Tina Time

The only unfriendly Italians we met while we were there were the concierges at the hotel in Venice. A woman in the evening and a man during the daytime, each was tall, thin, dark and much better dressed than you would imagine a hotel concierge could afford. The hotel itself was small, only 37 rooms. It was quaint and all the other hotel employees smiled shyly at us in the hallway and seemed quite nice.

But the issues with both concierges (they were practically interchangeable in looks, age, demeanor and (lack of) manners) went on and on. When our luggage didn't arrive with us, we had to call the airport to follow up. The instruction sheet was in Italian, as was the recording when I called the phone number, the only thing on the page that I could read. When I went to the front desk, the woman was on the phone, speaking in Italian and not missing a breath as I waited for her attention. When she finally finished her call, she turned to me with a disdain tht let me know that she had much better things to do than to help me.

Later that evening we wanted to get something to eat so we asked at the front desk for a recomendation. Once again, she looked down her nose and said there were no restaraunts open at this time. We mentioned tht we had seen some restaraunts on our way in. "Oh", she said casually, "you don't want to go there, they are no good". But, we were hungry so headed out around the corner.

The small restaraunt we found was plain but full with every table inhabited by interesting looking people and the variety of languages was astounding. While the meal was not the best we had in Italy, it was a decent meal, with friendly service and lots of local flavor. The next day, it was cold and raining and stll without luggage, we wanted to head out and really begin to see the city. Once again we asked the concierge, this time the male version, if there were any shops close by. He assured us, no place we would want to go. We headed to the city, found a small shop across town and continued on to have a very nice day. That evening, while walking off dinner we passed two different mens sports clothes and menswear shops. what gives?

But the ultimate insult came on the last day we were in Venice. We had hoped to tour the glass blowing factory, but were worried that it would be cutting it too close with our train tickets to Florence. So we got up, ate our breakfast, packed our bags and headed for the front desk. Our train left around 11am and we knew our hotel was "somewhere" close to the train station. We headed to the front desk and asked directions. This time both conceirges were there. These were elegant, well dressed and attractive people. Tthe sardonic smile on each of thier faces was just the final touch to create the caricature they appeared.

Thier English was accented, but excellent, so this was not a communication problem. We asked about the train station and they offered directions, saying it was over the bridge (our room looked out over a canal) and then "right there". We took off, confident that if it was as close and obvious as thier directions, we should be able to see it once we crossed the bridge. We pulled our luggage up the stairs, across the small bridge and down the stairs on the other side, looking expectantly for a sign of a train station. There was actually a bus station right there, so we figured we were close. We walked up and once again, no sign of a train station. We asked a policemen, who waved us down a gangway, blocks away from where we had been looking. We headed down the street, down the gangway, but alas, no train stration in sight. There were many people walking in each direction on this alley like street facing the Grand Canal on our right and a quasi-strip mall with a few small businesses facing the walkway. Up and down this alley we walked, dragging our roll behinds, and carrying cameras, purses, and my backpack. We asked several people, at least three, and all directed us one way or another until finally, one gentlemen mentioned that we had to take a water taxi across the canal to the train station! Are you kidding me, not once, at the hotel, at the bus station, from random strangers on the street, did a single soul mention the fact that we had to cross a major body of water to get to where we were going. Amazing. At least most of the people we asked seemed genuinely happy to help, so I cannot say the oversight was intentional.....We finally bought our tickets, jumped on the water taxi and rode to the train station, which was there in sight as we left the boat.

So here it is, coming down to the test. Is this a serious endevour? Am I serious about this? It's the time where the luster has dimmed, the excitement of the performance has faded, the work has begun. So here is the deal, the time has come when I should write, need to write, but prefer or choose to do other things. I find myself making excuses each evening as dinner, homework, family and committments still press in. By the time evening is done and my time is my own, I am exhausted.

As we walk through this process and examine the components of inspiration, try to find where motivation originates, understand the forces that pull us to avoid or embrace the task at hand, I must acknowledge my own weakness in giving in to excuses.

Too tired, too many other things to do, just no energy left at the end of the day or guilt for choosing writing over chores or time with family and friends, have all been excuses I have allowed myself instead of focusing on the goal. No matter what the day has been like, there is almost always 30 min to be found when its a priority. I always think about Woody Allen's quote, "80% of success is just showing up". Doing the work, spending the time, choosing the activity that requires additional focus and energy after a long day, even if its not perfect, even if you're not in the mood, that is showing up.

Another favorite quote from Henry Ford (and forgive as I paraphrase) is "No one is ever congratulated or acknowleded anyone for what they said they were going to do". Any time you find yourself with a dream that occupies your time and thoughts and yet you are not really making any positive moves toward the goal, at some point you must either begin to take those steps, or acknowledge that it really wasn't that much of a dream after all. Too often in my life I have allowed myself to take the easier route of acknowledging the lack of trueness of the dream and simply convinced myself that all that time and energy spent thinking and planning was a lie and the admission that the absence of the dream was an acceptable reallty. The easier but far less satifying route.

So, here I am, committing again, to push on, to suck it up, to see the bigger goal of creating th life I want instead of short term comfort or ease. What makes the difference, how to find the strength, make the tougher choice? I am very interested in this idea, since I have often been so disappointed in my own choices

......tomorrow, back to Italy.....
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I have often kept a journal in different times of my life, mostly times filled with angst or especially frenetic times when there was so much going through my head and feelings filling me so overwhelmingly that writing them out seemed to be the only way to exorcise these recurring thoughts and save myself from an unending and repititious litany of thoughts I could not be rid of. Writing when I knew that no one wiould ever read my thoughts lent itself to a free form, unstructrured thought process that did not and did not need to make sense. It was simply a catharsis of the raw emotions that sometimes have overwhelmed me to the point that they needed an explicit outlet.

Writing out here in the blogsphere, in spite of the fact that I am realistic to know that no one is actually reading my unending prattlings aobut wanting to be important, its different. Here, the words have to make sense, nonsensical rantings and barely developed thoughts are soon revealed for what they are, or are not, when read with a critical eye. And I am too brutally honest to indulge in delusions about this undertaking.

It is, somewhat to be expected. I declare to the world that I will be a writer and speaker with no reflected effort or body of work to show my seriousness about the goal. Just the poems, which I have had a hard time taking seriously. This left me outside of the arena of competing for your time and considerstion. The blog space is like a workshop, an unending opportunity to practice practice practice writing, sharing thoughts, developing ideas.

It's in this space, upon the endless re-reading and editing that you realize that it is so much more than simply sitting down and letting the thoughts, fall, unbidden out of your head onto the paper. The work is in taking a raw emotion or undeveloped idea and present it as legitimate thought, worthy of a readers time and attention.

Now the challenge is to just keep writing, practicing, working. Hopefully something worthwhile will happen...