Buona Pasqua

I love Easter in Rome! 

The shoes are spectacular. 

We walk to St. Peter’s Square.  It’s filled with thousands of people from all over the world and the footwear is incredibly diverse.  Running shoes with rubber soles and canvas sides, fine Ferragamos, shiny patent leather, suede, plastic and even wood.

And on each sole, the tell-tale hint of origin: French pastry, Dutch gum, Polish mud and Malibu sand.  It’s heaven.

Then there are the shoes of the Swiss guard: Chocolate, of course.

I’d love to get close enough to the Pope to smell his footwear.  Bratwurst and beer?  Sacramental wafers and wine? 

Or, scentless, like the wings of an angel?

Buona Pasqua.

Chow.

Any Dog Knows

Any dog knows that shoes are a direct indication of human character and station.  So, it’s no surprise that shoes have surpassed handbags as this season’s most important accessory.

The details are always in the shoes.  Backward heels and knee-high sandals, fur mules (an oxymoron, no?) and mile-high platforms,

all speak to the nature of the one who wears them, their mood and perhaps their world view.  They carry the history of the day upon their soles: the panetteria; a smokey cafe; the crowded salon; the old pescatore along the Tiber…a stroll along the Pincio while the dew was fresh on the grass; cigars or cigarettes?  Cats?  One dog or two? 

Any dog can determine the difference between a man who wears a well kept pair of Ferragamos and one who sports a pair of these:

Shoes are the first thing a dog’s nose comes upon, and very often the last detail gathered upon leaving.  They are a primary gauge on the dash of every dog. 

Into whose lap would you rather leap? 

Chow.

Hiding

Silvio Berlusconi won a third term today and I just had to hide. 

The weather’s turned bad again.  I haven’t had a good run for a few days.  Energy bubbles up and I can’t help myself.  I went for another pair of Ferragamos…actually just one, but I know enough to realize I may as well have chewed through the sole of both.

It really isn’t the weather so much that vexes me, it’s Berlusconi.  He has this thing about not wanting to appear short.  The more he harps on it, the less secure I feel about my own few inches.

Last week he commented to the press that he was sure he was taller than both Putin and Sarkozy, even Prodi…ridiculous, non e vero?  Romano Prodi is far to left leaning to ever be measured properly with a plumb line.  Sarkozy, too far to the right to allow it…and Putin simply wouldn’t stand still long enough for such a thig.  I saw him once near the Spanish Steps on state visit.  He criss-crossed the piazza like a blind chihuahua.

At any rate, what’s the big deal about height anyway.  Some of life’s more memorable things come in small packages: diamonds, chew toys…Napolean.

I rest my case, until I’m forced to testify about the shoes.

Chow.