Unlike fun runs in the U.S., this one, in Citta di Castello, didn’t start until around 10 a.m. That gave the hordes of participants and spectators time to chit-chat over an espresso and a brioche. (Nothing like an espresso to give you a jack-rabbit start!) During this pre-race time, the more serious runners (a clear minority) warmed up by running up and down the medieval streets.

Event volunteers passed out orange bandanas that said “Contro la Violenze Sulle Donne” (Against the violence upon women), and most everyone was wearing them either around their necks, in their hair, tying them to their wrists or their waists, except for the more serious runners who probably thought it might impede the aerodynamics of their race.

All ages come out for these kinds of regularly scheduled family events in this dynamic town located in northern Umbria. Also participating were children and adults on bicycles and people in wheelchairs. 

Rich and I sat outside one bar sipping cappuccino while enjoying the casual pre-race party. 

For the race itself, we moved to another bar on the main square, Piazza Matteotti, and drank freshly squeezed orange juice, right there at the finish line. A lovely morning all the way around. More photos below.

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We are in Zambia, in southeastern Africa, at a place so remote we needed to take a small plane to get here. The Royal Zambezi Lodge, where we are staying, had to build its own airstrip to make this possible.

It’s August, the southern hemisphere’s winter time, when there is less foliage. This makes it easier to sight animals. Early morning and late afternoon are considered prime viewing times.

I’m not much of an early riser but here it’s easy to become one. The electricity, provided by a generator, shuts down at ten p.m. That bedtime, coupled with our waking hours spent in fresh air, changes my morning slothfulness. This gets me to thinking of the impermanence of things, even long-standing habits.

Like this morning, soon after a group of us climbed into the Land Rover with our guide, Lackson, and took off in the pre-dawn, he stopped and got out. 

We tourists take in our surroundings, not seeing a thing. We’ve spent a week on drives and river cruises and have become quite adept at spotting animals. At least we think so.

We catch each other’s eyes and shrug. Meanwhile, Lackson walks up and down the road, neck bent forward, eyes cast down on the red dirt. He must feel us looking at him, for he glances up and down again. With a slight smile, he says, “I’m just reading the morning’s headlines.”

“What?” someone from the back seat asks.

“You know, the animals who came this way last night and this morning. Their tracks tell me stories: who is going in which direction, who was being chased by whom, if anything got taken down while we slept. Soon these tracks will be covered and there will be new stories.”

The “newspaper” says that lions had been here last night, and hippos have already lumbered down to the river. Both the lions and hippos will laze around this afternoon.

“Ahh.” We nod in unison, while we note each of us thinking how all this took place, while we slept, in tents, mere meters away.

Lackson climbs back in behind the wheel and off we go, this time at a clip. I’m glad I’ve put layers on with my heaviest jacket on top, and I’m wearing a scarf and gloves. The temperature hovers near fifty, but with the wind chill added from being in the open vehicle, it feels much colder. I like brisk wind; it tells me I’m alive as I feel warm blood rush to my cheeks. I allow the cold to blow through me, consciously relaxing the muscles that struggle to constrict. Goosebumps bloom on my back, the life inside me punctuated by an all-out shiver. I think how fortunate I am to be here.

Soon the day will warm up and the cold will dissipate, this morning’s “headlines” will be covered by windswept earth, and winter will turn into spring. Nothing is permanent. Everything changes, often in increments, sometimes imperceptibly. Every moment we spend in this bumping vehicle adds wear and tear to it, just as each moment adds wear and tear to my jostling body.

I’m shaken out of my reverie when Lackson slams on the brakes and outstretches his arm toward nine o’clock. All our faces whip left. We’re in the park now. A large bush is trembling. Lackson throws the vehicle into reverse and stops exactly at the spot where we’ll get the best view. We hear rustling and see a whoosh of dust explode upward from behind the bush. A trumpeting elephant broadcasts aggression. A moment later two lion cubs run from behind the bush followed by their mother. Lackson tells us she’s trying to shoo the cubs away from danger, but they are young, and curious. They keep trying to maneuver around her to see the elephant, and she keeps blocking them. The elephant may be down, but its still very much alive.

Lackson says, “There’s another lioness back there which you can’t see. They downed the elephant together.”

Downed an elephant? My heart races. Who do I root for? Surely the lions need to eat, and besides, I have a special fondness for felines. On the other hand, elephants are kind creatures, known for their self-sacrifice even in the face of danger. Then I realize I don’t have to choose; nature will do that for me. Truth be told, I’d prefer to watch a leopard sitting in a tree.

The lioness has finally gotten her cubs under control. She lies down, “to rest,” Lackson says. He reminds us what we already know – that lions are sprinters and must rest between each exertion. She lies amidst a stand of scrub trees, panting while her cubs prance around her.

Meanwhile, our attention is drawn back to the bush. We can hear the beast behind it, hear it hefting itself onto its feet. And then we see it. An adolescent elephant, a chunk ripped from its shoulder, flesh glowing red against its gray casing. I cringe. I don’t want to see anything killed. Later I’ll learn that I was in the minority.

The bush trembles again. What is making the bush tremble? I hear others mumble, "Wait. What?". The lioness gets to her feet, stands ready but is still too tired to take a step. The bush looks as though someone is shaking the living daylights out of it.

Lackson explains. “The elephant is backing into the bush, using it to protect its backside. His head will face out, along with its tusks, ready to gouge any predator that comes near.” We wait. We wait some more. Lackson determines they’re at a stalemate. Nothing more to watch, at least not for a while.

“What will happen?” someone asks. “Who won?” asks another, as Lackson reaches for the ignition key.

“Either the lions will tire of waiting for the elephant to expose itself or other elephants will come along and chase off the lions. It’s a draw,” he says as he starts the engine and drives off. Even though he knows the standoff is not permanent, he also knows our focus on a scene where nothing is happening is not fixed either. Another five-minute wait would incur grumbles from the tourists. We move on, and as we do, I sink back into my seat, relieved.

I enjoy the passing landscape. So sunny. The shadows of scruffy foliage and trees dappling the road in front of us. So dry. It hasn’t rained here in five months. Every week the animals have to take more chances trekking farther and farther away in one direction to sate hunger, in the other direction to quench their thirst. Lackson says that in October it will rain and the entire landscape we’re dusting through today will bloom into a green carpet within twenty-four hours. It’s hard to imagine, just as it’s hard to imagine that someday this habitat, this way of life, everyone’s life will change.

Nothing is permanent. That is the fact that gave me hope during the decades I endured panic attacks. If nothing is permanent, then there is hope for many things: realizing a cure for cancer, realizing an alternative to oil as a source of energy, realizing people do not always have to be at war. And even though the traffic patterns of the bush will change from day to day, and season to season, and year to year, there is hope that once again, there will be plenty of food and water for all of life in Zambia and everywhere.

Note: While in Rome in 2011, I wrote the following article about being pick-pocketed, but I hesitated to post it because of its length. Since then I've had another experience with a friend being pick-pocketed and thought, "I really should publish this."

We are in Rome. I can't remember the number of times we've been here. It's like home, especially today after spending a couple weeks in southern Africa and, before that, a week in Lithuania (above Poland, for those who can't quite place Lithuania's location). At least in Rome we know enough of the language to ask for things, and we’re familiar with the food and culture. We are comfortable here – perhaps too comfortable.

Today we have planned to take the subway and then a bus outside the city to see the Catacombs and walk The Appian Way, a road built by the Romans in 312 B.C.

Rich and I have packed the half-bottle of wine leftover from last night's dinner and paired it with some freshly made panini (Italian sandwiches). We set out with our day pack on Rich's back and me with a tiny purse. There's supposed to be a lovely park near The Appian Way and we decide it will be a great lunch destination.

Standing on the subway platform, we discuss how fun it is to be exploring on our own again. Although we thoroughly enjoyed (and needed) a guide on both the African safari, and in Lithuania, it simply feels freeing to be by ourselves. The train comes and, because the next stop is Rome's downtown station, each coach is stuffed with people. I run up the platform in search of a lesser populated car. Rich follows. While still running I hear the three dings indicating the doors are about to close. Hurriedly, I stuff myself into the closest car as the doors slide shut. I turn around. Rich is not behind me. 

Oh, well, I think, we both know where to get off so no big deal. I look up and take in my surroundings and I see that he had entered the same car via the other door. He mouths something to me and, of course, I have no idea what he is saying. He repeats and try as I might, I don't get it. With difficulty I make my way toward him, wedging between people, my purse tightly clutched under my arm, my hand wrapped around its zippers and the strap wrapped around my torso. “Scusi, scusi,” I whisper. Once I reach him he says something that is so startling I need him to repeat it.

“What?” I ask.
"They got my wallet." 
"How’s that possible? We were running."
"The guy grabbed it and pushed me into the train at the same time. I rammed into people standing there and was apologizing and regaining my balance when I realized the guy was stuck in the door. By the time everything registered, he was on the outside running away, I was on the inside and the train was picking up speed."

The blood drains from my head. At the next stop, scores of people disembark. I sink into one of a multitude of now empty seats. Rich says, "We have to go back."

Of course he is right. Not that we'd find the guy, but maybe, just maybe, he grabbed the cash (100 euro) and threw the wallet away. That’s what thieves do, don’t they? 

Back on the original platform we look for, perhaps, a tossed wallet, under benches or on the tracks. On our way upstairs I extract my miniature flashlight from my purse and start looking in the trash barrels. Italian passersby don’t pay much attention, but Americans look askance. 

There's a glass enclosure near the turnstiles with subway staff inside. We knock on the glass. We yell in Italian that a wallet was lost, did anyone turn one in? They can't hear us so one of the men comes out and we explain. Once he understands that the wallet is gone, he asks how long ago. I say, "Cinque," and he says "Cinque giorni fa?" (Five days ago?) No, I say, “Cinque MINUTI fa.” (Five MINUTES ago.) He looks shocked. Then I say the word "thief" and he corrects my assessment of the situation, "Signora, you did not LOSE your wallet. It is ...." and here he makes an “away-we-go” Jackie Gleason hand gesture and whistles. In other words, that wallet is gone, kaput, finito. 

He gives us directions to the police station. We think it's a good idea to file a report; Rich because of possible credit card problems in the future, and me, because I think the wallet may actually be recovered even if the cash and cards are gone. 

At the massive building that is Carabinieri Headquarters in Rome, three policemen stand in front of the gigantic doors that once allowed a team of horses to trot inside. They ask us our business and kindly direct us into a humongous entry hall. We climb the wide set of stairs whose steps are so shallow it would be more accurate to call them toe-holds. They were built hundreds of years ago for horses to haul up construction materials.

On the second floor, chairs line one side of the hallway and we’re told to take a seat. Before our bottoms hit the chairs, a policeman invites us into his office and gives us a form to fill out. When done, he reviews it with us. I say, in Italian, "Who knows, maybe the wallet may turn up even if it no longer has money in it." The officer juts out his lower lip, shrugs his shoulders and holds his hands palms up, like "Yeah, maybe." Later Rich tells me his interpretation of the same gesture was: "Dream on, Signora!"

We return to our hotel where the manager looks up at us questioningly. Rich explains our early return, adding that it was stupid of him not to take precautions. The manager shakes his head and in English, says. "No, it is not stupid. Those pickpockets are very very good. I have no idea how they do it." (Aberdeen Hotel Roma: http://www.hotelaberdeen.it)

We spend the next couple hours reversing any damage done, all the while wondering how we’re going to procure money for the month we still hope to spend in Italy. 

I keep a list of our credit cards in a file in my e-mail for just an occasion like this, and the hotel has a business center (actually a hallway) with a computer and Internet access. I log into my e-mail, open the folder and find the list I’d tucked away there. As my eyes sweep over it, I discover that my bank debit card has a different number from Rich’s, even though both cards gobble money from the same account. 

Meanwhile, from the room, Rich makes phone calls to the credit card companies. Thankfully, I’d also  typed in the phone numbers that were printed on the back of the cards in case the loss occurs outside the U.S. Calling these numbers instead of the in-the-USA numbers guarantees that each call is free. 

While still in front of the computer, I pull my cards from my purse. They’ll have to be destroyed since each time Rich cancels a card, my card also becomes null and void. Shuffling through them my eyes alight on a card that only I have. That's a huge relief. I rush back to the room to tell Rich the good news: We can access money for the next month on my debit card and charge purchases on that backup credit card. 

Once he completes the phone calls, we decide to employ what I call “The Katie Factor.” Rich seems to have been born with The Katie Factor embedded in his psyche, whereas I had to see it in action from someone other than my husband before I could even begin to put it into practice. 

Years ago, my friend Katie and I attended an all-day writers' conference at a local college. Although the day had started out sunny, by the time we left, it had turned cold and rainy and the sky was dark. When we reached her car, she looked in and said, in the most matter-of-fact way, "Oh, I left the keys in the ignition." While my shoulders slumped and I was thinking, “Oh no! What will we do now?” Katie said, "You stay here. I'll get the campus police." When she turned on her heel without complaining, without whining, and without making one self-deprecating remark, I stood there stunned. I’d never seen anyone react like that to what I considered a really crappy situation. 

So because of Katie I don’t waste any time wishing things were different. I look up at Rich and with gravitas say, “We’ve got to try again to get to the Catacombs.” Without hesitating, he nods agreement.

We march right back to the same subway station where a few hours earlier Rich’s wallet was hijacked and we hop on the same train headed in the same direction and eight stops later, get off and climb up into daylight. Rich runs into a shop to buy bus tickets and water. The afternoon is getting steamy. As we're crossing the street to the bus stop, which is located on a median strip, we note that the bus pulling away is the one we need to be on. Che serà serà! Another will come along within a half hour. At least that’s what the sign says. 

An hour later we are still at the bus stop and since we’re starving, we eat our sandwiches. Not at the beautiful park as we had imagined, but at the bus stop. We decide that drinking the wine we packed would look unseemly considering that we’re standing at a bus stop and not sitting in a park. By mid-afternoon, when the bus finally arrives, we are on our way to our morning’s destination. 

We return to the city the same way we came, happy we didn’t allow thieves to ruin our plans.

It is Italy that taught me to take a Che serà, sera! attitude when there are delays. It is Katie who taught me to move on and not waste a moment when plans go awry. #

For some perspective, I know that being pick-pocketed is a disheartening experience; on the other hand, being physically attacked in Rome is a rare occurrence. For more information on crime in Europe, visit Amanda Ruggeri's wonderful site: 
Revealed Rome.

Less than two miles from the historic center of “our” town, Città di Castello, there is a walking/biking path that gradually leads up to Terme di Fontecchio (terme means warm, thermal waters). Although the Terme is a spa (updated in late 2012) with all kinds of services -- from massage to soaking in thermal waters -- you needn't spend a penny to enjoy the views on the way up to it or to walk around the Terme's beautiful grounds. I like to walk up there in the morning and have a croissant with a cappuccino while sitting outdoors. To the right of the building above, is a coffee shop that is a hot spot for natives, so it's a great place for people watching whether you choose to sit indoors or out.

There’s a clay tennis court (open to the public, 12 euros per hour, by reservation) which I’ve only seen being used once. A gorgeous outdoor swimming pool and a pizza restaurant with outdoor seating are open in the summer (hours, days vary). 

There are winding paths to follow, benches, a stream, a bocce ball court, a basic miniature golf area (that kids might still enjoy), and fountains to take in, all without cost.

Behind the buildings and up into the hills are rugged walking paths. Since I broke my leg while walking alone on an Italian farm road in 2006, I no longer trek such areas by myself. That is why I've come to like this gentle uphill walk to the Terme. The journey gets the blood moving, while the destination soothes. For details on how to take this walk, see below.

In lieu of a birthday present, I chose to walk for five days from inn to inn in the Provençale region of France. I should have noticed
something was amiss when, after my announcement, Rich didn’t move a muscle. He was almost too eager to accompany me.

The tour package included meals, luggage transfer, lodging, a map and written directions of each day’s route. No guide, no group. Just the two of us.

I was hooked simply by reading the title of the walk: “Colours and Scents of the Luberon.” Continuing to read, the Web site said, “…you
walk through the thyme and rosemary scented hills, passing isolated farms, before reaching the hamlet of Saint-Pantaleon.”

In a description of another day’s walk, it says, “Dipping back into the valley, you make your way to Bonnieux, a picture perfect Provençale village, on top of which stands a 12th Century church surrounded by century-old cedars.”

It went on to explain that no day required walking more than 13 kilometers (9-10 miles), the site said, supposedly to be accomplished in
around four hours, even for slow walkers. This outfit, (www.walkinnprovence.com), rates the walks by difficulty, with Level 1 being the easiest and Level 3 the hardest. “The Colours and Scents of the Luberon” was rated Level 1. Herein is the description of Level 1: 

You like to walk to get exercise and enjoy strolls in the countryside. You don’t need to be an athlete to enjoy these trips. Walks generally from 2 - 4 hours on easy terrain, with some climbing up to perched villages. 
 
The Web site points out that “levels of difficulty” vary according to a person’s country of origin. “In some countries, like France,”it says, “it’s part of the culture to go on family walks on the weekends, and children, even at a young age, get used to walking all day in the hills.” 

I love to walk. It is September. Whatever could go wrong?

Thankfully, nothing dire. But by lunchtime on the first day my hair was welded to my head, stiff with sweat. My cheeks flushed with heat exhaustion despite regularly drinking water, and my bra was so soaked, the slightest breeze gave me shivers.

The paths were indeed beautiful, taking us up hills with breath-taking views, and off-road to a trail in the backwoods. Parts of the path
were so steep I was forced to grip tree trunks to keep from tumbling down rocky dried-up gullies. Occasionally, I sat and scooted to the bottom of a treacherous part on my bottom. Considering how I already looked, who cared if my pants got dirty.

It turned out we could trek all day and not see another soul. We carried our lunches in day packs, passed through towns with houses but nary a sighting of life (unless you count an ostrich in a pen). Even when the occasional town provided a place that could conceivably serve a cold beverage, it was closed.

Toward the end of our first day, as the sun was setting, we saw in the distance the town of Gordes “rising out of the Calavon valley and perched vertiginously on a rocky spur.” It looked so close, and yet, once we arrived at the foot of it, a long climb awaited. At least we’d been forewarned.

Once in the town center, I sat and rested by a fountain and observed the townsfolk going about their business. It was good to be in civilization again. So what if the walk took more than four hours? Or even six or seven?

Rich looked up from the town’s map. “The hotel is up there,” he said, pointing. “Another six hundred meters, uphill.” With effort, I stood up and clomped my way up the paved road. At least there weren’t any loose rocks. Once we were checked in, took a quick shower and dip in the pool (as spectacular as advertised) overlooking the valley, we asked for directions to the restaurant where our reservations have been made for us. I should have known. Six hundred meters, this time downhill. 

While dining, Rich conceded he was surprised I’d chosen this walking tour as a birthday present. “Why?” I asked.“Don’t tell me you knew it would be this hard?”

He nodded.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

With a shrug, he said, “Why would I discourage you from something so invigorating? You know I like to see other cultures, try new foods.” After a moment he added, “Besides, if I’d planned something like this, I’d have been in deep dip with you.”

Of course he was right, as annoying as that always is.

The next morning, I wondered, “Has anyone else taken this tour?”

Apparently Norwegians and other Americans had, we came to find out over breakfast. A Norwegian couple, close to our age, joined us at the table. After exchanging niceties, I asked, “Did you find yesterday’s hike difficult?” hoping they’d been tortured by it. “No, not at all,” the woman replied. “Although,” and here I leaned forward, “we did get lost, and that cost us an extra hour.” 

I sense “Navigator” Rich sitting a bit straighter. We didn’t get lost once. I slumped back in my chair. OK, so this was an easy trek if you’re an obscenely tall person or an athlete, like the Norwegians and my husband. 

The following morning we met a couple of Americans, at least thirty-five years younger than we are. “Did you find yesterday’s hike difficult?” I asked. They both nodded vigorously. “It was awfully hard,” the woman gushed. Her husband added, “Yeah, we’re taking today off.”

Poor Rich. I nearly broke his ribs when I elbowed him.

In our room, while we were getting our luggage ready to be transferred, Rich said, “I don’t think they’re taking the day off because they’re tired.” 

“You don’t? Why then?”

“Because they’re newlyweds.”

“Seriously? In this day and age? I think they really found the hike hard.” I looked up at Rich, silent and grinning.“Honest, they did! That woman would not have raged on so if it hadn’t been difficult. You want to know what I think?” Not waiting for an answer, I said, “I think the Web site lied. I have yet to see one French person hiking in those hills, much less a child of ANY nationality.” With that, I threw my bra into my suitcase and slammed it shut, ready for another day on the “easy” trail.