The wind whispers in my ear.

The winds have been howling. Something fierce. Out of the north. And laced by rain. For two days now. That's the way it is in Sardinia. At year's end. In winter. But there's no snow. No freezing temperatures. For me, a Minnesotan, it ain't quite like winter. But a reminder that weather can be inclement. Even in Paradise. Still, I like the winds. The enormous gusts. But straight-line winds. This ain't tornado country. When I'm walking north, I can hardly move. Like bucking the force in a wind tunnel. When I turn south, the wind whispers in my ear. Move along. Faster. Faster. Faster. --Jim Broede

That life goes on and on and on.

Marred my day for a while. Made me feel sad. I spied the cat. Dark gray. Seemed to be resting. Lying on its side. In the gutter. Eyes open. In an expressive, relaxed way. But that cat was dead. Must have been hit by a car. No readily apparent physical injury. Except a small trickle of blood from the mouth. Probably from an internal injury. The kind of death I don't like to see. Wishing it never happened. Surprised there aren't many more dead animals along the Italian roadsides. Because of the madcap way Italians drive. But still, here in Carbonia in Sardinia, I see many drivers brake for animals. Stop. Give the animals the right of way. But stray dogs and cats. They are numerous. On my walks. I see them. Broken and battered and crushed. This one was still intact. Looked alive. On a later round, the corpse was on the curb. Out of the gutter. Some one must have lifted the cat. Checked to see if maybe it was still alive. I briefly mourned. Grieved. But got over it. Assuming that the cat was still alive. In spirit. In another dimension. That every life goes on and on and on. --Jim Broede

I want to savor every bit of Italy.

On a side street, near where I live in the city of Carbonia in Sardinia, there are two nice residential homes. Consisting mostly of glass. They are beautiful homes. With a view. Out of massive windows. But the view -- well, it could be better. Across the street, there's a wall. Filled with graffiti. And there's not much landscaping. Some litter, too. I would have picked a better location. Maybe on the outskirts of the city. Or well out in the country. But I suspect many Italians living in cities build for indoor comfort. Not for the scenery. The balconies on buildings are seldom occupied. Even where I live. We have balconies looking east out of the kitchen and west out of the living room. But we don't sit out there. Instead, we hang out clothes to dry. Or put out potted plants. There's no furniture. Only a washing machine. But I'm thinking about setting a new standard. Taking to the balconies. With chairs. And maybe a small table. Where I can read a book. Drink cappucino in the morning. And watch the sunset in the evening. I want to savor every bit of Italy. --Jim Broede

I'm safe. An arm's length away.

Maybe it's that I'm more cognizant of hand gestures. Because I don't understand very much of the Italian spoken language. So I watch the gestures. To try to catch a clue of what's being said. I can't ever recall seeing so much gesturing in America. Or anywhere else, for that matter. And maybe the most vociferous gesturing I've ever seen came the other night. From my Italian true love's handsome brother, Massimo. I was captivated. As if he was directing an orchestra in a robust piece of music. Nothing less than incredible. I almost felt like applauding. His arm and hand movements were scintillating. Occasionally reaching for the sky. And he'd swiftly extend his hands. And bring them back and forth. Coming close to pounding his chest. And he wiggled his fingers nimbly. Turns out he was mostly discussing politics. Massimo also had a scarf wrapped thickly around his neck. Indoors. Giving him a classy look. Maybe it was a little cool, or maybe he was catching a cold. And occasionally his massive hands covered his entire face. He's a tennis player. A good one. And those hands probably give him a firm grip on a tennis racket. With a little wrist action, he'd have tremendous power in his swing. Anyway, when Massimo talks, I try to play it safe and stay an arm's length away. Just in case of a far-flung hand gesture accidentally going awry. --Jim Broede

The real reason to celebrate.

I walked 10 miles yesterday. In spurts. Starting in the afternoon. And I've decided to get started in the morning today. In order to spread out my walking regimen. I don't know if that's any better. But that's my whim. So, I'll do it. And my guess is that maybe I'll have a 17-mile day. Which I did, a week or so ago. When I walked a batch of miles in the morning. I wanna walk a long distance today. Because I'm gonna have lasagna tonight. A high-calorie supper. And maybe with spumante. The Italian version of champagne. Because my true love wants to sort of celebrate New Year's Eve. Here at home. In Carbonia. In Sardinia. In Italy. That's a nice place to be. Not necessarily just on New Year's Eve. But for all winter. Because it's relatively mild. No snow. No freezing temperature. And besides, I have my Italian true love to keep me warm. Maybe that's the real reason to celebrate tonight. --Jim Broede

One dimension after another.

I'm not gonna celebrate the coming of a new year. Because I'd prefer time to slow. Or even stop. So that I can better savor now. This year. The one I'm living in at the moment. I'm in no hurry to get on with next year. With the next moment. But hey, I'll enjoy the moment when it comes. I suppose there's a likely chance that time will stop. When I die. Maybe I'll move into another dimension. Where there's no time. Only forever. Makes me wonder if there's consciousness, as we know it here on Earth, in a timeless existence. Hard to grasp all this stuff. Before I was born, I wasn't able to grasp life. Not sure that I've grasped it yet. But I am grasping something. An awareness, of sorts. Could be that death is to be born again. Into something beyond human comprehension. Maybe I existed before I was born into a physical human condition. I don't rule it out. I'm trying to keep an open mind. About everything. That maybe we are continually born again. Into one dimension after another. Forever. --Jim Broede

Making the poor less poor.

Labor. The working man. The working woman. Those working for wages. I'm on their side. I want them to be paid more. A fair living wage at the very least. By reducing the profits of profiteers. I'm not against profit. Reasonable profit. But I want a bigger share of the profits distributed to the working stiffs. Whether it be in a factory. Or a retail store. Or digging ditches. Or teaching. You name the profession. And I probably will agree that those considered to be common working people deserve more. And the big money manipulators deserve less. Yes, I'm calling for a narrowing of the gap between the rich and the poor. I want to tax the rich and give to the poor. In our global economy, seems to me that working people are being shortchanged. I admit that jobs going to Third World countries helped the poor. Increased their wages. To some degree at the expense of workers in more affluent countries. And that's all right. As long as it serves the common good. Serves workers all over the world. But seems to me that the profiteers have increased their profits immensely. They've pocketed huge profits. Obscene profits. Unreasonable profits. Some of that money should be going to the workers. To the proletariat. Instead, in our global economy the rich keep getting richer. And the poor keep getting poorer. That ain't right. I want things fixed. The right way. Let's make the rich less rich. In a way that make the poor less poor. --Jim Broede

I find the necessary words.

Yes, ladies, every problem can be fixed. That's what I have been telling some ladies on the Alzheimer's message boards. Even problems connected with personal relationships. And it doesn't necessarily have to be fixed by mechanical handymen, as some of these ladies imply. Significant numbers of men are not mechanically-inclined. Some are poets. And romantic idealists. Generally, problem-fixing takes two-way communication. Meaningful dialogue. Both partners have to pitch in. And learn to speak a common language. The ladies suggest that men generally think that everything can be fixed. And maybe women don't. I'm a man. And I'm a fixer. Not when something mechanical goes awry. Such as the engine on the car. Or with an appliance in the house. I'm no good at that stuff. But I know how to get it fixed. I hire a mechanic. A handyman. I get it fixed. By hiring someone. Yes, I use common sense. If there's a problem between my true love and I, I'm able to find a fix. On my own. Without hiring anyone. I'm good at it. I start a meaningful dialogue. I find the necessary words. --Jim Broede

Sure beats our two-party system.

I've never been to Bologna. But I wanna go there some day. Because from what I read, the city of Bologna and the surrounding region have been a hotbed of communist influence. Maybe more so in the recent past, than now. But still run in large part by communists. And maybe that's why Bologna has a reputation for a relatively high quality of life. 'It is a very strange situation,' writes Brit Charles Richards in his book, The New Italians. 'Because here 50 percent of the people in the past were communists, 50 percent were Catholics. Both religions were against profit, but 100 percent of the people live for profit.' Richards goes on to say that Bologna has changed. It's not the same as 10 or 15 years ago. But the difference is relative. It has changed less than other towns. 'The communist administration,' Richards said. 'They are honest. They were and are honest. That is the difference. Personally honest, because they always had a special interest in the co-operative movement. The administration is relatively efficient. It was better in the past. The hospitals and so on. But it still isn't bad.' Of course, I'm a socialist at heart. If not a communist. I like a part of the world that still has communists in parliament. Communists are accepted here. Ain't like in the U.S. Even the main street in the city (Carbonia in Sardinia) where I live is named after a communist (Antonio Gramsci). I'm not politically active here. Largely because I don't speak Italian. But I pay attention to Italian politics. Interesting, to say the least. So very many political parties. Sure beats our American two-party system. --Jim Broede

So I can be with her. Not alone.

I like alone time. In fact, I need it. In order to thrive. So do my kind of people. Time to turn inward. That's why I walk alone. Most days. Miles and miles. Off by myself. Time to contemplate. I especially like to walk in the woods. Or across meadows. Off the beaten track. Where I am less likely to encounter people. I've always been that way. As long as I can remember. I've spent a large part of my life living alone. In solitude. Of course, I've also lived with true loves. Twice. But still, I carve out time to be alone. When I write, I'm very much alone. Even if people are around me. I shut them out. I seldom let them dictate what I write. Though they have affects on me. Usually in positive and upbeat ways. And that can be found in my writing. I cultivate relationships. But rarely a true love. Like I say, only twice. I cultivate friends. But they are in a separate category from a true love. My true love must know that she's special. More than a friend. Because I'm willing to sacrifice significant amounts of alone time. So I can be with her. Not alone. --Jim Broede

I'm gonna savor it all.

I don't let life bother me. Every day when I get up, I decide not to be bothered with the big stuff or the small stuff. I resolve to have a good day. No matter the impediments. For instance, I'm up early at the moment. Around 4 in the morning here in Sardinia. To start my day. In a good way. By clearing my mind of any negative thoughts. Thinking positively. About the day to come. We're hitting a nice stretch of weather. Sunny days. Relatively mild temperatures. Doesn't seem like winter. Certainly not a Minnesota winter. I'll take it. Albeit, some Sardos complain. That it's been too cold. Or too wet. But not me. Even when I catch a cold on a 5-day jaunt to Germany. Where I encountered snow and freezing temperatures and delays in my flights. But still, I spent five wonderful days with my German cousins Fritz and Monika. If the price for all that was the inconvenience of a cold, sobeit. It's worth every little sniffle. And here I am, back with my Italian true love for almost 10 days now. I have everything in the world to buoy my spirits. And my life. No reason to complain. About the weather. About anything. That sets the tone for the upcoming day. I'm gonna savor it all. --Jim Broede

The matter of hurt feelings.

I hurt people's feelings. When I don't mean to. Maybe because I tell them what's on my mind. Without gauging how it might affect their feelings. But that ain't necessarily bad. I can then explain that I'm sorry. If I truly am. Maybe I'm not sorry. Could be that some feelings should be hurt. Maybe that makes me a jerk. But it also can lead to a better understanding. Of each other. I suspect that some people have thin skins. And it's time for them to toughen up. To grow thicker skins. Or it could be that they lack a sense of humor. They take stuff/life too seriously. Instead of feeling hurt, they should be laughing. It's impossible to get through life without hurt feelings. But I've learned to be hurt less and less. Maybe it's that I have learned that people are funny. Especially overly serious people. They seem to hurt the most. They often make me laugh. And I know that's hurtful. But still, I laugh. --Jim Broede

We're shopping for a suitable cap.

Don't quite understand why I'm not supposed to wear a headband in Sardinia. Guess it doesn't look right. Because Sardos don't wear headbands. When really they should. So I'm trying to start a fashion trend. By wearing a headband over the protests of my Italian true love. Guess she thinks it's gauche. In poor taste. Sardos, however, wear knit caps. Or stocking caps. Which cover the tops of their heads. Squashing down the hair. That is, if they have hair. Even my true love wears a black knit cap. Covering her normally fluffy, buoyant, beautiful hair. Indeed, a shame. She'd look much better with a colorful headband. But she doesn't think so. That gauche thing again. I have a vast collection of headbands at home. Maybe 100, or more. I wear them with the first approaching of cool weather. And so do many other Minnesotans. But here in Sardinia, I've spotted only two or three headbands. On joggers. To absorb the sweat, I suppose. Rather than keep the forehead and ears warm. Anyway, I've reached a compromise with my true love. I wear the headband outdoors only. Especially when I have a cold. To protect my sinuses. And I remove the headband immediately upon coming indoors. And we're shopping for a cap. With a Sardo style to it. --Jim Broede

The art of playing games.

If I believe what I read, I'm gonna have to play games if I wanna get ahead in Italy. In business and advancement, from the obtaining of the smallest of favors, still largely depends on who you know, rather than what you do or are. Introductions are crucial. Promotion in most private companies hinges more on family connections than on merit. The business environment is essentially clannish and Masonic. That's the conclusion of Charles Richards, a Brit and author of the book, 'The New Italians.' Of course, I'm in a good position. I don't have to play games. Because I'm retired. And I don't have to get a job and make a living any more. But it'd be awfuly frustrating if I had to. My Italian true love does have to make a living. Teaching school. And to improve her condition, it's gonna take more than merit. She has to play games. Maybe that's the most frustrating part of her job. She ain't a game-player. She'd like life based solely on merit. But I really suspect game-playing is part of the routine all over. To varying degrees. We all are forced to play games. If we want something badly enough. --Jim Broede

Keeps me out of depression.

Sad times pass. That's the goodness of life. Give it time. And life becomes happy again. Far happier than sad. Maybe in 76 years I've had a cumulative year or two of sad times. All the rest were happy times. Therefore, not much to complain about. Even in the midst of sad times, I keep reminding myself, it ain't gonna last. Things will get better. And they always do. Never fails. Maybe that makes me the optimist. Keeps me out of depression. --Jim Broede

Blessed days.

It's gonna be five years since Jeanne died. After a 13-year siege with Alzheimer's. And after 38 years as my dear, sweet wife. Didn't think I wanted to live any more. On that day, Jan. 18, 2007. But live I did. And I'm sure that's what Jeanne wanted me to do. To live life to the fullest. For as long as it lasts. To savor every single day. I'm even savoring the past. Every blessed day I ever had with Jeanne. Maybe at the time, I didn't think every day was blessed. But now I know better. Even when Jeanne was dying, she was teaching me. To love life. The last 38 months were spent in a nursing home. But I was there every day. And hardly ever missed a day of taking Jeanne outdoors. In her custom-made low-slung wheelchair. Wrapped in a thermal sleeping bag in the middle of Minnesota winters. Jeanne revered the outdoors. The sunsets. The wildlife. The trees. The snow. The rain. The cold. The warmth. The lakeshore. Upon reflection now, it seems like every day with Jeanne was a good day. That's the way I remember it. Time does that. I don't recall a bad time any more. Strange and wonderful, isn't it? They all have become blessed days. In my memory. --Jim Broede

Can one give his/her all?

Giving one's all. Suspect I've never done it. Maybe it's impossible. Has anybody ever given all? Everything? I suppose that means one's life. But maybe that's not even all. Maybe giving one's life is the easy way out. And one could do still more. I've never given all. To anyone. Not even to myself. I've given a whole lot. But that's far, far from all. Some people are demanding. They want my all. Preposterous as that sounds. Don't expect anyone to give me his/her all. Give me a reasonable degree of love. That should be more than enough. Like to think I'm capable of unconditionaol love. But thinking/theorizing is one thing. Truly practicing, another. Maybe if one can only go 90 percent of the way, that's sort of all. Achieving the maximum of one's capability. --Jim Broede

I'm adjusting to Italian ways.

Another sign that Italians are in no hurry. It's the day after Christmas, and all of the stores are closed. In America, this is a big shopping day. All sorts of sales. Because Americans were born to shop. And they can't get back to ther shopping centers fast enough. There's such a thing as leisure life in Italy. It's built into the system. When the stores reopen, they'll assume the usual schedule. Of mostly closing around lunch time. For three or four hours. Because it's time for respite. Opening again late in the afternoon or early evening. Believe me. I'm adjusting to Italian ways. --Jim Broede

Give me stress-free soccer.

Life is far less stressful for me in Sardinia than the USA. Because half of the time I don't know what's going on anymore. In the realm of politics, for instance. I've lost track of the Republican aspirants for president. I rarely see English language television. And I don't miss it in the least. And when it comes to sports, I find myself weaning off the Chicago Bears. Often, I don't check the scores until days after the game has been played. Doesn't matter to me that the Bears have lost five straight games. It's ho-hum stuff. I'd rather watch soccer. No stress. Because I don't care who wins. Though I'm more partial to Italians than to other European teams. I'm still an avid Chicago Cubs fan. And I'll return in time to take spring training with the Cubs in Arizona. In March. But that ain't stressful. It's very relaxing. --Jim Broede

It's strictly Sardo or Sarda.

I have been calling my Italian true love a Sardinian. Because she's from and lives in Sardinia, an island off the Italian boot. But in Sardinia she's known as a Sarda. Because that's the feminine for Sardinian in the Italian language. And the masculine is Sardo. So I'm not gonna use the term Sardinian anymore. It's strictly Sardo or Sarda. And if I ever become a citizen of this island paradise, I'll be a Sardo. And when I return to Minnesota for the summer, I'm gonna bring along Sardegna and Italia flags. Please note that I'm spelling the country names correctly. In Italian. And I will fly both flags from a flagpole in my yard. And another thing. My first name in Italian is Giacomo, not James/Jim. --Jim Broede

Wonderful thoughts.

I like to capture thoughts. Little thoughts. Thoughts that flit through my mind. Many of 'em are elusive. They come. They go. Never to be retrieved. I lose hundreds of thoughts daily. Unless I sit down. And record 'em. One by one. Some of which make their way into this blog. I could easily post 100 threads. In a single day. Yes, 100 thoughts. That would be only a small fraction of the thoughts that come alive. In me. The thoughts come so fast, that I can't keep track. I've already forgotten the thought that came five thoughts ago. Makes me think that I'm a thinking machine. Seems to me I didn't always like to think. When I was going to school. In elementary school. I wanted to get out of school. I watched the clock. Waiting for the bell to ring. Teachers wanted me to think. To learn. How to read. How to count and add and subtract. Thinking was boring. But not any more. I love to think. Some where. Some how. I got turned on. Now I can't stop thinking. Wonderful thoughts. --Jim Broede

No reason to keep secrets.

I like privacy. My own privacy. But then, I'm curious. About other people. So I find myself invading their privacy. By inquiring. About this and that. Hard for me to draw the line. Especially if I have the urge to satisfy my curiosity. Anyway, I've discovered that my inquiries are far more often well-received rather than rebuffed. I find myself surrendering my own privacy. Willingly. Because it's fair to reciprocate. To volunteer private information in order to obtain private information. I do it with total strangers. Often within the first few minutes of meeting them. Tells me whether it's worth knowing 'em. Usually, I like people who are forthcoming. People who reveal themselves early. Willing to take risks. Even with strangers. Fact is, I have nothing to hide. I more or less go naked into the world. As a romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thuinker. A political liberal. A lover. Especially, a lover of life. No reason to keep it secret. Even to strangers. --Jim Broede

I'd still be in love on the moon.

It's Christmas Day. Don't know if it feels like any special day. Maybe just like Nov. 25 or Oct. 25. Come to think of it, Oct. 25 is special. More so than Christmas. Because it was on that day four years ago that I made first contact with my Italian true love. And now here I am. In Sardinia. On Christmas Day. Living with my true love. So, I suppose that's what makes Christmas special. I'm with my true love. I was with her last Christmas, too. So this is two in a row. I'm going for three next year. And maybe a long string of Christmases with my one and only true love. Maybe that's what Christmas is all about. Love. A time to love. Everything. About life. In that sense, Christmas should be celebrated every day. Because seems to me love makes the world go round. And I like the fact that Mother Earth keeps spinning. Round and round. Otherwise, it might fall out of orbit. I don't know that for a fact. Seems to me the moon doesn't spin. Which means we never see one side of the moon. But the moon still stays in orbit. Suspect I'd still be in love if I were on the moon. Especially if my true love was with me. And we resided inside a cocoon. With living, breathing air. --Jim Broede

I'm curious about Schulz.

My German cousin Fritz knows how to make a pleasant evening for me. He invites me to dinner. At his shooting club. And then sits me across from Gerald Schulz. A German who speaks English. Helps me become educated. About German ways. I mesh well with Schulz. Or should I say Gerald? But I like the German name Schulz. Though the ones I know in America spell their name mostly Schultz. Maybe the 't' makes it sound more Germanic to an American. Though Gerald Schulz is mild-mannered and soft-spoken. And an intelligent fellow. And an unusual shooter. Doesn't let a handicap bother him. Really, it isn't a handicap. He's lost three fingers on his right hand. All but the thumb and forefinger. I always look for something different about people. And that's different. Schulz lost the fingers in a factory accident. About 20 years ago. After he took up shooting. Normally, he's right-handed. So he has switched to his lefthand when handling a pistol. But he's good at skeet shooting, too. And that requires both hands. And he's still got his trigger finger on the right hand. Which is more than good enough. Schulz also signs his checks with right hand. Holding the pen between thumb and fore-finger. Anyway, I found all this fascinating. But even more fascinating, I think Schulz is a decent human being. Philosophically, speaking. A guy I'd like to know better. He's in business. Exactly what kind, I'm not sure. Other than it's international. Goes to show that I don't know everything about Schulz. But I intend to learn more. Maybe some day when he's in the U.S. His company has offices somewhere near the Kentucky-Tennessee border. And in other spots around the world. So he does some traveling. Maybe to Minnesota some day. Where I'd greet him and show him around. I might even take him to a shooting club. To see how he does it. But mostly, I'd like to talk to Schulz. About lots of topics. Philosophy, and all. Like I say, he's a smart fellow. And a good conversationalist. I also suspect he's leading a very meaningful life. I'd like to know more about it. --Jim Broede

Reason to toast my grandfather.

My paternal grandfather came from a one-tavern town. Kashofen. And every time I return to Kashofen, my German cousin Fritz sees to it that I visit the tavern. Because most likely, it was visited frequently by my grandfather. Before he pulled up his roots in Kashofen and sneaked into the U.S. Probably around 1900. When he was 19. To the best of my knowledge, grandpa was an illegal immigrant. Anyway, I'm happy that he came to the U.S. Because he met his true love there. And had three children. Including my father. If he hadn't come, I wouldn't have been born. So I guess it's appropriate. I raise my beer mug in the town's tavern. And toast my grandfather. --Jim Broede

I'm served beer again.

I became acquainted with Kurt when he was mayor of Kashofen. The tiny German rural town where my grandfather came from. And what I remember most at that first meeting. It was in the mayor's office. And he served me beer. As a political writer for newspapers, I was invited many times into a mayor's office. Back in the USA. But never once did an American mayor serve me beer. In his office. Or any place. I don't know if that makes Kurt distinctive. But believe me, he's unique. Speaks good English. And now he's the ex-mayor. Retired. Reports circulated several years ago that Kurt was in poor health. And that his life might be in danger. But every time I return, Kurt seems to be healthier and healthier. Maybe he'll last forever. I hope so. Because when I returned to Kashofen last week, I was served beer again. This time in Kurt's living room. --Jim Broede

We'll meet again. Some day.

He's brilliant. But absent-minded. Unable to figure out where to sit on a plane flight from Cagliari to Rome. That's my good fortune. Means I sat next to Josef. An Italian. An electrical engineer. Josef happens to speak English and French and Spanish and Chinese. We engaged in good conversation. In English, of course. For the entire one-hour flight. And then the obliging Josef helped me find my next flight connection. To Frankfurt. While he headed off to Genoa. But I have a hunch we'll meet again. By email. And in my blog. I cultivated a contact with a stranger. As if it was meant to be. I've done it before. And I'll do it again. I'm sure. We know a bit about each other. As much as one can learn in an hour. And that's the way life is supposed to be. Strangers. Becoming acquainted. Instantly. Funny thing about Josef. He was in the wrong seat. In the middle seat. On the wrong side of the aisle. He was supposed to be next to the window. On the other side. Josef thought for a moment that I might be seated on his mobile phone. So he asked me in Italian if I'd get up so he could look. I didn't quite understand. And I replied in English. And Josef spoke perfect English. And I understood. Turned out that his cell phone was in his shirt pocket. Anyway, I inquired whether Josef was an Italian. He was. And how did he learn his English? In school. And he likes languages. Even Chinese. Well, we talked. More or less non-stop. And I told Josef he'd be reading about himself in my blog. And yes, I expect we'll meet again. Some day. --Jim Broede

It adds up. To a life of foreplay.

Life should be eternal foreplay. Never reaching a climax. Making life last. Evolving ever so slowly. Almost as if time has stopped. I want life to go on forever. My life. So that I can practice eternal foreplay. Never having to start over. A climax is too much like a conclusion. An ending. I prefer to avoid endings. Instead, I want a continuous flow of foreplay. I see a continuity to life. Everything is connected. Like one long chain. I'm not looking for a new beginning. But rather moving from one adventure to another. A grand scheme of things. Everything fits. Doesn't mean that life has to be one neat package. It isn't. But there's a flow. Natural. Smooth waters. Rough waters. Deep waters. Shallow waters. It adds up. To a wonderful life of foreplay. --Jim Broede

If I don't exist in the moment.

I often avoid taking pictures of what I see. And why is that? Because it diverts me from absorbing the picture in my soul, in my spirit, in my mind. I'm enjoying the moment too much to want to capturre the scene with my camera. A picture isn't the same as capturing an interior feeling. The emotion of a given moment. For instance, I can walk down a street in Edinburgh and capture the moment forever. Without recording it. I don't need a reminder to bring me back to Edinburgh. Or any place that catches my fancy. I have treasured moments. Filed away. Inside me. Maybe that won't always be the case. If I some day suffer from dementia. Or maybe after I die. There'll be nothing. No memory. Of anything. Merely a void. As if my life never happened. That's why I like to absorb and savor what I have. While I'm still alive and functioning. I suppose that if there's a picture of me, standing in Edinburgh, it's proof that I existed. But that doesn't matter to me. If I don't exist in the moment. Now. --Jim Broede

I'm in paradise all of the time.

Nothing like a walk in a German woods/forest in the middle of December. With my two favorite Germans. Fritz and Dieter. And Dieter's dogs Chopin and Mary. Fritz and Dieter live in a town of 50,000 inhabitants. But the Germans are staunch and devout environmentalists. They've saved so very much of their woodlands. I suspect much of Germany still looks like it did when my ancestors from the 16th and 17th centuries walked the very paths I tread last week. A bit chilly. And slippery because of the wet leaves and mud. Dieter fell. But had a soft landing, fortunately. We ended up at a chalet. With hot coffee. And a wonderful view of a valley in the Palentine region. Makes me think that I'm in paradise no matter where I go. --Jim Broede

I want a 'dampfhudelin' for X-mas.

I felt a little like a stuffed goose. On my visit to the open air market square in Saarbrucken over the weekend. My German cousin Fritz insisted that I sample just about everything. German delicacies. A bratwurst hanging mostly out of the bun. Heaped with mustard. Followed by a dampfhudeln. More about that later. Followed by a steaming cup of hot wine. I couldn't finish all of the wine and still stay sober. But believe me, I finished the dampfhudeln. Every last bite. Every last crumb. One of the most delicious desserts I've ever tasted. A soft spungy dumplin topped with a vanilla creme sauce. I wondered how I ever missed dampfhudelin on my many, many stays in Germany over the years. Goes to show, there's always something to be discovered. I spotted the sign on an outdoor booth. And inquired of my German cousins. 'What's a dampfhudelin?' If my Italian true love truly loves me, she'll figure out a way to make a dampfhudelin. That's all I want for Christmas. --Jim Broede

Just what the doctor ordered.

I have a nasty cold. Kept me up all night. The nasal stuffiness knows no end. But it's a delightful summer-like day in Sardinia. Which means I can't pass up going outdoors. To soak up the sunshine. Three miles so far. Amazing. Weather can make a difference. I was in Germany the past five days. And it was rainy to begin with, and ended up as snow. Nice for a white Christmas. But not good for my health. I'll settle for a a clear, dry and green Christmas. In Sardinia. With my Italian true love. Just what the doctor ordered. --Jim Broede

Maybe it's never too late.

I am blessed. With German relatives. And the best of 'em all are Fritz and Monika Broede. In the city of Homburg, on the edge of the well-forested and rolling hills of the Palentine region. Southwest Germany. Not far from Saarbrucken. Fritz is my cousin. Somewhat distant. But as close as one can be in spirit. We shared the same multi-great grandfather. Something like 4 or 5 generations ago. A guy named Valentin Broede. Had no idea of having living German relatives. Until after I retired in 1998 and started researching my paternal ancestry. Wrote to about 200 Germans with the surname Broede. And got 30-some replies. Probably from the most curious of the Broedes. Fritz was about the 30th to respond. And lo and behold, we connected. With Fritz turning out to be a prolific ancestral historian. He's diligently traced our paternal lineage back to Switzerland, in the 1600s. When our surname was spelled Brathi. Sounds very much like the German 'Broede.' And so we 'Brathis' adopted the German spelling. I suspect that all of the Broede ancestors are happy in spirit that Fritz and I finally connected and cultivated a new kind of Broede-family tradition. We visit each other. Regularly. And it makes for good Broede camarderie. Last week, I spent 5 days with Fritz. In Homburg. Which is not to be confused with the north German big city port of Hamburg. Homburg is sort of in the hinterlands. A city of about 50,000 inhabitants. Fritz, by the way, was in love with the U.S. long before I met him. He had already made 8 trips to the U.S. He's been to parts of the U.S. I've never been to. And he's come to visit me in Minnesota. Twice. I'll come to Homburg more often now that I'm living half the year with my Italian true love in Sardinia. It's only a two-hour flight to Frankfurt, where Fritz picks me up. Fritz is a retired furniture salesman. He's 71. And he and Monika are enjoying a new life, of sorts, as grandparents. Identiical 3-year-old twins Maria and Julia and 6-year-old grandson Bastian. I'm expecting Fritz and Monika to visit my true love and I. In Sardinia. Maybe this spring. I feel closer to Fritz than I ever did to my own brother and sister. We Broede siblings went our own ways. To far-flung disparate parts of the U.S. and more or less lost contact with each other. Maybe the family ties I've cultivated with Fritz will spur me to become reacquainted with my sister, Barbara. It's too late to reconnect to my brother Bruce. He died several years ago. In an accident. But maybe I can contact his spirit. Because I'm successfully communing with the spirits of my ancestors who lived in the 1600s. So, hey, brother Bruce. Let's try to connect. Maybe it's never too late. --Jim Broede

Overcoming the language barrier.

My favorite Germans and Italians are the ones who speak English. And don't mind that I speak very little of their native language. They are the ones that do the hard work. By having learned my language. I know the amount of effort that takes. It ain't easy. And I appreciate what they've done. Immensely. Because I have been too lazy or too stupid to learn their languages. I hold them in very high esteem. For serving as my personal translators. I readily admit to their superiority. They have met me more than half way when it comes to overcoming language barriers. And I feel obligated to meet them more than halfway in other ways. In doing them favors. I let them know if and when they come to America, they must look me up. And I will try to show them America. The part of America that I live in. I will help guide them. Show them a good time. Show them my appreciation. I will treat them as friends. And I intend to write about them in my blog. In favorable terms. Like I'm doing now. They have helped me learn very much about Germany and Italy and the world and themselves. They are very decent and obliging people and my intent is to return their favors. Twofold or threefold. --Jim Broede

Forever, on the best of days.

I like to be methodical. Not always. But often enough. To put me at ease. When I'm methodical, I slow down. Take my time. Think things out. When I was a youngster, I was groomed to be in a hurry. To do things right away. Fast. Thought that was the way I'm supposed to be. But now I know better. I'm my own man. I do things the way I want to. Methodically. If that's the way I feel at the moment. I refuse to bend to pressure. To hurry up. That annoys people around me who are in a hurry. Always in a hurry. They want me to hurrry, too. And often to spite them, I slow down more than usual. Because I wanna dictate the pace. My pace. I'm trying to build a reputation. For being slow. For instance, I'm an especially slow eater. Takes me an hour or more to consume supper. I don't eat more than most other people. Just that I eat it slowly. Ever so slowly. To make it last. For the sake of savoring the pleasure of well-prepared food. When I fall asleep, I like to do it slowly. In a relaxed manner. As if I'm drifting, drifting, drifting on a cloud. The same goes for waking up. Nice to stay in bed for an extra 15 minutes. To marvel at how it feels to be rested. And to think slowly of the pleasures planned for the coming day. I'm in no hurry to get through the day. I want to make it last. Forever, on the best of days. --Jim Broede

I'm entertaining, too, you know.

I watch Italian television. Because my true love has it turned on. Often in the evening. When we're still at the dinner table. I don't understand much Italian. The actual words. But I still catch the gist of stuff. Especially when it's a political program. I know the faces. The good guys. The bad guys. I especially like the communists and other leftists. They look intelligent. They sound intelligent. The conservatives are jerks. They shout. At each other. Don't give the other guy a chance to speak. Sounds a lot like American politicians. Italians speak with their hands, too. As if they're directing an orchestra. In an emotional way. Stand near an Italian, and you are in danger of getting hit. By hand gestures. It's best to stand back a ways. At least an arm's length away. There's a soap opera on in the evening. Once again, I can tell the good guys and gals from the bad ones. Just the way they look. The evil ones have evil looks. They sound evil, too. Just from the tone of their voices. I can make calculated guesses about what everyone is saying. And since I don't understand Italian, I'm free to put words into their mouths. I make up story lines. Which may be better than the actual lines. I'm learning to be entertained. Easily. I'm entertaining, too, you know. --Jim Broede

The most difficult thing to obtain.

For the first time, I was approached by a panhandler in Italy. On the street where I live. In the city of Carbonia in Sardinia. Not the usual panhandler that I find on the streets in America. I really shouldn't call her a panhandler. Because that's a negative term. Invented in America, I suppose. For people who are destitute and in need of money. Often just to buy food. They're flat out broke. And jobless. And have no place to go for help. Except out on the streets. I'd hate to be in such a situation. I want society to care for others in need. For the panhandlers. Including the one I met the other day. I gave her the coins in my pocket. When really I should have given her folding money. And a sense of love and caring. Wish I could have taken her by the hand. To a social services agency. The lady looked old and withered. With a face wrinkled before its time. In need of health care, clean clothes, and a visit to the dentist. She had lost most of her teeth. Her biggest need, I suppose, is tender loving care. Maybe that's the most difficult thing to come by in our world. --Jim Broede

I'm off to Deutschland.

I may not be posting on my blog for 5 days or so. Because I'm off to Germany. Tomorrow. To visit my German cousins. In the Palentine region of southern Germany. Not all that far from Bavaria. I've cultivated a close relationship with my cousin Fritz. In a town called Homburg. Which isn't the same as Hamburg, a much bigger city. Ancestors on my father's side of the family came from a tiny rural village, Kashofen, just outside of Homburg. Didn't know I had German cousins until I conducted research after I retired in 1998. I wrote to over 200 Germans with the surname Broede. The 'oe,' sometimes spelled merely with an 'o' with an umlat, makes the name German instead of Irish or English. By the way, I received 30-some replies to my letters. Fritz turned out to be a relative. We shared the same grandfather about five generations ago. A guy named Valentine Broede. With Fritz's help, I've traced my ancestors back to the 1600s in Switzerland. When we spelled our surname Brathi. My ancestors moved to Germany after the 30 Years War. And they evolved into Broedes. Guess that Brathi sounds like Broede in German. Fascinating stuff, isn't it? --Jim Broede

I'd rather laugh than cry.

I see the funny side of life much quicker and more frequently than most of my friends and acquaintances. And that includes my Italian true love. Some take life far too seriously. If something goes wrong, even trivial, little things, people often over-react. They don't immediately see the funny side. Such as mistaking a weird kind of granular bread for brown sugar. They put the 'bread' in tea to make it sweeter. And it doesn't. Instead of laughing, they get peeved. Even pissed. While I laugh. Even though I made the same mistake and put the bread into my morning cappucino. I often see the funny side of everything. Even in life's tragedies. Eventually, there's a funny side to everything. Guess that makes me a positive thinker. Or a comedian. Because I'd much rather spend my life laughing than crying. --Jim Broede

My plan to clean up Italy.

I sat on a park bench today and closed my eyes. Sort of fell asleep. Not totally. I was still vaguely conscious. Enough to think about how pleasant. To sit and rest. To allow myself to drift. Being in no hurry. Savoring the moment. In a sense, doing nothing. Being idle. But doing something meaningful. By doing what's commonly called nothing. And then I opened my eyes. To see a city worker in the park in the city of Carbonia in Sardinia. Using a gas-powered whirling lawn edger. Trimming around the palm trees that need absolutely no trimming. He's going through the motions. Because he has to do something in order to justify getting paid, I suppose. Even if the something doesn't need doing. If I were the city boss, I'd have the worker doing something else. Picking up the litter strewn about the city. Litter, litter, everywhere. In one way, Carbonia is a beautiful city, in that the city has planted trees and shrubs and flowers almost everywhere. Along the streets and boulevards and walkways and in the parks. But the city has made virtually no effort to pick up the litter. This seems typical of cities across Italy. Making Italy one of the world's most beautiful countries. But also one of the dirtiest. A national shame. If I were an Italian or spoke fluent Italian I'd go on a campaign/crusade to clean up Italy. The cities. The countryside. I'd call for a national clean-up day. Or maybe a clean-up week. Asking every citizen to spend time picking up the debris. Italians could do it. Effectively. If only they set their minds to it. Imagine that. Transforming Italy almost overnight. From the dirtiest country. To one of the cleanest. --Jim Broede

Gonna piss off a whole bunch.

I don't understand why anyone should get pissed off because I portray my father's suicide as a good thing. For him. For the family. For everyone involved. I've been doing it for years. But still, people get pissed off. They say in no uncertain terms that I have no right to make suicide seem like a good thing. But really, all I'm saying is I like to give a positive twist to life and death. Might as well. Makes me feel better. Anyway, dad's suicide was a long time ago. In 1949. When he was 38. Had he lived, he'd be 101 now. Once I separate myself from the actual event, I see very much good coming from it. My father was an habitual gambler. And he fell out of love with life, I guess. So he wanted out. And he made a free-will choice. Life was no longer worth living. If he's in the spirit world, maybe he's happy now. If there's absolutely nothing after death -- well, maybe that's exactly what he wanted. No harm in that. Of course, the family and friends lamented after his death. Thinking maybe the suicide could have and should have been prevented. Besides, it caused some grieving by the survivors. Some unhappy moments. But the point I wish to make is that everyone got on with their lives. Or at least they had ample opportunity to. In reasonably happy manners. And in some ways, life was much better without dad. Especially for mother. So there were practical and emotional benefits in the long run. I've had moments of grief in my life. Some pretty sad happenings. But often, they led to a better life. Because I adjusted. Adapted. Yes, got on with life. Certainly, I have overcome any ill emotional effects from my father's suicide. My message: It turned out to be a good thing, dad. For everyone. Even though in saying so, I'm gonna piss off a whole bunch. --Jim Broede

It's worked out admirably well.

When I started this blog about 4 or 5 years ago, it was a way to find an outlet. For my thoughts. Honest thoughts. To be able to speak my mind. Candidly. I was being stifled. Wherever I went. Because there were limits. Restrictions. Editors. Censors. So I tested this new-fangled thing called a blog. At first, various people (readers) wanted to censor me. To dictate what I write. But I didn't let 'em. I printed their comments, for the most part. But occasionally I drew the line. Some comments became obscene and hateful. Which amazed me. They were mostly posters that came over from the Alzheimer's message boards. Fellow care-givers. They didn't like it that I had my own ideas about care-giving. And how to do it. Effectively. I wasn't foisting my ideas on anyone. It was pretty much take it or leave it. I merely related what worked for me. Personally. And I discouraged pity parties. Encouraged care-givers to stop feeling sorry for themselves. My gawd. That got hostile reaction. Over-reaction. Care-givers took my observations as unwarranted criticism. And they weren't gonna let me get away with it. Thinking I wasn't entitled to my opinion. And that I should be banned from the Alzheimer's message boards. Even though I was obeying the prescribed/printed guidelines. So I tamed down my rhetoric on the message boards. And created a more free-wielding blog. Seems to me it's worked out admirably well. For everyone. --Jim Broede

Learning to savor moments.

I'm not so sure there's such a thing as a heartbreaking loss. Especially in sports. But maybe that goes for all of life. Because I think some of us humans are resilient. We bounce back. Because we love life. Seems to me that after 76 years of life, virtually everything turns out all right. Eventually. Maybe it's more a matter of acceptance. Accepting what one can't change. And changing for the better what one can change. I've discovered that eases heartbreak. Maybe even totally eliminates it. That is, if one chooses to live. And learns to savor this moment. And the next one, too. --Jim Broede

In a constant pursuit.

I'm happy to be sitting in Italy at the moment. Namely, in Sardinia. With my Italian true love. I really don't miss America. That isn't to say that I dislike America. There are many things I like. Especially, in Minnesota. Where I've lived the majority of my life. Since 1965. I have good friends and relatives in America. And roots. So, in a sense, I've pulled up my roots. To change the course of my life. In my 70s. I'll be coming back to Minnesota. For maybe half of the year. Possibly for the rest of my life, I'll be going back and forth. That's nice. In a sense, I feel like I belong in both places. America. And Italy. Really, in the world, period. Later this week I'm going to Germany. To spend a week with my German cousins. Cousins I didn't even know I had until after I retired in 1998. Discovered them because I looked. Because I was curious. That's my nature, I guess. I'm curious. I was born that way. I'm a romantic idealist, too. I follow my romantic inclination. Even after my dear wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer's after 38 years of a happy and loving marriage. Thing is, life goes on. In a constant pursuit of fulfillment. Yes, happiness. --Jim Broede

A goat, doing his part at clean-up.

I've learned to cut across country where I'm living in Sardinia. Doesn't matter if it's private property. If I see no signs to keep out, I enter vacant land. Better than taking sidewalks or well-worn paths. And usually, it gets me away from people. Into the hinterlands. And I see all sorts of things. Like today. A dilapidated stone building. If I had an unlimited supply of money, I'd buy the place. And restore it. I also find dumps. Italian open dumps. Willy-nilly. Everywhere. Used to be that way in the USA. Where I grew up in Wisconsin. People threw stuff away. Randomly. We Americans have pretty much cleaned up our act. Better enforcement. And more personal care about the environment. The Italians are about a half century behind us. Scraps of metal strewn all over the place. A rusted bathtub. A tangle of wires. A pile of old tires. Garbage. Beer bottles. I see it all. But I also see flowers, shrubs, cacti, trees, rolling fields, grazing sheep. I also spotted a goat. Munching on a discarded carpet. Doing his part to clean up the environment. --Jim Broede

The best way to meet O'Keeffe.

I finally met Georgia O'Keeffe. In of all places. Rome. Because my Italian true love likes to frequent museums. Wherever she goes. And an extensive exhibit of O'Keeffe's works was at Fondazione Roma Meseo on Palazzo Cipolla. I have two prints of O'Keeffe's floral works hanging in my home in Minnesota. Because I like 'em. And to see the O'Keeffe exhibit was an unexpected treat. I have often thought about visiting O'Keeffe's late life hangout in New Mexico. And I will some day. O'Keeffe had an intense and fascinating life. And a long one, too. She lived to 99. Died in 1986. Always had a zest for life. And it's all reflected in her paintings. That's the best way to meet Georgia O'Keeffe. --Jim Broede

About these ancient times.

I'll have lived in ancient times. Eventually. Give it time. And the year 2011 will be ancient. Very ancient. I have long dreamed of living in ancient times. As far back as prehistoric times. I imagine that some day, my existing moment will have been a million years ago. So if I'm still around in spirit then, I can brag about being around when Barack Obama was president of a country called the USA. My guess is that humanity will have progressed considerably by then. Maybe we humans will have evolved into something far better. I would hope so. But it's also possible that something cataclysmic happened. Wiping out all traces of life on Earth. Or maybe Earth disintegrated. But so what? If I'm spirit, I don't need an Earth. I can go settle some place else. In a spiritual dimension. Somewhat similar to god's abode, I suppose. Maybe we spirits will actually be living with god. And we can reminisce about the good old times on Mother Earth. Or maybe we'll conclude they weren't so good. I'll try to keep an open mind. About these ancient times. --Jim Broede

Ain't old if I've got forever.

I like being 76. Had better. Might as well make the most of it. When younger, I didn't think much about becoming an old coot. Seemed remote. Far off. It was a horrible thought. To be avoided. Old meant decrepit, wrinkled, grouchy. Now fully arrived, I'm athletic, svelte, wise, happy. A marvel. Don't think of myself as old. Unless I'm reminded. By others. Or by being observant. Noticing I'm the oldest guy in the room. What I like most about getting older is my vocabulary. It's much bigger. More words. More meanings. Makes me more expressive. Literacy takes time. To build. I'm fortunate. Still building. Expanding my knowledge. I don't envy being young. Because it's too stifling. I was born a slow learner. Very slow. Of course, thought I knew more than I really knew. Fooled myself. Maybe still do. But that's all right. I like to be fooled. To be a dreamer. Fool myself into thinking that all dreams come true. Such as living forever. At the very least in a spiritual dimension. If that's true, I ain't old. I've got forever. --Jim Broede

Ideological and otherwise.

When I was in Rome, I picked up a book, 'The New Italians.' Written by Charles Richards, a Brit. In English, of course. That's one nice thing about Rome. Book stores that carry more than books in the Italian language. Special sections for books in English, German, French and Spanish. Richards makes some interesting observations about Italians. For instance, he says favors are exchanged. If you want something done, you seek a friend, a contact, a politician who can fix things for you. And in return some favor will be demanded, not necessarily immediately, possibly not for years. I suspect such is the way of life all over the world. Not just in Italy. Richards portrays Italy as a country where laws are turned upside down. 'Elsewhere,' he writes, 'power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. In Italy the absence of absolute power has not prevented its absolute corruption. Italian political life is about cooperation and consensus. As Gore Vidal observed, the genius of America was to separate the state from religion. The genius of Italy was to separate the state from the people.' Richards says that the lack of strong government or definite policies has allowed Italians to mould a society without any real ideological boundaries. I'm not so sure about that. I know that indivdual Italians, such as my true love, have well-defined boundaries. Ideological and otherwise. --Jim Broede

Workers need to unite.

I stumbled across a protest the other day. Flag-waving public employees. Annoyed over budget cutbacks. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? But seems to me there's more tendency for protestors to take to the streets in Sardinia and the rest of Italy than in America. Yes, we're too docile in the USA. That's why unions have lost so much ground. Complacency. It's refreshing to see Sardinians raising a ruckus. They invaded the offices of regional government, only a block from where I live. Workers across the world need to unite. And demand a bigger share of the wealth. --Jim Broede

Good for the nose.

My big nose is feeling pretty good these days. And I'm giving the credit to the Sardinian climate. It's been near-perfect since I arrived the first of October. No need to heat our place. Or to air-condition it. The temperature has been ideal. Can't ask for it to be any better. If I were back in Minnesota, the furnace would be on morning, noon and night. Which makes for terribly dry air. And that ain't good for the nasal membranes. I keep reminding Sardinians that they are blessed to live in Sardinia. But some of 'em don't buy it. They say the economy is bad, bad, bad. Hard to make a living. But at least they can breathe good air. Life here is good for the nose. If not the pocketbook. --Jim Broede

I'm hearing funny voices.

Unlike we Americans, Italians watch foreign films with no subtitles. Instead, dubbed in Italian. That's a hangover from Mussolini's days. He was big on nationalism. Young Italians are becoming more at ease with English. But educators claim the dubbing has retarded a more generalized fluency in foreign language. Not only English, but French, German and Spanish. When I travel in Germany and France, I have no difficulty getting by with my English. But it's much harder in Italy. Though by no means impossible. Especially in Rome. I'm getting used to listening to American and British actors with dubbed in voices. Not sounding anywhere near to their real voices. It's very funny. Turns serious dialogue into comedy. --Jim Broede

Until somebody hauls me away.

I was dosing. Falling asleep. In a church pew. In the heart of busy Rome. Seeking solitude. Peace and quiet. The church wasn't quite empty. Three people seated up front. A man. Two women. Suddenly, I heard a guitar. Being played softly. Then a voice. Singing. Maybe I was dreaming. In heaven. Guess the threesome came to worship. Or entertain. Wasn't sure. One of the women. Got up. Faced the back of the church. Started reading. In Italian. 'She's reading from the gospel,' my true love said. I don't know if they were Catholics, or what. But it was a Catholic church. Nice and gaudy. Grandiose. With Baroque bric-a-brac. And I thought, maybe I should get up and speak. Deliver a sermon. And maybe be labeled a heretic. I began to wonder how many people wander in. Off the street. Just to rest. While others consider conducting an impromptu worship service. I wouldn't need a soap box. I could get up on an actual pulpit. Until somebody hauls me away. --Jim Broede

Wow! I can sleep later.

My fiirst visit to Rome. And we arrive late in the evening. My Italian true love and I. At an airport outside of Rome. So we have to look for a shuttle bus. To take us to the main bus terminal in the heart of Rome. If we had arrived earlier, we could have hopped on the subway, known as the Metro. And it would have been relatively easy finding our hotel. But the subway shuts down at 9 p.m. And we have to find the right bus. One called M1. And that ain't easy. We inquire. At the bus station. And we ask people on the street. We get conflicting answers. Conflicting directions. My true love, of course, speaks Italian. I don't. So she takes the lead. I follow. Like a puppy dog. I hear her cussing. Mostly in Italian. But she also takes some biblical names in vain. And they sound the same. In Italian. In English. In any language. The hunt for the right bus last and lasts. For an hour. We go from one bus stop to another. It's almost midnight. I remember my true love and I once spent a night in Fredrickshafen in Germany. On a park bench. And I begin to wonder. Does Rome have a park? With benches. I try to console my true love. With humor. I remind her that she wouldn't allow me to pack my favorite pants belt. Because it was too frayed. I reminded her that was my lucky belt. And maybe we are gonna have a bad night. Because I didn't bring the belt. My true love doesn't laugh. Anyway, we finally find the right bus. My true love leans back in her seat. Closes her eyes. But my eyes are wide open. I'm fascinated. I can sleep later. In bed. Not on a bus. I'm seeing Rome for the first time. Wow! --Jim Broede

Give me English-speaking Italians.

Sad that I'll never be able to adequately converse directly with people in any language but English. But hey, there's a consolation. I've mastered English to a reasonable degree. That's better than nothing. I can still find 'foreigners' and Italians who speak English. Quite well. I admire them. Respect them. Marvel at them. Because they are bilingual. Even multi-lingual in some instances. The bilingual include my Italian true love. So fortunate. I'm able to learn much about Italy and life and human emotions, particularly love, from her. Reason for me to count my blessings. She not only speaks English, but teaches English and English literature. We make each other better English linguists. I know. I know. I've gotta learn to speak and read Italian. Rudimentary Italian at least. Knowing that I will never be able to fully express my love in Italian. But I can be understood by my true love in English. For which I am thankful. For not being tongue-tied. Meanwhile, one of my most fervent wishes is for my true love to introduce me to Italians who speak English. That's very important. A high priority. A must. She hasn't done nearly enough of the introducing stuff. But I'm applying the pressure. In my most persuasive English. I'm even up to pleading. Because I desperately want to get more of a sense of what it means to be Italian. If I could, I'd strike up conversations with strangers. With Italians I sit next to on the bus or train or on a park bench. I can't. Unless they speak English. And I'm reluctant about approaching strangers and asking, 'Do you speak English?' Of course, if my true love is with me, as she often is, she could volunteer to serve as translator. But still, that's cumbersome. And she's a bit shy about talking to strangers. So, give me Italians that speak English. And I'll write a book. About them. And what it means to be an English-speaking Italian. --Jim Broede

In Paradise. Without knowing it.

I have no complaints about Italian weather. I like it. Even though I hear some Italians complaining. About it being too wet or too dry. Too cold or too warm. But for me, it's always just right. I take what I get, and savor it. I'm in my second winter in Sardinia. And I've yet to see snow or experience a freezing temperature. Many a day I go about in short sleeves. At the same time that many Italians are bundled up. Guess comfort is a relative thing. I tell Sardinians that they live in Paradise. Without knowing it. --Jim Broede

Looking like a gypsy.

Gypsies have become fashion designers where I'm living. In the city of Carbonia in Sardinia. Saw them on Italian TV this afternoon. Three gypsy ladies. They were taught the craft/art of tailoring recently. To enhance their employment potential. And lo and behold, they started designing clothes. Women's clothes. Mostly dresses. And some of the dresses were modeled on TV. Looked pretty sharp. And elegant. Now they've opened their own business. A few blocks from where I live. Gypsy fashions. Imagine that. Maybe they'll branch out and design men's apparel. When I return to the U.S., I wouldn't mind looking like a gypsy. Might enhance my image. As a world traveler. --Jim Broede

Please, reproach me.

I was reproached the other day. By my son Jack. Over a relatively trivial matter. And my true love observed that I don't like to be reproached. But that's not true. I love being reproached. Because it gives me opportunity and excuse to defend myself. I have an extraordinary knack for making me look good. Even when I've committed a minor wrong or made a grievous error. I practice every day. But some days I need extra incentive. And being reproached does it. I get on my high horse and tell the world please, please reproach me. So that I can do what I am good at. --Jim Broede

A salute to the Virgin Mary.

Today is a holiday in Italy. And another reason for Italians to feel blessed as Catholics. Because it's a religious holiday. Seems to me that every other week, there's a holiday in Italy. Of one kind or another. Religious and secular. But mostly religious. This one is to honor the Virgin Mary. But non-Italians and non-Catholics like me question whether Mary was a virgin. That makes us heretics. And in another time we could have been ostracized or maybe even executed for such blasphemy. But we are living in slightly more tolerant times. At least in Christiandom. If not all over the world. My true love has the day off. And she's resting. At my behest. I told her it's the only decent way to honor the Virgin Mary. A local park here in Sardinia has a huge statue of the Virgin Mary. And I suggested that we walk in the park and salute the statue. That would seem the least we could do. --Jim Broede

Very similar to English.

My Italian true love would make a good travel agent. I trust her implicitly when it comes to booking us. At a good hotel or bed and breakfast place. She hardly ever misses. Maybe never. And that goes for our recent five-day stay in Rome. We stayed at the Hotel Aurelius. Which I assume was named after Marcus Aurelius, the last of five 'good' Roman emperors. He served from 161 to 180 AD. The accommodations were excellent. We paid a little over 200 Euros. Not bad for a 4-star hotel. And that included breakfast. The best breakfasts I've had so far in Italy. They remind me of breakfasts in America. With scrambled eggs and bacon and sausages. Real hearty. Rather than the skimpy ones that Italians tend to eat. Made a pig of myself. With croissants, cereal topped by sliced peaches, cappucino. Virutally everything my heart and stomach could desire. Not the least being the inspiring company of my true love. Of course, I put on weight. Three pounds. But it could have been worse. I've already lost half of it. By eating smaller breakfasts, skipping lunch and exercising diligently. That's my modus operendi. I'm trying to impress everyone with my knowledge of Latin. Which helps disguise my shortcomings as an Italian linguist. I'll never master Italian. Maybe it's my defeatist attitude. And the fact that my true love speaks English. She's making an effort to teach me Italian. But I'm a slow learner. She accuses me of being pigro, Italian for lazy. At least, mastering a word is a start at learning Italian. I don't want to be taken for stupido. Another word I know. Easy to guess the meaning of that word. Goes to show that some Italian words are very similar to English. --Jim Broede

I like the music on the Metro.

I descended into the bowels of Mother Earth. Down. Down. Down. Seemed like an endless long flight of escalator stairs. Four flights in all, I think. I was about to experience a ride on the Metro. The much-heralded subway of Rome. Indeed, it was impressive. And remarkably clean. And musical, too. On the trains, I encountered violinists. They played lively and romantic tunes/melodies. And strolled with paper cups. To collect money. Of which I gladly gave. It's a nice way to make a living. Especially if one is trying to work one's way through music school. But some of the violinists were maybe trying to supplement their retirement incomes. Musicians abound all over Rome. Not only on subways. But on the streets. In the parks. Around the fountains. Playing violins and accordians and saxaphones. If one is to travel in Rome, it's best to take the Metro. Much better than driving a car. Because there seem to be no set rules of the road. Other than it's every driver for himself. Everybody in a hurry. Pedestrians cross the streets at their own peril. The subway trains are relatively quiet. And one doesn't have to worry about doing the driving. One may have to stand during the rush hour. But most times, I could find a seat. Especially if I boarded the lead car. At the far end of the platform. The Metro has multiple lines that criss-cross. And one can move efficiently underground. Of course, there's not much architactural scenery to see. Other than murals on the walls. But I enjoy looking at passengers. Wondering if all of these people are Italians. And I imagine they look pretty much the same. As the passengers I'd see on the subways in New York or Chicago. Except for the musicians. There are more of 'em in Rome. Yes, best of all. I like the music on the Metro. --Jim Broede

Wherever my spirit takes me.

Normally, I'm not much of a church-goer. Especially when it comes to Sunday service. But there's a time for everything. And when my Italian true love and I are tired of walking in Rome, we often enter a grandiose Catholic church. So many of 'em in Rome. Almost in every block, it seems. Many of the churches are big edifices. Even cathedrals. And basilicas. I found them to be mostly quiet places. With ample seating. A wonderful place to rest the sole's of one's feet. Our souls, too. The churches are beautiful. Man-made architectural beauty. Which isn't the same as the natural creations of Mother Nature. But still an acceptable alternative. Especially when one needs respite from the crowded and noisey streets of Rome. I could easily spend a full day in Rome wandering from one church to another. And enjoy every minute of it. Of course, I'd prefer wandering through a primeval forest or on a winding mountain path or on a Mediterranean seashore. But in Rome, I'll take what I can get. Yes, when in Rome, I do much the same as the Romans. And find my way into the peace and tranquility of a church. Doesn't mean that I'm a Christian. Instead, I'm a mere free-thinker. And my church happens to be wherever my spirit and my feet take me. --Jim Broede

Could be Don Rickles in disguise.

Guess I was being insulted. By an Italian. In Rome. And I didn't even know it. Because I understand very little Italian. Later, my Italian true love told me that not all Italians are gentlemen. Which is all right. Because I know my share of jerks. In America. My guess is that a jerk is a jerk is a jerk. Doesn't matter whether he's Italian or American or any other nationality. Fact is I don't mind being insulted. By almost anyone. I expect it. I'm used to it. And I have over the years grown a thick skin. Very thick. Almost as thick as my head. I also have a sense of humor. About most everything. Insults included. I like insult humor. The kind practiced by comedian Don Rickles. Anyway, I was seated atop a three-foot high wall. Resting. And the guy on my left begins talking to me. In Italian. And I tell him in my limited Italian that I don't speak Italian. And that I'm an American. And that I'm stupid and lazy and happy. Because those are Italian words I know. And I'm trying to be funny. So I tell my true love that it could be that the guy wasn't really insulting me. He was merely returning good insult humor with equally good insult humor. He might even be a professional comedian. And this was our way of connecting and being nice to each other. But my true love doesn't think so. She says she knows insults when she hears insults. And she was within earshot of me at the time. And heard everything. And so did other Italians seated nearby. My true love said she motioned for me to move away. And wonders why I didn't. Anyway, I'm glad I didn't. Because I wanted to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. He may have been Don Rickles. In disguise. I should have asked for his autograph. --Jim Broede

I want the wonder of all wonders.

When we travel, my true love wants to see a little more than everything. Oh, that might be an exaggeration. Instead, she wants to see more than me. I can settle for less. Instead, I'd rather savor one or two things. I don't have to see or experience monumental amounts of anything. I'd rather not feast. Just give me a tasty morsel. To savor for a long, long time. Give me peace and solitude off the beaten track. Away from people. I don't have to see the traditional wonders of the world. The finest wonder of 'em all is my Italian true love. That's why I have come to Italy. To be with my wondrous true love. To see her every day. That's the way I want it. Yes, give me the wonder of all wonders. My one and only true love. --Jim Broede

Maybe she can beat the system.

Thousands of Italian teachers would like to leave Italy and teach abroad. And last week they flocked to Rome. Trying to qualify for several hundred teaching positions in Italian schools in foreign countries. That included my Italian true love, who teaches English and English literature in a high school in Sardinia. I'd like nothing better than to see her fulfill her wish/dream. By teaching school in America. Maybe even in Minnesota. The odds of that happening are long. But hey, nothing is impossible. She had a stint at an Italian school in Brazil last summer. The thing is, my true love isn't politically-connected. And in Italy it's helpful to play the political game. Italy abounds in political patronage. The well-connected get ahead much faster than those who aren't. That goes to some degree all over the world, I suppose. But more so in Italy than other places. My true love doesn't fit into the system. She ain't a manipulator. She refuses to play politics. She plays it straight. Believes in merit. And maybe that puts her at a disadvantage in Italy. But not with me. I like her ethics. Her honesty. Instead, she'd rather fight the system than join it. She became riled in Rome. Because the questions on one of the qualifying tests for the teaching positions were leaked. To certain teachers in Rome. Of course, that gave them an advantage. There was hullabaloo over the leak. And rumors spread that teachers might protest. Vociferously. Maybe even riot. So riot police and two paddywagons showed up. Just in case. But cooler heads prevailed. There was no riot. Only verbal protests. Turns out that teachers and riot police commiserated with each other. On friendly terms. An indication that maybe most Italian teachers have a temperament similar to my true love's. Verbally expressive rebels. Opposed to violence and riots. They try to win the battles by calling for fairness and full disclosure and basic human decency. They are what educators are supposed to be. My true love setting the finest example. Wouldn't it be wonderful if she/they beat the system? --Jim Broede

Another world. Another dimension.

I floated out of the concert. Out of body. Fully spirit. And I thought, 'I've finally experienced music the way it's supposed to be experienced. Thank gawd.' But really, my thanks went to Roberto Cappello, pianist. He mesmerized me in Sant' Agnese of Agone Church. On Piazza Navona in Rome. Playing a scintillating blend of Liszt and Schubert. Like I've never heard it played before. Non-stop. For an hour. No interruption from applause. Because that would have been a sacrilege. It all seemed like one piece. Come together. The usually flamboyant Liszt was tamed. The usually melancholic Schubert was made happy. Like the two composers were in Paradise. Together. Enjoying life as spirits. And I was with them. Floating. Floating. Floating. The church setting was magnificent. Out of the Baroque. Bas reliefs. Dim lights. But it was the music that absorbed me. Made me oblivious of the earthly surroundings. Because I was spirit. In another world. Another dimension. --Jim Broede

More guilty or less guilty.

She's a beggar. Withered and old. Sprawled on the cobblestone walkway leading to the Vatican in Rome. She has a misshaped leg. And a tin cup. Asking for alms. So she can last another day. That's the most memorable and vivid picture riveted in my mind on my visit to the Vatican and St. Peter's Square last Sunday. Yes, that beggar. Even more so than the elegantly robed pope giving a benediction from the balcony of his lavish residence. I thought about the contrast. Between the rich and the poor. The squalor just outside the church. The pope living in grandiose and crowd-adoring style. Only a few hundred yards from a miserable beggar. That's the world in which we live. I don't particularly like it. But that's the way it is. And I hurry past the beggar. In an attempt to wipe the image from my mind. But I can't. The beggars will always be with us. And what's even worse, I feel helpless. Unable or unwilling to do anything about it. Except maybe write about it. Reflect. Lament. Which is a rather cheap way of salving my conscience. Acting like a pope. I wonder if that'll make me feel more guilty or less guilty. --Jim Broede

My true spiritual bearings.

Rome is too busy. Too hectic. Too fast-paced. For me. Overrun by tourists. And Romans. Crowds. Throngs. Almost everywhere one goes. Except that my Italian true love and I miraculously sauntered into a quiet, off-the-beaten track enclave/neighborhood. Not far from all of the hustle and bustle. A small triangular-shaped space with three well-weathered wooden park benches. One vacant bench. Waiting for us. I could have sat there all day. Albeit, it was only for an hour or so of peace and quiet and solitude. The triangle was surrounded by quaint four- and five-storey pastel colored apartment buildings. With shuttered windows. Just where I’d want to live if I were stuck in Rome. The lone business at one corner was a trattoria (tavern) serving food. To my regret, we didn’t enter. Because it wasn’t yet time to eat or drink. A foolish notion. Anyway, I thanked the gods for steering us to this tiny out-of-the-way paradise. Unfortunately, we were too soon back on the beaten track. Even all the way to the Vatican. Where, to our surprise, the pope himself addressed the multitudes in St. Peter’s Square, or whatever it’s called. The pope was high up on a balcony. Within range of my telephoto lens. But I was less than inspired by the presence of Pope Benedict or the dynamics of the Vatican buildings and the religious artifacts and relics. I wished for a return to the quiet neighborhood. The highlight of my day wasn't the pope or St. Peter's. I’ll always fondly remember that neighborhood. I could well forget ever seeing the pope and the Vatican. Guess that makes me sound like an unappreciative heathen. But hey, makes me better understand my true spiritual bearings. –Jim Broede