Day After Day

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN ALMOST 97 YEAR OLD LADY WHO HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO FALL AND BREAK HER LEG A YEAR AGO

Hard to realize I’m no longer independent. Hard to realize my lovely dog has crossed the rainbow bridge. Now who invented that idea? I find there is a real rainbow bridge in Lure, NC. Yes, I still see her racing up the alley to greet her friends.

Wish I could race up that alley. However, I see myself falling in the dark after letting her out and then a misstep and I am face down on the stone floor and can’t move my leg. Luckily, I have my phone and can call my son for help. Now almost a year later I depend on a walker and my children and friends.

Morning. Having prepared for the day, I now look forward to spending an hour at the Blue Bar just up the street where I am greeted by friends as I observe the world around me. A thin elderly woman leaves the hair dresser across the way, accompanied. Always. Her hair is grey, what’s left of it anyway. A year ago, when I would say good morning she would answer. Now she doesn’t seem to hear me or even know who I am. She’s the hair dresser’s mother.

I ask for a cappuccino and a brioche. Or you can call it a cornetto. The ones with a dusting of confectioner’s sugar may be pretty, but make your sweater or purse look as if it had snowed. Some are empty, others are oozing vanilla or chocolate custard. Too much custard, I always think. However, the best croissants with whipped cream I ever had were in a small bar near the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. In Italy no one can come anywhere near their French cousins. What the French however don’t know is how to make a decent cappuccino. Two large boxes are perched on one of the tables, which Antony moves so I can sit down with my walker. They may also hold twisted fennel pretzels. And mini lumachelle, studded with pieces of cheese and ham. Lumachella. Snail. So-named for the spiral shape.

Gradually customers come in for their morning break. A couple of construction workers from across the street where renovation has been going on non-stop for years. They generally discuss politics or the latest soccer teams with Antony right up to date. Mid-morning the lawyers, properly dressed in jacket and tie, come in, in twos or threes. Italy does seem to have a preponderance of lawyers. The one woman, very pretty and always wearing a skirt, is the daughter of the woman who helped me with my sons when they were little. Sometimes later in the day one or the other of the lawyers may come in by themselves for a tramezzino (tuna and artichoke or egg and salami, always struggling to unwrap that plastic film) and a cup of coffee or a cold drink. I wonder about the term and find that it was supposedly invented by the Italian poet Gabriele d’Annunzio for whom the word sandwich was too English. I sit and watch the comings and goings and when a woman turns to leave after having paid for her espresso, I tell her how I like her outfit, that it is something I would wear. Lime green with a leaf design on the skirt. I compliment her in English, thinking she is American, but when she looks at me perplexedly I find she is Italian.

A messenger arrives with Amazon packages for the neighbors across the way who aren’t home. Then there’s a small elderly man bringing a bag of oranges for the barista. And of course there is the barista, a handsome forty-year old wearing a t-shirt that may leave his midriff bare as he leans over to get someone a glass of water or juice or uses a pair of pincers to put a croissant on a plate. Once it gets colder he’ll have switched to a hoodie. I’ve never seen him without his smile as he wipes down the tables and brings me my coffee. His guitar rests against the wall near the cash register and afternoons, when business is slow, he’ll serenade his customers. He takes his time as he makes you a cappuccino, swirling the foam into a heart, and sometimes forgets your order as he exchanges small talk with everyday acquaintances. He greets everyone, with hugs for the regulars and a high-five for the children. At this time of day most of those who frequent the bar are Italian, although later you will hear a prevalence of English, perhaps with a sprinkling of German and French as the tourists wander along the street having left their car in the parking lot or if they’ve come in on a bus, stopping to ask if this is the way to the Duomo, or the market if it is Thursday or Saturday. If Antony has five free minutes, we read a page or so of a mystery story in English or even Hemingway. The word of the day I have discovered for him is falderol.

The Koreans seem to have discovered Orvieto. They generally just follow the leader and will be wandering back to their bus after lunch. The barista manages a variety of languages, delighting in trying out a new phrase. Be careful I tell him, some of these have double meanings. Babies trustingly observe the world from their carriages or gaze out, strapped across their mother’s breast. When my children were small, more than 60 years ago, my carriage was a hand-me-down. Now the ones rolling up and down the Corso seem to be Rolls-Royces. The blond-haired tots are mostly English or betray their northern heritage. The mothers stop in for a cup of coffee and their little ones immediately eye the display of lollipops. Lecca-lecca in Italian. Lick-lick.

The restaurant across from the bar is called Malandrino (scoundrel, rogue). We have an ongoing competition as to who makes the best fried artichokes. When thanksgiving came around the owner had a hard time understanding that a vegetarian can’t eat turkey stuffing, even if it isn’t in the turkey, but has sausage in it.

The bar is also a pivoting point. My artist friend gave me a portrait he had made and other friends applauded. Before long my caretaker arrives to accompany me home. A lovely person I think of as a friend, once more with an adventurous background. But I’ll get to her story some other time. She is another reason why I’m lucky.

Time for my physical therapy. Francesca. A tall young woman who puts me through my paces. Like everyone she too has her story. Had gone to Guatemala with a non-profit group to set up a clinic for children. OK, she tells me once I’ve gotten into position on the bed. Right leg stretched out to the window. La gamba offesa. Nice way of putting it. The leg that has been offended. That’s the one with several titanium pins in it. Raise it straight up, but not too high, ten times. Move it out sideways, ten times. Move it diagonally, ten times. Stretch the leg. Move it in circles ten times, then the other way around. Oh, yes, you’re doing fine. What did you have for lunch? (I wonder if Francesca is checking on my cognitive abilities). You’re lucky to have your sons to take care of you. If some of my other patients see their children or relatives more than once a month they are indeed fortunate. Let’s move on to our standing exercise. Up you go, head towards the wall. Your bottom balancing your body as you get up and sit down. Ten times. Rest. Then another ten times. Like a pendulum. Then we’ll do the step exercise. Then we’ll walk down the stairs. While she is a physical therapist I wonder if she’s isn’t also a psychologist for she keeps encouraging me.

Lunch is waiting and then rest. There is just so much one can expect one’s readers to digest. There’s just so much I can tell you of my day as I pull out a book, perhaps a mystery, perhaps Judi Dench on Shakespeare.