Tired and hot - I ran the them through the city streets in hopes to fight off some of the jet lag apparent in their faces and mannerisms. All they want to do is rest and sleep. American Airlines and Trenitalia have drained their spirits and energy. I am left with lifeless vessels no matter how familiar they are to me.
It is fascinating. I am the outsider. I have adjusted to the time (plus seven hours), the temperature (hot and humid), the walking (trembling legs and threatening stairways), and most of all the jet lag (it's remnants remain as a foggy memory).
My internal clock is running on Italian time. My motor is an idling Ferrari (actually more like an Alpha Romeo or at my worst moments a Fiat Panda). My taste is made of vine ripe tomatoes, Mozzarella di bufalo and Percorino cheese, Nastro Azzurro birra, and Neapolitan pizza crust. My sight is a new reality show of daily living unable to be replicated by television. My touch is ancient places with origins thousands of years ago - where live literally transformed unintentionally into priceless art.
We walk. The sun bears down. We walk. The breeze caresses. We walk. The crowds encroach. We walk.
I can feel them glaring at my back.
I am an outsider - someplace between both places - home and Italy, and not fitting into either. It is uncomfortable. It is nice. I like it. It is refreshing. It is living.
Fifty arrives shortly. One-half a century celebrated in a place where centuries mean nothing. Centuries are equal to seconds here. They pass.
My life is young here. I am alive and awakening.
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