I’ve honed cheap-skatery to a fine edge. I re-use foil and
Ziploc bags, self-administer haircuts, pedicures and even Brazilians – attaining
a Jedi-level of self-grooming. Heck, I’d even drill my own teeth if I could,
and have occasionally been known to file my own choppers when rough.
It pains me to spend money, so a month-long trip to Italy
with my husband Dave to celebrate his retirement promised to be a little excruciating.
Not that we’d be living like senators, mind you; we got a cheap flight and Dave
had chosen reasonable Airbnb rooms with kitchens so I could cook some of our
meals. Also, we’d be taking public transport whenever we could.
No, it was all the unanticipated extras that made me wince:
cab fares, toilet fares, and paying for water (water!) in restaurants. It was also
the sad realization that even though the Euro was down, it was still worth more
than a dollar, so a €30 dinner was actually $33.73.
When we arrived in Florence, known for its well-crafted and inexpensive
leather goods, I’d reached a Scrooge McDuck level of frugality – at least
in my head. A well-deserved leather jacket and briefcase for Dave and beautiful
saddlebag purse for me brought no joy, only Eyeore-like thoughts. “We can’t
afford this.” “We’re pillaging our emergency fund.” “We’ll bounce our checking account.”
I put a good face on it and tried to enjoy the rich chaos of
Rome, lushness of Florence and quirkiness of Venice, but by the time I got to the
gritty city of Naples, I knew my attitude stunk and could use a change of
clothes. It took the death of a friend to shame me out of my pinch-faced
parsimony.
Andy Jones was a new acquaintance. A jazz-loving, energetic
man who had just celebrated his 88th birthday, he sparkled with vitality and
optimism. He still worked as a greeting card salesman and began every day with
1,000 sit-ups (you read that right) and a seven-mile walk. He gave away his old
suits, not to divest himself of possessions, but so he could buy new ones in
hopes of impressing the ladies.
We thought Andy would live forever. There is a Japanese word
that describes him exactly – “genki.”
Roughly translated, it means enthusiastic, energetic, lively – game, ready to
go. That was Andy Jones.
He found our group of friends through a shared love of music,
and we spent many Friday nights circled around the piano, singing songs from
the Great American Songbook – Andy’s favorite genre. He went from being shy and
requesting songs, to singing them with gusto.
We loved getting to know Andy and looked forward to many
more gatherings. When Dave learned on Facebook he had passed away of a heart
attack, we were both stunned. And here we were in Italy, unable to attend the
funeral and filled with sadness.
An inescapable truth of Rome is how impermanent we all are.
The ruins of Italy have far outlasted the life spans of their creators by
thousands of years. The many statues and monuments are for people long-gone and
mostly forgotten. The cosmic clock stops for no one – not the citizens of
ancient Rome, not Andy, certainly not for me.
Andy Jones wrung every drop of juice out of his 88 years,
why wouldn’t I do the same? Here I am in Italy with the man I love. We’re both
in good health, and have an emergency fund to plunder. How about I buy some
expensive gifts and that sexy dress from Florence? Or, fully enjoy the vertiginous
views from The Path of the Gods over the Amalfi Coast; bask in romantic, peach-colored
sunsets over the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, and ogle over Michelangelo’s David?
Must I be the Grinch Who Stole Our Italian Vacation? I couldn’t think of a
single reason why I should and, I’ll bet, Andy couldn’t have either.
