that made connecting with folks a lot easier (lots of Australians this time of year). My highlight, though, was while venturing out alone.
Last night in Rome. Two men. Italian. Both with heads shaved bald. Both shared the same birthday (different years). There names: Stefano and Sandro. Great guys. They actually became friends while traveling in America, and we all shared a laugh over their similarities. The best part was when the three of us were walking around, and Sandro turned it into an architectural tour, giving us insights into the how’s and why’s of Rome’s stunning buildings. My experience was made complete when they drive me back to my place in one of those little European cars. It was a blast! At the end, we exchanged email addresses and such, and I had to start laughing, when Sandro asked, “MySpace?” Oh, such a small world we are becoming.
By the time I had to say goodbye to Rome, I didn’t want to leave. I felt like I had become a resident. Well, maybe I dream about that for the future. Right now, LUCCA is waiting. Off we go!
Well, after a stop in Florence, of course. See, I left Florence without buying a pair of boots. Over the course of days that had passed, those boots became a damn near obsession of mine. So the plan was on the way to Lucca, stop in Florence, get the boots, get on the train, and go.
It was going to be my one big splurge. I didn’t even know if by buying these boots, I would wind up penniless at the end of the trip. Oh well, I figured, if that happens, at least I’ll look great at my funeral. But there was a snag in my plan. Or rather, a tear. Seems like the only pair in my size required a little stitching at the seam. If I wanted them to do it, I would have to wait for the seamstress to return from lunch, hours later. Buy or don’t buy?
Oh hell, let’s get ‘em. We’ll fix ‘em in Lucca. And that set the pace for my visit. I was a LOCAL IN LUCCA. I was there for two nights (or one full day) and I had all these errands to do. Laundry, post office, and such, so that’s what I did. I stayed at this adorable place, and had the shared dorm room all to myself.
The tourist information office pointed me to the place to get my boots repaired. The man spoke English because he had lived in Australia for some time, but we didn’t need to speak the same language for him to understand the look on my face when he mentioned replacing the whole seam. I told him to do the best that he could so that I could have them by 10am the next morning.
Then I stepped out, navigating my way through the beautiful historic center of Lucca,
to eat local treats at the open-air market, went to the local post office and successfully handled that transaction in my broken Italian, and even had a bottle of wine uncorked at the local grocery store. I even took a stroll up along the ramparts (the walls surrounding the city). Lions are everywhere in Italy and here is no exception.
And when no one was looking, I even did a cartwheel. (I only do that when I’m really happy.)
And sure enough, the next day, at 10am, my boots were ready, one hem slightly imperfect, but perfectly mine. Then, to make it unforgettable, he wouldn’t charge me. Smiling, he said, “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”
With boots in hand, I hopped on the train again, and continued to head north to CINQUE TERRE.
Cinque Terre literally means “five lands”, and it is five small coastal towns strung together by hiking paths. I stayed in RIOMAGGIORE for three nights, and what an experience!
I made my way to Bar Centrale. There I met Alberto, Richardo, Stefano (some locals) and Kim, whose name received a quick translation: Cassandra. Some hours and quite a few drinks later, Kim and I agreed to meet the next morning to walk the Cinque Terre, and then later that evening, meet up with Richardo and Stefano for dinner. Richardo insisted on cooking for us.
The next day, her and I took a local train up to the first town, Vernazza,
had lunch, and then walked two towns south to Cornegia. Perched high up on a mountain, the trails weave between breathtaking views of the sea and inland farms.By the time we were down, we couldn’t wait for dinner. Kim and I met Stefano at Bar Ivo, and on our way to Richardo’s home, we stopped and picked up a bottle of wine, from a local grower. Dinner, of course, was amazing and just whole lot of fun.
And then, like that, it was time to leave. Cinque Terre felt so like home that it was strange to get on the train again. And as the train moved north, the sunny sea disappeared and turned into a gray sky and flat land.
Next stop: MILAN. My plan was to only stay a night, because I was really hoping to catch a quick train to Lake Como. Although radically off-season, I wanted to buy my friend, Tania, a poster that she fell in love with at one of her favorite restaurants in Los Angeles. But since I had to stop in Milan, I figured while I was there, why not walk through area around Via Montenapoleone to explore Milan’s most-known asset: Fashion. (Yeah, it was fun.)
The next morning, my plan to go to Lake Como was underway, that is, until I was holding the ticket in my hand, but couldn’t find the train. Unfortunately, there wasn’t going to be a train. But on the bright side, the previous night, while visiting the Tourist Information office, the agent was so generous to give me a gigantic Lake Como wall calendar. So, feeling a little comforted by the fact that I had something, I settled in my seat as the train took me, instead, directly to VENICE.
Well, what started as a short train ride turned into a Day of Misdirection. The hotel I booked was on the mainland, not the island. (Be careful about that should you travel to Venice.) And when I was able to negotiate my way out of my current room, it then took hours to find the new hotel.
In the process, I met Eric. He was trying to get out of his room, too, and I couldn’t have walked in at a more perfect moment. When I said I wanted out, he jumped up. “Me, too.” I thought, “Cool, look at that. I already have a buddy.”
Not so fast. Eric (not his real name since he was born in China), who works for DHL in Germany was visiting due to amazing flight specials offered in Germany, like “10 Euros to Any Destination in Europe.” Anyways, after we finally made it to the new hotel, we went back out to catch a bite to eat and check out the Venice nightscene. And that’s when things took a turn.
Every place we walked into he was rude to the waitstaff, and then he was trying to get all over me. Needless to say, the first chance I had, I ditched him. And of course, as my luck would have it, I have a photo of him.
The next day, under gray skies and light showers, I experienced an almost perfect day. I was just peaceful to walk around, watch people play with pigeons in St. Mark’s Square,
eat gelato, and when my feet started to hurt too much, I sipped on quiet a few Proseccos (a sweet drink native to Venice) during happy hour at Buraco Jazz club. Soon after I decided to leave, it didn’t take long before I made friends at another bar. Eventually a group of four of us all had dinner together. I guess you could call it a feast for my last true night in Italy.I had a hard time saying goodbye to Venice, and fortunately the slow vaparetto took an hour to get to the train station. That actually did make it easier.
I went back to Florence, hung out at a pub before catching a bus to the airport. And for my last adventure, I spent the night, there, in the airport with a local resident who was flying out on early next morning to visit her family in China.
So we talked on and off, between our attempts to sleep on hard plastic chairs. And then before I knew it, the airport came to life, I boarded my plane, and came home.
With that, I just wanted to say THANK YOU again for making this all possible, for all your support and encouragement. This was an experience of a lifetime.
And stay tuned, because I’m not done yet. It’s time to get back to some running.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
SPECIAL POST: Family in Marche
Are you ready to eat a lot of good food and down shots of grappolino? Good, because we’re going to see the Rossini’s in Marche!
** THE TRAIN STATION **
I took a three-hour train ride from Cortona to the station in Senigallia. Since my cousin Carlo knows less English than I know Italian, I relied heavily on the translation efforts of my friend, Sonia, who can speak Italian and whose family is also from Marche, and the staff at the Hotel Baglioni, where I stayed for the marathon in Florence, to help make the arrangements. I figured once I was talking to him in person that I could hand gesture my way through any conversion. I am Italian after all, but the details of my arrival were just too important.
So it was strange when I arrived and he wasn’t there. I was tired, and I was freezing. And after being in the loveliness of Cortona, the graffiti on the Senigallia station walls put me a little on edge.
I tried calling, but the telephone cards are like Rubik’s Cubes to me. Even when I thought I figured out how to place a call, the phone just rang and rang. Was I really getting this right?
Worse thing, though, I wondered if, after all this, I would be just hoping on the train again, never meeting my relatives, and traveling onward to Rome.
Fortunately, though, I eventually did get through, and it was Marisa (pronounced Muh-ree-za), Carlo’s wife. From what I could understand was that she was happy to hear from me, and that Carlo had left his cell phone outside, but I couldn’t seem to get my question answered, “Dové Carlo? In treno stazione o in macchina?” Eventually, it sounded like I would be seeing him soon enough. I hung up the phone and sat back down on the cold metal bench.
Not even a second later, the doors opened, and a hurried man walked in.
“Jennifer?”
“Carlo?”
And I swept out of the train station, my luggage quickly removed from my hands, a giant hug, and away we go!
I found out later that it had taken him so long, because the lady at the Hotel Baglioni had told I had blonde hair.
** BEGINNING MOMENTS **
Of course, before I could completely thaw out, the first thing that Carlo asked was how long I was planning on staying. “One night,” I said. “Just to meet you is enough,” and he said, “Until you leave.” In the end, after a couple days of intense negotiations, I agreed to stay for a week.
The town of Montignano is only ten minutes up a hill from Senigallia. It was night by the time I arrived, and in general, I didn’t get many photos, but in the days that followed, I learned that Senigallia is around 300 years old. Across from the station is a castle/fort, and like many towns off the sea, it was once a lookout point. Everything that extends out from this point looks like it has been built in the last 50 years or so, and has a slightly worn beach town feel to it.
Needless to say, we were home in no time. And get this, it’s Great-Grandpa’s house! By the way, Carlo’s grandfather is brother to Great-Grandpa, capisce?
Marisa made some tortellini, which Carlo and I picked up on the way home, followed by minute steak and potatoes. It was so similar to Mom’s cooking. They showed me their photos, and I got a little choked up, as Grandpa would like to say. Here’s my favorite photo, and it seems as though everyone has it:
Now, from what I understand, not everyone in this photo is family. It’s more like three or four families, but they all have been in this town for generations. It seemed like everyone I met could point to someone in this photo. So as far as I’m concerned, everyone I met is family.
** THE ROSSINI TEST **
But the question whether I was really family was posed.
At one point, Carlo wagged his pointer finger up towards the ceiling, and said (in the Italian equivalent), “Let’s see if you’re a Rossini.” Then he pulled out the grappa, poured me a shot, and placed it in front of me.
Well, what do you think happened? (As if that was a test. Please.)
What really won them over, though, was my computer skills. In no time, I was whisked upstairs to troubleshoot some issues / questions Carlo had about his laptop. Somehow, even with everything in Italian, I managed to figure it out, and explain it to him so he understood what was going on. In the process, he saw how fast I typed, and next thing I know, he’s dictating his email responses to me. That’s where I had to stop.
But we all had a good laugh. Either that, or the grappa was kicking in.
** OPEN THE WINDOW **
Things are really made well in Italy, even things like windows. They are very well constructed, super sturdy, and built in layers, so that you can enjoy them wide open in the summer or have them completely locked down in the winter. It was around 45 degrees while I was there, which I was told was warm for the season.
As Carlo and Marisa showed me how to open the window, they told me about the time cousin Sandy had visited. She wanted to open the window, and if I understood correctly, was having difficulties.
“Apertura la finestra!”, they said, laughing with glee, followed by, one of the few English phrases they knew, “Open the window!” I got a kick out of it, too, so after awhile that was just something that was injected into conversation.
The next morning when I did open the window, this is what I saw.
Beautiful, isn’t? I can only imagine how lovely it must look in the summer. According to Sonia, the best food (product) comes out of Marche. There are plenty of farms, and everyone seems to have one hand in the earth. Even Carlo and Marisa have two small lots, one for grain (to make bread) and the other, for olive (for olive oil).
** VISITING GREAT-GRANDMA **
Beyond those two small lots, hardly a block away down a dirt road from the Rossini home, is an abandoned home.
That happens to be Great-Grandma’s home. Although I didn’t go inside, but I did take a little something with me: a little rock.
Just beyond Great-Grandma’s house is the cemetery where most of Montignano’s families have come to rest.
Another street or so away is the church where they were married – Mary and Orlando Rossini. The church is located in Piazza Giordano Bruno.
And beyond that, down a hill, is the sea.
** MANY MEETINGS **
From the moment I stepped into town, I was introduced to a lot of people, and somehow I managed to keep up with five people talking to me at once. It was a lot of fun, though, and at times, rather funny all together. It goes without saying, of course, that their hospitality over flowed. I was shuttled from one home to another and one restaurant to another. All that was allowed of me was my presence.
On the first night, the bulk of the people I would meet all got together for pizza. Here we are:
In Italy, they have sausage like in Chicago, and it’s called salsiccia. And what a treat that was for me! It’s been years.
The next day, we had lunch at the Osteria sul Lago.
It was another big outing:
And aren’t they cute?
Okay, I can’t remember their names for the life of me, but he was the first person I met that spoke some English, which apparently was more than I could handle. Seems that after being completely immersed in the Italian language, I started to think in it. As I struggled to speak with him, I thought to myself, “Good god, I’ve arrived in Italy speaking broken Italian, and I’m going to leave speaking broken English.”
Later that night, I met some descendants from Great-Grandma’s side.
Before I left, thankfully I remembered to bring a handful of photos, one of each American relative, to share, and while I was there, I always made sure I brought them on me.
Well, when I started showing my little plastic baggy worth of photos, Paola (if I remember correctly) pulled out all her photo albums. It was a blast! Her son, Sandro, had a different opinion however.
To make matters worse, I asked if I could borrow a photo, so I could scan it at Carlo and Marisa’s, but Sandro offered to do it instead. Well, that opened up the flood gates and photo after photo was being handed to him, from Carlo, from me, and most of all, his mom, who kept saying, “Sandro. Sandro.”
I can still hear his name being called. Eventually, I grabbed an entire photo album and handed it to him, “Sandro! Sandro!” We all had a good laugh.
The most famous night, hands down, was the dinner with Carlo’s friend, Salvatore, a farmer, his wife, Marisa, and the man with the beard whose name I bite my fist trying to remember. He is also a friend as well as a retired police office (Polizia) like Carlo.
Now, if it hasn’t been clear up to this point, my Italian was very broken, but we all managed. I can only imagined that they struggle to understand me as much as I working to make myself understandable. I was complimented often by my efforts, but I received only one complaint and that was by Salvatore.
He said, in Italian, “I’m not woah-ME-KNEE.” The word he was saying was uomini, which means men.
So, I quickly replied, in Italian, “Hey, if you’re not a man, well…”
This, of course, just made him keep starting over, and repeating the same thing. He wasn’t ever quite reaching whatever point he was trying to make, and in the process, everyone starting cracking up, the ladies especially.
By the time, we got it all straightened out that Salvatore was a man and that I should be pronouncing it “WOAH-me-knee”, everyone at the table was practically in tears. Here’s our uomini photo:
After that, well, I just had to apertura la finestra (Open the window!) and went to the window manufacturing business of Marcello.
Across the street from the company is his home and a farm. And look! I’m holding a baby bunny.
Afterwards, I went to Sabrina’s house, joined by her husband, mom, and two sons, who are 16 and 22 and very into American culture. They think Italy is (roll eyes) whatever. (Of course.) She works at the deli.
The following day, which was day #7 of 8, Francesca, along with her mom, Morella, and husband, Frederico, picked me up and treated me out to a lovely Frasassi cave.
She has a little boy, Filipo, but he didn’t make it, because he was in school, and her father, Giuliano, didn’t make it because he was not feeling so well.
The cave is packed with waxy stalagmites and stalactites. Here is the only photo I managed to take before I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t understand anymore. After all, it does sound exactly the same. “Sorry, I don’t understand no fotographia.”
And Francesca was an absolute too, asking the tour guide if he spoke English, which I was expecting him too. When he said he didn’t, she worked so hard, even pulling out a pocket dictionary at time, to translate what he was saying.
After the tour, we went to back to their apartment. Francesca lives on the top floor.
What a view, huh? Her grandparents live in another unit on the floor just below her, and her parents, where we had lunch, live on the floor below that. So they’re all in the same building.
It was a delicious lunch, but after seven days of being oh-so gracious to have double helpings of everything, well, my poor digestion just couldn’t keep up anymore. I need to excuse myself.
After that Frederico kept teasing me, “How are you feeling? Bleeeeh.” Ah, yes, for some things, there are no cultural barriers.
No worries, though, I managed to take a little nap and get my appetite up and running just in time to go to the Cesar’s!
See that cute couple on the right. Get this, his name is Cesare and her name is Cesarina. Those are her parents, Elsa and Mario. They grew up one house away from each other, and they are still very much in love today. You can tell that they lead a very joyous life. Their two daughters, Silvia and Luanna, are just as amazing, and here we speak the international language of “Charlie’s Angels”:
I’ve also been given very strict orders to find Brad Pitt and bring him back to Italy. Once in you say you live in Los Angeles, everybody wants you to catch them a star, sheesh!
So, are you feeling full yet? Well, I hope you still have just a little bit more room left, because on my last night, we all went to a steakhouse. Despite the fact that we live off the sea and our ancestors were in the fishing business, we all eat red meat like it’s going out of style. Carlo and I noticed that lovely similarity and would constantly rub our hands together and say, “Carne!” (meat).
Needless to say, this particular place was chosen especially for me.
But it wasn’t all eating, drinking, and food coma. I enjoyed quite a many of my afternoons with Marisa, singing (she has a lovely voice) and watching “Amici”, which I became totally hooked on. See, “Amici” has two groups – the singers and the dancers. So it’s like “American Idol” meets “Dancing with the Stars”. Plus, on “Amici”, they are recorded during their rehearsals as well as live performances. It’s so “Fame”, only the scarves are tied slightly differently, because well, they’re European.
** LEAVING MARCHE **
It was difficult saying good-bye, partly because I couldn’t move from all the weight I gained while I was there. But that’s okay, I’m treating every pound as a memory.
It was such a wonderful experience. I felt immediately at home, and after a few days, I felt like anything in this world was possible. You know THAT feeling?
Carlo and Marisa made me promise to return within a year. It’s a promise I’d actually really like to keep. And of course, I told them they had to come out here.
But in the meantime, we have the memories, and we’ll always have the looouuuuve!
** STAY TUNED **
Next week, I’ll be finishing up our winter running break with the last segment of my trip. So stay tuned, and enjoy the reprieve, because before you know it, it’ll be all about running again.
** THE TRAIN STATION **
I took a three-hour train ride from Cortona to the station in Senigallia. Since my cousin Carlo knows less English than I know Italian, I relied heavily on the translation efforts of my friend, Sonia, who can speak Italian and whose family is also from Marche, and the staff at the Hotel Baglioni, where I stayed for the marathon in Florence, to help make the arrangements. I figured once I was talking to him in person that I could hand gesture my way through any conversion. I am Italian after all, but the details of my arrival were just too important.
So it was strange when I arrived and he wasn’t there. I was tired, and I was freezing. And after being in the loveliness of Cortona, the graffiti on the Senigallia station walls put me a little on edge.
I tried calling, but the telephone cards are like Rubik’s Cubes to me. Even when I thought I figured out how to place a call, the phone just rang and rang. Was I really getting this right?
Worse thing, though, I wondered if, after all this, I would be just hoping on the train again, never meeting my relatives, and traveling onward to Rome.
Fortunately, though, I eventually did get through, and it was Marisa (pronounced Muh-ree-za), Carlo’s wife. From what I could understand was that she was happy to hear from me, and that Carlo had left his cell phone outside, but I couldn’t seem to get my question answered, “Dové Carlo? In treno stazione o in macchina?” Eventually, it sounded like I would be seeing him soon enough. I hung up the phone and sat back down on the cold metal bench.
Not even a second later, the doors opened, and a hurried man walked in.
“Jennifer?”
“Carlo?”
And I swept out of the train station, my luggage quickly removed from my hands, a giant hug, and away we go!
I found out later that it had taken him so long, because the lady at the Hotel Baglioni had told I had blonde hair.
** BEGINNING MOMENTS **
Of course, before I could completely thaw out, the first thing that Carlo asked was how long I was planning on staying. “One night,” I said. “Just to meet you is enough,” and he said, “Until you leave.” In the end, after a couple days of intense negotiations, I agreed to stay for a week.
The town of Montignano is only ten minutes up a hill from Senigallia. It was night by the time I arrived, and in general, I didn’t get many photos, but in the days that followed, I learned that Senigallia is around 300 years old. Across from the station is a castle/fort, and like many towns off the sea, it was once a lookout point. Everything that extends out from this point looks like it has been built in the last 50 years or so, and has a slightly worn beach town feel to it.
Needless to say, we were home in no time. And get this, it’s Great-Grandpa’s house! By the way, Carlo’s grandfather is brother to Great-Grandpa, capisce?
Marisa made some tortellini, which Carlo and I picked up on the way home, followed by minute steak and potatoes. It was so similar to Mom’s cooking. They showed me their photos, and I got a little choked up, as Grandpa would like to say. Here’s my favorite photo, and it seems as though everyone has it:
Now, from what I understand, not everyone in this photo is family. It’s more like three or four families, but they all have been in this town for generations. It seemed like everyone I met could point to someone in this photo. So as far as I’m concerned, everyone I met is family.
** THE ROSSINI TEST **
But the question whether I was really family was posed.
At one point, Carlo wagged his pointer finger up towards the ceiling, and said (in the Italian equivalent), “Let’s see if you’re a Rossini.” Then he pulled out the grappa, poured me a shot, and placed it in front of me.
Well, what do you think happened? (As if that was a test. Please.)
What really won them over, though, was my computer skills. In no time, I was whisked upstairs to troubleshoot some issues / questions Carlo had about his laptop. Somehow, even with everything in Italian, I managed to figure it out, and explain it to him so he understood what was going on. In the process, he saw how fast I typed, and next thing I know, he’s dictating his email responses to me. That’s where I had to stop.
But we all had a good laugh. Either that, or the grappa was kicking in.
** OPEN THE WINDOW **
Things are really made well in Italy, even things like windows. They are very well constructed, super sturdy, and built in layers, so that you can enjoy them wide open in the summer or have them completely locked down in the winter. It was around 45 degrees while I was there, which I was told was warm for the season.
As Carlo and Marisa showed me how to open the window, they told me about the time cousin Sandy had visited. She wanted to open the window, and if I understood correctly, was having difficulties.
“Apertura la finestra!”, they said, laughing with glee, followed by, one of the few English phrases they knew, “Open the window!” I got a kick out of it, too, so after awhile that was just something that was injected into conversation.
The next morning when I did open the window, this is what I saw.
Beautiful, isn’t? I can only imagine how lovely it must look in the summer. According to Sonia, the best food (product) comes out of Marche. There are plenty of farms, and everyone seems to have one hand in the earth. Even Carlo and Marisa have two small lots, one for grain (to make bread) and the other, for olive (for olive oil).
** VISITING GREAT-GRANDMA **
Beyond those two small lots, hardly a block away down a dirt road from the Rossini home, is an abandoned home.
That happens to be Great-Grandma’s home. Although I didn’t go inside, but I did take a little something with me: a little rock.
Just beyond Great-Grandma’s house is the cemetery where most of Montignano’s families have come to rest.
Another street or so away is the church where they were married – Mary and Orlando Rossini. The church is located in Piazza Giordano Bruno.
And beyond that, down a hill, is the sea.
** MANY MEETINGS **
From the moment I stepped into town, I was introduced to a lot of people, and somehow I managed to keep up with five people talking to me at once. It was a lot of fun, though, and at times, rather funny all together. It goes without saying, of course, that their hospitality over flowed. I was shuttled from one home to another and one restaurant to another. All that was allowed of me was my presence.
On the first night, the bulk of the people I would meet all got together for pizza. Here we are:
In Italy, they have sausage like in Chicago, and it’s called salsiccia. And what a treat that was for me! It’s been years.
The next day, we had lunch at the Osteria sul Lago.
It was another big outing:
And aren’t they cute?
Okay, I can’t remember their names for the life of me, but he was the first person I met that spoke some English, which apparently was more than I could handle. Seems that after being completely immersed in the Italian language, I started to think in it. As I struggled to speak with him, I thought to myself, “Good god, I’ve arrived in Italy speaking broken Italian, and I’m going to leave speaking broken English.”
Later that night, I met some descendants from Great-Grandma’s side.
Before I left, thankfully I remembered to bring a handful of photos, one of each American relative, to share, and while I was there, I always made sure I brought them on me.
Well, when I started showing my little plastic baggy worth of photos, Paola (if I remember correctly) pulled out all her photo albums. It was a blast! Her son, Sandro, had a different opinion however.
To make matters worse, I asked if I could borrow a photo, so I could scan it at Carlo and Marisa’s, but Sandro offered to do it instead. Well, that opened up the flood gates and photo after photo was being handed to him, from Carlo, from me, and most of all, his mom, who kept saying, “Sandro. Sandro.”
I can still hear his name being called. Eventually, I grabbed an entire photo album and handed it to him, “Sandro! Sandro!” We all had a good laugh.
The most famous night, hands down, was the dinner with Carlo’s friend, Salvatore, a farmer, his wife, Marisa, and the man with the beard whose name I bite my fist trying to remember. He is also a friend as well as a retired police office (Polizia) like Carlo.
Now, if it hasn’t been clear up to this point, my Italian was very broken, but we all managed. I can only imagined that they struggle to understand me as much as I working to make myself understandable. I was complimented often by my efforts, but I received only one complaint and that was by Salvatore.
He said, in Italian, “I’m not woah-ME-KNEE.” The word he was saying was uomini, which means men.
So, I quickly replied, in Italian, “Hey, if you’re not a man, well…”
This, of course, just made him keep starting over, and repeating the same thing. He wasn’t ever quite reaching whatever point he was trying to make, and in the process, everyone starting cracking up, the ladies especially.
By the time, we got it all straightened out that Salvatore was a man and that I should be pronouncing it “WOAH-me-knee”, everyone at the table was practically in tears. Here’s our uomini photo:
After that, well, I just had to apertura la finestra (Open the window!) and went to the window manufacturing business of Marcello.
Across the street from the company is his home and a farm. And look! I’m holding a baby bunny.
Afterwards, I went to Sabrina’s house, joined by her husband, mom, and two sons, who are 16 and 22 and very into American culture. They think Italy is (roll eyes) whatever. (Of course.) She works at the deli.
The following day, which was day #7 of 8, Francesca, along with her mom, Morella, and husband, Frederico, picked me up and treated me out to a lovely Frasassi cave.
She has a little boy, Filipo, but he didn’t make it, because he was in school, and her father, Giuliano, didn’t make it because he was not feeling so well.
The cave is packed with waxy stalagmites and stalactites. Here is the only photo I managed to take before I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t understand anymore. After all, it does sound exactly the same. “Sorry, I don’t understand no fotographia.”
And Francesca was an absolute too, asking the tour guide if he spoke English, which I was expecting him too. When he said he didn’t, she worked so hard, even pulling out a pocket dictionary at time, to translate what he was saying.
After the tour, we went to back to their apartment. Francesca lives on the top floor.
What a view, huh? Her grandparents live in another unit on the floor just below her, and her parents, where we had lunch, live on the floor below that. So they’re all in the same building.
It was a delicious lunch, but after seven days of being oh-so gracious to have double helpings of everything, well, my poor digestion just couldn’t keep up anymore. I need to excuse myself.
After that Frederico kept teasing me, “How are you feeling? Bleeeeh.” Ah, yes, for some things, there are no cultural barriers.
No worries, though, I managed to take a little nap and get my appetite up and running just in time to go to the Cesar’s!
See that cute couple on the right. Get this, his name is Cesare and her name is Cesarina. Those are her parents, Elsa and Mario. They grew up one house away from each other, and they are still very much in love today. You can tell that they lead a very joyous life. Their two daughters, Silvia and Luanna, are just as amazing, and here we speak the international language of “Charlie’s Angels”:
I’ve also been given very strict orders to find Brad Pitt and bring him back to Italy. Once in you say you live in Los Angeles, everybody wants you to catch them a star, sheesh!
So, are you feeling full yet? Well, I hope you still have just a little bit more room left, because on my last night, we all went to a steakhouse. Despite the fact that we live off the sea and our ancestors were in the fishing business, we all eat red meat like it’s going out of style. Carlo and I noticed that lovely similarity and would constantly rub our hands together and say, “Carne!” (meat).
Needless to say, this particular place was chosen especially for me.
But it wasn’t all eating, drinking, and food coma. I enjoyed quite a many of my afternoons with Marisa, singing (she has a lovely voice) and watching “Amici”, which I became totally hooked on. See, “Amici” has two groups – the singers and the dancers. So it’s like “American Idol” meets “Dancing with the Stars”. Plus, on “Amici”, they are recorded during their rehearsals as well as live performances. It’s so “Fame”, only the scarves are tied slightly differently, because well, they’re European.
** LEAVING MARCHE **
It was difficult saying good-bye, partly because I couldn’t move from all the weight I gained while I was there. But that’s okay, I’m treating every pound as a memory.
It was such a wonderful experience. I felt immediately at home, and after a few days, I felt like anything in this world was possible. You know THAT feeling?
Carlo and Marisa made me promise to return within a year. It’s a promise I’d actually really like to keep. And of course, I told them they had to come out here.
But in the meantime, we have the memories, and we’ll always have the looouuuuve!
** STAY TUNED **
Next week, I’ll be finishing up our winter running break with the last segment of my trip. So stay tuned, and enjoy the reprieve, because before you know it, it’ll be all about running again.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
The Adventure Begins
To celebrate the New Year, this week’s update will be about the rest of my trip in Italy. So stay where you are, keep sipping your Bloody Mary, and while contemplating how one can really have a clean slate, especially after all you’ve done this past year, you naughty thing, please read on:
As you might remember, I had three glorious weeks in Italy. The trip can be essentially broken down into three segments: the marathon, which you’ve heard about, meeting my relatives in the providence of Marche, and then the last part, traveling solo (alone).
After the marathon, I stayed two more nights in Florence. Long before I actually booked the tickets, APLA was booking the hotel rooms. They would pay for three nights, and then they asked if I wanted to pay for an additional two. I thought, “why not?”
It was perfect, because I had a chance to walk off the marathon, and really get to enjoy the company of my fellow marathoners. The highlight was on our last evening, where a group of six of us ate at Trattoria 4 Leoni. This really kicked off my culinary adventures in Italy. Marco, our waiter, handed us menus, and before we could really study them, he asked, “Do you trust me?” We all looked at each other. Okay. And then the food started coming, dish after dish. What an experience!
The next day, we said our goodbyes. Those participants that made their arrangements completely through APLA were heading towards the airport and the rest of us were heading to different cities. My roommate was off to Venice. Rochelle would be heading to Rome the following day. And I wanted to make one little stop before I went and saw my family.
I took the train south down to Cortona, and actually, Rochelle decided to make a day trip of it and join me, especially when she heard that I was seeking out the house of Frances Mayes, author of the “Under the Tuscan Sun.” I have to admit that I don’t often get struck, but I read her book years back and I was really touched by it. A writing teacher I had recently had informed us that she was trying to get us to write poetry, or in other words, the stuff that pours out from our hearts, because no matter what form it is in, when it from that place, then there’s a rhythm that naturally flows. It’s the poetry you can’t make up and die trying to create, and then without any effort at all, it appears. That’s what that book was like for me, and that’s why I had to make the journey.
It was an overcast day, and as we made our way closer, it just looked worse. We got on a bus that curled its way up tight winding roads. It was mid-afternoon and, not knowing what to expect, and feeling responsible for Rochelle’s happiness, I was worried. I started thinking, “Oh please, let it be clear enough to see the house.” Just then, around the bend, the sky was clear, and there was sun! Cortona, being on top of the hill, is high enough to live above the clouds. We were struck.
It took a little too long to get my room, but we headed out, trying to beat the sun. Based on the directions I found online, we just needed to walk uphill (it’s all uphill in Cortona!) and at a tavern, turn left. When we asked a driver how to get there, in broken Italian, he asked us to hold on, asked another guy for directions, understood how to get there, and then asked the wedding party he was waiting to escort away if he could leave for a few moments to drive us up the hill! Only in Italy.
Unfortunately, Rochelle didn’t get to see it, and the following day, when I did find her house, I realized how close we were! While there isn’t a large front lawn, rather it’s quite close to the road. It is a quite road that looks out into a cascading valley of green. The façade is worn, but the coral makes is so warm and inviting. And so I sat in front of it for a little while, declared that to be my life one day, and then wrote a short thank you note and placed it under the candle.
Afterwards, I had another amazing meal. Steak with a pesto green sauce and a wine that was perfectly selected by my waiter. Somewhere between the 45-minute walk downhill back into town and that meal, I fell in love with Cortona. If there was a small town I ever feel like I could live in, it would be that one.
I think it was a perfect way to move from the hectic energy of the marathon to the long awaited moment of meeting my relatives.
(Stay tuned for next week the next segment of this exciting journey. I figured I should stop now. Give you a break. So, please, go and make yourself another Bloody Mary, because trust me, you’ll need it to deal with alcohol content of next week’s edition, which is overflowing with Booze! Carne! and Loooooove!)
As you might remember, I had three glorious weeks in Italy. The trip can be essentially broken down into three segments: the marathon, which you’ve heard about, meeting my relatives in the providence of Marche, and then the last part, traveling solo (alone).
After the marathon, I stayed two more nights in Florence. Long before I actually booked the tickets, APLA was booking the hotel rooms. They would pay for three nights, and then they asked if I wanted to pay for an additional two. I thought, “why not?”
It was perfect, because I had a chance to walk off the marathon, and really get to enjoy the company of my fellow marathoners. The highlight was on our last evening, where a group of six of us ate at Trattoria 4 Leoni. This really kicked off my culinary adventures in Italy. Marco, our waiter, handed us menus, and before we could really study them, he asked, “Do you trust me?” We all looked at each other. Okay. And then the food started coming, dish after dish. What an experience!
The next day, we said our goodbyes. Those participants that made their arrangements completely through APLA were heading towards the airport and the rest of us were heading to different cities. My roommate was off to Venice. Rochelle would be heading to Rome the following day. And I wanted to make one little stop before I went and saw my family.
I took the train south down to Cortona, and actually, Rochelle decided to make a day trip of it and join me, especially when she heard that I was seeking out the house of Frances Mayes, author of the “Under the Tuscan Sun.” I have to admit that I don’t often get struck, but I read her book years back and I was really touched by it. A writing teacher I had recently had informed us that she was trying to get us to write poetry, or in other words, the stuff that pours out from our hearts, because no matter what form it is in, when it from that place, then there’s a rhythm that naturally flows. It’s the poetry you can’t make up and die trying to create, and then without any effort at all, it appears. That’s what that book was like for me, and that’s why I had to make the journey.
It was an overcast day, and as we made our way closer, it just looked worse. We got on a bus that curled its way up tight winding roads. It was mid-afternoon and, not knowing what to expect, and feeling responsible for Rochelle’s happiness, I was worried. I started thinking, “Oh please, let it be clear enough to see the house.” Just then, around the bend, the sky was clear, and there was sun! Cortona, being on top of the hill, is high enough to live above the clouds. We were struck.
It took a little too long to get my room, but we headed out, trying to beat the sun. Based on the directions I found online, we just needed to walk uphill (it’s all uphill in Cortona!) and at a tavern, turn left. When we asked a driver how to get there, in broken Italian, he asked us to hold on, asked another guy for directions, understood how to get there, and then asked the wedding party he was waiting to escort away if he could leave for a few moments to drive us up the hill! Only in Italy.
Unfortunately, Rochelle didn’t get to see it, and the following day, when I did find her house, I realized how close we were! While there isn’t a large front lawn, rather it’s quite close to the road. It is a quite road that looks out into a cascading valley of green. The façade is worn, but the coral makes is so warm and inviting. And so I sat in front of it for a little while, declared that to be my life one day, and then wrote a short thank you note and placed it under the candle.
Afterwards, I had another amazing meal. Steak with a pesto green sauce and a wine that was perfectly selected by my waiter. Somewhere between the 45-minute walk downhill back into town and that meal, I fell in love with Cortona. If there was a small town I ever feel like I could live in, it would be that one.
I think it was a perfect way to move from the hectic energy of the marathon to the long awaited moment of meeting my relatives.
(Stay tuned for next week the next segment of this exciting journey. I figured I should stop now. Give you a break. So, please, go and make yourself another Bloody Mary, because trust me, you’ll need it to deal with alcohol content of next week’s edition, which is overflowing with Booze! Carne! and Loooooove!)
Sunday, December 24, 2006
The Day I Ran
Happy Holidays, everyone!
I’m back home and now, just in time for Christmas (but a little too late for Channukah), here is the exciting conclusion! It’s dramatic too and without even trying!
-1 -
So if you remember I flew out on Thanksgiving. The flight and arrival went very smoothly. I arrived Friday and followed all the instructions on minimizing jetlag and actually did very well.
Florence is such a beautiful city, and it was so exciting too seeing the hotel filled with all of us. Apparently, the previous year there were only 50 Americans in the Florence Marathon. Our organization had totaled to a little over 400 participants.
Many of us, myself included, had only a full day to get acculumated and get registered. Registration was a nightmare. I made sure to get on the first bus, only to get there and the marathon didn’t have our health forms on file. After two hours and most of the morning shot, I signed a waiver that removed all responsibility from the marathon organizers. It was okay, though, aside from getting my runner number, I got this very cool red Florence Marathon top and I got to see my name on the Starters’ List which filled up half a wall outside the convention center.
(The Starters List. I'd show you my name, but I have to develop my photos. I'm using Rochelle's and Jose's digital pics. Hee hee, I'm sneaky.)
- 2 -
Later that night, the AIDS Marathon folks held a Pasta Dinner for all of us. It was $25 ticket and no meat, only pasta, but it did provide the opportunity to be with everyone for one last time. The organizers sang, had us laughing, and of course, reminded us that we shouldn’t change anything we’d been doing up to this point, which made us laugh even more. We all looked at each other, and simultaneously, “Please. What have we been doing that’s the same?” We laughed some more. We even took photos. We’re smiling and throwing up “Greta Waitz” signs (our pace group). We were here. We were finally doing it.
Here's one:
(Left to right: Last row - Me, Garth, Greg, Elaine (with the best pose ever!), Rochelle, Can't remember his name, Jared; Middle row - Yanti & Gretchen; In the front - Jose)
Personally, I like to refer to those photos as THE SHINING photos. Banquet hall. Smiling faces. Then blood down the hallway. You know how it goes, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Well, after our lovely and quite spirited Pasta Dinner, we all did the responsible thing and returned to the hotel. “10pm. Perfect,” I thought, as I made my way to my room. I planned on taking a shower and laying out all things I needed for the following morning. When I walked in, my roommate and one of my friends from my pace group, froze and gave me a weird look. “You’re not going to bed are you?” she asked. After a moment or two, it came out that she was going to have a massage… in the room. Now her hopes were that I would leave the room, but it wasn’t happening. So while she got her massage, I got ready for bed. In the end, it all worked out perfectly and we turned off the lights a little after 11pm. I immediately fell asleep. The day had exhausted me. Perfect.
- 3 -
That is, until 2am, when I woke up as easily as I had fallen asleep. I was wide awake. I got up, went to the bathroom, and then some time later, I heard Rebecca, my roommate, get up and do the same. “Can’t sleep either?” I asked into the darkness.
“Yeeeeessss,” she answered in a half whimper, half laugh.
Then we returned to silence and quietly laid there, hoping that the other person was falling asleep. Eventually, Rebecca left the room entirely, and I felt relieved. “Good, now I can turn on the lights,” I thought to myself, because whenever I have insomnia, it’s just best to get up and go with it.
When she returned, she starting laughing, “Oh you’re up! I left so you could sleep!”
It was almost 4am by that point, and since we had to wake up about 6am, we just gave in and stayed up together. We wondered how many of our fellow runners were awake as well.
- 4 -
We found out the answer to that the following morning – quite a few. Practically everybody it seemed. We laughed as we made our way through the breakfast buffet. I grabbed cereal, runny scrambled eggs, and bacon. I had some coffee, but I wanted Diet Coke, and I really wanted my Kashi Go Lean Oatmeal with those yummy little crunchies. I thought I would get some soda when we got done with breakfast, but it dawned on me when I stepped outside, “Oh, it’s 6am on a Sunday in Florence. Everything’s closed.”
“That’s alright,” I told myself. “I feel good, amazingly good.”
Before we left, I did run back upstairs for my rain poncho. It had been overcast with a likeliness of rain, but I was really hoping it wouldn’t. “By the power of Garth’s red Nikes, no rain!” we all agreed as a pace group. We also agreed, Garth, Rochelle, Elaine, and I (only a small portion of our pace group) that we would stick together throughout the race. With the rain poncho stuffed in the side of my bra, the camera down in the front of it, and Garth, Rochelle, and Elain nearby, I was good to go.
- 5 -
From the Piazza Unità (near the train station) we walked to the river, then caught (or rather, pushed our way onto) a shuttle bus that took us up the hill to Piazzale Michaelangelo. That was funny, because we got a kick out watching all the men lined with there backs to us, doing what men do. Although my favorite, was one man standing behind a bush, facing the road, and with a proud look upon his face, he had both hands resting on his waist. I think he was doing the same thing, but I’m not sure.
Once we got off the bus, we made our way pace area. I didn’t know this, but they start people based on their speed. So the fast runners who will finish the marathon in an ungodly 2 hours will be at the front, while the more leisurely 6 hour finishers, like myself, will be all the way in the back. It makes sense, but it’s not something you think about. They also have Pacers or Pace Leaders. These are men with balloons tied around their waist. On one of the balloons, it says something like 4h or 5h, meaning the number of hours it’ll take for you to finish. Very handy if you are running alone. Of course, though, there wasn’t a 6h Pace Leader. Apparently, after 5 hours, you’re on your own.
Anyways, we stayed huddled up there until our time came, about 5-10 minutes after the official start. There was around 6000+ participants in this race.
- 6 -
But when we did cross the start line, it was so exhilarating. While it was said that there aren’t many spectators in Florence for their marathon, there were plenty at the start. The announcer pointed to all us kids in yellow, said “AIDS Marathon” and then a bunch of stuff in Italian that resulted in the crowd going “ooooh” a moment later. After that, they really cheered us on, and down the hill we went.
It was perfect. Any threat of rain had somehow disappeared, turning into a sunny Fall day. We running down hill, past villas, nuns (one of whom blessed us), and old men with caps yelling, “Vai! Vai!” (Go! Go!) or at times, when we were walking, to go faster, to move it along. One of them looked like my Uncle Romolo. Truth was, the faces, the expressions, and attitudes were so similar to home that I felt like I was looking at my family half the time I was in Italy.
Anyways, all was going well. We liked that the markers we in kilometers, rather than miles. “That’s a lot easier. Like we’re accomplishing more,” said Rochelle.
As we leveled off, we ran into town, with early risers (or those who were woken up by the commotion ahead of us) peered down from their windows, all framed with green wooden shutters. “Buon Giorno!” we yelled upwards enthusiastically. What a good day! Hello Italy, we’re doing it!
- 7 -
And then that’s when it happened. Like forgetting to put enough gas in the car or something, I hit mile 5 (or rather, 8 Km) and everything was gone. I was completely drained. “Uh-oh,” I thought, and kept going, not saying a word. The beauty of Florence kept me going. My little group was holding steadfast together, and there were all these wonderful people cheering us on, and as the day progressed, the children came out too, wanting high fives as you passed them.
I figured at the next water stop, I would try this salt drink the Italians created to replace the salts in your body. The water stops come every 5 km, so we would be coming upon one soon. Hopefully that would work.
When we got there, I shot one down. Tasty. Like lemonade. But I couldn’t tell. Keeping up with the pace was becoming grueling for me, and by the next stop, while I still took a “Sali” or salt water, things were starting to look bleak.
I was dizzy. My eyes couldn’t focus on anything. I felt like I had googly eyes, that were spinning around in my head. I was just drained. My body felt heavy, and I just wanted to collapse. I wanted to put my head down and sleep a little. If only, if only.
But I told myself to keep going, to stay with the group, at least make it to the half way point. That was only a few miles away at the 21 km marker. I could do it. I could make it halfway.
It took everything in me, but I made it halfway. In the last km, I started walking a little more than running, but I was able to keep up with the group. We all seem to be suffering by this point. Garth was having pains in his shoulder again. Elaine was falling behind, too, at times, but like me catching up. Rochelle was struggling too, her legs were hurting, but the opposite was true for her… as long as she kept moving, she was fine.
- 8 -
Then Elaine fell back and eventually out of sight. Then, I had to make the decision to the same. I just couldn’t keep up with Garth and Rochelle. I couldn’t even run. I was too dizzy. I kept waiting to faint.
So I walked. I tried not to beat myself up, but I couldn’t believe it, after all this time, I might not even make it. When I made it to the next stop, I took down 2 sali waters and kept walking. People on the sidelines would cheer, and I just had my head hung low. I looked back every now again for Elaine, but I never saw her. It’s just me now. It’s just me now.
- 9 -
I even ran into Jared at one point, and when he asked me how I was doing, I was on the verge of tears. “It doesn’t look good. I have nothing to give. I don’t know if I’m going to make it.” He smiled. “Well, you’re doing good. Just keep going like that. Take your time. Take a rest. You have plenty of time.”
Then I thought (and I swear to god, it’s true), I thought of everyone and everything said to me over the past six months. And I realized I just couldn’t go home saying I didn’t finish it, not while I had something in me. I figured I would run until I collapsed. I figured, worse comes to worse, I could walk the rest of the way back. Sure, they would open up the city again, and I wasn’t sure of the course without the other runners around me, but I could always walk the last 12 miles or whatever back. If that’s one thing I know I can do is walk. I can walk forever, if need be. Hell, my great-grandma would walk a couple miles from her house to church or to the grocery store well into her 70s. We Rossini’s can walk. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just keep on going. My head started to lift a little. “Hey,” I said to myself. “Let me see if can run.” And I did. I ran. I felt okay. The sali water must be helping. I better keep with 2 shots every stop. Until my muscles started locking up.
Okay, and maybe a shot of water.
- 10 -
So, I gave up any idea of a pace. I ran when I could. I walked when I needed to. I just kept moving forward. Eventually, the trucks, clean-up crews, and other such vehicles marking the end of the race passed me. “That’s okay,” I thought. “There are still plenty of people around me.”
And there were. It was not until I was in the never-ending park, which every Florence marathoner will easily tell you was the worst part (“When will this end already?!”), I really looked around at the runners around me. There was one gal from my group with horribly bad knees. We ran around each other for a while, until eventually she passed me up for good. There was another gal that hobbled as she ran, because she had to keep one leg straight. It seemed like everyone around me was hurting, and hurting bad. And yet, they kept going.
I thought that these people in the back are just important, just as noteworthy, if not more so, than the ones in the front. Yeah, it’s an amazing accomplishment to finish in a little over 2 hours, but try hobbling for six! That’s endurance, if you ask me.
When we finally got of the never-ending park, I ran into Jared again, who asked me how I was doing. I was doing good. The 2 sali-1 water combo was making it possible for me to keep going. At every stop I would take this combo, walk a little bit, waiting for it to kick in, and then brrrr, like a horse, I would take off. Eventually after 4 km, it would start to taper off, and I would get dizzy again. I would walk, more than ran, that last kilometer until the next stop, until I could get my power combo back. Yeah, I felt good. I was starting to feel hopeful I would make it to the finish line.
And then Jared gave me even better news, I was only about 7 miles from the finish line, and if that wasn’t amazing enough, it looked like I would still be making it around the 6 hours mark! Who would have ever guessed?
- 11 -
The only downside was that it was around 1pm and the streets were wide open. When I made my way down the road running parallel with the river, heading towards the Ponte Vecchio, I had to fight cars and people, none of whom wanted to stop, and they definitely didn’t get out of your way.
Eh, it’s alright, though, I’m used to it. And besides, there were plenty of folks along the way still cheering us on.
After awhile, I could feel the finish line. I was close. When I saw the last stop, at 40 km, I zoomed by it. Only 2 km to go, and I feel great!
People were even telling me. “You’re almost there. Just around the bend.”
Until I was told that three times. And then put-put-put… I lost my gas again. “Where is the finish line?” At one point, I came upon this long stretch with barricades, and I thought “Here it is!” until I saw runners doubling back.
“You’re not done?! You’re still running?!” I yelled out to one of them, who looked just as bewildered as I did.
I was damn near spitting by this point. “Damn, Florence, and their parks, and their stupid course.” Truth was, I was in really bad shape. I should of stopped, I told myself. I couldn’t even run. I tried at one point, but had to stop after 30 seconds. It was just too much.
Luckily, Gretchen saw me. Having already finished, she was on the other side of the barricades with her husband and a few other folks from my pace group. She also told me I was almost there, to which I snapped, “That’s what everyone keeps telling me!” And then in a helpless whisper, “but it never comes.” I kept walking. Slowly, like I was dragging myself.
“Okay, honey,” she said and started to walk along side, explaining the remaining part of the course in detail. I was already doubling back by this point, and she told her husband she would be back. “Okay, I’m going to walk with you to the end. See, the end of the road there.” I nodded, if you want to call it that. My head bobbled. “Okay, at the end there, the road will curve to your right. That’s when people will start cheering. Then the road will immediately curve to the left. You’ll run on the red carpet and you’ll be done. It’s really close.”
“Okay.” We talked about how her run went. Very well and smooth. I wish I knew how I would have done if I was in top form, but that’s okay. I’m almost there. And sure enough, just like she said, the road curved to the right and there was everybody, cheering like wildfire. Gretchen said softly, “Now, go.” And I started to run again. I turned to the left and there was Jared at the end of the red carpet, on the other side of the finish line.
“I knew you could do it! Kaw! Kaw!” he yelled out. The “kaw, kaw” was a reference to Galaxy Quest. He never saw the movie, but he liked my description of that particular scene. It made me laugh, and when I crossed it, I just remembering holding onto his hands, being half hunched over, stabling myself. “I did it. I did it. Okay. It’s done.”
- 12 -
I didn’t cry, although afterwards, I saw some did. I did, however, wobble over, like a drunken Harry Carey, to a Tobacco shop (Italy’s equivalent of a 7-Eleven) and got a Diet Coke (ahhh) and peanut M&M’s (mmmm).
I met up with Rochelle, Garth and Elaine, who were all sitting on the steps of some church, perhaps Santa Croce, who knows. I was just too happy to sit. I was happy that I had made it.
Here's a photo of us... Look at my head-is-swollen-I-look-like-Leonardo-Dicaprio-with-my-sexy-squishy-face....
(Yeah, not a flattering photo, and wearing yellow isn't helping. You're lucky you are seeing this at all. What you do in the name of a marathon. Left to right: Me, Garth, Rochelle and Jose)
After awhile, I decided to head back with Rebecca and Michele. We had to walk back, which was about 30 minutes through the crowded streets of shoppers. On the way, we saw fellow AIDS Marathoners, lost, unsure of the route, unsure of the destination. We would give them directions, and they would continue onward. I thought how that was almost me. How I had made up my mind to do the same thing, if need be.
Later, I found out, Elaine didn’t make it. She fainted, and afterwards, she tried to go back in the race, but the medics wouldn’t let her. That was almost me, too.
So all in all, I am saying this is best run ever, because it was certainly my worst run ever. After the marathon, I hobbled around for two days with very sore legs. A week later, the nail on my right pinky toe fell off. And I cut up my belly due to the friction caused by all that stuff in my bra, ha! So, I feel fortunate to say that I made it across the finish line, much less to say that after all that I went through, I finished in 6:19.46. I feel fortunate for the past year, but much like the marathon, it has been filled with difficult moments too. And I just feel grateful that I’m still standing here today and that I have all of you.
Thank you so much! Merry Christmas!
P.S. And don’t worry, in my next update, I will tell you how the rest of the trip went. Think of it as a good New Year’s hangover read. See ya :)
P.S.S. Here's a closeup of the finisher's medal...
P.S.S.S. And here's a redeeming photo of me celebrating post-marathon. Cheers!
-------------------------------
SPECIAL THANKS
-------------------------------
I would like to specially thank Agape International Spiritual Center for their generous contribution of $500.
http://www.agapelive.com
Thank you, Reverend Michael!
Also, I would like add the following people for helping me through the rough spots, and there were many...
Tania, Stannie, Christian, Sonia, and Patricia
Thank you, everyone, for your support, your donations, and for actually wanting to read these updates! I kept going because of you.
I’m back home and now, just in time for Christmas (but a little too late for Channukah), here is the exciting conclusion! It’s dramatic too and without even trying!
-1 -
So if you remember I flew out on Thanksgiving. The flight and arrival went very smoothly. I arrived Friday and followed all the instructions on minimizing jetlag and actually did very well.
Florence is such a beautiful city, and it was so exciting too seeing the hotel filled with all of us. Apparently, the previous year there were only 50 Americans in the Florence Marathon. Our organization had totaled to a little over 400 participants.
Many of us, myself included, had only a full day to get acculumated and get registered. Registration was a nightmare. I made sure to get on the first bus, only to get there and the marathon didn’t have our health forms on file. After two hours and most of the morning shot, I signed a waiver that removed all responsibility from the marathon organizers. It was okay, though, aside from getting my runner number, I got this very cool red Florence Marathon top and I got to see my name on the Starters’ List which filled up half a wall outside the convention center.
(The Starters List. I'd show you my name, but I have to develop my photos. I'm using Rochelle's and Jose's digital pics. Hee hee, I'm sneaky.)
- 2 -
Later that night, the AIDS Marathon folks held a Pasta Dinner for all of us. It was $25 ticket and no meat, only pasta, but it did provide the opportunity to be with everyone for one last time. The organizers sang, had us laughing, and of course, reminded us that we shouldn’t change anything we’d been doing up to this point, which made us laugh even more. We all looked at each other, and simultaneously, “Please. What have we been doing that’s the same?” We laughed some more. We even took photos. We’re smiling and throwing up “Greta Waitz” signs (our pace group). We were here. We were finally doing it.
Here's one:
(Left to right: Last row - Me, Garth, Greg, Elaine (with the best pose ever!), Rochelle, Can't remember his name, Jared; Middle row - Yanti & Gretchen; In the front - Jose)
Personally, I like to refer to those photos as THE SHINING photos. Banquet hall. Smiling faces. Then blood down the hallway. You know how it goes, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Well, after our lovely and quite spirited Pasta Dinner, we all did the responsible thing and returned to the hotel. “10pm. Perfect,” I thought, as I made my way to my room. I planned on taking a shower and laying out all things I needed for the following morning. When I walked in, my roommate and one of my friends from my pace group, froze and gave me a weird look. “You’re not going to bed are you?” she asked. After a moment or two, it came out that she was going to have a massage… in the room. Now her hopes were that I would leave the room, but it wasn’t happening. So while she got her massage, I got ready for bed. In the end, it all worked out perfectly and we turned off the lights a little after 11pm. I immediately fell asleep. The day had exhausted me. Perfect.
- 3 -
That is, until 2am, when I woke up as easily as I had fallen asleep. I was wide awake. I got up, went to the bathroom, and then some time later, I heard Rebecca, my roommate, get up and do the same. “Can’t sleep either?” I asked into the darkness.
“Yeeeeessss,” she answered in a half whimper, half laugh.
Then we returned to silence and quietly laid there, hoping that the other person was falling asleep. Eventually, Rebecca left the room entirely, and I felt relieved. “Good, now I can turn on the lights,” I thought to myself, because whenever I have insomnia, it’s just best to get up and go with it.
When she returned, she starting laughing, “Oh you’re up! I left so you could sleep!”
It was almost 4am by that point, and since we had to wake up about 6am, we just gave in and stayed up together. We wondered how many of our fellow runners were awake as well.
- 4 -
We found out the answer to that the following morning – quite a few. Practically everybody it seemed. We laughed as we made our way through the breakfast buffet. I grabbed cereal, runny scrambled eggs, and bacon. I had some coffee, but I wanted Diet Coke, and I really wanted my Kashi Go Lean Oatmeal with those yummy little crunchies. I thought I would get some soda when we got done with breakfast, but it dawned on me when I stepped outside, “Oh, it’s 6am on a Sunday in Florence. Everything’s closed.”
“That’s alright,” I told myself. “I feel good, amazingly good.”
Before we left, I did run back upstairs for my rain poncho. It had been overcast with a likeliness of rain, but I was really hoping it wouldn’t. “By the power of Garth’s red Nikes, no rain!” we all agreed as a pace group. We also agreed, Garth, Rochelle, Elaine, and I (only a small portion of our pace group) that we would stick together throughout the race. With the rain poncho stuffed in the side of my bra, the camera down in the front of it, and Garth, Rochelle, and Elain nearby, I was good to go.
- 5 -
From the Piazza Unità (near the train station) we walked to the river, then caught (or rather, pushed our way onto) a shuttle bus that took us up the hill to Piazzale Michaelangelo. That was funny, because we got a kick out watching all the men lined with there backs to us, doing what men do. Although my favorite, was one man standing behind a bush, facing the road, and with a proud look upon his face, he had both hands resting on his waist. I think he was doing the same thing, but I’m not sure.
Once we got off the bus, we made our way pace area. I didn’t know this, but they start people based on their speed. So the fast runners who will finish the marathon in an ungodly 2 hours will be at the front, while the more leisurely 6 hour finishers, like myself, will be all the way in the back. It makes sense, but it’s not something you think about. They also have Pacers or Pace Leaders. These are men with balloons tied around their waist. On one of the balloons, it says something like 4h or 5h, meaning the number of hours it’ll take for you to finish. Very handy if you are running alone. Of course, though, there wasn’t a 6h Pace Leader. Apparently, after 5 hours, you’re on your own.
Anyways, we stayed huddled up there until our time came, about 5-10 minutes after the official start. There was around 6000+ participants in this race.
- 6 -
But when we did cross the start line, it was so exhilarating. While it was said that there aren’t many spectators in Florence for their marathon, there were plenty at the start. The announcer pointed to all us kids in yellow, said “AIDS Marathon” and then a bunch of stuff in Italian that resulted in the crowd going “ooooh” a moment later. After that, they really cheered us on, and down the hill we went.
It was perfect. Any threat of rain had somehow disappeared, turning into a sunny Fall day. We running down hill, past villas, nuns (one of whom blessed us), and old men with caps yelling, “Vai! Vai!” (Go! Go!) or at times, when we were walking, to go faster, to move it along. One of them looked like my Uncle Romolo. Truth was, the faces, the expressions, and attitudes were so similar to home that I felt like I was looking at my family half the time I was in Italy.
Anyways, all was going well. We liked that the markers we in kilometers, rather than miles. “That’s a lot easier. Like we’re accomplishing more,” said Rochelle.
As we leveled off, we ran into town, with early risers (or those who were woken up by the commotion ahead of us) peered down from their windows, all framed with green wooden shutters. “Buon Giorno!” we yelled upwards enthusiastically. What a good day! Hello Italy, we’re doing it!
- 7 -
And then that’s when it happened. Like forgetting to put enough gas in the car or something, I hit mile 5 (or rather, 8 Km) and everything was gone. I was completely drained. “Uh-oh,” I thought, and kept going, not saying a word. The beauty of Florence kept me going. My little group was holding steadfast together, and there were all these wonderful people cheering us on, and as the day progressed, the children came out too, wanting high fives as you passed them.
I figured at the next water stop, I would try this salt drink the Italians created to replace the salts in your body. The water stops come every 5 km, so we would be coming upon one soon. Hopefully that would work.
When we got there, I shot one down. Tasty. Like lemonade. But I couldn’t tell. Keeping up with the pace was becoming grueling for me, and by the next stop, while I still took a “Sali” or salt water, things were starting to look bleak.
I was dizzy. My eyes couldn’t focus on anything. I felt like I had googly eyes, that were spinning around in my head. I was just drained. My body felt heavy, and I just wanted to collapse. I wanted to put my head down and sleep a little. If only, if only.
But I told myself to keep going, to stay with the group, at least make it to the half way point. That was only a few miles away at the 21 km marker. I could do it. I could make it halfway.
It took everything in me, but I made it halfway. In the last km, I started walking a little more than running, but I was able to keep up with the group. We all seem to be suffering by this point. Garth was having pains in his shoulder again. Elaine was falling behind, too, at times, but like me catching up. Rochelle was struggling too, her legs were hurting, but the opposite was true for her… as long as she kept moving, she was fine.
- 8 -
Then Elaine fell back and eventually out of sight. Then, I had to make the decision to the same. I just couldn’t keep up with Garth and Rochelle. I couldn’t even run. I was too dizzy. I kept waiting to faint.
So I walked. I tried not to beat myself up, but I couldn’t believe it, after all this time, I might not even make it. When I made it to the next stop, I took down 2 sali waters and kept walking. People on the sidelines would cheer, and I just had my head hung low. I looked back every now again for Elaine, but I never saw her. It’s just me now. It’s just me now.
- 9 -
I even ran into Jared at one point, and when he asked me how I was doing, I was on the verge of tears. “It doesn’t look good. I have nothing to give. I don’t know if I’m going to make it.” He smiled. “Well, you’re doing good. Just keep going like that. Take your time. Take a rest. You have plenty of time.”
Then I thought (and I swear to god, it’s true), I thought of everyone and everything said to me over the past six months. And I realized I just couldn’t go home saying I didn’t finish it, not while I had something in me. I figured I would run until I collapsed. I figured, worse comes to worse, I could walk the rest of the way back. Sure, they would open up the city again, and I wasn’t sure of the course without the other runners around me, but I could always walk the last 12 miles or whatever back. If that’s one thing I know I can do is walk. I can walk forever, if need be. Hell, my great-grandma would walk a couple miles from her house to church or to the grocery store well into her 70s. We Rossini’s can walk. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just keep on going. My head started to lift a little. “Hey,” I said to myself. “Let me see if can run.” And I did. I ran. I felt okay. The sali water must be helping. I better keep with 2 shots every stop. Until my muscles started locking up.
Okay, and maybe a shot of water.
- 10 -
So, I gave up any idea of a pace. I ran when I could. I walked when I needed to. I just kept moving forward. Eventually, the trucks, clean-up crews, and other such vehicles marking the end of the race passed me. “That’s okay,” I thought. “There are still plenty of people around me.”
And there were. It was not until I was in the never-ending park, which every Florence marathoner will easily tell you was the worst part (“When will this end already?!”), I really looked around at the runners around me. There was one gal from my group with horribly bad knees. We ran around each other for a while, until eventually she passed me up for good. There was another gal that hobbled as she ran, because she had to keep one leg straight. It seemed like everyone around me was hurting, and hurting bad. And yet, they kept going.
I thought that these people in the back are just important, just as noteworthy, if not more so, than the ones in the front. Yeah, it’s an amazing accomplishment to finish in a little over 2 hours, but try hobbling for six! That’s endurance, if you ask me.
When we finally got of the never-ending park, I ran into Jared again, who asked me how I was doing. I was doing good. The 2 sali-1 water combo was making it possible for me to keep going. At every stop I would take this combo, walk a little bit, waiting for it to kick in, and then brrrr, like a horse, I would take off. Eventually after 4 km, it would start to taper off, and I would get dizzy again. I would walk, more than ran, that last kilometer until the next stop, until I could get my power combo back. Yeah, I felt good. I was starting to feel hopeful I would make it to the finish line.
And then Jared gave me even better news, I was only about 7 miles from the finish line, and if that wasn’t amazing enough, it looked like I would still be making it around the 6 hours mark! Who would have ever guessed?
- 11 -
The only downside was that it was around 1pm and the streets were wide open. When I made my way down the road running parallel with the river, heading towards the Ponte Vecchio, I had to fight cars and people, none of whom wanted to stop, and they definitely didn’t get out of your way.
Eh, it’s alright, though, I’m used to it. And besides, there were plenty of folks along the way still cheering us on.
After awhile, I could feel the finish line. I was close. When I saw the last stop, at 40 km, I zoomed by it. Only 2 km to go, and I feel great!
People were even telling me. “You’re almost there. Just around the bend.”
Until I was told that three times. And then put-put-put… I lost my gas again. “Where is the finish line?” At one point, I came upon this long stretch with barricades, and I thought “Here it is!” until I saw runners doubling back.
“You’re not done?! You’re still running?!” I yelled out to one of them, who looked just as bewildered as I did.
I was damn near spitting by this point. “Damn, Florence, and their parks, and their stupid course.” Truth was, I was in really bad shape. I should of stopped, I told myself. I couldn’t even run. I tried at one point, but had to stop after 30 seconds. It was just too much.
Luckily, Gretchen saw me. Having already finished, she was on the other side of the barricades with her husband and a few other folks from my pace group. She also told me I was almost there, to which I snapped, “That’s what everyone keeps telling me!” And then in a helpless whisper, “but it never comes.” I kept walking. Slowly, like I was dragging myself.
“Okay, honey,” she said and started to walk along side, explaining the remaining part of the course in detail. I was already doubling back by this point, and she told her husband she would be back. “Okay, I’m going to walk with you to the end. See, the end of the road there.” I nodded, if you want to call it that. My head bobbled. “Okay, at the end there, the road will curve to your right. That’s when people will start cheering. Then the road will immediately curve to the left. You’ll run on the red carpet and you’ll be done. It’s really close.”
“Okay.” We talked about how her run went. Very well and smooth. I wish I knew how I would have done if I was in top form, but that’s okay. I’m almost there. And sure enough, just like she said, the road curved to the right and there was everybody, cheering like wildfire. Gretchen said softly, “Now, go.” And I started to run again. I turned to the left and there was Jared at the end of the red carpet, on the other side of the finish line.
“I knew you could do it! Kaw! Kaw!” he yelled out. The “kaw, kaw” was a reference to Galaxy Quest. He never saw the movie, but he liked my description of that particular scene. It made me laugh, and when I crossed it, I just remembering holding onto his hands, being half hunched over, stabling myself. “I did it. I did it. Okay. It’s done.”
- 12 -
I didn’t cry, although afterwards, I saw some did. I did, however, wobble over, like a drunken Harry Carey, to a Tobacco shop (Italy’s equivalent of a 7-Eleven) and got a Diet Coke (ahhh) and peanut M&M’s (mmmm).
I met up with Rochelle, Garth and Elaine, who were all sitting on the steps of some church, perhaps Santa Croce, who knows. I was just too happy to sit. I was happy that I had made it.
Here's a photo of us... Look at my head-is-swollen-I-look-like-Leonardo-Dicaprio-with-my-sexy-squishy-face....
(Yeah, not a flattering photo, and wearing yellow isn't helping. You're lucky you are seeing this at all. What you do in the name of a marathon. Left to right: Me, Garth, Rochelle and Jose)
After awhile, I decided to head back with Rebecca and Michele. We had to walk back, which was about 30 minutes through the crowded streets of shoppers. On the way, we saw fellow AIDS Marathoners, lost, unsure of the route, unsure of the destination. We would give them directions, and they would continue onward. I thought how that was almost me. How I had made up my mind to do the same thing, if need be.
Later, I found out, Elaine didn’t make it. She fainted, and afterwards, she tried to go back in the race, but the medics wouldn’t let her. That was almost me, too.
So all in all, I am saying this is best run ever, because it was certainly my worst run ever. After the marathon, I hobbled around for two days with very sore legs. A week later, the nail on my right pinky toe fell off. And I cut up my belly due to the friction caused by all that stuff in my bra, ha! So, I feel fortunate to say that I made it across the finish line, much less to say that after all that I went through, I finished in 6:19.46. I feel fortunate for the past year, but much like the marathon, it has been filled with difficult moments too. And I just feel grateful that I’m still standing here today and that I have all of you.
Thank you so much! Merry Christmas!
P.S. And don’t worry, in my next update, I will tell you how the rest of the trip went. Think of it as a good New Year’s hangover read. See ya :)
P.S.S. Here's a closeup of the finisher's medal...
P.S.S.S. And here's a redeeming photo of me celebrating post-marathon. Cheers!
-------------------------------
SPECIAL THANKS
-------------------------------
I would like to specially thank Agape International Spiritual Center for their generous contribution of $500.
http://www.agapelive.com
Thank you, Reverend Michael!
Also, I would like add the following people for helping me through the rough spots, and there were many...
Tania, Stannie, Christian, Sonia, and Patricia
Thank you, everyone, for your support, your donations, and for actually wanting to read these updates! I kept going because of you.
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