Twists and turns

Dr. Mariani, who owns the kennel where Homer will be staying, is a veterinarian by profession. He was in a white surgeon's jacket when we arrived. A coincidence or an omen? He was "attending to" a dog, he said. An autopsy, Nando guessed. As usual Homer got the pole position box, the one with greatest visibility to humans who might be on the grounds. It's small consolation but it's something. As we drove away, he had realized what was happening and was throwing himself against the wire bars, crying plaintively.

It's a long drive from Busto to Marseille, and it feels longer in fog. A thick winter fog covered most of the autostrada from Milan to Genova, and I did something that never happened to me before in YEARS of driving from Milan to the South of France. I -- unbelievably! -- missed the turnoff after Tortona for Alessandria-Ventimiglia. We wound up obliged to traverse the Milan-Genova route: fewer tunnels but narrower with many twists and turns. Not pleasant for me, with a headache descending and me driving at that point, to endure an extra half hour of road time.

Pain . . . in the neck

Medicine is not recommended while driving. Well, that’s cute. How are we supposed to get from Busto to Marseille? Okay, there will be two of us in the car, we can pinch each other awake. Among the goodies prescribed for me is a box of suppositories for "doleur". Oh the French, they do love anal ingestion! The good thing is that this stuff has codeine, meaning they are serious about the prospect of pain. I woke up today wondering what I would do if I got a headache, and sure enough I got a headache. It's worsened over the course of the day but "rien a faire" I don't know if I can take my beloved Prontalgin today. So I’ll have to suffer with it. Maybe Nando will take pity and rub my neck. But he has been in an unpleasant mood all day. Perhaps he is nervous too?

Petit tour de Provence

We'll stop off in Monte Carlo to see friends and stretch our legs, then drive on to Marseille. Two days later, bandaged and blue, we will set out for a petit tour de Provence, visiting, not necessarily in this order, Aix-en-Provence, Arles,  Nimes, and Orange. Unless we or the weather is not up to it, we’ll conclude by driving from Aigues Mortes to St. Maries de la Mer, the two cities book-ending the Camargue. The winter is the only time to visit the Camargue because otherwise it is knee-deep in mosquitoes. Then we'll stop again in Marseille for my final check and to remove the stitches (arggh), and then in Monaco or a Carrefours (my favorite French superkmarket chain) somewhere to buy bread, smoked salmon, creme fraiche, Dijon mustard, Armagnac and champagne before heading back to Busto. So much for the weight loss dimension of the trip.

Facelift, flashes, fear

The last month of this wretched year of death and fear. Yesterday I had an appointment for my monthly leg waxing at my local beautician's, and I told the young woman proprietor and her assistant that I was getting a facelift, and that they were the only ones to know outside of my husband and the doctor. They reacted positively, encouragingly. As soon as I mentioned the fact, their eyes flashed to my face and I could just HEAR them thinking, "Brava. Good move. You need it, signora." They insisted that I stop back to show them the results as soon as I returned to Busto.

Fear and furniture

I had a dream about Mom and Dad and furniture from the house of my childhood last night. The furniture was the most meaningful part, though (as often happens in my dreams), I reminded myself while dreaming that there was something amiss, that Mom was dead and it didn’t make sense for her to be IN the dream.

I figure the meaning has something to do with my desire for a home, for sanctuary. But there is no sanctuary these days. A terrorist cell was discovered in BUSTO this past week. And the fear of anthrax is apparently palpable everywhere in the US, especially urban areas.

Fear on a macro level is one thing; fear on a micro-let’s-talk-about-me level is another. We watched part of a television show about facelifts this week. After five minutes my head was light and I wanted to puke. Maybe I will wind up doing one but I definitely do NOT want to know what is being done.

Libe letdown

A new start was also commemorated by going to the library in Busto. At least, that’s what I hoped. I was really excited about the prospect. Books! I walked Homer in the afternoon drizzle then left him at home while I went to the library. I was absolutely ecstatic about the prospect. So of course there was a letdown. The stacks are not open. A person can’t wander among the shelves. There is no way to know what books are in English until one looks up a specific book and is told whether the book is available in translation or the original. The librarian warned me that the books in English were limited, mostly classics, she said. No, I am not interested in borrowing Shakespeare’s plays from the Busto libe. What a disappointment! Closed stacks. Limited selection. Waiting period for books requested from the inter-library system. Plus I hadn’t brought the appropriate documents with me so I couldn’t even get my tessera today.

Doctor, no!

Dr. Lorenzo had been on my mind for two reasons. First, I hadn't yet summoned the courage to call Dr. Delos. And second, last week I had finally motivated myself to go and see her to get my appointments nailed down for a mammography and pap test. As in Treviso (the Italian town in Veneto where I lived before Busto) -- and unlike the South of France, where I had lived before Treviso -- she can’t do a pap test in her office. That required one appointment, the mammo another, and she suggested a full-gamut blood test to establish a benchmark for me at this point. My last blood test had been in France, seven or eight years ago, and I don't remember the exact results. Besides, now I am in the throes of menopause, hot flashes that are downright intrusive and all the more wearing because of the heat wave this month.

Life robbers

When I returned at 7 pm, the bracelet was almost ready; he was in the process of polishing it. So I chatted with his wife. Turns out he, she, and their daughter were robbed at gunpoint last year in this same shop, in broad daylight right in the middle of downtown Busto. They had been bound and threatened. The thieves took almost everything they had. And they had destroyed the daughter psychologically; she had been a promising goldsmith (I admired one of the rings she’d made) but, since the event, she had not been able to set foot in the shop.

“I ladri ci hanno distrutto la vita,” sighed the woman, shaking her head. “The robbers have destroyed our life. We are of a certain age and we have had a life. But my daughter was only 24, married only two months, and she is scarred forever.”