RED DIRT LATTES

I have a friend who perches on top of a mountain in glorious Vermont. Her yard is carpeted in clover and there have been many times I have bathed myself in green among them, rolling like a lizard in wonderland. Stooped over, I would search endlessly for that 4 leaf luck, only to come up empty handed again and again. Then one day my dear friend said, “You know, the four leaf clover is a common mutation.” I looked back down at the ground and saw not one, but two, then three. Four. I found six that day, one after the other and then actually found a five leaf clover, as if the leaves themselves were multiplying in front of me. I have them still; I look at them often. My friend laminated them for me, to remind me of the day when luck wasn’t so hard to find, when I simply shifted my perspective and instead of expecting difficulty, I said to myself over and over, “It’s a common mutation.”

I think of those clovers now as we plot our next move. I’ve been silent here, quiet while growing and birthing an amazing new addition to our family. The world seems so big now, too big, dangerous with such a small treasure in my hand. Nairobi, Kenya seems a great possibility for us. Africa is calling us back. But I feel my breath get caught in my throat now and my knees fall weak at the unknown. I still ache for the red dirt, the warm sun, the stunning smiles. So I have to shift my perspective. If I expect to find difficulty, I will. If I expect it to be hard, it will. Perhaps instead I should just trust that there are clovers hidden in all that dust and that if I just look the right way that is all I will see.

I want to catch time, bottle it, take it out when I need it, inhale it slowly, sip it, devour it, but it runs from me, and although I sometimes see it just within my reach, it quickly disappears behind a tree, or I lose it in shadows. I haven’t forgotten about this space, place, to share and record. I just need to catch that time.

The nice thing about waiting is I’ve been collecting some more facts, observations about Rome, the Romans, life here in Italy:

If you have to park your car, you cannot slow down to try and find a spot. Nothing will annoy a Roman more. You must slam on your breaks and turn sharply, never missing a beat in your speed.

You cannot get blood taken at a doctor’s office. You must go to an official lab, which will then contact you with the results, which you must come and pick up yourself, and then deliver them back to your doctor.

Old Italians (or at least my friend’s grandmother) believe(s) that baring your stomach is why you get sick. You must protect the belly with wool at all times.

Italians are terrified of breezes. You will be on a bus, melting, but do not even think of opening a window or you will be scolded.

The mosquitoes are worse here than in Africa. It’s October and they are still swarming, eating.

Restaurants do not cut your pizza for you. If you order a pie, you must carve it up yourself.

Oranges ripen in winter, so as the city falls into a deep chill, the grey skies are dotted with orange balls.

Garbage is not picked up at your residence. You must take it to the communal trash cans scattered about the neighborhood.

The electricity is fragile. You must pick one appliance to use at a time or risk blowing a circuit.

Romans like their red meat raw. And I mean raw, not rare, raw.

Sometimes, after it rains, there will be a slight red dusting on everything. This is from the winds that come from Africa, dropping red dirt from the Sahara desert that it’s picked up along its way.