A Morning of Slowness, Savoured, Somewhere Near Rome. . .

Begun Friday, Finished on Saturday, Because I’m Taking It Slow. . . .

My son-in-law offered to drop me at the Metro on his way to work, so that I could have a day in Rome, something I’d very much looked forward to. My daughter was working (from home) so I’d be solo, but you know I don’t mind that at all, and normally I’d have jumped at the chance.

But yesterday’s train ride from Paris to Rome was long, and the third connection, the regional one, was delayed and definitely not the First Class of the two longer rides. A bit more stress finding the platform, etc., and by the time I got “home” it was after 11. Midnight by the time I’d settled in, found the charger, plugged the phone in. . .

So this morning I said, “Thanks, but I think I’ll take a slow day here.” My granddaughter piped up to say that I should come with her Papa to drop her off at preschool, so I happily did that, looked for the resident bunny in their preschool yard, then waved good-bye to both Papa and Little Girl, and set off to walk back to my daughter’s place, hoping I remembered the way from our visit last winter.

In fact, I remembered it well enough, once I got going, that I decided to try a new route. Wandered off course a bit and went over a bridge I needn’t have crossed — which was a felicitous mistake, because by the time I’d turned myself around, intending to cross back to the “home” side, I flashed on a recognition of the geography and knew exactly where to find my morning coffee and pastry. My pasticceria instincts must have been stronger than my homing ones! 😉

May I admit that I feel a bit shy or apprehensive about ordering on my own? — I’ve only ever sat down with caffé and cornetto here when I was with Pater, except for one time when I brought our Little Italian here for cioccolata calda (and believe me, when you do anything or go anywhere with a piccola ragazza in Italy, doors open, language difficulties are transcended. . .

But it was easy, even though my limited Italian is even more limited after those Paris days — French comes to my tongue, belatedly, and I struggle to remember basic conjugations in Italian. I might have stammered a bit, Vorrei un cappuccino e un cornetto, but my meaning was clear enough to invite a torrent of Italian. She slowed down, at my obvious blankness, and repeated a few words, such that I realized she wanted to know what kind of cornetto — semplice, marmellata, cioccolata. . . There were other choices, but I gratefully grasped the second, the jam-filled option.

And readers, I stood at the Bar to eat and drink, just like the regulars do. No table for me. . . Charge for a cappuccino and cornetto? Two Euros, Ten cents!! For a cappuccino that makes even a diehard Tea Granny like me wonder why I don’t drink coffee always (because coffee is rarely this sublime, perhaps?) AND a pastry! Plus the free entertainment of people-watching, observing daily culture, soaking up language. . .

After that success, I wandered along the riverfront, watched fishing gear being loaded or unloaded, nets being repaired. I found a not-too-damp bench and I sketched happily for ten minutes.

Then packed up and wandered across the inverted V of the white-and-blue footbridge toward my daughter’s place. Still one more small encounter, though, to reward my decision to take a Slow morning: Passing a series of small shops, a flash of yarns and crochet cottons caught my eye, ranged across a high shelf in a shop that had first announced itself as dedicated to women’s undergarments. Once I’d noticed the crochet cottons, though, I also saw a revolving rack filled with crochet and knitting patterns, as well as with crochet hooks and some knitting needles.

I’d realized earlier that I should have brought small double-pointed needles to finish off the beret I’m knitting, should I get that far (and I will now, since I left behind the completed sock of the pair I’m making and can’t proceed further on its mate until I have it in hand again for comparison). I didn’t see any double-points on the rack, though, and as I stood trying to decide whether I was up to enquiring about them, the friendly proprietor called out a greeting, asked if she could help.

I mustered a Buon Giorno, and told her “Non parlo Italiano,” and tried to indicate I was just looking. Which I continued to do, now seeing that a considerable portion of the very crowded wall behind her was also devoted to yarns, some of them Pura Lana (pure wool) in colours worth considering. I hesitated again, and then decided to dive in. No way could I come up with a word for knitting needles, but I pointed to the ones on the rack, and then tried to sketch out sock-knitting on three needles via hand gestures.

“Circulo” or something like, she asked me, and I said, “Si, ma” (yes, but. . . ) and then put up four fingers and then put my index fingers a distance apart so she could see I meant four separate needles (three to hold the stitches, one to work). And Fantastico! She understood right away and bustled off to a tight little corner underneath something that threatened to topple and she brought out a bundle of envelopes, long, narrow, translucent paper ones, open-ended, each containing a set of four double-pointed needles.

These were all, however, about a foot long, and I wanted short ones, so I indicated that, and she said, “Ah, Più corto.” Right, I remembered how to say that now. Shorter. “Si, si,” I nodded back, and she burrowed into another corner, emerging with both hands full. Now to find the correct size. Metric? Did I know the size? Um, Due e. . . . She found a Two, and I tried to say 2.75, but then noticed there were no quarter sizes, so settled for “Due e mezze”  . . . and “Veramente”!! we had success!.

I’m not going to say I couldn’t have found greater pleasure in finding the perfect pair of chocolate brown, knee-high, leather boots in Rome, but I’m going to venture that not so many travellers to Italy will have bought a pair of old-school double-points in their simple, traditional paper envelope in a tiny shop that sold them alongside bras and knickers! At the counter next to the cash register (and piled, inevitably, atop a variety of other products) sat a collection of miniature yarn skeins, festive metallic yarns that I added to my purchase as I tried to find words to indicate that the needles and yarn would be a very special memento of a good experience. I’m not sure she understood me, but perhaps you will. . .

(Oh, and when I got home, I added some watercolours to my morning’s sketch. I’ll share it here later, if you’d like. . .