Through a series of inopportune events, some independent, some isolated and some illogical, I attended neither.
On the one hand I want to say, oh well, been there before, but these two represent a very serious shift. Simply due to the fact that I WASN'T there. And somebody else was.
I am not whining, I hold no malice or envy towards the competitors, media, admin, sponsors or volunteers. At its most banal, I needed the work, enjoy the challenge and feed off the energy that only long-distance triathlon offers. I have found nothing else that even comes close, and I have been to World Series' and Rose Bowls.
All this, blended with equal portions of less-than-perfect health, unemployment, temporary living arrangements and the coming of winter, whips up a nasty brew. One to which I look to add some flavor, something to sweeten and maybe even a maraschino cherry atop. (I can skip the cherry if necessary.) Today.
When else? When it gets to thirty below? When I have spent the last dime from thirty years of work? When the landlord gives me thirty days?
Had a dream last night about being back in Italy. I was pointing to a place, a nook in a Venetian restaurant where I once made long, rambling, romantic journal entries, and saw Marco, my Italian benefactor. We embraced and I asked about work (in my crude Italian.) I should have known from the wheel-barrow that he was pushing that times were just as tough in the former Kingdom of the Doge, as they are here.
He said they had work but all he could offer was the dollar equivalent of thirty bucks a day.
I was walking along the Arno, staring at the huge brown carp under the old bridge.
Wondering how all the wanderlust had turned so bleak so fast.
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