festa del lavoro

Today is festa del lavoro in Italy, which I am guessing is similar to Labor Day back in the states. Everything was closed. It took a five minute walk just to find an open bar for a cup of coffee.

I woke with a start at 9:30 A.M. (early for me) and knew something was wrong. I couldn't place it and rolled over for another hour of snoozing. And it was really nice snoozing, not the late morning bothered-by-honking-yelling-and-slamming snoozing that I am used to.

When I finally did get up I was surprised to be able to hear conversations outside my window. Not just words here or there, but entire conversations. Entire conversations held in a normal speaking voice. It was quiet in Rome. For once, it was actually quite quiet.

By late afternoon my curiosity had got the better of me so I headed out in search of a caffè and to see what was up. Lots of people were out, but there were hardly any cars. It was really odd to have almost all of the street noise be made up of conversation rather than traffic. It was like being in a crowded restaurant rather than out on one of the main streets in the neighborhood.

I was approached by a gypsy lady who got right up in my face and spewed lots of Italian at me. I put my hands in my pockets, took time to notice she really needed a tissue, and then told her in my best Italian that I did not understand. She switched to nearly perfect English and started explaining about needing to make a phone call and could she have a Euro. That's the first time I've been approached head-on by a beggar here. Most of them kneel with signs. There is one woman, who I see a lot, who's sign, roughly translated, reads, "Mario is dead and I am poor. Thank you." She always makes me feel sad.

It's officially summer now since the white pants are out in full force. Please, folks, if you're going to wear white pants, please, please, please cut the bright red tags out of them so that the rest of us are not stuck staring at your butt. I mean, yeah, your but is nice, but honestly do you want me AND the 90 year old man walking next to me to stare at your derrière because our brains are drawn to the bright red rectangle that shows right through your oh-so-Italian, impossibly-white jeans?

I saw a woman pull three different cell phones out of her pockets. Two of them were ringing, and they were both playing the same ring tone.

The immigrant sellers were out in droves. I assume they didn't have to be too careful because the police force had taken the day off too. It is amazing to see these guys pack up when the cops are coming. They'll sling two dozen knock-off purses over each arm and disappear. I keep looking to see if anybody has a belt similar to what I want, but they all sell the same ones. They're all adorned with giant D&G buckles. I want the belt, but not the let-me-pay-you-for-the-privilege-to-advertise-for-you buckle... If only these guys could diversify their suppliers they could actually make some serious sales.

And finally, somebody has taken to playing taps around 11 P.M. Maybe the sound travels from the military base nearby, maybe it's some forlorn trumpet player or maybe it's just in my head. *salutes*