A Good Day To Be Sick

I’ve got a cold. The one that got nearly everyone before I left home, but didn’t get me. I won’t complain, but it has slowed me down a bit. Fortunately, it hasn’t effected Pa, immune as he is to everything. “Not quite everything,” he corrected me. “I’ve not been out of my body long enough to have complete immunity.”

Anyway, I talked with Sarah, my daughter the physician, who advised that Pa and I take the day off. So we did, and it was a good day. But first things first. I need to get something off my chest. “Confession is good for the soul”, or so I was taught as a boy. Pa was too.

As those who’ve traveled much are well aware, a certain moral decline can occur. Nothing significant at first, but one thing can lead to another.

It started small, as it almost always does. Filching a sugar packet or two, like the forbidden cookie taken from grandmother’s jar. Then the extra napkins, and the tea bags. Of course they’d never be missed. But it all adds up.

But why now? I suppose being at the convent has got me to this point. The nun singing sweetly this morning in the room just beyond the dining area. Or the crucifix, ever present above our bed.

I do take some consolation from the thief on the cross who asked forgiveness and was granted it. Nevertheless, its seems there must be some atonement.

So I’ve made a promise (rather than a vow which carries greater consequences when broken) to make an annual Christmas gift to the Sisters of St. John the Baptist. It’s on my Calendar as a recurring event, and in my Contacts for easy access. Here it is for anyone inclined to do the same.

I’ve yet to decide whether the annual gift can cover future pilfering. Perhaps some monk in Nepal will offer guidance.

Back to our good day. We got my laundry done. Having asked Sister Jo (Jocelyn) where we might find a lavanderia a gettoni, she gestured to take a right, and proceed until we got to the Coop.

Trusting her in all ways, we eventually saw it off in the distance,

made our way there,

then started the search.

After sometime we were questioned about our needs. “Ho bisogna di una lavanderia a gettoni,” I responded with Google translate. The kind lady then walked us to the far side of the store and the Lavanderie.

To our chagrin, however, we learned that it wasn’t self-serve and we’d have to leave all that I owned but the clothes on my back. Pa advised against it. So, not willing to take the chance, we walked outside and asked Siri for directions to the nearest laundromat.

Within minutes we were there,

and confused.

We eventually surmised that there is a central mainframe that controls everything.

The machine you use, the soap, the length of time, the euros.

But then what? Fortunately, a grandmotherly type - they’re the best - interceded. Taking my clothes, and my money, she made it all happen. And now my clothes are clean for the first time in a month.

On top of the world, we walked across the street to a little bookstore,

where the nicest woman directed us to the lone shelf with English titles.

Selecting Robert Harris’ Pompeii (seemed appropriate)

We gladly paid the nice woman 12 Euros and were on our way.

Wandering about for a while, and not caring if we were lost or not, we eventually made our way home.

And there we sat, in the warmth of the afternoon,

enjoying the view.