passeggiata
ˌpasəˈjädə/
Walk Like an Italian
Our friends tell us they walk after dinner, and dinner ends with chocolate. They walk slowly, strolling, and talking, sometimes not even talking. Their kids are either in bed or reading quietly, and the walk takes them just around their block.
It is part of a way of living which includes some changes in food and exercise, but isn't a "diet" or "exercise" program.
Beguiled by the image of my two driven friends holding themselves back to a pedestrian pace, my husband and I have taken a few after-dinner strolls through the neighborhood, frequently reminding one another to stroll, not stride. At a stroll, the scenery seems sharper, the flowers more full, and the opportunity to greet neighbors is more than a nod one gives to a jogger sporting earbuds.
We noticed a pair of ducks dabbling on Sunday, slipping in and out of the roots on the creek banks, nosing upstream for dinner. A drake seem to stay behind the duck, keeping her in his watchful gaze. Just past the ducks, the neighbor who hosts my chorus rehearsals greets us with his new puppy, and we chat about the concert coming up and how the soloists sounded. He's just retired, and is as happy as a person might wish to be. The puppy leans agains my ankle and keeps guard on the action across the creek. His fur is as soft as baby's hair, and I can't help but adore his childish joy.
We stop at the middle of the bridge over the creek to watch for fish and for swallows which swoop in arcs under the bridge as they hunt for insects. How the world must look to their eyes! They move so fast it is hard to track their actions, and I've never seen one crash. The water shifts the long green strands that anchor in the creek bed, but the surface is smooth. I know the lake that empties into this stream, and have seen its waters roaring at the underside of the bridge, and seen stranded fish dead in muddy holes in the dry years. Sometimes the nearby houses are sandbagged to keep the flood at bay, and sometimes we can walk across the parched sands. Every year is different, and every walk shows something new.
The stroll takes us by several Free Little Libraries, a bit of joy in the city. These little boxes share books all around the neighborhoods, and we stop at each one, sometimes just looking, sometimes leaving a book we're ready to send along, and sometimes taking one home. The rules are simple: Be kind, share. Take a book you like, leave one if you wish. There is a story somewhere about the originator of the idea, but the boxes are legion now, and well past the first wave of the initiator's plan.
We get home, and sip a bit of wine, our choice in place of chocolate. A smile, a squeeze of our hands, and we're ready to close the day. It is good.
Ciao
