Ps 119's New Principal Considers the Possibilities with Next Jump, with Gratitude

Dear Next Jump Team: Thank you so very much for inviting me to add my voice and thoughts to the possibility – such a perfect, bountiful word – of your adopting PS 119/The Dr. Emmett W. Bassett School. As the busy-ness of the school year ends and I quietly consider my new role, I find myself brimming with gratitude for and inspiration from even the work we have done and what we have learned from you thus far. Gratitude for what kindred spirits you are, and even more for the work you have done and continue to do to make the spiritual seeking I have always been drawn to in the workplace concrete, doable.*************************************************

Possibility. What a freeing, inviting lens with which to evaluate and plan! When I spoke to the staff about your mission, I initially posed the guiding question as: what are we doing well and what could we do better? I realized, though, that that kept us thinking inside the box of our past actions, regardless, to an extent, of the underlying need that they were meant to address. I realized your phrasing, “What’s working and what’s not working?” moved us so much closer to getting to know ourselves and each other, considering our needs, then thinking clearly, honestly, and without limitations about the possibilities for addressing them. ******************************************************* I’ve been pondering the powerful parent workshop you led, because I have sensed that there are many possibilities in that. It has felt difficult for us over the years for us to empower our families to open up and have a strong voice in the leadership of the school, and we have often assumed it to be a cultural diffidence among many. But they opened up with you, and even more poignantly, they expressed a need for stronger community – the most crucial need I and many colleagues would have identified, and the very thing that was being strengthened by your simple but powerful session with them. It didn’t take a lot of complex thought and initiatives, either – all you did was ask. In that simple gesture to get to know them, you empowered them to open up and find their voice in the school leadership, and to begin to build the very trust they seek to strengthen our school. What a world of tremendous possibility you demonstrated there is in just getting to know ourselves and each other better, and in considering, simply but profoundly, how to help each be better people and a better school. *******************************************************As I mentioned, I have long been drawn to the life and health of the spirit, both personally and at work. Last summer Joan and I had begun to read The Power of Full Engagement, by Jim Loehr – speak of the teacher appearing when the student is ready! It has been a challenge to put this striving into concrete practice, though, especially in a large, diverse, and multi-faceted community such as our beloved school. The approach you have shared with us -- through the PEMS pyramid, Talking Partners, Situational Workshops, and so on – gives us solid legs with which to walk this very important walk as we go forward. Whether we realize our dream of an after-school community campus, with courses and activities for adults and children alike in caring for our physical, emotional, mental and spiritual health – we are grateful and healthier already for coming to know the Next Jump family. We are on the road to making a better world, and abrim with possibilities. Thank you, and please stay in touch. Michele

Family High-Jump

Yesterday a team from Next Jump came to meet with our parents, children, and teachers, in the next phase of their "adoption" process. In the midst of a dramatic and soggy thunderstorm at dismissal time, about 40 families gathered in the auditorium to hear an overview of Next Jump's approach to a healthy work enviroment leading to a better world, and how that dream might be realized at PS 119/The Dr. Emmett W.Bassett School. We so appreciated the way the Next Jumpers worked with our students, taking them off, while their parents conferred, for some sports, and exciting computer coding activities, to walk the walk regarding the physical and mental health levels of the PEMS quadrant. We trusted them with our students and that says something beyond words.We were especially moved by the natural collaboration by the guest instructors and PS 119 faculty. We already feel like a part of their team!******************************************************* The parents were the real stars, though. They discussed openly and articulately what works at PS 119 and what isn't working. They are ready to move to another level: good to great. They are ready to contribute to making things much better. This partnership, and all we are learning from Next Jump, could take us all from good to great, and that's what the Dr. Emmett W. Bassett School craves and deserves. We hope Next Jump will consider the magic of our third date and choose us. We know we will make them proud. Better yet, we will make us prouder and better. And we will make a better world, one school, one family, one child at a time.

Next Jump With Joy!

When the student is ready, the dazzling teacher appears, and sometimes from unexpected places! My school, PS 119 The Dr. Emmett W. Bassett School, has recently had the fascinating opportunity to get to know and learn from a tech company called Next Jump. They're a thriving, happy company with nearly 0% turnover, and are looking to "adopt" a NYC public school to provide resources and support aimed at building a school culture that fosters physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual health (known as "PEMS"). It's a practice they put into deeply committed play in their own organization. Teams from the four schools being considered for adoption visited their offices recently, and saw firsthand some of the rituals and practices that make up their culture, including an on-site gym for employees, lots of free healthy communal meals, "Talking Partners" who daily "meet, vent, [then get back to] work," and Situational Workshops where employees get advice on how to handle sticky situations from experienced colleagues. Next Jump is committed to the idea of taking care of ourselves so we can take care of each other, and make a better world. Even if we are not the school selected for support, adopting many of these practices would answer a host of urgent needs at PS 119 The Dr. Emmett W. Bassett School, in the Bronx. ********************************************** Don't get me wrong -- I love my school. How lucky I am to be a coach in such a strong neighborhood school, treasured by its community, led by an experienced, collaborative, truly awesome faculty. It's a big, sprawling multi-site campus, but we really do unite to provide the best for our children. Though the staff and Bronx neighborhood have undergone the same seismic shifts as the rest of New York City over the decades, one thing has been constant: our long-standing tradition of excellence continues to be deeply responsive to the needs of this ever-changing, diverse community. And it's a happy, safe place for children: growing up at P.S. 119 is marked by an array of joyful milestones and celebrations. In the words of our mission statement, we believe all children are special. ************************************************* But, like any large organization with such a heady mission, we have a few serious stress fractures. Our teachers -- many of whom are also parents -- work so hard, and typically put themselves last. They're exhausted, sometimes cranky, and often neglect their health. Direct, productive collegial communication can take a hit at times. There's never enough time for professional planning and growth during the day. The children do not have all their health needs optimally met, either. We don't have the staff to ensure they play outside every day. A few after school groups such as our basketball team are fabulous at beginning to address this, but we don't have the funds for an after school program. Though we provide popular workshops during the day, our parents need even more guidance in making sure the kids eat well, sleep enough, exercise and play outside of school, and in supporting their kids' academic growth. Unfortunately, we don't have the time or funds for an Adult Education program. Although we have a comprehensive positive behavior program in place, many of our students could benefit from more interpersonal skills and conflict resolution education and practice, but we lack the time and funds for classes and activites to address this. Even with our carefully chosen and planned instruction and extensive academic intervention, fewer than half our students -- 50% of whom are second language learners -- meet state standards in English Language Arts and Mathematics. We need more intervention, but we don't have the time and funds for adequate tutoring. **************************************************** As we brainstormed and prioriotized our strengths and needs at the Next Jump offices, our essential need became crystal clear. The support from Next Jump, the one bit of culture that would most powerfully address just about all of these significant stress fractures, is the creation of an after school program based in PEMS for all. We would love NJ's help with the founding of a kind of community campus with classes for teachers, parents and children, addressing the physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual needs of our beloved learning community. The guidance in networking, fundraising, structuring, and mentoring such an initiative would nuture our already strong school culture powerfully. We are grateful for the insights we are gaining, and will surely implement many whether or not we are "adopted." As they say at Next Jump, a better me plus a better you means a better us, and together we can make a better world. And isn't that what schools are all about?

Epifania

Befana, the gift-bearing witch of Epifania

It was the eve of Epifania, and all of Rome would be heading to Piazza Navona to celebrate. All well and good, but I had a busy day of chores and errands ahead -- Befana would just have to wait.

I put the espresso up and threw open the shutters, pleased to note that the sun was finally out in earnest in what had been a grey, misty week.  I started a laundry, now fully conversant in all the Italian instructions on the knobs and dials (thank goodness many are English cognates: cotone, delicati, misti). I hung the clothes out on the wire rack on the balcony, tempted  to call out to my imaginary Antonio! down below to remind him that Thursday is gnocchi day.

Next I sat with La Repubblica, a cup of espresso and a bit of breakfast (sorry, still doing my Atkins-y, sadly un-Roman scrambled eggs -- I'm saving the cornetti for when the mister comes).  I wasn't sure if the stores would be open the next festa day, or even how late they'd stay today, so I made a quick list, grabbed my adorable two-wheeled Roman shopping cart, and headed out.


It's been a week now, and my naive, newcomer befuddlement at the town's labyrinthine layout has given way to blithe self-assurance. I also discovered that, whichever way you walk in Trastevere, you eventually meet yourself coming around the other way.  This meant that the uphill, business-center trudge to real-people town to my left, and the easy, picturesque stroll through and around my neighborhood to the local Piazza Santa Maria toward the right, all lead to the same point.  I feel a bit wimpily disloyal, but I have abandoned the former for the leveler, more charming jaunt-- even if I'm charmlessly grocery-shopping.

My first stop was my neighborhood farmacia, which resembles nothing so much as a church, complete with green pharmacy cross to further blur the distinction. I had cut my finger, my busybody right index. Pharmacies in Rome are much more relaxed than in the U.S. -- people go for medical advice and liberally dispensed pharmaceuticals.  A la moda locale, I showed the pharmacist my finger, and was able to tell him, "Ho bisigno di bende, e aspirina."  "Si," he answered, "e antisettiche, no? La bottiglia grande o piccolo?"  I opted for the small bottle of antiseptic, and practically levitated out the door.


My next stop was Billa Oviesse, the supermarket in the department store basement.  My exchanges there are getting similarly smoother. "'Giorno!" I greeted a shelf-stocking clerk.  I was able to ask, in Italian, if they would be open tomorrow, and even appreciated the clerk's blasé, no-eye-contact nod.  When the checkout guy asks, "Avete qualche cambiamento?" when I hand him €20 to pay my bill of €11.17, I know to fish in my pocket   for coins. When I told him, si, I would need una busta, he   kibbitzed with me about whether I might even need four, five or six bags for my small load, and I chuckled with comprehension. As I emerged from the market basement and out of the ground floor clothing store, a passer-by asked me, "Dov è il mercato di alimentarietà?" and I pointed to the staircase down.


I have arrived!

After a few more errands, I started home. At Santa Maria di Trastevere, I felt my energy flagging, and the sun a salutary embrace, so I stopped at a cafe for a cappuccino.  How simply joyful it felt, how accomplished yet pampered, to take a break, after a morning's chores, on a Roman piazza!  As I basked in the atmosphere, a passing young woman took a spill, and remained motionless on the cobblestone.  A man called out, and soon a sizable crowd had rushed to her aid, shouting and gesticulating, with water, chairs, stroking comfort.  They lifted her into the chair, and as she gathered herself and massaged her ankle, I took my leave.  On the way home, I ran into a friend -- Dermit, the Irish owner of the charming local English language bookstore.  I ran into a friend!  We chatted for a few minutes: about the weather, the wonderful, cheap Chinese restaurant I'd taken his recommendation on, the upcoming holiday, and my husband's imminent arrival, and said our good-byes. I headed home to put my packages away, practice Italian, and prepare for the evening's festivities.

Mario had recommended that the best time to head to Piazza Navona for Epifania (or Befana, as it's known locally) was tonight, on the holiday's eve. Each January 6, the feast day of Epiphany when the Magi brough their gifts to the Christ child, the Befana, an old lady with a long nose and black shawl, arrives on her broomstick bearing gifts for Italian children. Like Santa Claus, she delivers her gifts when the children are fast asleep. She enters each house through its chimney and silently fills each child's sock with either dolci or carbone -- sweets, or coal. The size depends on how often they've misbehaved. The legend has its roots here in Rome; a huge fair with stalls selling candy, coal and sweets is held in Piazza Navona each year from Christmas to the Epiphany. On the eve of Epiphany, Mario advised, the Piazza Navona fair explodes in joyful conclusion, with much noise and rowdiness to encourage the old witch.


I was a bit apprehensive about making the trip at night.  I'd been assured that the best way to get there was just to walk from my little hamlet across the Tiber River, through the Jewish Ghetto, and into Rome's centro storico, less than a mile away. I'd been to the Ghetto, though, with my husband several winters ago, and just this last Sunday morning -- the narrow, grimy streets there can be isolated, a little gloomy during the day, even with a companion. I really wasn't sure I wanted to navigate the dark alleys alone, at night, but this holiday is bigger than Christmas in Italy, so I gave myself a shove and was on my way.

I needn't have worried.  The little walking bridge at Ponte Cisto, over the Tiber, glistened and twinkled and buzzed marvelously in the night -- with the reflections from the river, the ice-crystal holiday lights strung all around, and the crowds of families, couples and teens making their way excitedly to the fair.  The streets of the ghetto were thronged with revelers, a sea of Romans with whose flow I had merely to let myself go, through narrow vias and across il Campo di Fiori -- klezmer accordionists keeping the tempo -- to the truly exploding Piazza Navona.  

It seemed, almost literally, that the entire population had spilled, cheek to jowl, into the massive plaza, completely filling it. Along with the crowds were game and crafts stalls; chestnut and giant balloon peddlers, performers (even one Native American troupe!), Befanas and Santas, both human and crafted, and a brightly lit carousel in the center, right near (and not really at odds with) Bernini's wild, baroque Moor with Dolphins statue.

I was told that on Epifania, dolci were obligatory good luck, and that a doughnut iced with Nutella was the favored dolce to usher in the best New Year's tidings.  I strolled around, ushering in a pleasant belly-ache as well, as I noshed and snapped and smiled at Roman tots, both wild with anticipation and groggy with over-stimulation.


It was a joyful evening.  But my mundane shopping trips, laundry, language development, home cooked meals, and a simple good night's sleep in my little Roman flat -- all beckoned joyfully as well. I headed home, thrilled to have had a wonderful Roman holiday, but just as glad that "Epifania tutte le festa porta via" as they say around here -- Epiphany takes all the holidays away.


Viva la (fantasy) vita reale!

Crossing the Rubicon

When I first met Julie, the things that struck me about him were his cute butt, and the mighty attractive way a leather jacket hung on his slim boy-build. He was funny, but not back-slappingly so  -- his delivery was so dry, I often wasn't sure if he actually was joking, and found myself calmly, smilingly attentive in his presence. We met in a group of friends, and though he didn't chat an awful lot, what he had to say was always thoughtful, interesting, so well worth the wait.  I also loved the fact that he was an artist, a talented one, that he read and made conversational reference to interesting articles in the Times, and that this was all mixed in with a little earthy, sweet Brooklyn. We were both in pretty committed, albeit fractured, relationships at the time, and didn't consider  each other prospects for a good while -- we got to know each other as just friends.  We once got into an argument over a misunderstanding, and though I stayed behind to nurse my wounds once our gathering dispersed, he waited at my bus stop to apologize and take me home.  He later told his roommate that had I picked a piece of lint off his jacket during the ride, and Tom drew a winking conclusion that I won't repeat in mixed company.

After we'd known each other for about a year, and shortly after I'd broken up with the guy I'd been seeing, Julius' girlfriend died. He had been inching out of the five-year relationship for some time, but while things hadn't been good, she was sweet and he still loved her, and didn't have the heart.  He was devastated by her death, of course, and I met him for coffee -- our first solo outing -- just to make sure he was okay.  He appreciated my company, seemed to feel therapeutically buoyed by it, and revealed himself to be, to  my surprise, extremely chatty one-on-one. Though I certainly liked him, I had vowed, after my last relationship mess, to stay single for at least a year  -- and under the traumatic circumstances, Julius was hardly the prime stuff of exceptions.  But the lint, it seems, had been picked. Julius and I loved each other, in as good and pure a way as I've witnessed, and within two years we were married.

It has been almost thirty-two now, two amazingly brilliant and beautiful daughters to show for it, and we still enjoy and cherish each other's company more than anything.  Even our children remark on what a good, healthy pair we are together. In addition to the cute butt and other immediate impressions, Julius turns out to be exquisitely caring, honest, and infinitely patient with his sometimes high-maintenance wife. When I first told him about my plan to travel to Rome on my sabbatical, he was thrilled and abuzz for me, and only a passing smidge perturbed by the idea that he might not be able to join me. He is, as it turns out, coming in a few days, and I am beside myself with excitement -- and proud that I, a week more Roman than he is, get to show him around the town.


For a while after we were engaged, and even occasionally to this day, we had a running joke where we would say, without an ounce of sincerity, "Are you sure?  It's not too late to change your mind..." Just the repetition of "Sure?" came to be an expression of affection with and amongst each other, our girls, beloved pets.  I don't know whether it's too late, but I have never even glancingly considered changing my mind. And I am very sure.


It's Julie's birthday today.  Happy, happy, guy.  I'm so very glad you were born.

A Real Ragazza

The next morning, very tentatively at first, I began the joyful process of becoming a real girl -- not a tourist, but a real Roman ragazza.


The apartment was quite comfortable when I awoke my first morning here, although I had turned off the electric heater some time during the night. I made myself a cup of instant coffee and read the New York Times online (I told you it was tentative...).  There are two coffee makers in the apartment, one an American drip for which I was unable to find filters, and one of those teeny espresso pots.  I'm sorry, I know this is a significant failure, but I am not an espresso fan, and I don't know how to use those little pots anyway. The instant coffee here is actually very good, so maybe it's a really Roman thing after all.


Broker Mario called to check on me, and was sweetly solicitous and relieved when I told him the apartment had probably just been cold for such a long time it simply needed a night to thaw.  (I have since admitted to myself that it is not quite that simple, and that Mario can be charming and caddish by convenient turns. E 'la vita italiana, no?) I had a couple of questions about the basics for him -- the nearest bank or ATM to get euros, what might be done about the broken mailbox (the solution to the latter being, of course, to make an arrangement with the laundress down the block, duh).  He answered these quickly and unenthusiastically, so I was bracing myself for another brush-off, when he began to wax rapid-fire eloquent about all the really important spots in town.  Our little neighborhood is strollably quaint, full of trattorias, gift shops, gelaterias and pubs, but I was dying for the native lowdown, the insider's guide to real life.

He told me I had to eat -- breakfast, lunch, anything! have the fried rice balls! --at this little pizza place on Via San Francesco a Ripa. Couldn't remember the name, but it was just past Oviesse (I didn't know what that was yet, though I would be particularly pleased to find out).  Oh, and the best supermarket was down below Oviesse, only I wouldn't think it's a supermarket at all, you don't see it from the street, you have to go down some stairs.  

Oh, but also, before you even get to San Francesco a Ripa, on the Piazza San Cosimato, is a big open air market, and that's great, too. But back on San Francesco, on the same side of the block as Oviesse, just a little before it, there's a little shop that sells cheese like you've never tasted before, and Mario lives in Rome and Paris, so he knows his cheese.  Go, get the parmesan. I don't know if you like wine -- do you like wine? So before you're done, at the end of San Francesco, on the corner of Via Trastevere, is Bernabei, the very best place in town to get wine.  Ask for their production of a Prosecco named Bernabei, let them introduce you to the wine's tastes, mmmhmm.

I was transported, totally enthralled, working madly to understand his cascading, accented English well enough to jot all of this down intelligibly. I was trying hard not to think about how impossible it is to find your way around Trastevere --  I was way too jazzed not to make this all happen.  I got dressed quickly in my one outfit, rinsed out overnight.  I threw on my chic big-buttoned maroon plaid coat and matching beret, purchased especially for the trip, grabbed my map, and headed to town.

I had made about two-thirds of the outing to town the crisp, sunny day before, with Alessandro's directions, but, too tired to trust my internal navigator, I had headed back home with cold feet. Today was misty, almost drizzly, but my confidence and determination were high.  I noticed, as I headed up one side of the tossed-spaghetti town layout, that walking on ancient cobblestone is odd and taxing -- you're struggling to regain lost balance with every step, and the streets give no supportive bounce-back the way pavement does.  It's hilly cobblestone, no less, picturesque as all get-out, but my sore glutes were not impressed.

In my combination of atmospheric reverie and map anxiety, I overshot the mark a couple of times and had to double back.  I passed an ancient, mossy staircase leading from the hill of my neighborhood to what I hoped was the valley of town -- perhaps a more direct shortcut to save my having to wend my way through yesterday's hills and turns?  I asked a young woman walking her dogs down below, "Dove San Francesco a Ripa?" and pointed hopefully down in her direction.  "Yeah, well, it's hard to describe," she answered, but did so as well as she could in what sounded like American English. I was too excited and relieved to mind that she so easily assumed I couldn't handle Italian.  We chatted for a while -- she was about my daughter's age, dressed in kind of vintage-y Mary Poppins funk, and was super excited to learn that I was also from New York!  She sounded almost sad, wistful when I asked her if she lived here -- she said no, well, she'd just been here for a couple of years, but that she really loved New York.  She began to give me some tips on local life, but her dogs seemed less interested in stopping to socialize, so we parted with mutual best wishes.


Her directions served perfectly, and I arrived in the bustling, five-corners town.  My first stop was what I hoped to be the rice-ball pizzeria, a place called Panattoni Ai Marmi but nicknamed "l'Obitorio" or "the Morgue" because of its long rows of marble slab tables. I explained my rice ball mission in bits of fractured Itanglish.  Yes, this was the place, but "not today" he apologized.  It was too early for the gorgeous pizza on display, so I asked him where Oviesse was and headed off to shop for well-hidden groceries.  I'd be back for lunch.

Oviesse, much to my luggage-deprived delight, turned out to be a department store!  As I thought back on my guidebook perusals, I vaguely remembered it being described as "cheap," which --Prada jokes notwithstanding --would give me a more sensible bang for Aer Lingus's buck. Right now, though, I was more focused on stocking the fridge, and looked for a sign, a staircase.  "C'è un mercato?" I dubiously asked a young woman who was heading in. She assured me there was but looked a little confused herself.  She said something in Italian and gestured down, and I thanked her and said I would figure it out.  After wandering around through racks of cowl-neck sweaters for a few minutes, I asked a clerk and headed down.

There is something disorientingly, frustratingly dream-like about being in the sort of ordinary place you frequent almost daily, you know and can navigate like the back of your hand, but in a foreign country. Everything is familiar but warped, just out of comprehensible reach. 


I tried to get a shopping cart from the stacked corral, but they were locked, with strange key thingies and something that looked like a coin slot. I grabbed a plastic basket instead.  I hit the produce aisle first -- even their vegetables are different: spiky, alien Romanesco broccoli, needle-like agretti, and a surprising variety of tomatoes in a wide range of colors and shapes.  A clerk, who claimed to know some English, did not know what I meant by "garlic," and I didn't think to try the Spanish cognate I know well.  Not willing to do without this bottom-line staple of Italian cooking, I called out to the other shoppers, "Does anyone know the Italian word for garlic?" A gorgeous nun (a first to me, apart from Julie Andrews' Maria) pitched in with a translation and -- what else? -- a beatific smile. I had to mime an after-dinner face mop to get another clerk to show me where the napkins were, neglected to weigh and price-tape my produce before I got to the register, and held up a testy line of eye-rolling shoppers while I did so.  I trudged off, heavy with packages, but happy with my fearlessly chaotic progress.

The next stop was Antica Caciara, Mario's cheese and salumi store to die for. While I waited my turn, a pretty hale-looking peddler who mistook my eye contact for a soft touch glommed onto me. He breathed winily in my ear that he was hungry (I figured "Ho fame" meant something like "I'm famished"), even stooping down to continue when one of my bags broke and I crouched to gather my groceries.  He finally hightailed it when the counter clerk offered me some help and a new bag, and cheerfully took my order for "un po di parmigiano" and a crusty round loaf of bread.

Ho fame my own self at this point, so I headed back over to "the Morgue" pizza/rice-ball place, which had sadly closed early for New Year's Eve. There was an overflow crowd at a more casual joint a few doors down, so I elbowed my way in. The slices were thin and square, with a variety of toppings, though nothing looked familiar or identifiable, exactly.  The crowd was too formidable and hungry for me to get all American-touristy inquisitive, so I just pointed to one pie with tomato sauce, golden cheese and some delicate yellow-green vegetable on top, and held up two fingers.  I ate them on a little bench on a picturesque side street, and literally had to keep myself from groaning aloud with pleasure  -- I believe it was topped with artichoke and asiago cheese, but whatever it was, it was heaven on a thin, crispy crust.


Finally, I hauled my load back up and around pasta-tossed Trastevere, and put my perishables away.  It was still only 1:00 p.m. Rome time, and Julius would just be getting up for work now.  I met him on Facebook as we had planned, and we chatted, had a cup of coffee together, and read the morning paper.  After he left for work, I straightened up the flat -- so much more delightful than housework usually is.

Eventually I would head back into town, by now breezily sure-footed, for some basil, pajamas and underwear -- a tasty, very Italian combination, as my friend Michael pointed out.  I also bought a few blouses, quickly and unenthusiastically, which it turns out I kind of love.  But even this mundane outing was a riddle wrapped in a learning experience:  no one at the outdoor market knew what "basil" was, though "basilico" finally came to me, from who knows where. Clothing sizes are different, and while you can ask a sales clerk about or try on a blouse, underwear is a tougher nut. Later than evening I made my first home-cooked meal of the trip, a simple pasta with plum tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, basil, and the parmesan, which really was other-worldly.  I had a glass of the Prosecco Bernabei, just as Mario had ordered.  


A day in the life of a real ragazza di Trastevere. Tomorrow, I might just make myself some espresso in the tiny pot. 


Mmmhmm.