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Typical morning

Pitbull, either victorious or untried, Albergheria, Palermo
It is almost noon on a Monday morning. Here is my day so far: Last night, Sunday evening, I met up with a contact. I said I'd 'd like to talk to her. "Not tonight, tomorrow," she said. I said I could come "Tomorrow or the day after." She said she wouldn't be here Tuesday, so either Monday or Wednesday. Today is Monday, so I went straight to her office. When I got there she said, "But we agreed to meet Wednesday!" We did not, but Wednesday it shall be.
I called a group I had read about in the NY Times, and asked them if they still gave tours of the Albergheria neighborhood, with lunch in a local trattoria. "Temporarily suspended. Call back in a month." I will.
I got a call from a young woman who helps deliver food to homeless people on Fra Biagio Conte's Missione Notturna, the Night Mission. She wants me to spend an hour a week with her talking in English. I said yes. We start tomorrow morning.
I e mailed a blogger who writes about Palermo's restored buildings. I have been trying to meet with him since I spent three months here in 2012. He kept putting off our meeting until I finally had to leave. This time he wrote back, welcomed me back to Palermo, and asked how long I would be staying. In other words, he wants to put me off, again, until I must leave, but he is very polite about it. He cannot just say "NO." This stringing me along drives me nuts.
I stopped into the Casa Professa, an incredible Baroque church in Albergheria, for a moment of beauty.
I called a woman who volunteer- coordinates activities for an immigrants' welcome center. I want to write about one of her projects. She was in a meeting and asked me to call again in the afternoon. I will.
I stopped into the downtown administrative offices of an important hospital and asked to be put in touch with the cardiologist, who has a wonderful story to tell. The Press Officer promised to call him and see if he was willing to talk to me. I am hopeful.
I scoped out (found the address and went there) a welcome center for the homeless (Palermo is Italy's third city for number of homeless people after Milano and Roma). People can take a shower there two days a week, get medical and psychological help from the street doctor who founded the center, and sometimes get a hot meal. It was closed. I'll go back later; at least now I know where it is.
I went home, cooked a frittata with cauliflower and sweet yellow peppers and shared it with one of my roommates, an unemployed doctor who was studying her cardiology text at the kitchen table, in the warm sunshine, under the Palermo mountains, with our fine view of the bell tower of San Giuseppe Teatini in Corso Vittorio Emanuele, with seagulls screeching and winging about. I washed up the dishes, went to my room and heard a man yelling about his "Exceptional artichokes." These are the very first of the season. I stepped out on my fifth-floor balcony to find where the voice was coming from. I zeroed in on a tiny three-wheeled truck parked at the corner. He saw ME spying HIM and started yelling to me personally "Signora, come down and take a look at these exceptional artichokes." These are serious, shrewd, practiced merchants. I thought about how in southern Vermont the first maple trees are being tapped and you can walk through the sugarbush and hear the sap pinging into the metal sap buckets.
So it was a busy morning, yet I GOT NOTHING DONE. This is typical. The work I did this morning may or may not give fruit later.
I leave you with a photo of a pit bull who probably works at night and most likely wins his fights because he looked none the worse for wear.
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