It's NOT okay!

“Is there a cell phone in here?”

Her indignant stridency rang out into the sauna at Hilltopia after hearing the tell-tale sing song tone.

Of course there was a cell phone in the sauna. Isn’t there always? Amazon African American Woman had sauntered in moments before, plugged in, and settled down to some serious cell phone rap. PP hadn’t said anything. Why bother?

Plus she was blissfully tired from her long Saturday swim. She just wanted to rest and let the heat do its magic. Now there was gonna be a cell phone confrontation.
Oh, goody!

Cell Phone Police Woman was sitting up now, her pale white breasts sagging, her wrinkled belly slack. But her voice.

Nothing slack about that.

“Ummm....” Amazon murmured, gently rocking to her Cell Tunes.
“Cell phones are NOT allowed in here.”
Amazon unplugs one ear, eyes her interrogator lazily. “I been comin' here 9 years and ain’t nobody ever tol' me I can’t.”
“Well, it’s not okay. There are naked women here.”
PP’s making herself as small as possible in the dark corner next to Amazon Woman. Police Woman is on the bottom deck, facing Amazon Woman now, indignation filling the air.



Amazon doesn’t answer, but starts to put the ear plug back in.
“I’m going to call upstairs if you don’t get rid of the cell phone.”
“You go right ahead.”

PP can’t believe it. Why not just put the cell phone away? Police Woman is right. No cell phones are allowed in the sauna.
But that is exactly why she probably didn’t. Amazon Woman is a Rule Breaker. You could tell.
PP kinda likes this, but then again, kinda doesn't, hater of cell phones that she is. But the naked women part intrigues her as Police Woman rises and stalks out of the sauna to make the call.
Amazon Woman turns to PP, genuinely mystified? “You hear my music?” she asks.
PP nods. “Yeah, a little,” she answers.
“Yeah, okay, I can understand how that might be a annoying.”




“But she seemed more concerned about our being naked. Like you were gonna take pictures or something?”
Amazon doesn’t respond. Frankly PP doesn’t think she looks like the Naked Woman Camera Predator type, but guess you never know.

PP starts to gather up her stuff. Part of her wants to stay and see what happens next, but another part of her is just too tired and hungry to care.
“They’ll be right down,” Police Woman announces as she re-enters the sauna.
“You can hear my music, is that the problem?” Amazon asks politely.
“It is NOT okay to have cell phones where naked women are!” Police Woman is seething at the imbecility of it all. “You could take pictures. And then upload them on to the Internet for everyone to see!”
Amazon woman nods slowly. “Okay, yeah, I can see your concern.”
Then she plugs back in the earplug and starts to sway to her music.




PP decides that maybe she better get out before a Real Fight ensues. Not that she thinks this will happen, really.
Or could it?

Neither woman appears to want to back down. Confrontation was buzzing in the heated darkness.

PP leaves. The Internet Naked Woman Sauna Camera Possibility intrigues her. She's never heard of this. Not that it isn't possible, but it did seem just a bit far-fetched that Amazon Woman would be out to take Police Woman's naked picture and post it all of the the Internet.

On her way out, PP almost runs head into the Shy Latina who runs the front desk.
“You lookin' for the Cell Phone Culprit?”
Shy Latina stares at PP like she’s never heard anything about it, even though it seems obvious that this was her task at hand.
PP points toward the sauna. “In there. Have fun.”
Shy Latina doesn’t smile, and why should she? She’s on her way into a nasty situation.

PP heads for the toilet, but inside the stall, stands for a moment waiting to hear if anyone starts yelling.
Shy Latina comes back out after only about 10 seconds.
PP thinks it’s over and takes a seat.

“Hello! Yes! The woman on the Cell Phone is still in the sauna!” PP hears the anger and frustration ooze from the phone and under the stall. “It is NOT okay!” she repeats.

And PP agrees. It’s not okay to have a cell phone in the sauna. And it’s not okay to ignore the Shy Latina’s admonishment if in fact that is what happened.

Obviously, Shy Latina wasn’t authoritative enough to get the job done.
What would happen next?

PP wasn’t waiting around to find out as she headed to the shower to escape the ensuing battle.

One thing she could be sure of. There probably won't be any Cell Phones in the shower!

Leave Those Oranges Alone!

“I never want to see another crate of oranges as long as I live!” Hurt Back Woman sighs longly, shifting her heft in the dark corner of Hilltopia’s sauna.

Laughing, PP watches in concern. Back pain is nothing to mess around with. She knows this from Owen Hill’s odious back ailment. She’ll never forget the time they brought the cat to the vet and Owen was in so much back pain that he just had to lie down on the cold linoleum of the waiting room floor and writhe and cry.



That was a bad day.

This day, though No More Orange Crate Woman seems to be in pain, she was in the pool earlier with the Rusty Hinges, so she could move. The water’s restorative powers doing their magic.

“I was visiting my sister in law, she lives in Merced and she was loading crates of oranges into the truck and I just lifted one and handed it to her, and yup, there goes my back.” She sighs. “This happens every 3 years or so. I just have to be careful.”


Nodding, PP offers, “Yeah, I know what you mean. We reach a certain age and then we really have to watch what we do. Things that we used to do even a few years ago……well…we just can’t anymore."

Somehow this discussion is appropriate today since it’s her birthday. The general decrepitude of middle age, while on the one hand is slow, is, on the other hand, lightning fast. It seems like only a few years ago that she could swim 50 yards in less than a minute. Now, even with her fins, if she makes it with 5 seconds to spare, she’s doing good.

She doesn’t tell Orange Crate Woman all of this though. Just nods and offers a sympathetic response: “Like with my swimming, I have to use the fins a lot cuz of my neck pain.”

OCW grunts as she shifts her heft. “I did this once.... let’s see....it was when I was 40 that was 25 years ago? (PP marvels at this tidbit—she’s 65?! Wow! She doesn’t look that old. How old does she look? Like 45? It’s so weird. Age. Appearance. Body Aches and pains and limitations.)

“So, I was due for another bout of it.” She laughs, ruefully. “It’s been 3 weeks. I just have to take it easy. It’ll heal. I haven’t been to my chiropractor. Though he would say to just lay down on the floor with a towel rolled up under your head.” She rolls her towel to show PP. Then chuckles. “He said if he told all his patients this trick he’d be outta business.”




“But he told you,” PP smiles.
“Yeah, he did. So I just gotta remember to follow-up and do it. But I tell you, I’m never gonna look at oranges the same way again.
“That makes perfect sense,” PP agrees, thinking how at least she has a reason for her back pain. An Orange Reason no less.

Getting up, PP feels a bit woozy as she always does when she sits too long in the sauna (something she tends to do when chatting with someone to gather a story).

“May you heal quickly,” she calls out to Anti Orange Woman before shutting the door.
“Oh, my!” the tone of her voice is genuinely touched. “Thank you!”

Italian Counts and Cats

“It’s about time!” Sandy proclaims, squirting another splash of water on her beady body.

DL and PP laugh as they find a spot in Utopia. PP needs this. The pool was Splash Hell this evening. She was forced to share a lane with Splash Bongo Man who had been surprisingly chatty, “Are you leavin' already," she'd joked when he finally heaved his scrawny self outta the water. He'd nodded, then given her a crooked crazed grin, "Yeah. Now you have it all to yourself. Enjoy!”

Oh, she was glad he was gone! His manic splashing had worn her out and created neck wrongness.

“Rumor has it that you had run off with an Italian Count and were temporarily ensconced at his Umbrian Villa teaching English till you married, but this was contingent upon his mother’s approval till you were able to make perfect gnocchi.” Sandy is in top form this evening.


“How did you know?” PP jokes as DL stretches out on the bottom bench, sighing blissfully.

“Seriously though,” Sandy continues, “Did you have a wonderful trip? What was your most favorite thing you did?”
PP had to think about this for a moment; there were so many. “The pool adventure in Florence was fantastic!”
“Yeah?”

“Si, si. My sis found the pool and then found the bus route; something I don’t think I woulda done. Then we actually did it. Got on the bus. Found the pool. Signed away all our rights in Italian. Who knows what we signed!”
“What do you mean?” Sandy asks.
“Oh, you know how you visit someone’s club, like here at the Y for instance, and they make you sign some release form absolving them from all responsibility if you drown.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Well, I think this is what it was. Who knows. We didn’t speak Italian and all the beauteous women at the desk didn’t speak English so we just signed the forms and went our merry way into the waters.”


Sandy nods, serious.
“What else?” she asks.
Thinking, PP lights up. “You know, you travel a lot. It’s the things that you stumble upon that are the best. Like the cats at Largo Argentina ruins.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the Roman SPCA. There’re these ruins in the middle of Rome, near the Parthenon neighborhood-- you know it?”
“Sure,” Sand nods, listening intently.



“And on our walk back from the Parthenon, we see these columns sprouting up in the middle of a square and then I see a cat. And then another cat. And then I look down into the ruins, and there are LOTS of cats. And then I go down these stairs, and it’s CAT Sanctuary Roman style with Roman Cat ladies trying to get you to adopt a cat to take back to Oakland with you.”


“You’re kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Like there aren’t already enough cats here,” Sandy snorts.
“I know. “

“Though I suppose those Roman Cats would be Tough Guys, eh? No collars for those Roman Cats. Unlike the pampered cats here in the States.” Sandy chuckles demonically.


“Hey, you’re right,” PP giggles, eying DL who’s starting to sit up, readying herself to leave the sauna. PP imagines that DL can’t drag herself away from the Roman v. US Cat Collar Conversation, but maybe she’s just dizzy and moving slowly.

“No collars on those Roman Cats! I never thought of that!” PP grins.
Sandy nods, then takes on a gravelly Tough Guy Cat Voice: “What you doin'? No collar for me Bro!” She laughs, suddenly embarrassed. “Actually that sounded a little too Oakland, but you know what I mean.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re absolutely right!” PP nods. "I wonder if the Italian Count has any cats at his Villa in Umbria? And if he does, do you think they'd be collared or not?"



Sandy thinks for a moment before replying, "It'd be up to his Mother. They have all the power."
"Yes, that's true," PP concurs. "If she said the cats need collars, then they'd have them. And if she decreed no collars, then that would be law."

Opening the door to the sauna to let herself out, DL sighs, "Va beni!" she sings softly, before floating out of the sauna, leaving PP and Sandy to grin in her wake.



(http://gelsihouse.com)

Le Tone Françoise

“Oh, no!” PP laughs as she reaches across to open her locker. “Here we are all in the same corner when the whole locker room is empty. This always happens, doesn’t it?”
Sexy French Swimmer shrugs, moves her stuff aside. “It is not a problem,” she murmurs philosophically.
“Guess it is a good spot,” PP continues as she pulls her clothes out and starts to lotion up.

“The water today....” SFS sighs. “It was very nice, don’t you think? The temperature. It was good, no?”
Actually, PP thought it was a bit on the chilly side, but then she always does. No need to interfere with someone else’s Swimmer’s Bliss. So she lies: “Oh, yes, it was lovely.”

“And the pool, it was not crowded,” SFW continues in her dreamy sexy accent.
“Yeah, at first, when I got here, there was someone in every lane, but it worked out okay,” PP nods. “We got our own lanes even with the Rusty Hinges taking up 2 of them.”

“The other day!” SFS suddenly exclaims, her Bliss vanishing. “You would not believe it!” If Incensed were personified, SFS would be IT. “I go to get into a lane to share with this woman and she stops and you know what she say to me?”

PP starts to answer, but there’s no pause: Rhetorical French Narrative at work. “She say: ‘Don’t you want to go to That Other LANE!’ And I say, what do you mean? The other lane! She say again, and she say it like that....'SFS spits out the words, disdain dripping from her. "And I don’t know what she is talking about. When I get in I look around before I take my glasses off and see that all the lanes are full. And then, I take my glasses off and go to get in this woman’s lane and she says this to me: 'DON’T you want to get in THAT lane! It is empty!' She say it like THAT!” SFS repeats again, her pretty nostrils flaring. Really.



PP knows this is serious Lane Sharing Business. Something that they all hate doing, sharing a lane, but then again, it’s the Y and here at Hilltopia, one often gets one's own lane. So to just split a lane, while not ideal, really isn’t so bad compared to some pools.

“Do you know what I mean?” SFS asks PP now. “It was the way that she said it. She could have just said, ‘Oh, do you see? There is a lane empty?' Or she could have said, ‘I think that the lane next is empty. Maybe you would like to swim there? But nooooooo! She says it like THAT!”
“It was her Tone,” PP offers.

“YES!” SFS jumps on this. “It was Her Tone! She did not have to say it like that! I could not see. I take my glasses off to swim and then I can not tell.”

PP nods. Earlier, SFS had gotten in the lane next to PP’s and PP had given her a hearty ‘Hi’ since they often chatted, but SFS had just nodded, barely said ‘Hello’ like she hadn’t recognized her.
Now PP knew why.
Glasses.

“I never woulda thought of that,” PP says now. “I mean about the glasses.”
“Oh!” SFS laughs, shrugs. “That is because you do not wear them.”
“I wear them sometimes, but only for reading,” PP laughs. “I resist them because of the aging.”
SFS shakes her head. “It is not because of the aging,” she says, missing PP’s point entirely? Which is that PP resists the aging process or the idea of it at every turn and breaking down and wearing bifocals is just one of her ways of denial. But maybe SFS is younger than PP? Or the French are just way too cool to worry about such things?

“The glasses are for the Visual,” she asserts. Obviously. Anyone could see this. Why didn't PP?
“Of course,” PP agrees, feeling a bit vain and old. Or is her meaning just lost in translation?

Or is it, again, all about Tone?

Yes, that’s it. The French, like the Italians,(now that PP has spent 3 weeks in Italy, she's an expert--oh and she watches lots of Italian movies too!) are all about Tone. If you want to get across an opinion, you say it with that Certain Tone that will communicate your meaning no matter what the language. Disdain. Joy. Bitterness.



Sophia Loren, in Marriage Italian Style, had no difficulty communicating her bitterness to Marcello Mastroianni. PP got it without the subtitles even. Plus Mastroianni was such a stereotypical Italian Philandering Husband that who needs the exact words when Sophia tells him to F***$$^^? off? She says that with her Tone.

And today, SFS, too, says it with her Tone. Her Tone of disdain for the Stupid Lane Sharing Woman. Her Tone of nonchalance with the aging process. Her Tone of delight when PP asks her her name and then mispronounces it.

“You will not remember it,” she laughs as they run out into the rain, so wonderful after the horrid drought of the last few months.
“But it has a ‘yes’ in it!” PP jokes. “Yes I will remember!”
“See you later, PP!” SFS calls out as she hurries to her car.
And PP can’t help but detect a tone of warmth in her au revoir.
Oui?
Si?
Yes!

Piscina, Poetry and Penance in Roma

I

“Buon Giorno?” PP greets her, hesitating. She is, of course, in the middle of feeding cats. Oh, Roma, the City of Gatti! They’re everywhere, including here at the Cimitero acattolico, aka the Non-Catholic Cemetery. PP and DHBF have stumbled upon it looking for what else? A pool.

“C’mere!” DHBF had called PP over to the computer to show her, what else? A map! “There should be a pool here.....” He shoves the pretty green and yellow map on the screen at her. “Google says it’s only a 21 minute walk from here,” he beams.
PP eyes the map dubiously. Google is so not her idea of a trustworthy source even though everyone else on the planet thinks it’s God.
“21 minutes?” she asks. “Ummm....”
“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”
“Sure, if it’s true. But maybe we should just walk over there first to make sure it’s really there before luggin all of our swim stuff around like we did in Venice.”
“That makes perfect sense,” DHBF nods. “You ready?”
“Guess so.”

PP had tried to stifle any excitement. After the disappointment over the pool in Venice she didn’t want to get her hopes up here in Roma, but it would be so very cool if the pool were this close.

45 minutes later they stand in the Cemetery for Non-Catholics asking the Cat Woman where the pool is. She tries to help as a rotund calico clamors for her kibble. “Piscine?” she repeats. Then launches into a stream of Italian Pool Directions. PP and DHBF shake their heads. “No, no. No parle Italiano. Parle Englise?”
She shakes her head, “No...no....” as the Calico knocks a forkful of tuna out of her hand.
Somehow she communicates that the pool is next to the nursery they’d walked past already by making a flower shape with her hands –plus the Italian for flower is close to English. PP can’t remember the word now of course, but trust her, it is.

So....okay, this is good. They go back to the nursery and the pool will be right there and.....

PP has to go to the bathroom. She has to see Keats and Shelley and Gregory Corso before she heads off on the pool quest.

She does all of the above, noting the lovely verse on Corso’s gravestone:






Dubious though still of their ability to actually find the pool, she sighs. They’re all gonna end up in the water again anyway---why does she have to practice so much while she’s living?

“Hey! There’s an information place here,” DHBF lights up. He loves Visitor Centers. Once, when they were on a weekend trip up in the Gold Country he went to the VC to find a hike and this was how they found the smoking mini volcanoes. But that’s another blog.
Here they’ve found pyramids and poetry.
Would the VC know where the pool was?

“Buon Giorno!” DHBF calls out as they pop into the center filled with poetry, calendars, postcards and cats.
“Parle Englise?”
“A lot!” An affable gent grins. Turns out he’s from the Bay Area, San Rafael even. And so, DHBF hits it off with him immediately. He’s got an Italian sidekick at the computer who looks up the pool address and yup, it’s just up the street by the nursery like Gatto Chicka had said.
“Did you see Corso’s grave?” San Rafael Man asks.
“Yes, we did. I didn’t realize he was buried here in Rome,” PP answers.
“Yup. If you go on YouTube you can see him wandering the City streets. Course by that time he had a bottle of beer in his hand 24/7.” He shakes his head sadly.
PP nods. It is sad. But then again, Corso did end up in Roma next to Keats. That seems perfecto.
“Grazie for the pool info,” she thanks them.
“Sure, no problem. Good luck,” San Rafael Man waves good-bye.

II




PP stands at the rail on the balcony above the chaotic pool that only Roma would have. It’s packed with swim team kids of various ages, ranging from maybe 8 to 14? (She is terrible with kids’ ages) There are 6-8 kids in a lane. They’re swimming backstroke in frantic crooked lines. A coach follows them on deck, hollering commands at them that PP can’t understand since they’re in Italian. But she’s been where those kids are. “Get the lead out Jameson! Let’s see some hustle there!”
Shit.
How the hell did she ever do sports? Those kids all look like they’re swimming for their lives. And here in the country where relaxation and la dolce vita are king.
Not in the pool!

It’s a cute little pool. Indoors. 4 lanes. 25 yards. But already, PP knows that this probably isn’t gonna work. The place seems like a private club and she’s just not up for paying 25 euros to swim again (not that she paid it in Florence thanks to her sister. But sis was back in Torrance and besides, PP wouldn’t expect her to pay again.)

Hell. Weren’t there any goddamn public pools in Italy?
There must be. Just not on Google. Or wherever this Internet swim site connection is.

She lingers on the balcony for a moment with all the parents and little brothers and sisters that aren’t in the pool. It would be so nice to come back and swim laps without all the kids, she thinks.



But it was not to be. The woman at the counter shows them the schedule. The price? 130 euros for 4 months.
“Can’t I just come swim once?” PP asks, knowing the answer.
She shakes her head, “No, no....sorry.”
“Do you know of another pool we could try in the area?”
“You could try Roma Uno,” she offers, but they may need Medical Certificate, I don’t know.”
Medical Certificate? PP doesn’t even ask, but gets the address from her and they head out back onto the busy blvd.

III

PP doesn’t even have the energy to document Roma Uno. But she will muse on the Medical Certificate Aspect of it since it’s so weird.

This is a fact. Some sort of doctor’s official certificate must be brought back to Roma Uno if she wants to pay the 30 euros to swim there. (Yes, this is the price and at least it would be possible to swim here barring the medical obstacle.)

What could this be?
“They just don’t want all of us Foreign Tourists bringing in nasty diseases from around the globe to contaminate their pool,” DHBF offers.
“Like what?” PP asks, puzzled. “AIDS? Cholera? What kinds of communicable diseases are spread in pools?”
“Leprosy!” DHBF laughs.
“Leprosy” PP giggles. “That must be it! All of the Swimming Romans are afraid that we’re going to give them leprosy in the pool and all of their bella limbs are going to fall off and they won’t be able to wear their high heels anymore!”

They both laugh. It is funny. Leprosy.
But yet, this does mean that PP has no pool to report on in Roma. Other than these two pools that were not meant to be.

“The Vatican has a pool,” DHBF suggests. “We could try that when we go there tomorrow.”
“Are you kidding?” PP laughs. “I’m not swimming at the Vatican.”
“Why not?”
She pauses. Good question. Why indeed.
That night, before their big day at the Vatican, PP pictures all of those nuns floating in the pool, their habits billowing in the blue blue water. Their heavy shoes sinking down into the watery depths.




It’d be a good story, to swim at the Vatican.
But not this trip. It’s just too much to try to find another pool. PP can’t handle the disappointment anymore.
Even though a swimming nun would be fun, wouldn’t she?

Piscina Venizia

Cliché as it is, Italy is a country of superlatives: the creamiest gelato; the highest heels (and the shortest skirts!); the oldest ruins and the Smartest Cars. However, there's the flip side to this, too. The wrongest toilettes; the grossest tea; and the scarcest piscini!

Italy is this especially: Frustrating! When it comes to swimming, your best bet is as a duck in the Tiber! Yet, PP is nothing if not stubborn. Hence, her search for pools in Italy after her fantastico success in Florence:


Piscene Comunale Saint a'Lvise. Calle del Capitello, Cannargegio. 3163

PP tingles with excitement as she begins reading aloud the Fodor's description:

“Venice's newest swimming pool is set in peaceful Carnnaregio and offers lessons and swimming sessions (PP has to admit that these 'swimming sessions' seemed suspect. What the hell could a swimming session entail? She pictures screaming children with doting mothers surrounded by harried swim instructors barking Italian); there's a warm mini pool for smaller children (oh, so maybe the swim sessions might be for adults?); and remember you will have to wear a swimming cap in the water and flip flops to walk from the changing rooms to the pool. No credit cards accepted. M, W, F 1-2:30, 9:30-10:45.” (Fodor's 'See it' Venice, 2011)

Grinning, PP beams over at DHBF. “Is it close? Can we walk?”

“Let me look at the map,” he answers (As if PP didn't know this would be his response. Actually, it's a good thing one of them can read a map. She sure as hell can't) “Yup, it's right in the neighborhood. Let me show you.”

He stretches the pretty blues, greens and golden boxes with thin black lines out toward her. She makes a face. “I believe you. Let's go! It says it's open at 1:00 and today's Wednesday.”





“I don't have any flip flops or swimming cap,” he laments.
“I have a cap you can use and there must be flip flops around here somewhere.”
He brightens, “Paolo has all those 'slippers' for us—I'll just borrow a pair. But will my hair fit in the cap?”
PP laughs. “Of course. They're stretchable. Let's go!”
And so they do, packing up the flip flops, the fins, the towels and caps and heading toward Calle del Capitello.

It is so close!

PP can barely contain her excitement. What if the pool is really this close as they near their destination after only a 5 minute walk? And it's only Wednesday and they're here in Venice for 3 more days. That means they can swim 3 days this week. Perfecto!






Rounding the corner, after winding along another canal, they come upon the designated street and trudge down the spooky alley. PP realizes that she's supposed to be entranced by Venice and its canals and alleyways, but in fact, she finds them creepy and cold. At least there are no crowds of tourists here. Evidently, tourists don't swim. PP is the only crazy one who has to go in quest of pools no matter where she travels.

They find a building that houses the Civic Centro of Venice. Okay looks promising. Inching tentatively through the decrepit doorway, they make their way in. “This looks like a pool might be in here, don't you think?”she asks DHBF.
“Yup,” he nods, craning his neck upward to take in all the sights.

She peers inside the large glass windows of the ancient yellow building, spying what looks like a tutoring session. “Umm....Italian lessons?” she laughs. “Wonder if the pool is behind there?”
DHBF frowns, “No, I think we're in the wrong place. This isn't the right address. We’re supposed to be at 3163. This is 3160. It must be back out and down at the next building.”

Shivering, PP nods, heading back out of the compound, leaving a lone dog walker in the forlorn garden. Venice is a dog town. They've yet to meet even one gatto.


“MEOW!!! Meow... meow!” she hears, coming up behind her.
“A kitty!” PP exclaims. “It's about time for gatti! How perfecto that the first cat we've seen is on our way to the pool. He must be our mascot to the piscene!”
“MRROOOW!” the tabby cries again, wondering if she's brought any kibble in her swim bag.
“Where's the pool, kitty?” she asks as they head down to the end of the alley, Venice Tabby leading the way.
“Here's the address,” DHBF stops in front of a locked gate, weeks' old mail spilling out of the box. PP picks it up (What is the fine for sorting through official city centro mail she wonders?) all addressed to Piscene, 3163 Calle del Capitello.


“Looks like this mail's been here for weeks,” she sighs, reality sinking in. It was just too good to be true. To find a pool so close to their place in Venice. But yet, it was only 12:00; maybe if they came back at 1:00, it'd be open.
She suggests this to DHBF, who shrugs, “Sure, we can try that. What do you want to do?”
“Get cappucini of course.” What else? When in Rome as they say.





And so they do. And coffee is delicious. And the cafe is cute. But the whole time she's thinking how the pool just did NOT look like it was going to open in an hour.
But hell. This was Italy. Things aren't what they seem. Maybe the Italians just haven't picked up their mail.
Yeah, sure, this is a possibility.




And so down with the cappuccino, hope still in her heart with the ingestion of caffeine. Why even a half decent bathroom she could use. Then back to the pool.

“Mreeow mreeow!” Mr. Tabby's still waiting for his kibble.
“Hey, Kitty,” she squats down in front of the still padlocked pool entry gate. “Looks like the pool is closed for the season.”
“Yes,” DHBF agrees. “Remember how in Florence many of the pools we called weren't open till Jan 6th or 9th?”
“But we'll be in Roma by then,” she whines.
“Maybe we'll find a pool there,” he soothes.
“Maybe.....”

PP is disappointed, naturally. But then Roma awaits. A city of infinite possibilities.

In such a city, there must be a pool for her.
Right?
Right!

Piscine Firenze Fantastico

“No…no….” He shakes his head softly. His brown grey locks waving round his handsome Italian mug.

PP stands on deck, holding the offending negatives. Her fins. Why all the ‘no’s’ around her fins? “I can’t use the fins?” she asks, trying not too hard to keep the disbelief out of her voice.

Of course, it’s always something weirdly wrong when one swims in a foreign country. Italy is no exception. Florence would be particularly so, she’d assumed. She just hadn’t known what.

Until it happened.
No fins.
Shit.

Here’d she’d lugged the fins all the way from California only to be told by Mr. Sexy No Lifeguard that they were not allowed.

Her sister shrugs, smiles. “Oh well,” and then heads for the pool.



It’d been a treat! PP’s sister throwing Euro Caution to the wind to take her swimming in Florence. $25 euros for each of them. A total of over $50! “It’ll be your Christmas present,” PP’s sister had exclaimed back at the apt in Florence.

And so, PP had relented, stifling her ordinarily stingy side. Hell, when would she be back in Florence again? With her sister? And a pool?
Never.

“It’s on the 37 bus line,” her sister had proclaimed.
“Fun!” PP had laughed. “A bus ride to the pool to the Real Florence.” Meaning one not crammed with tourists and students.

Florence was not PP’s favorite Italian city. She was here visiting her favorite person, though, her niece, studying Roman History. This niece, though, was not a swimmer.

Her sister? A most generous swimmer patron!

Which was a fantatsitco thing since PP needed a swim most desperately. Sure all the walking to all of the sights of Florence had been stupendous. The Piazza at Michelangelo being her favorite with a view of the city that took her breath away.
Yet a swim is what PP needed. Just as the weird cartoon character in Megamind announces at the end of the movie after diving into a random fountain, “I feel so much better now. Guess all I needed was a swim!”



And so now, at the Centro Firenze Piscine, PP is in heaven, even without the fins. The water is a lovely 84 degrees at least. She and her sister have their own lane.

Before diving in,they'd received the 'lane education' ala Italiano:“Parle Englise?” PP had asked Sexy No Lifeguard.
“A little.”
“How do the lanes work?”
“Blue it is for slow. Yellow it is for medium. Red it is for Fast.”
Of course, Red is for fast. Perfecto.



PP and her sister choose a Blue Lane, esp. now that PP was deemed finless.
This is okay for a little while, esp. as the pool is warm. But after a half hour or so, she’d switched to a kickboard: “All the equipment here,” SNL had gestured magnanimously at the bins of kick-boards, pull buoys, floatation devices, “these you can use.”

PP had pulled out a kickboard and pull buoy, happy with this equipment, but still wondering why the hell she couldn’t use the fins.

Swimming in the blue blue water even though the pool was indoors (the tiles of the pools side and bottom were dark turquoise)PP kept thinking that maybe she could sneak the fins on. Swim under his radar. But no way. He made the rounds. Watching all the swimmers. Making sure that her fins were safely on the side of the pool.
So no Fin Sneaking for PP in Florence.

Her sister finished swimming first. A happy tired grin on her pretty goggled face. “I’m about spent,” she’d announced just as another ‘blue’ swimmer climbed into their lane,a serious elderly Italian woman, compact and slow, kicking up and down the lane.
“How far did you swim?” PP asks her sis.
“I did 2000.”
“Fantastico!” PP laughs. “I think I’m almost there. Though without the fins, it’s pretty slow going.”

Yet she completes the 2000 and then a couple 100 more. It’s so delicious to be in the pool. In the water. Swimming. And in Florence of all places. Who would have thought that a pool could be found in the perimeters of this medieval city?




They’d found it fairly easily, getting off the bus and heading for a building that looked to house a piscine. A lamb greeted them at the front door as two Italian teenagers played with a motorized helicopter.

“Piscine?” PP had asked as a round Italian woman in a white pharmacist’s coat opened the door for them.
“No, no…” she shook her head, pointed across the street. No English and why should there be? They were in Italy after all; but she was able to communicate where the pool was.
Across the busy blvd, down a quiet side street, they found the Club Firenze.

“Parle Englise?” PP’s sister had asked the Sexy Italian women at the front counter. Nope, no English as they signed the release form entirely in Italian. Who the hell knew what it said. PP didn’t care. She saw the pool and she was about to swim in Italy!
Fantasitico!

But back to the pool. After the swim, PP just had to find out. Why the hell couldn’t she use her fins?

Approaching Sexy No Lifeguard, she grins at him. He nods, smiling shyly. “I just wanted to ask,” she begins, “why is it that I couldn’t use my fins?”

He nods, seriously, then holds out his manly arm. “We do not allow anything that may do harm. No watches.” He grips his wrist. “No ….”
He pauses, makes a motion to draw a paddle shape over his hands, “Paddles?” PP offers. “Yes… and no fins.”

“Ah, okay,” PP nods, “that makes sense. Grazie.” She makes an expansive American Italian Gesture, “Fantasitico, Bellismo Piscine!” she pronounces, waving at the pool.
He laughs, nods. Americans. They are too hilarious.


And the Italians?

PP has the sense that in fact they may be, at least where this one pool is concerned, a very cautious people. They don’t want to harm their fellow swimmers. They are very considerate.

This seems to go against some of the stereotypes that surround Italians as outgoing, boisterous, passionate people.

As swimmers, they aren’t. They’re reserved, serious, and considerate.

Something PP thinks the swimmers back in the States could learn from.
Viva Italians! Viva Italy Piscene! Viva Sisters!