Resolution Revolution

I hear from tourists all the time that Italians really know how to live.  La Dolce Vita, Dolce Far Niente, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera….

But does anyone who is NOT Italian really know what it means?  Probably not, for the rest of the world population of civilized, prosperous countries is too busy trying to keep their countries civilized and prosperous doing the only thing they believe is necessary to win that race: Work, work, and more work.

Whereas, with the fall of ambitious Rome, Italians fell into the blissful secret of happiness:

 

Don’t let life live you – live your life!

 

Ask any dog.  Life is supposed to be sweet….the experience is the thing, not that final moment of completion.  It’s the digging that’s the most fun.  And, when the bone is buried, we all know the time that passes until we dig it up again will be sweet in the anticipation.  Think about it over a cappuccino.

 

 

 

Chow.

Advertisements

Halcyon Days

Gone are the halcyon days of winter, when Rome is absent its throngs of tourists, birds have flown to sunnier climes, and the beloved jewel of a pastry, the Monte Bianco, fades into memory as chestnuts make way for bloom. 

Ironically, the term halcyon days originated as a reference to a period during the same time: the fourteen days around the winter solstice, notoriously windless and calm.

In Greek mythlogy, Halcyon was a queen.  Strange for a woman to be associated with any definition of calm, I think.  But, I digress.

With Easter, the crowds return.  They sit in inpenetrable bunches amid the azaleas on the Spanish Steps and pack the landmark bars in search of drinks and snacks.  The only boon for a small dog is wealth left behind on the cafe floors from unsteady hands: cornetti, porchetta, fromaggio, gum, and a foreign treat of the iconic LifeSaver.

Fortunately, the weather improves with the storm of sightseers.  I trot long distance along the via, and go off-leash on the dry grass on the Pincio.  Exercise offsets the excess.  Sweaters, snug under the watchful eye of winter, will once again hang loose by summer.  For in Italy, it’s all about the image, non e vero?

Chow.