Peanut butter lovers beware.  The dressing in this colorful and tasty salad is addictive.

For the Peanut Dressing:
1/4 cup rice wine vinegar
2 tablespoons creamy peanut butter
1 teaspoon finely grated fresh peeled ginger
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon honey
2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
1/2 cup canola oil
A pinch of red pepper flakes (optional)
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper

For the salad:
1/2 cup Peanut Dressing
1/2 cup fresh snow peas
1 bag (5 ounces) Spring Mix salad blend
2 cups shredded cooked chicken
2 carrots, peeled and shredded on the large holes of a traditional grater
1/4 cup thinly sliced scallions
1/4 cup fresh cilantro leaves
1/2 cup chopped roasted peanuts
2 limes, quartered, for garnish

For the Peanut Dressing:
In a small bowl whisk together the vinegar, peanut butter, ginger, soy sauce, honey, sesame oil, canola oil, and red pepper flakes. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

For the salad:
Bring salted water to a boil in a medium pot. Add snow peas and cook until vibrant green and crisp tender, 1 to 1 1/2 minutes. Drain the peas and immerse in an ice water bath to stop the cooking process. Drain again and place in a large salad bowl.

Add the salad blend, chicken, carrots, scallions, cilantro, and peanuts and toss. Add the dressing to taste and gently toss to coat. Garnish with lime wedges.  Serve immediately.

Tip: To save time, pick up a roasted rotisserie chicken at your local grocery for this recipe. The meat will be fresh, juicy, and flavorful. 

Makes 4 dinner salads

An average evening meal at a Bulgarian Restaurant would cost you!

GBP: 6.00

EURO: 6.80

BGN: 13.30

A Bottle of Bulgarian Red!

GBP: 1.82

EURO: 2.04

BGN: 3.99

A Bottle of Spirits is dirt cheap!

GBP: 3.03

EURO: 3.40

BGN: 6.65

A Coffee in a cafe would only be about

GBP: 0.3

EURO: 0.4

BGN: 0.8

Dont ask for a lager and lime in a bar

otherwise you would be there all day as they don’t seem to merchandise Lime Juice Cordial in Bulgaria, I was there back in July 2008 and after 3 attempts of ordering a lager and lime, I ended up with three quarters of a pint of lager and in a separate glass what equated to the juice of 3 freshly squeezed limes.

Bless them…….

PS: If you order a coffee in a cafe in the U.K. Then you need to invest in property in Bulgaria.

Okay, okay…I’ll stop pretending I know anything about Spanish. (Although I *will* say that it is awfully embarrassing/depressing that after six years of studying the language [...seven years ago...], my vocabulary is limited to a few choice phrases…and even *those* I am essentially scared to say out loud to native speakers.)

And…because I know how easy it is to forget the day-to-day when you go on a trip like this and then try to recall what exactly happened to everyone back home (“There was a zipline…and then we saw some monkeys…”), I made a concerted effort to record the goings-on at the end of each day. What follows is basically me writing up my notes. (And just to cover my bases, I suppose, I should note that these recollections are mine and mine alone…and I’m only human and it’s possible my memory is flawed and that these recollections may not be precisely accurate…so. Perhaps read with a grain of salt. [Also? This turned out to be really long. (Even for me...) And I've been working on it forever...and as I read it for the umpteenth time, part of me is tempted to just click "Publish" already...so Days Eight and Nine may not have received the tender loving care that they deserve...and for that I hope you'll accept my humble apologies.])

Day One

Our flight was at 5:45 in the morning and a car was coming to pick us up around 3…so we just stayed up all night. It probably goes without saying that we were pretty exhausted and delirious by the time we made it to the airport. And after telling J that the easiest way to get from my apartment to JFK was to just call a car service and that this was a unique New Yorky thing and she was hip to the scene because she was with a local…we ended up with a guy who parked at the opposite end of my street and who didn’t move the car when we came out of my apartment at 3:00 in the morning with all of our luggage. (And he wasn’t driving a black Lincoln! It was, like, a gray Nissan Altima.) And then he drove like a bat out of hell and sort of got lost in Queens…and it wasn’t a Dial-7 sort of experience. We made it to JFK in two distinct pieces though…and literally the moment we walked through the airport doors, the handle on my purse broke. It was obviously too late to do anything about it (although we did search for glue at the Miami airport…only to find a man in one of the gift shops who tried to stick my strap back together with scotch tape and then advised me to “pull as hard as [I could],” and I promptly ripped it right back apart again…so he gave me a big shopping bag…that basically served as my purse for the rest of the trip.).

We were so tired we slept most of the way on both flights…and when we actually landed in San Jose, I could see some green landscape and life going on outside…but it was still sort of hard to believe that we were actually there — even when we were waiting in line to go through Customs. I had reserved a car…so J was able to flex her language muscles for the first time when we picked it up. And once we were at the actual off-site rental counter (and they told us not to move the car if we had an accident as it would render our insurance null and void), I asked for directions to the hotel…but the guy behind the counter was a little dubious. I had picked the Gran Hotel Costa Rica because my book said it was in the center of San Jose and that it was very close to the Teatro Nacional and that it had been around since the 1930s and had some Art Deco charm to it or somesuch…and it just seemed more unique and San-Jose-y than, say, the Holiday Inn. But the guy asked if we had prepaid…and then proceeded to give us directions because we *had*, but he said it would have been a lot easier to have just stayed near the airport.

And as we headed out for the first time in our Toyota Corolla in search of the Gran Hotel, J said something like, “I hope they have parking…” and it was the first time I had actually thought about something like that. I guess I figured parking was a given. (I think this is what they call foreshadowing…)

So…finding the actual hotel wasn’t all that hard. There was a big road called Paseo Colon…and I think we had to make one lefthand turn, but that was about it. We could see the hotel off to our left. However…the hotel was in the middle of a big square…and there was no place to park nearby. So…we sort of ended up going around and around the square, wondering what to do. We eventually figured out that “parqueo” is “parking lot” and saw a tiered structure on one of the side roads…in which we found a very nice group of men who listened patiently to us — J was so much better at speaking than I was — and one of them even drew us a map. We ended up back in front of the hotel…where we saw a road sort of going underneath the hotel and the words “NO” and “something.” “Maybe it means ‘Parking for Hotel Guests Only!’” I guessed optimistically. But, nope. We couldn’t park there either. So…we ended up pulling up in front of the hotel and were sort of despairing over what to do…when a man approached us to pay to park there…and he was the one who finally explained that we had to park in the lot with the hut with the blue roof a little further down the road.

When we finally pulled into the place where we were actually allowed to leave the car, a man approached and asked for our room number. And while, in hindsight, I probably could have come up with something like, “Todavia no sabemos el numero de nuestro cuarto,” I sort of panicked in the moment and said, “Estamos llegando!” to which the man laughed and said that it was clear we were new arrivals. And as we pulled our luggage out of the trunk, he offered to call security and J said it wasn’t necessary as the hotel was just across the street and then he told us a story about a woman he found crying because someone had stolen her $1000 necklace and he said it was best for us to just wait for someone to walk over with us.

By the time we were actually checked into our room, we were both pretty frazzled. We ended up having dinner in the restaurant downstairs. Wine helped. And I had the first of several arroz dishes.

Day Two

We woke up ready to kiss San Jose goodbye and to head north to Arenal.

The hotel served a pretty decent breakfast, including — get this — blueberry juice (…which I actually thought said “blackberry juice” at first…). I was *really* excited about it…but actually found it to be a little too sweet.

After breakfast, we got directions and returned to the Corolla…and were heading back to the airport in order to ultimately go north. However, while looking for Paseo Colon again, we somehow ended up going the wrong way on a one-way street and got all turned around (which made me feel bad as J was doing this big, brave thing by driving and I was supposed to be her trusty navigator…but I swear the map said it was a two-way street *and* there was a yellow line in the middle of the road)…but eventually we found another sign for el aeropuerto and proceeded on our three-and-a-half-hour drive. It was very, very green — a really pretty drive…and definitely not like any landscape I’d ever seen before. The turns were a little hairy…and there were lots of people walking along the sides of the roads — including wee little ones…and we kept seeing signs for “queso palmito…” although I don’t think we ever quite figured out what that was.

It was all worth it when we got to Arenal though. We had the cutest little bungalow with an amazing view out back of a very lush, tropical landscape. The focal point of all the resorts in the area — the very reason they exist, in fact (their raison d’etre!) — is Volcan Arenal. And everyone at our hotel kept telling us how lucky we were to be able to see the volcano that day…as oftentimes there is so much fog you can’t see it at all. (And, sure enough — when we woke up the next day, it was gone and we didn’t see it again the entire time we were there. So. We were lucky to have gotten pictures the first day. And this brings me to the first Alaskan Similarity: Seeing Denali [also known as Mount McKinley] is kind of a crapshoot as it is often hidden by clouds. Plus — Similarity #2 — we were in Costa Rica during the rainy season…which I thought was kind of like going to Alaska in the winter. Obviously the weather is different…but in both places, the off-season means lower prices and fewer tourists and it’s still really beautiful.)

We stuck close to home for lunch on that second day, opting to eat in the one restaurant on the hotel grounds. I ordered another “typical Costa Rican dish” that came with chicken, rice, plantains, salad, cheese (perhaps queso palmito?) and a fried egg that I gave to J.

Afterward, we (bravely) donned swimwear and headed down to the pool/spa where, luckily, we were the only guests for miles and miles. J jumped in the pool straightaway despite frigid temps, but I wasn’t as courageous. Instead, I stood with my feet submerged on the top step as a hotel employee walked by and shouted, “Hace frio?” and I said, “Si!” (one of the few words I can say with much authority) and I *believe* he suggested I jump in right away to get it over with. Eventually I did. But it was darn cold. Sooo…after a lap or two, we retreated to the spa…and before too long a bartender appeared — another one of the hotel employees who commented on how lucky we were to be able to see the volcano — and she asked us if we wanted anything to drink. (There was actually a bar right up along the pool’s edge…and I suppose that in the warmer months, you can swim right up and get yourself a drink.) The special on that particular day was a Coco Loco and so soon J and I found ourselves with drinks in coconuts.

We ate in the same restaurant that night…and, this is such a dorky thing to say, but…according to my notes, I had more arroz con pollo (I was big on anything labeled “typical plate” or that was somehow otherwise blatantly Costa Rican). We had tried to go to the supermercado in La Fortuna that afternoon to stock up on some basics and to perhaps not be beholden to that one restaurant…but there was an accident on the main road and we couldn’t get through.

And –- indulge me in one more small aside – -all the rice and beans sort of made me think of the Bartender as his stepfather is from Puerto Rico and he grew up eating lots of it and it’s what he cooked for himself over and over again after he hurt his foot and was out of work and couldn’t really afford to buy much else…and one of our crises this summer was promulgated by him being stupid after he said he was sick of rice and beans and I said, “You know I can cook, right?” and he said, “You’d cook for me?” and I said, “Of course I would!” and I proceeded to plan a totally elaborate meal with an Asian-style flank steak and pickled cucumbers and whatnot…and the night before he was slated to eat said meal, he texted me to say he was going to the Jersey Shore instead. A real gem, that boy. And…prepare to breathe a sigh of relief: When I was in Costa Rica, the relative smallness of the Bartender’s actual role in the grand scheme of things finally sort of hit me. He felt really far away…and, while I still miss him, it feels like something finally shifted. It could very well be that I felt the act of going to Costa Rica was really, totally 100% moving on with my life…and that this trip was about getting out and doing things that make me happy instead of wallowing in my apartment and getting droopy eyes every time I walk by his bar. Or something. I am even attempted to identify him by name in one final reckless act to close this particular chapter…like, say, Carrie Bradshaw with Big at the end of the series or Julie Powell with D at the end of Cleaving (…more on that in my next post…)…but, then again, there are some things about him that I’d like to hold close and keep just for me. (The end.)

For dessert, the restaurant offered us a tres leches cake…and we were too full to eat it that night, so we vowed to come back for it before we left for good. I had never had tres leches before, but J had fond memories of it growing up (I think) and said her sister had it at her wedding. This, of course, got the little wheels in my head moving and when I got back to reality, I did a quick search and found an Alton Brown recipe. My mother thinks Alton Brown is absolutely IT because he’s scientific and stuff. She is even willing to forsake our family pie crust recipe because she saw an episode of Alton’s show in which he said that a mixture of butter and lard makes for the perfect crust and he backed up his theory by explaining what fats bond to and whatnot. I admit that I, too, have been curious about using butter and/or lard…but I haven’t done so yet…and part of it is definitely because I’d feel like a traitor to my aunt and my great-grandmother. (And when J and I went back a day or two later, they were *out* of the tres leches cake…so I never actually got to try it there.)

Over our meal, we also talked about red velvet cake and J went off on a pretend tirade about how it isn’t really fair that we only use red food color…and I eventually vowed one day to try out blue velvet. (So…perhaps that will come after the Cleaving post…)

Day Three

Not a hugely early start. We had breakfast in the same restaurant…and we got lots of fruit again – including guava (I think…). But pineapple is still my favorite.

The ONE thing that J wanted to do while we were in Costa Rica was to zipline through the rainforest. I was less enthusiastic…but I wimped out of a somewhat similar experience in the sixth grade at a ropes course and so J was able to hold this over my head and to talk about how I had a great opportunity to do it over again and to conquer my fears and whatnot. So…I wanted to get the zipline over and done with early on so I wouldn’t have it hanging over my head the entire trip.

And…the hotel was nice and had given us a coupon for a free activity…so, with a heavy heart, I signed up to zipline through the rainforest on Day Three.

Since the hotel was more or less empty, I was hoping we would be the only ones on this zipline trip…but, alas, there were about ten other people, including four guides. J and I were the last to arrive, so we quickly got into our harnesses and I nervously made a joke about having a big head as one of the guides readjusted my helmet.

There were nine lines on this particular course. Another guide, Ishmael, explained to J and I how to use the brake on our right hand and he said that it was important to sit back and to try to be relaxed, etc., etc. I understood all of this more or less in theory. But when I finally looked down from the platform and saw where we were supposed to *go*, I was substantially less sure. It was SO high! And it was beautiful, to be sure…but it was SO HIGH!

J said she was nervous, but she sailed off down the line with the rest of them like an expert.

I was the last one. It was just me and Ishmael left on the first platform. He asked if I was okay. I said I didn’t know. He was nice and patient with me…but eventually I told myself that I was going to have to go sometime, so I finally let him let go of me…and, wow. I was really, REALLY tense and my hand with the brake kept flying off the line and that made me even *more* nervous and tense…and it was just so fast…

But when I got to the next platform, J (in waterproof pants!) was super-nice and very encouraging. She kept saying, “You’re ziplining through the rainforest! Isn’t that incredible??” But I just didn’t feel *quite* the same way about it. It *was* really beautiful. And I am certainly glad I did it…but it’s one of those things that I have crossed off the list of Things To Do Before I Die…and that’s it for me and ziplining, I think.

For the next two lines, it was just me and Ishmael on the platform again after everyone else had left…and it required a lot of encouragement for me to let go again. (I believe the poor guy had to listen to me say, “This wasn’t my idea! J wanted to do this! I’m here for her!” a little more than once…) It was so beautiful and green and, well, rainforesty…and unlike anything I have ever seen before…but I had to look straight ahead toward the end point and focus on that and that alone or I never would have made it. I could, however, sort of see all the pretty stuff in my peripheral vision…and despite all of the worries I had about falling or lines snapping, I *did* acknowledge how beautiful it was, too. (The guides kept saying to relax and enjoy the scenery, but…easier said than done, man.)

PLUS you were supposed to pull yourself up so they could hook you onto the line…but I have absolutely no upper body strength whatsoever (not to mention that I have been feeding feelings for months and months and have maybe never been so fat in my entire life)…and so…more elementary school flashbacks to those California State Physical Education Tests (or whatever they were called) and my inability to do a single pull-up. So, basically, I failed. And I hadn’t – or, heck, haven’t – failed at much in my short(-ish) life. But…despite my best efforts to pull my damn chin up over that damn pole, it never happened. And then we moved to Mississippi where no one had to take tests like that (…but…where further humiliation ensued after I joined the girls’ basketball team without realizing what I was getting myself into and ended up on the team with a certain Jennifer White who absolutely hated my guts because I was so bad and who went on – I believe – to play for the Mississippi State Bulldogs. [And, ironically, our mothers befriended each other in the stands while watching Jennifer win games and me warm benches…but that is a story for another day]).

So…after not pulling myself up on the line and having two distinct panic attacks, I found myself face-to-face with the longest of the ziplines: Number Three. And, boy, oh boy…after Ishmael let me go, I was cursing in my head to such an extent that I would have made sailors, longshoremen and car mechanics blush. (There was a mom along for the trip – her daughters, probably aged 7 or 8 and 11ish, put me to shame – who told me that it helped to scream…but I couldn’t bring myself to actually do that. It was silent terror.)

And as I was gearing up for the fourth line and wondering how on earth I could do this six more times, Ishmael finally said, “Do you want me to go with you?” And I excitedly said, “Yes!”

This solved everything. With Ishmael behind me, I no longer had to worry about how/when to brake…and it was completely comforting to think that if I was going to fall into the rainforest below, a strange man was coming down with me.

He was really sweet about it – when we were gearing up to go on the next platform, he called himself my “private taxi” and hooked his line up to mine again. And it was, like, such a damsel in distress moment that I couldn’t help but think of him as my hero a little bit…although, sadly, even though the zipline guys had a little hut on the hotel grounds and we had to walk by it to go to the restaurant and stuff, I never saw him again after that trip. Wistful sigh…

After two lines together, he asked if I thought I could go alone again…and I begrudgingly said I could…and then he said he’d go with me on the final line, which perked me up immensely. And I found that the guides were right and it really *did* help to be more relaxed…although, as noted, it was not easy to do.

And there was also a strange intimacy associated with ziplining…by which I mean Ishmael could get away with saying things like, “Wrap your legs around me!” and he wasn’t just being skeevy.

Later, J and I were in the hot tub and reminiscing about our adventure and I spoke of a moment on one of the platforms when I had been hooked up on the line but was waiting for Ishmael – and I had perhaps just moments earlier confessed my schoolgirl crush, which, in hindsight, may have accounted for her line of thinking – and I was sort of swinging around and not in complete control of myself when I accidentally kneed one of the other guides in the crotch. So…I said to J, “I kneed him in the crotch,” and J looked totally horrified and I said, “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to!” and a wave of relief spread over her face and she said, “Oh! I thought you were saying, ‘I need him in the crotch.’”

After Line Nine was in the can, the guys offered an optional rappelling adventure and I was sort of torn…on the one hand, I felt like I should do it because I was in Costa Rica and when on earth was I going to have another opportunity to go rappelling down a waterfall? But, on the other hand, I had already done a really brave thing that day…and when I realized that I really hadn’t paid attention to what the guy was saying about how to lower yourself off the platform, I figured I had probably had enough boundary extension for one day.

J was brave though. She rappelled.

As I waited for her by the bus, one of the guides pointed out a bat in a banana tree…and lots of vampire jokes ensued. (Blame Twilight?)

Then there was lots of rain and fog…and the volcano was totally obscured – it was like it wasn’t even there…which, again, sort of reminded me of trying to spot Denali in Alaska. Sometimes you get lucky and it’s a clear day…but when it’s cloudy, you get bupkus. We finally understood why everyone had said it was such a big deal the day before. We were concerned it was perhaps *too* foggy to drive to La Fortuna, but we were sick of the restaurant, so we decide to brave it anyway. There, we stocked up on platanos tostados (my absolute favorite), empanadas, and some sort of cheese sticks, among other comestibles…and we had a little picnic on our patio. There was a cat wandering the hotel grounds that appeared again…and I wanted to take her photo, but J initially chastised me for trying to exploit the poor animal…and later relented when she was annoyed that the cat wouldn’t go away.

Day Four

We had to get a really early start because a bus was stopping by to pick us up and take us to Cano Negro. (We still managed to sneak in breakfast at the restaurant though. More plantains. Which, as noted, I love.)

We had two guides, both named Javier. And after stopping at two more hotels to pick up an additional couple/family, one Javier drove while the other regaled us with folklore. Our first stop was an iguana refuge that Javier alluded to by telling us that the particular animal we were about to see is known as, “chicken of the tree.” (Plus, fun fact: Males are bright orange.)

Javier asked us if anybody in the group spoke Spanish…and then he made the dos cervezas joke that everyone seems to make after asking if anyone knows Spanish (“The only thing you need to know how to say is, “Dos cervezas, por favor…”).

When we finally got to Las Chiles, we boarded a pontoon boat…which sort of reminded me of a scene from the African Queen…

The driver of the boat was known as “Eagle Eyes” because of his incredible ability to spot animals…and he was totally deserving of the name. And this was yet another part of the trip that reminded me of Alaska — Similarity Three — the boat ride was sort of like taking the bus in Denali…you have to keep your eyes peeled and what you see over the course of the day is totally a crapshoot. But…as soon as someone sees something and shouts, “Stop!” the bus (or boat) will pull over and everyone oohs and ahhs and takes pictures and then you all set off again…I was a little worried at first because there was a birdwatching couple from England that repeatedly spotted birds…and we initially stopped for each one and Javier explained what it was…and, you know, I like birds as much as the next guy…but I was really jonesing for some monkeys. Luckily, after we’d more or less seen one of each of the birds they have in Cano Negro, the guide politely acknowledged the couples’ subsequent discoveries, but we didn’t pull over anymore. (And then little boy on shore waved at us. And my biological clock began ticking just a little louder…)

And then…a sloth! And howler monkeys (including an orange one that Javier said had a genetic abnormality that happens when the grandfather is also the father)! And another kind of monkey (perhaps spider?)! And capuchin monkeys! And caimans! (Caimen?) It was really quite something.

We crossed over the Nicaraguan border very briefly — really only long enough to take a picture of the “Welcome to Nicaragua” sign and to turn around. But, technically speaking, I have been to Nicaragua now. (Sort of like Kentucky. I was there for about 15 minutes this summer while we were killing time. It was really only long enough to take a picture of some chickens. So…not sure if I can count it on my list of new states this year…which, for the record otherwise numbers five: New Mexico, Texas, Arkansas, Virginia and Colorado.)

We went back down the Rio Frio, where we saw more birds, bats and another sloth. Javier warned us that you have to be really careful with your camera on beaches as capuchin monkeys really like shiny objects and will run up and steal them from you if you are not vigilant.

And I swear this wasn’t all that I ate, but after we disembarked, we stopped off for more arroz con pollo before the hour-long drive back to Arenal. There, J began talking to a couple from Houston who were in Costa Rica celebrating their anniversary and who really liked Vancouver as well…and they said they had recently visited New York, but hated it…in part because, as the husband said, there are too many foreigners.

It was mostly quiet on the drive back to Arenal…along the way, we stopped off at a farm where we saw some more animals and ate a cassava-cheese thing that was kind of the same consistency as a lemon bar. I liked it.

By then, it was raining again…but we were really lucky that the weather was so nice while we were on the river. It rains eight months out of the year there…which, again, is sort of like Alaska (in that winter — like the rainy season — is really, really long).

That night, J and I returned to the hot tub…where there were a group of youngsters cavorting…including a couple of boys who cut up limes and dropped them into their shorts and squealed.

Day Five

I got up early to go horseback riding. J had opted out of this particular activity…but it had been SO long since I’d been horseback riding and I really wasn’t sure when I would have a chance to do it again, so I decided it was worth going sola. But, unlike the zipline adventure that I had hoped would be just me and J, the morning horseback ride turned out to actually be just me and the guide, Alex.

My horse’s name was Eclipse. Alex asked me how long it had been since I’d ridden a horse and I did some quick math and came up with a 17-year estimate. And…Eclipse trotted and galloped a lot faster than anything I remembered…plus, it was raining and everything was muddy and slippery. The ol’ boy even got up to a canter at one point – which, when I was taking lessons as a girl, was the really big, scary thing that took me a long time to do.

While I was getting ready that morning, I wanted to wear my yellow pants…but because it was raining so much, I *had* to bring my rain jacket…which, unfortunately, is yellow…and I didn’t want to look like I belonged on Deadliest Catch…so I went with my red pants instead…but then Alex gave me a blue helmet…so I ended up looking like a character on a children’s television show (Or worse.).

We saw a howler monkey at the very beginning…but, despite Alex’s best effort to hoot at it, it didn’t make a peep. We also saw a lot of vultures and some toucans…but, sadly, the toucans were sort of hard to make out (distinctive beaks, I guess…but that’s about it…) and so Toucan Sam remains my benchmark. (I hate to whip out Alaska again, but I was really excited about seeing puffins for the first time at Prince William Sound [also where I saw otters in the wild for the first time…]. They’re so tiny! And I think this is maybe Similarity #5?)

The ride was really rainy and muddy…and, like I said, Alex kept telling me to make kissy noises at the horse to make him go faster, but I was perfectly happy with taking a more leisurely pace. (Alex also kept calling me, “Vacara!” and “Cowgirl!”) There were lots of rocks and streams and stuff…so we definitely got out beyond where I ever could have possibly walked on foot…and it was all worth it when we got into the rainforest…which was my absolute favorite part. It was so beautiful and green and just like I had always pictured it (instead of, you know, sort of taking it in peripherally as I flew by in the trees)…

We ran into another group along the way…but, as noted, my Spanish is perhaps less than conversational…and so other than, “Buenas!” I was pretty much out. There was a big lake near the volcano that had lots of water lilies in it and Alex had me bring Eclipse out into the middle of it so he could take a picture of me and the horse in the water. (Alex was really sweet and took a lot of photos of me and the horse along with way…which is just one of the reasons it is so unfortunate that I looked like such a buffoon.)

Unfortunately, we couldn’t see the volcano again because of the fog…but Alex still had me tie up my horse when we reached the top of the mountain so we could give him a breather…which I maybe thought was a little strange as the other group came up right behind us, but went on without a break. And then Alex asked me how old I am and if I am married and it was a little awkward…and I, in turn, asked him all the questions I could possibly think to ask…but then I ran out and we were still just sort of sitting there and I was trying to think about how to nicely ask about when we were going to untie the horses and hit the road again…but finally — after an interminably long break — we took off again.

On the way back, Alex took us through a pen with a bunch of bulls in it — big, huge bulls with jowly necks — and I guess he could tell I was maybe a little nervous as he said, “Don’t worry! Bulls are afraid of horses!” I am not entirely sure I believe him…but, no harm, no foul…and I guess in hindsight, it is kind of fun to be able to say that I rode a horse among Costa Rican bulls.

Along the way down, we ran into the owner of the bulls…who was also on horseback. He was wearing a black cape and had a black cowboy hat and his horse was black, too, and Alex took a picture of him giving me a thumb’s up and I couldn’t help but think that he looked like a Black Bart-type character.

Alex said we should keep our eyes peeled for wild pigs on the way back…and I was tempted to ask about whether they are javelinas as my parents have wild pigs near *their* house…but I was still feeling a little awkward from our “Why are you not married?”-conversation at the top of the mountain and it was still raining and my pants were soaked through and I had a pool of water in the hood of my jacket and, while enjoyable and memorable and everything, I was sort of ready to be done with the whole thing. (We didn’t find any pigs anyway.)

And, you know, the whole time I was thinking, “Boy, Lisa, you’re really going to pay for this tomorrow,” and I was scared that I was going to be sore forever…but, amazingly, I was fine. If anything, my stomach muscles hurt after ziplining…and I really didn’t even pull myself onto the line all that much. One of the poor guides (not my beloved Ishmael) had to help me. (Cringe.) Is it perhaps possible that worrying can make your stomach muscles hurt?

In the hot tub that night, J and I met a guy named Jeff from Jacksonville…who was a big surfer and was talking about perhaps moving to Costa Rica…at least for six months out of the year so he can catch lots of gnarly waves. He seemed rather disappointed with Arenal as he couldn’t see the volcano and there wasn’t much of a nightlife there. At dinner, J said that if I wanted him, he was all mine. I had – not arroz con anything! – tilapia a lo macho…which was supposed to be spicy…but either I am tough or it wasn’t that bad. And…I had seen a lot about a beer called Imperial, which billed itself “La cerveza de Costa Rica,” and this was the first night that I tried it. Good stuff. (Although every meathead American guy at the airport was wearing an Imperial t-shirt on the way home, so it may just be that I have bad taste…)

Day Six

We had to finally say goodbye to Hotel Montana de Fuego. And…I was kind of sad about it. I had gotten (mildly) attached to our cute little bungalow and – here’s unequivocal proof of how clingy I am – I would officially never see Ishmael ever again. (I also finally summoned up the courage to take a picture of the oxcart at the restaurant there by thinking about my mother’s “What are you worried about?? You’re never going to see these people ever again!”-advice.)

J expertly maneuvered our Corolla back down south to Alajuela (which, we learned, is far superior to San Jose when it comes to accommodations near to the airport. MUCH more low-key). We wanted to eventually head further south to Manuel Antonio, but to sneak in a tour of a coffee plantation while we were at it…and Alajuela seemed the perfect halfway point.

We tried to retrace our steps…but it got a little confusing in San Ramon…which was the first place I had to pop out to ask for directions. (By the end of the day, I had never said, “Estamos buscando X y no sabemos donde estamos,” so many times in my life.)

Along the way, we stopped off for more plantain chips…but, sadly, these weren’t as good as those first ones from that supermercado in La Fortuna. (I think they had some lime. SO good.)

We had a devil of a time finding our hotel…it was on the same road as a giant aviary called “Zoo Ave” and I got a lot of mileage out of saying, “Estamos buscando Zoo Ave…” and then we saw a sign that said the hotel was in 1200 meters (damn the metric system!) and I swore we had gone 1200 meters and then some and there was no sign of a hotel and so we stopped at a furniture store and I used my phrase on a guy on a motorcycle…and, while he hadn’t heard of our hotel specifically, he told me that all of the hotels were down to our left…and I really wanted to say, “But there’s a sign right over there that says our hotel is in 1200 meters!” But, alas, I could not…and so I was pointing to where the sign was and trying to say something about the hotel as he was saying, “There are no hotels that way!” So, sadly, after all those Spanish classes in high school and college, I was left on that street in Alajuela, thinking, “How in the hell do you say, ‘sign’?” Sigh again.

We *did* finally find it though…and it was a cute little cabiny room…with a very bizarre showerhead.

J and I were *supposed* to go on the 3:30 tour at Doka Estate…but, alas, we got really lost again…and I tried to use my phrase…but to no avail. (The guy who owned our hotel in Alajuela was a very chatty Canadian who later told us that Ticos – that’s Costa Ricans – find it very rude not to answer a question…and so sometimes they will tell you something just to tell you something.) So…we totally missed our tour, but were determined to find the damn Estate so that we wouldn’t have so much trouble the following morning…and the lady at the front desk at our hotel had said that we’d just go two kilometers and then turn left and then go another two kilometers until we got to the fork in the road and then turn right and then we’d see tons of signs…but…we didn’t see any signs…and facil it was not.

Along the way, we *almost* stopped off for dinner at a place called El Mirador that was supposed to have amazing views…but we ended up going back to our hotel and then walking to a seafood joint called La Princesa that had a giant anchor out front (it was one of the landmarks they gave us when giving us directions to Doka Estate). I had more rice and shrimp and Imperial…and we ordered tres leches…but J didn’t like it very much. I liked the flavor…but thought the texture was a little bit like watery cheesecake.

On the walk back home, we saw giant leafcutter ants all in a line, each carrying a single leaf. And…it wasn’t exactly a restful night as there were very loud Englishmen outside *and* there was a storm.

Day Seven

In an attempt *not* to get lost again, we got very long-winded directions from the Canadian guy who owned the hotel.

And, as luck would have it, we *thought* we had found Doka Estate the evening before, but…really all we had found was one of the signs…and so we had to keep going up the hill and we still sort of struggled to find the damn place…even after all that legwork from the day before.

We *finally* arrived at about 10:15 and were luckily able to sneak into the 10:00 tour that only included one couple from Michigan. There, we learned lots and lots about coffee-making from a guide who reminded me a lot of my friend Carmen. And there was unlimited free coffee at the end of the tour.

We got a little lost on the way back, but we ended up finding a gas station…so sort of kismet.

Afterward, we wanted to make our way to Manuel Antonio…and the Canadian guy had sworn up and down that the route was easy and there would be signs and stuff. And, luckily, he was right! It was a good three-plus-hour drive…but we didn’t get lost! And there were lots of signs! And we crossed a bridge that had crocodiles underneath and were able to pull off and see them and get right back in the car and go on our merry way…and the monkey hotel (when I read its motto was, “Still more monkeys than people,” I was totally sold) had room for us even though we didn’t have a reservation…and we got a room that looked like it was straight out of Swiss Family Robinson that was pretty much all windows and wood…and had a giant sliding door and two rocking chairs that said “Costa Rica” on the seats out front. Plus, our towels were folded into hearts and the toilet paper was folded into flowers. (I am easily impressed.) And the view from the pool was amazing and open and tropical and very much paradise-y…

We had an early dinner at a restaurant called the Anaconda (which made me think of the big butt song) and a bat flew by us over and over as we looked out on the trees and the water and swooned. I had a weird melony drink and J helped me compose a list of traits of my ideal man. (If you’re a brunette with big arms, you’re still in the running!)

Day Eight

Official Manuel Antonio Day. I was *really* looking forward to this day as the park was supposed to be crawling with wildlife. And even though I eventually outgrew the ape/monkey phase inspired by my report on orangutans in the sixth grade, I still really like them and have never had an opportunity to see them in the wild before.

The park was only a short drive from our hotel…so we quickly encountered a guy with a whistle who blew us over and told us where to park and tried to talk us into taking a tour with him. We had heard mixed reviews of these tours (including invaluable advice from Jeff from Jacksonville) and decided we might as well try to go into the park on our own as Jeff advised and that if the trip was totally a bust, we could easily go back the next day and cough up money for a guide. (This particular guide told us that we would only see two lizards the entire day if we attempted to go on our own, but he finally relented when we said we’d maybe be back…)

But as we were walking toward the park, we saw him blowing his whistle at other cars…but they ignored him and swerved around…and he had also said that the park was in 500 meters, but there was a sign around the corner as clear as day that said the park was in 1 kilometer…and then we sort of put two and two together and decided to move the car to a more accessible location.

And…even without a guide, we were still able to sort of mooch off of the tour groups in the park as we knew there would be animals wherever they were stopped. Howler monkeys were easy to spot because they’re so damn loud…but sloths were harder and were where mooching really paid off.

We eventually made it out to a beach and I took a photo of the “Don’t feed the monkeys”-sign while desperately hoping I would see some actual monkeys.

Out on the beach, J found some tadpoles in a pool in some rocks…and I followed behind but then slipped and fell in my dumb tennis shoes…and my knee really hurt…so I was perfectly happy to sit on the beach for awhile afterward while J went swimming. So…as I sat there and watched J swim and marveled at how pretty it was and pondered what to do with my life, a raccoon appeared behind me…and it surprised me, so I jumped up…and, remember that shopping bag that doubled as my purse? Well…that ballsy little raccoon came right up to where I was sitting and made a grab for it and I wasn’t quite sure what to do…but luckily a man saw what was happening and shouted and clapped at him and the raccoon ran away without my bag. (I got a photo of him though…)

And…after J was finished swimming and had showered off and everything, we walked back…and decided to pop off on one of the other trails called El Mirador. And…this is where it all happened. Out on the trail, we found so many capuchin monkeys! And they were right above our heads! And they were eating berries and talking to us…(and, yes, pooping…). And it was just so incredible — it was one of those things I will always remember. I never wanted it to end. And then on the way back, we saw more howler monkeys and sloths. It was quite a successful morning!

We had lunch at a quite little spot in Quepos called Cafe Milagro and then hung out by the pool with the magical view for awhile before changing into fancier duds and hitting up Salsipuedes (one of my favorite names *ever*) for tapas and one of the most beautiful (and fast!) sunsets I have ever seen and a black cat that ended up in my lap. I then talked J into a cantina crawl, so we hit up El Avion, La Cantina and Anaconda again…except this time they were playing that song about hos in different area codes and I was once again able to marvel at the fact that I have lived in SO MANY different places and yet the only area codes I know in that song are from Georgia and New York. And — funny enough — there was a big flat screen TV at one of the bars on which you could watch — get this — the CU/OSU game en vivo. So. A bizarre little reminder of home smack-dab in the middle of Central America.

Day Nine

Our trip was coming to an end…so we had to say goodbye to the monkey hotel, too, and make our way back to Alajuela once again.

But, as our hotel had bragged about having more monkeys than people, I really wanted to go out on one of the trails to find some of the little buggers before we left…but, alas, it was wet and there was a precipitous drop and so J and I decided to quit while we were ahead and we made our way back toward the middle of the country. The drive was pretty much okay…although we got lost a little bit more than we did on the way there…and Hotel Orquideas had a room for us (despite all of my worries that we would be high and dry without reservations for every single night that we were there…). The hotel even had a Marilyn Monroe-themed bar, where we spent the early part of our final evening there…and then we retired to our room, where I happened to catch my very favorite Costa Rican TV commercial one last time. (I *believe* it was for a deodorant…and it showed women in long sleeves who lifted their arms toward the sky and then their sleeves shot off and turned into fireworks. I cannot *believe* that I did not think to write down the name so I could search for it on YouTube.)

And, with that, Costa Rica was basically over. And soooo is my blog post.

This recipe, which requires no cooking,comes from England, but it is amazing similar to American Key Lime Pie.

Ingredients:

2 cups crushed Butter Biscuits of any kind (Henry Biscuits, or Graham Crackers)

5 Tbsp. of freshly-squeezed lemon juice (slightly tart) or T. (less tart) , to taste

3 Tbsp. of sifted powdered sugar (omit with Graham crackers)

1/4 tsp. extra-fine salt (omit with Graham crackers)

2/3 cup of melted butter

1 egg

1 tin sweetened, condensed milk

PREPARATION:

1.  Crush biscuits into crumbs. In a large mixing bowl, add powdered sugar and salt; mix well.

2.  Melt butter, and mix well with crumb mixture.  Press into pie dish. (This makes a thick crust in a pie dish, and a thinner crust in a square or rectangular dish.)

2.  Blend together sweetened consdensed milk, lemon juice, and egg, using wire whisk.

3.  Pour onto biscuit mixture, and chill in fridge.

ENJOY!

Variation with Cream Topping:

Whip together 1 cup of whipping cream, 1/2 tsp. vanilla, a pinch of salt, and 2 Tbsp. sifted powdered sugar.  Spread over lemon mixture.

Time: 1 1/2 hours, plus chilling

3 medium-size ripe tomatoes
3/4 teaspoon chipotle powder, or to taste
4 ribs of celery, cut in 2 inch pieces
Juice of 1 1/2 oranges
Juice of 1 1/2 limes
Salt to taste.

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Halve and core tomatoes, place cut-side up in a baking dish with a half-inch of water, dust with chipotle powder and roast 1 hour. Allow to cool.

Peel tomatoes, chop and mix in a blender with celery and citrus juices. Season to taste with salt and, if desired, more chipotle. Chill.

Yield: 3 cups, about 12 servings.

30 anni dopo, cosa salvare degli anni ‘80?

e dove eravate?

sempre fuori posto eh…ma vi boccio, certo che vi boccio

My first attempt at pie was a huge hit with the family. It’s a sweet, no bake one, using a lot of white chocolate. But if white chocolate’s not your thing the combination of that with the tart lusciousness of key lime will make this a favorite.

This was super easy to make and a great way for me to get my feet wet in the land of pies.I went with a store bought crust to take some of the stress out of this adventure into the unknown. If key limes aren’t available in your area, use regular limes – they will work well and make a delicious pie too!

When it’s all done just be sure you don’t keep it too close to the front of your fridge like we did or on day 2 when visions of white chocolate and lime fairies are dancing in your head….splat…

When I lived in Florida, Key Lime Pie was everywhere. Now that I’m across the country I found myself missing this treat and was very happy to find key limes in my supermarket. I didn’t know much about what made a key lime different from a standard lime. I’ve since learned they are smaller and lighter in color than the commonly found Persian lime and grown in the Florida Keys. The homesick Florida girl in me couldn’t wait to give this a try and only wishes I could have had a grouper sandwich as my main course (but that ain’t happening in the California desert)!

Give it a try and let me know what you think!

Ingredients

• 1  cup  whipping cream
• 1  (11-ounce) package white chocolate morsels
• 1  tablespoon  sour cream
• 1  teaspoon  grated lime rind
• 1/3  cup  fresh Key lime or lime juice
• 1  (9-inch) ready-made graham cracker crust or your favorite prepared recipe
• Garnish: lime slices

Preparation

Combine cream and white chocolate morsels in a medium saucepan over low heat. Cook 5 minutes or until morsels melt, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Add sour cream, lime rind, and juice; stir well. Pour into crust. Cover and chill at least 8 hours. Garnish, if desired.

Adapted from recipe by George Spriggs, Tybee Island, Georgia, Coastal Living, MARCH 2004

VIDEO OF ORPHANS & LIMES PROGRAM TO CAITLIN CROSBY’S TODAY

I’m so beat right now. Julia and I went to the gym this morning and then came back for a little and went straight to Limes. We left Limes a little early to go to the beach with Heather, Jon, and Nate. Josh’s bus was too late unfortunately. And then, tomorrow morning the plan is that Julia, Heather, Rachel and I are all going river tubing with the other S.O’s.  I have no idea what to expect. Hopefully the water isn’t too rough.

This Is It was sad as anything. Although, Heather almost got into a fight with the person sitting behind her. He was singing the whole time and kicking her chair to the beat. And when he wasn’t singing he was sucking on a popcorn kernel really loudly. People are stupid. Seriously.

The hardest part of this recipe is finding the conch. You will probably have to go to a market that specializes in just seafood because most grocery stores don’t carry it. You can’t get fresh conch in the US, but most seafood shops carry previously frozen conch. You will need about a pound for this recipe. When you purchase it, ask the store clerk if they will tenderize it for you. This basically consists of beating the conch with a mallet which makes it much more tender.

Cut the conch meat into bite sized pieces, about 1/2 inch. Discard any orange or grey sections that may still be on the meat, as this is very tough and hard to chew.

Dice up some fresh tomatoes (remove the seeds from the tomatoes), green pepper, red peppers and onions into small pieces, about the same size as the conch meat.

Very finely chop up a couple of hot peppers. If you want a very spicy salad as I do, use a habenero or scotch bonnet pepper.  They are very small, but very hot. If you want less heat, use a jalapeno. Add the pepper a little bit at a time and taste the salad as you add it. Stop adding the hot pepper when it has just the right amount of spice for you. This step is optional, but it totally changes the flavor of the salad if you leave it out.

Squeeze the juice of about 6 limes into the mixture and then add salt to taste. Stir completely as to coat every piece and refrigerate for several hours or overnight. The longer it marinates in the better it tastes.

copied from ehow with thanks to sflasusie

my weasel-pop in his basket. i miss my kitties.

I forgot to mention but today one of the kids from Limes brought in a newborn kitten, like literally a few days old … in a garbage bag. It was awful and thankfully she took it home and hopefully fed it and took care of it instead of flinging it around the way she was. It was crying. The poor thing’s eyes weren’t even open yet! I know I get too emotional when it comes to animals but I just couldn’t believe she had it in a garbage bag.

I actually did a lot today. I ended up going to Limes which I hadn’t planned on doing, and now I’m exhausted. This morning all the dogs got out so I called Heather to help me round them up. Bengal, Sheba, and Bella were the easiest to get back in the gate because they’re the smallest. Chucky went running all through Monte Tout with his big ol’ tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. Daisy doesn’t listen ever when I call her so she was a lost cause as well. Plus, the last time she got out I managed to get her by the collar and she’s so heavy she knocked me to the side and got free again.

Anyway, eventually they came back and now all the dogs are safe and happily barking at the people passing by outside. Either Bengal or Sheba is just going nuts right now, yapping away.

I went to campus for awhile and had lunch with Josh and his friends. Then I came back and got ready for Limes. After Limes, which was hectic as usual, I did the dishes and cleaned the stove top. We cook with a lot of oil and it just makes an awful mess. I’ll have to clean it again tomorrow morning because I just couldn’t get it all right now.

So as busy as I was, I still found myself really missing my friends today. Josh says keeping busy is the key but I think it’s just how you feel sometimes. Ashley and I are currently playing around on this website she found called Funtastic Face and making silly pictures of each other.

I don’t want to waste my time in Grenada just wishing I was home but it is hard some days. And then other days I’m great. I guess it’s just something I’ll have to realize is going to happen.

But since I was missing my friends I thought I’d post some pictures. If you’re not pictured it’s not because I don’t love you! I’m just lazy and only posted a few pictures. ♥

weirdos!

soon to be mrs.chisholm!

harper's bazaar's number one intern!

my girlies! steve calls us (from l to r) og deb, mexican deb, and baby deb.

2 1/2 tsp. lemon-lime Crystal Light® powder
1/4 cup lime juice
3 cups water
3 cups crushed ice
Lime slices
Coarse salt

In blender, combine the Crystal Light, lime juice, water, and crushed ice. Cover and blend until frothy. Transfer to pitcher; garnish with lime slices. Serve in salt-rimmed cocktail glasses. To prepare glasses: Rub the rim of each cocktail glass with a little lime juice. Invert glass in a shallow dish of salt; shake off excess salt.

Makes 6 servings.

Citrus fruit ready to squeeze

I’ve been feeling a cold coming on, so I’ve been drinking a citrus concoction that my husband heard about from a friend.  You squeeze one lime, one lemon, one orange, and one grapefruit and then combine the juices in a saucepan.  Heat until just boiling, and then pour into a cup.  This blast of citrus did knock out my sore throat.  And I’m going to keep drinking this citrus bomb until my stuffy sinuses clear.  Wish me luck.

A nice simple  and sweet recipe for everyone’s favourite jam. I remember eating lemon curd at my Great Grandparents after school when I was young. My granddad would watch horse racing and smoke his pipe while my Nana made me jam sandwiches, tea and a bourbon biscuit. This recipe makes one jar (2 lemons a jar, I would say).

What You Need:

2 Lemons (rind and juice), 2 whole eggs, 2 egg yolks, 150g preserve sugar, 100g unsalted butter.

First whisk the eggs and sugar until combined. Melt the butter in a saucepan, add the egg mixture and the lemon juice and rind. On a low heat, keep stirring the yellow sweetness until thick, take off the heat and cool. Put the mixture in a nice sterilised recycled jar, store in the refrigerator. You could also try the recipe with limes, cranberries or tangerines for delectable variety.

Simple and Sweet, Lemon Curd-tastic.

Come sarà l’Italia dopo Berlusconi? Questo il tema di un seminario organizzato da Lo Spazio della Politica (LSDP) a Roma e intitolato Ci sarà una volta l’Italia: idee e scenari per la politica di domani (qui il video integrale dell’evento).

Una analisi che prosegue il lavoro de LSDP iniziato insieme a Limes, e che si propone di analizzare il fenomeno Berlusconi per poterlo comprendere e superare. Il che è oggi una vera e propria necessità: la comprensione è infatti indispensabile se è vero che l’Italia, dal 1993 a oggi, è stata “l’Italia di Berlusconi”. Nelle parole di Moris Gasparri:

La presenza di Berlusconi, non solo delle sue azioni e dichiarazioni ma anche e soprattutto del suo racconto biografico, è oggi talmente centrale nella vita pubblica italiana che le stesse agende dei suoi rivali politici sono modellate sulla sua comunicazione.

Una centralità talmente ingombrante da rendere impossibile ogni riflessione seria sul futuro del Paese. Per questo 

qualsiasi scenario alternativo va rivolto all’Italia dopo Berlusconi. 

Da cui la necessità di superare il berlusconismo. Che ha impedito di affrontare le reali questioni poste al Paese dai mutamenti economici, sociali e geopolitici, sostituite da infiniti dibattiti sulla vita privata e gli interessi personali del Premier. E che ha ridotto l’italia a uno “stato fallito“, nelle parole di Marc Lazar, in cui si assiste a uno stato di “transizione democratica” verso una “democrazia esausta” che, pur non configurandosi come un regime, mette a repentaglio il funzionamento e la legittimità delle più alte cariche istituzionali.

Il seminario è partito da queste iniziali riflessioni, che riassumono una serie di documenti preparati da Alessandro Aresu, Matteo Scurati e Moris Gasparri, tra gli altri, per poi passare alle sollecitazioni, provocazioni e proposte degli invitati, ovvero Alberto Castelvecchi (editore), Andrea Romano (direttore di Italia Futura), Lucio Caracciolo (direttore di Limes) e Angelo Mellone (editorialista de Il Tempo). 

Quali scenari sono emersi per l’Italia dopo Berlusconi? Fondamentalmente, tre:

1. Una continuità con l’attuale politica centrata sulla gestione di emergenze, e dunque l’instaurarsi di una “protezione civile allargata” che sia in grado di rispondere alla sempre maggiore richiesta di sicurezza dell’opinione pubblica, derivante dal costante stato di allarme in cui è tenuta dall’informazione. In questa prospettiva, Aresu parla di uno “zar della sicurezza”, di una “moltiplicazione di Bertolaso“. A raccogliere l’eredità di Berlusconi sarebbe, dunque, un governo di tecnocrati. 

2. Un momento di forte conflittualità politica che potrebbe sfociare nel caos e nella crisi di un sistema che, nel bene o nel male, trovava in Berlusconi l’amalgama e la chiave di volta. Caracciolo considera questa la più plausibile alternativa al governo dei tecnocrati.

3. Una forte conflittualità che però sia contenuta all’interno di due proposte politiche di radicale rinnovamento del Paese. Questa visione, sposata da Romano e Mellone, non immagina scenari apocalittici, ma invita a considerare con realismo politico tutti quei cambiamenti che sono avvenuti nel quindicennio berlusconiano nonostante Berlusconi (si pensi alla modernizzazione del mercato del lavoro), e che permetterebbero dunque al sistema di sopravvivere anche in sua assenza.

Quest’ultima ipotesi sembra la più auspicabile se è vero che ciò di cui il Paese ha maggiormente bisogno sono riforme strutturali da compiersi al più presto e in svariati settori della vita statale (dagli ammortizzatori sociali alle pensioni, dalla scuola alla pubblica amministrazione). Mettendo così fine al dominio delle “4 b” (Bossi, Brunetta, Bertolaso, Bondi) su cui si regge la B di Berlusconi, e che strangola il riformismo; disancorando l’autobiografia del Cavaliere da quella del Paese; rendendo possibile  il racconto di tutto quel sistema di potere, ora taciuto, in cui Berlusconi non entra, ma che va compreso per affrontare con successo le sfide in serbo per l’Italia di domani. Castelvecchi ne elenca alcune manifestazioni: la sostituzione di 119 linee di management alla Fiat in pochi mesi; l’affidamento dello sviluppo tecnologico del Paese a McKinsey; i 4 miliardi di disponibilità liquide di Caltagirone; il consolidamento di Finmeccanica. Tutti fenomeni in cui Berlusconi, se provasse a interferire, farebbe “la figura dell’utile idiota“. 

Restano da comprendere le domande di Moris Gasparri: se Repubblica nel dopo Berlusconi decidesse di porre le sue famose 10 domande su temi quali l’energia o la sanità, ci sarebbero leader politici in grado di rispondere? Come si formeranno e come verranno selezionate le classi dirigenti nel dopo Berlusconi? Chi porrà quelle domande? Che ruolo avrà l’opinione pubblica? 

Così come va affrontata la critica rivolta da Mellone al lavoro de LSDP, che soffrirebbe dello stesso problema che denuncia, in quanto incapace di liberarsi della figura “paterna” (e, come visto, ingombrante) di Berlusconi. Sembra cioè che l’intera riflessione voglia allo stesso tempo affrontare Berlusconi e liberarsene, nell’impossibile tentativo di tenere insieme un presente che annienta il pensiero del futuro, e un futuro che rigetta il presente. Mellone chiede a LSDP di compiere il “parricidio”, anche se si guarda bene dall’indicare il come.

Di questo e di altri aspetti problematici sollevati durante il seminario ho deciso di parlare con Lo Spazio della Politica, che ha gentilmente risposto alle mie domande. 

[ilNichilista] (Ad Alessandro Aresu) Parlando di una delle quattro B contenute dentro la B di Berlusconi, quella di Brunetta, hai fatto riferimento alla politica paranoica di Richard Hofstadter. Puoi spiegare brevemente in cosa consista e in che modo si relazioni al ministro Brunetta? E ancora: è forse un concetto applicabile all’Italia dopo Berlusconi?

[Aresu] La formula di Hofstadter, che io ho compendiato in “politica paranoica”, è lo “stile paranoico della politica americana“, che ho conosciuto attraverso un libro ancora attualissimo di Anatol Lieven, “Giusto o sbagliato è l’America”, ed è importante per capire un fenomeno significativo come il complottismo. Lo stile paranoico riguarda la presenza di due interessi che non possono avviare un processo politico di contrattazione e compromesso, perché non si riconoscono come legittimi. La politica paranoica perciò è il non riconoscimento che sminuisce ogni processo politico (e in particolare i grandi processi riformisti), portando a un blocco. La ritrovo in Brunetta perché il ministro effettivamente propone qualcosa, parla di “rivoluzioni in corso”, ma le porta avanti contro una parte con cui non accetta alcun compromesso, ed è in parte costituita da “fannulloni”, “culturame”, “élite di merda” complottanti. Perciò questa supposta rivoluzione di un ministro chiave, e che è giunto al suo incarico in modo inaspettato (in quel posto per mesi è stato indicato Lucio Stanca), viene sminuita o rischia di risolversi in una sequela di vaffa che non fa parte dell’azione efficace di un governo e che genera altri vaffa che trovano un compimento in “dalli al nano”. Credo che sia un concetto applicabile al dopo perché non credo all’ipotesi del “risveglio collettivo dal sogno”, per cui oggi Brunetta è una delle due persone più applaudite del PDL (come dice giustamente Mellone) e lo è anche in virtù dello stile paranoico, ma dall’oggi al domani tutto cambierà grazie all’uscita di scena di B. Niente affatto. Anche perché, senza riforme, il malcontento reale a cui Brunetta dà voce, in particolare sulla pubblica amministrazione, resterà intatto e con ogni probabilità aumenterà. Ma – vedi sotto – a livello di scenario dipende da quanto funzionerà un eventuale Grande Pacificatore. Inoltre Brunetta potrebbe puntare all’estinzione o ridicolizzazione definitiva di quelli contro cui esercita lo stile paranoico, ma personalmente credo che un’altra B (Bersani) non glielo permetterà.

[ilNichilista] (Ad Alessandro Aresu) Uno degli scenari che ritieni maggiormente plausibili per il dopo Berlusconi è l’ascesa di tecnocrati come Bertolaso, ma con ancora maggiori poteri d’azione; una sorta di governo di “protezione civile allargata”, come detto da Lucio Caracciolo nel suo intervento. Cosa ti fa propendere per questa ipotesi e che cosa pensi comporterebbe una simile forma di governo nell’Italia dopo Berlusconi?

[Aresu] Bertolaso è – in parte – una rivoluzione silenziosa che viene per forza fuori perché è ovunque. E’ un potere fortissimo, anche simbolicamente. Non presidente, ma “capo”. All’Italia che parla di declino e che si sente in difficoltà piace l’idea di Mr Wolf: qualcuno deve risolvere i problemi perché non siamo un Paese normale. La politica tradizionale non ce la fa, e serve qualcun altro. Il boiardo di stato 2.0. La questione italiana sta tornando importante: ed ecco migliaia di persone che la bandiera ce l’hanno addosso e nel loro lavoro quotidiano. Detto questo, ho parlato della moltiplicazione di cariche di Bertolaso in modo critico/ironico, e lo rivendico. Uno non può essere “capo” di ogni emergenza e ogni vertice. Gli esseri umani sono limitati. Attenzione, il punto fondamentale è questo, ed ecco perché per me Bertolaso è in assoluto la figura più importante: il passaggio dalla società civile alla protezione civile (questa formula è mia, mentre le 4 b di B è condivisa con Raffaele [Mauro, ndr]) è comunque politico. Quante seghe mentali da destra e sinistra abbiamo sentito su Carl Schmitt? E poi ecco chi fa il vero stato di eccezione. Ripeto, questo – anche questo – è politica, non solo tecnocrazia, perché c’è organizzazione e passione. E VOTI potenziali. Me li spiega qualcuno dove sono i voti di McKinsey? Da nessuna parte. Dove sono i voti di Draghi, Monti? Quasi da nessuna parte, con qualche articolo sul Corriere forse se la giocano con Paolo Ferrero, contrariamente a un Ciampi che, pur non essendo mai stato eletto dal voto popolare, ha attraversato un processo di legittimazione politica senza precedenti, con la conseguenza che pure la signora Franca tuttora ha più voti di Draghi e Monti. I voti di Finmeccanica? Macché. Generali? Tante case, tantissime, poche tessere, pochissime. Una trinità Alesina/Boeri/Giavazzi prende poco più di Giuliano Ferrara. Bertolaso li annienterebbe. I suoi uomini lo seguirebbero, e una sua discesa in campo porterebbe a una ricontrattazione di certi poteri. Infine, Bertolaso dice che non vuole fare politica, il che ovviamente aumenta le probabilità.

[ilNichilista] (A Moris Gasparri) Nel tuo intervento ti chiedi chi formerà l’opinione pubblica nell’Italia post-berlusconiana. Un’Italia in cui molto probabilmente si passerà, come sta già accadendo, da una scena dominata dalla televisione a una in cui internet avrà un peso sempre maggiore. Pensi che il mutamento dello strumento comunicativo, insieme alla fine del conflitto di interessi di Berlusconi, possa trascinare l’informazione fuori dalle paludi del populismo, del gossip e degli attacchi personali in cui è oggi arenata, oppure nell’Italia dopo Berlusconi si ripeteranno gli attuali intrecci tra potere politico, informazione  e manipolazione dell’opinione pubblica?

[Gasparri] L’intreccio tra potere politico e informazione è un fatto della scena politica contemporanea a livello planetario, e in quanto tale va analizzato senza demonizzazioni e con estremo realismo. E’ in questo contesto che dovremmo collocare il caso italiano, anche se in pochi lo fanno. Il conflitto d’interessi su questo punto non si esaurisce su Berlusconi, come ingenuamente molti pensano. Aldilà di una riflessione normativa sul tema (che ormai spetta ai leader dell’Italia after B) c’è un punto tutto politico che va messo al centro: come si struttura la dialettica politica di un paese democratico? Da qui secondo me passa la domanda sul rapporto tra politica e sistema mediatico, e più in generale quella sul futuro della democrazia in Italia. Se c’è un bipolarismo civile, basato sul confronto nel merito delle questioni, il ruolo del gossip e degli attacchi personali decade. Se c’è continua delegittimazione tra i contendenti (come accade in Italia da quindici anni a questa parte) questi aspetti diventano il prodotto e la conseguenza naturale della lotta politica, che gli strumenti della comunicazione televisiva e giornalistica amplificano in maniera iper-realistica. Per venire invece al discorso sul ruolo del web, il 2.0 (e le sue continue evoluzioni) è destinato a cambiare molto le forme della comunicazione politica. La novità positiva può risiedere nel passaggio dall’irresponsabilità della comunicazione televisiva al confronto diretto tipico dei social media. Quello che dici e quello che fai è sottoposto in tempo reale al confronto critico, anche con chi ha posizioni differenti dalla tua. Devi metterci la “faccia” (la cosiddetta “Casta” dei politici non è forse “sfacciata” agli occhi di molti italiani?), devi essere capace di “dare risposta”, ed ecco il discorso della responsabilità. Potrebbe nascerne un nuovo modo di concepire il rapporto tra chi ricopre ruoli e incarichi elettivi e la sfera collettiva. Però tutto dipende dalla consapevolezza con cui verranno utilizzati questi strumenti, soprattutto da parte di chi fa politica.

[ilNichilista] (A LSDP) Mellone vi accusa di essere incapaci di pensare davvero una Italia senza Berlusconi, e dunque di rimanere coinvolti nella vostra stessa denuncia. I vostri documenti, in particolare, rivelerebbero “una sensazione di apnea, di soffocamento, di immobilismo” tipica di una generazione a cui non è mai riuscito il “parricidio” e che dunque, secondo il giornalista, non sarebbe mai nata. Come liberarsi di questo “padre ingombrante”? Senza parlarne? Veltroni, come da voi sottolineato in un documento, ha adottato questa strategia senza ricavarne alcun successo. Come replicare dunque alla critica, pur costruttiva, di Mellone?

[Risponde Federica Colonna, LSDP] La critica di Mellone è condivisibile, ma, allo stesso tempo, motiva ancora di più ad elaborare una narrazione “dopo Berlusconi”. Perché ne sottolinea l’assenza, il vuoto narrativo tutto in negativo, sterile. Berlusconi è, ancora, per certi versi, quello che l’idea di famiglia è stata per il ‘68: il riferimento rispetto al quale elaborare un pensiero, un comportamento, motivare e praticare il cambiamento. Uccidere il padre ingombrante è possibile solo attraverso le idee, le proposte, la pratica e non solo il pensiero del nuovo. In questo senso ha avuto ragione Castelvecchi, quando ha sostenuto, e non è la prima volta che lo fa, la necessità di “doing group“, pratici, fattivi, piuttosto che “think tank”, ancorati ad un modello non più innovativo. Dal seminario emergono, quindi, due linee di direzione, utili, complementari, conseguenze non solo degli stimoli di Mellone e di Castelvecchi ma certo da quegli stessi stimoli rafforzate. Da un lato è il tempo (da tanto lo è) di metabolizzare Berlusconi. Il superamento avviene senza caratterizzarsi come iper sostenitori o iper avversari. L’Italia di B è un passaggio verso qualcos’altro, semplicemente, e per immaginarla è necessario orientarsi subito all’altro, cercarlo, immaginarlo. E’ ancora un’opera di fantasia, creativa e pubblica insieme, politica in senso stretto. Dall’altro lato il dopo avverrà attraverso un’evoluzione non solo della narrazione ma della sua traduzione in piccoli fatti pratici. Il futuro, in questo senso, sarà più smart, costruito solo in positivo, abbandonando la critica per la proposta.

[ilNichilista] (A Matteo Scurati) Castelvecchi nel suo intervento ha mostrato come vi sia una narrazione della distribuzione del potere in Italia che non vede affatto Berlusconi come protagonista, contrariamente a quanto ci raccontano sia i sostenitori che gli oppositori del Premier, secondo cui tutto in Italia riguarderebbe Silvio Berlusconi. Tu hai brevemente osservato che questa narrazione alternativa del potere nel nostro Paese “non vuole essere narrata e fa comodo non sia narrata”. Chi o che cosa ne impedisce la diffusione, e perché?

[Scurati] La narrazione pubblica di questo Paese dal 1992 ad oggi è la narrazione di Silvio Berlusconi. Questo non significa negare l’assenza di narrazioni alternative o più potenti, significa negare il loro essere pubbliche. Intendo quest’ultima negazione in due forme. La prima, la più banale, riguarda l’assenza di un loro racconto condiviso; la seconda si riferisce, invece, al loro essere opposte al concetto stesso di pubblico. In altri termini: alla base della negazione non c’è solo l’evidente banalità che al fine di raggiungere un determinato potere sia di gran lunga meglio agire all’ombra. No, alla base sta l’osservazione che il non voler essere narrato testimonia una contrapposizione tra il bene pubblico e quello privato. Di più: il secondo è raggiungibile solo di contro al primo. Tu mi chiedi: “cosa o chi impedisce la diffusione di queste narrazioni alternative”. Io ti rispondo: la consapevolezza, da parte degli attori di queste storie, che il pubblico non è che un fardello rispetto il bene privato. In quest’ottica si comprende anche la battuta di Mattei ricordata da Castelvecchi nel corso del suo intervento: “Uso i partiti allo stesso modo di come uso i taxi: salgo, pago la corsa, scendo”. Da Mattei a oggi si è compiuto un passo avanti – o indietro – ancora: la politica non serve più neppure come mezzo. Sta lì come stanno i soprammobili in casa. E gli attori di quelle narrazioni alternative da cui siamo partiti fanno gli affari loro. La rivoluzione è totale: il pubblico non è più neppure un mezzo (figuriamoci un fine). E’, semplicemente, inutile: perché partecipare alla sua narrazione? Aggiungo: questa è la riduzione della politica al presente (alla figura di B.), basata sulla contingenza e sull’emergenza. Alcuni soggetti economici, di fronte a questa riduzione, hanno deciso di fare da sé. Ora, non sto affermando la necessità che gli attori privati agiscano per merito di qualche virtù divina in funzione della cosa pubblica: agiscano pure per la loro ricchezza. Tuttavia c’è un limite: l’esistenza di una cosa pubblica più efficiente comporta la possibilità di un maggior guadagno. Una struttura istituzionale debole del nostro paese avrà come risultato il posizionamento dell’Italia sempre più ai margini dell’economia mondiale: lo spazio pubblico è quel luogo collettivo entro il quale si gioca. Se lo stadio è a pezzi, non fa bene a nessuno. In un gioco a somma zero, la possibilità che qualche d’uno si arricchisca ora è possibile, che conservi poi la propria ricchezza no. Serve la politica per evitare questo tracollo? Sì, assolutamente. Ma torniamo a fare politica con una concezione che spazi oltre i mesi di riferimento attuali.

Leaving one of the most splendid sites of Jordan

A visit to Qasr Bshir ought to be obligatory to any visitor to Jordan. The Roman castle, founded in 306, is not a ruin, as so often, but is almost intact. It is a square limes fort of about 50×50 meters with four towers, so that it is often typified as a “quadriburgium”. That it is a fascinating place can be deduced from the fact that two young women in our company, who were not known for their great interest in military architecture, were the last ones to leave.

The most amazing aspect of the best-preserved Roman castle in Jordan, however, is that you will be alone. For those who cannot believe that, I will repeat it: you won’t find a soul at a site that is arguably the kingdom’s third archaeological site, after Petra and Jerash.

This is all the more surprising because Jordan’s Castel del Monte is situated almost next to the Desert Highway, the main road from Damascus to Amman to Saudi Arabia. To reach it, go from Qatrana to the north. At your left hand, you will pass the “Petra Tourist Complex” (terrible coffee); after this, take the first asphalt road to the left. It is perpendicular to the highway, leading almost straight to the west. After you have passed the first of two electricity lines, the road turns to the right and winds itself to the northwest. After some eight minutes, you will see the fort to your right. The walk to the castle takes about 15-20 minutes and is easy. Your satellite photo is here.

Proseguo il post precedente seguendo il filo dei miei pensieri, nati anche dalla considerazione che nella vita e nella sua contaminazione in rete, si formano gruppi di affini, chiusi per scelta e che all’interno di questi gruppi chiusi ce ne sono altri, pure chiusi, con codici comunicativi diversi. Come dire: ci si sceglie e si comunica ciò che si vuole.

Avere la consapevolezza del proprio genere è già moltissimo, ma non basta, è un presupposto ed elude il problema della co-abitazione del mondo e della società. Non credo che gli uomini, come le donne, non si assicurino l’un l’altro più niente, mi sembra una posizione misogina che parte dall’autosufficienza, mentre ogni giornata ci ricorda che autosufficienti non siamo.  Non basta avere un lavoro, una indipendenza economica, affetti, il problema è il divenire oltre il presente, questione che si può rimuovere, occultare, ma che esiste nella nostra testa. La famiglia rispondeva a questo, stabiliva ruoli e regole comunicative, tracciava futuri. E’ stata superata, anche grazie al nostro apporto? Bene, ma i bisogni restano e spesso si traducono nella risposta alla solitudine individuale. Quindi escludere il bisogno di contributi reciproci importanti, mi pare privo di realtà, ma aggiungo che senza comunicazione neppure c’è scambio di bisogni. Si può cercare la novità, essere curiosi delle cose e degli uomini (credo di averne una discreta esperienza personale) e sono qualità importanti per una persona, ma c’è qualcosa in più che sollevavo come problema. Ed è il rinchiudersi nel genere, che poi significa il presupposto per lo scontro e la necessità di prevalere. Se non posso essere eguale, accetto la diversità, ma non l’incapacità di capirla. Si può dire che sia un problema maschile, che gli uomini sono in difficoltà. Qual’è l’aiuto per evitare che la violenza sia una forma di comunicazione? Aspetto di leggere analisi del mondo maschile scritte da donne e che possano superare Freud e Jung, perchè ho la sensazione di essermi perso molto sul tema, fuorviato da altri interessi. Nel frattempo, mi convince Laura che dice: è che nel momento in cui ti schianti in un ruolo, niente… ti sei schiantato, detto tutto. tenere le antenne alzate e non chiudersi negli accoglienti veli del proprio ombelico è difficile per le donne quanto per gli uomini. Che è come dire che la realtà è diversa da quella percepita, ma alcuni la percepiscono così e per questi il mondo si è fatto più difficile in termini comunicativi e presuppone rigidità non dissimili da quelle esecrate del mondo maschile. Quindi una realtà diversa e non migliore. Saperlo non basta.  Si può risolvere tutto nel quotidiano, nel domestico, ed è la dimensione principale delle soluzioni, se però il fatto è sociale e culturale, prima o poi i nodi vengono al pettine perchè questa è l’aria che si respira insieme. Quindi se il problema non è più assicurare il reddito, lo status, il ruolo, anche se questo è ancora vero per la maggioranza delle persone, come si risponde al fatto che l’indipendenza personale si appoggia sempre su altre persone? Amenochè non si scelga la trappe ed allora ci si appoggia su dio.

Lascio quattro domande, anche per me naturalmente:

Se il pensiero femminile mi arricchisce, il mio pensiero è significativo per l’altro genere?

E come può essere significativo se ciascuno prende ciò che gli serve secondo necessità, relegando la comunicazione gratuita tra gli optional?

La violenza è comunicazione, come posso toglierla dai rapporti tra pari? 

Melanie Klein mi convince più di Freud, ma esisterebbe senza Freud?

Sarà che è femminile l’accogliere, oppure che millenni stratificati di sopraffazioni hanno prodotto linguaggi oscuri agli uomini -ricordate la lingua inventata in Cina a corte per comunicare tra donne?-, o forse è semplicemente la riscoperta della solitudine comunicativa del maschio, comunque sia il mondo femminile parla tra omologhe e i maschi guardano dai vetri. E la parola invidia non è eccessiva se questo guardare, alimenta rivincite ed ulteriore sopraffazione. Le donne parlano tra loro e i maschi non capiscono cosa si dicono, si sentono esclusi da un mondo fatto di diversità cognitive, allusioni, presunte superiorità di sentimenti, fedeltà misteriose (a cosa?, a chi?, perchè?), intriso di pulsioni/passioni, di incongrui ritorni, sopportazioni infinite e ribellioni, di vissuti e presupposti vantati o reali. Un mondo a parte che a volte singolarmente, a volte in blocco si propone allo sguardo stupito, ammirato e perciò invidioso dei maschi persi tra le loro tecnologie, i sogni di conquista, di crescita, di singolarità. Ed alimenta, in chi capisce, ulteriori solitudini inquiete. Nella classifica di ciò che divide è più banale lo sport oppure le soap, è più importante il reality o il gf della politica, i sentimenti hanno tassi di sofferenza diversa a seconda del genere? Le misteriose malattie femminili, le mestruazioni, la possibilità di fare figli sono una barriera invalicabile alla comunicazione del sentire? E soprattutto danno capacità di differenze così ampie da escludere la possibilità del trasmettere sensazioni e condivisione?  

In molti casi l’antidoto è la noia, il distacco, la supponenza. Oppure la decostruzione della superficie del problema, cucinata in salsa sociale. Io ti difendo e tu mi assicuri la discendenza, io ti alimento e tu mi curi, tu mi ami e io vivo di questo amore e dò senso alla diversità del mio.  Il succo di molta letteratura coniugata sui due versanti è questo e il ruolo di chi narra è la banalizzazione del problema della comprensione, scavalcandola con le finzioni delle parole pontiere, per far comprendere che i mondi sono speculari, ma intrinsecamente comunicanti. Ed invece non esiste uno specchio che rifletta l’uno e l’altro, sono proprio due parti dello stesso giardino in cui valicare il confine malcelato, significa restare se stessi, epperò lasciarsi convincere che non si è perfetti in sè. Solo la poesia si imbeve del problema e lo risolve per lampi, creando mantra da ripetere nella solitudine del pensiero.

Ma alla fine resta la consapevolezza che bastarsi oggi non basta più.

Last Thursday Heather and I went to the Limes After School Program and it was ice cream day! So here are some of my shots of the kids enjoying their delicious treats.

they were making messes but it was fun!

working on his second cone.

we made rice shakers during crafts time.

enjoying every last drop!

A chi l’ha amata per le parole dolci e scabre, temprate dal vero, dispiace assai.  Non frequento la disperazione a distanza, mi colpisce, piuttosto, il silenzio senza appello, la storia che ferisce, banale e necessaria e ingiusta. C’è un coraggio bagnato di lacrime -l’avete veduto?- che dà senso alla Sua vita e fluisce a dar senso ad altre vite e alla follia quieta dei poeti.

Hai dato una interpretazione positiva alla sofferenza Alda, collocando l’amore per terra, esponendolo al vento e alla siccità e lasciando crescesse come un albero di mare, impavido e timoroso di timidezza quando viene accarezzato.

Alda Merini

Il mio passato

Spesso ripeto sottovoce
che si deve vivere di ricordi solo
quando mi sono rimasti pochi giorni.
Quello che e’ passato
e’ come se non ci fosse mai stato.
Il passato e’ un laccio che
stringe la gola alla mia mente
e toglie energie per affrontare il mio presente.
Il passato e’ solo fumo
di chi non ha vissuto.
Quello che ho gia’ visto
non conta piu’ niente.
Il passato ed il futuro
non sono realta’ ma solo effimere illusioni.
Devo liberarmi del tempo
e vivere il presente giacche’ non esiste altro tempo
che questo meraviglioso istante

Amico caro, ti avevo annunciato che avrei messo i piedi nel piatto dell’età e allora partirei dai temi che archiviamo in fretta nei nostri discorsi. Così fai  quando parli dei pochi anni che restano e  scherzi facendo trasparire un desiderio e una paura. La paura è quella della morte. O meglio la paura delle malattie dei vecchi che invalidano e tolgono progressivamente la vita. Hai presente l’ossessione del cavalier B.?  La potenza fisica, le capacità di movimento, l’intelligenza, la memoria e dover dire che si ha tutto come a 20 anni per i prossimi 50. Ma resta l’onere della prova in una dimostrazione giornaliera di efficienza per essere ciò che non si è: anagraficamente vecchi, però giovani nelle attività e nei tratti. Quando vedo miei coetanei che si sono imbalsamati tra i 40 e i 50 anni, non colgo differenze con la tristezza degli sfatti allegri, quelli che non si governano e hanno deciso di dimenticarsi tra alcool e mangiate. Entrambi non sostengono più l’identità e la dignità di essere. Noi più semplicemente, cerchiamo di giocare con la paura di cadere in qualche trabocchetto dell’età, di scivolare nell’alzaimer che ci rende presenze vuote, oppure di entrare nel girone infernale delle malattie coscienti e impronunciabili. Tutti esorcismi e la morte semplice, quella fatta del disporre di sè diviene un desiderio. Magari da collocare più avanti possibile, ma un desiderio di concludere bene. In fondo ci sarebbe dovuto, per le nostre colpe veniali, per gli impegni senza ignavia, per l’entusiasmo che abbiamo messo in tutte le cause perse frequentate ma anche per la pochezza delle vigliaccherie e le fughe fatte più per paura che per salvarsi. Molti coetanei fanno consuntivi, ti dicono: mica per essere finiti. No, solo per un budget veritiero. Altri e ci fanno più male, se ne vanno senza dire, per stanchezza, solitudine, disperazione. E per loro, come per quelli andati tra sofferenze immani, ci si chiede perchè. Anche della ragione di tanta sofferenza ci si chiede il motivo e nessuna risposta arriva. Sai cosa fa più male? La sofferenza silente consumata in solitudine, senza sbocchi, nè speranza. Ci si immaginano i giorni, le notti e ci si augura che non ci accada, che tutto finisca di botto, con il solo barlume di capire che davvero è così facile scivolare via. In realtà l’età porta verso il conto con il passato e adesso che siamo ancora in questa età indefinibile, pieni di sogni e di attese temperate,  si dovrebbe, per magia, trasferire un credito sul futuro. Assicurare una rendita in anni vicini al desiderio. Ma lo sappiamo tutti che non è così, sono il caso e la volontà che ci possono graziare e non per sempre. Ho pensato spesso, che si potesse rovesciare il tempo e lasciare che la possibilità non si spegnesse al suo mostrarsi, per verificarla, con generosità,  senza curarsi del resto. Tu sai, che tutto questo è sconsiderato, ma come vivere una vita regolata dalle certezze e pensare di vivere davvero? Alcune certezze ci sono indispensabili: amore, affetti profondi, relazioni, libertà d’essere e d’intendere, l’avere un senso a sè e magari anche agli altri. Se non ci sono grandi problemi economici, tutto questo dovrebbe consentirci di parlare anche delle paure e della morte, di ciò che accade attorno a noi. Ma parlarne come di un processo dinamico e non come di un muro contro il quale sbattere incoscienti a tutta velocità. Il tema etico del fine vita, emerge in questi anni e ha più consistenza: la libertà del finire come si desidera, la vita non come condanna, ma possibilità positiva. E’ una considerazione che dovrebbe portarci alla consapevolezza e togliere la paura. Ma non è facile e soprattutto bisogna scegliere un percorso che eviti i cronicari, gli ospizi, gli odori di minestre e orina, i discorsi senza memoria, i giardini con le cancellate e i mobili di melamina. Voler vivere a casa propria, finchè si vive. I nostri vecchi lo sapevano e nell’oscura necessità di convivenze tra famiglie assicuravano il passaggio, circondati da persone care. Lo so che succedeva anche il contrario, che la gente si sbranava davanti all’agonia, ma quando c’era rispetto per la persona, ovvero si aveva ben seminato, le cose erano più dolci. Naturali e senza accanimenti. Noi apparteniamo alla generazione che detiene il potere, gestiamo vite, vietiamo ai giovani di crescere, eppure le paure non le abbiamo eliminate. Ti ricordi di quando parlavamo di villa arzilla tra discorsi e vino rosso, pensavamo ad una convivenza tra persone che si conoscono e che bevono e parlano bene assieme. Badanti di noi stessi, plagiati dal mito di Amici miei e della Grande bouffe. Ma non funzionerebbe, amico mio, dopo poco ci staremmo tutti sulle scatole, in realtà la nostra risorsa sono le relazioni tra noi, il trasmetterci entusiasmi e positività; questo serve e non altro. Non siamo abituati a minestrine, ma forse la cosa che dovremmo  evitare è l’essere prigionieri dell’insofferenza, dei modi di dire, delle abitudini senza appello o della supponenza di aver capito già tutto. In realtà, e lo sappiamo entrambi, siamo degli ignoranti abissali e aver voglia di apprendere è già sintomo di futuro, ma non ci basterà, come non basterà il cinema, i libri, la musica. Dobbiamo investire in affetto quando l’egoismo diventa più forte per la preoccupazione di sè. In comunicazione quando pare ci sia poco da dire di sensato e nuovo. In pazienza quando le nostre urgenze sono solo desiderio di attenzione. E soprattutto dobbiamo convivere con la persona più difficile che conosciamo: noi stessi. Ma la consapevolezza non è una diminuzio, abbiamo chance notevoli da giocare, e magari ne parliamo la prossima volta.