Of barefoot walks and Italian men

I love it (sometimes) when my days are full and busy, and I am forced to be creative and resourceful about getting my walk done.  Yesterday I gave in to the temptation to stay in my jammies, drink coffee and pore over the Sunday paper, then met Sam at the Omelettry at 9:00.  I never fail to come away from our breakfasts with a renewed sense of gratitude about the kind of person he has turned out to be, and how much fun it is to interact with him as an adult. 

We could have lingered over coffee for another hour, but the place was getting crowded and we sensed our waiter's itch for a free table, so we cleared out after about an hour.  I arrived at church at the inconvenient hour of 10:20 -- it starts at 11:15.  As I was parking on a street under a bridge that T-bones Cesar Chavez I noticed a little trail leading upwards.  Why not just do my walk, or at least half of it, right now?  The path sort of paralleled the Amtrak rails, and it turned into a very smooth asphalt surface, so I was able to take off my uncomfortable shoes and walk barefoot.  I crossed this very cool footbridge, which is I think over 5th St., and then walked around the shops and the big apartment building, back and forth a couple of different times, til I reached 45 minutes, and it was still cool and beautiful enough that sweating was not an issue.  Then tonight, after the Ken Burns documentary "The Dust Bowl," I took Banks out for a late-night stroll down to Stacy Park. It was perfect.

I really need to go out and listen to live music more often.  Saturday, Steve (remember him?  The tennis pro who lives in Chicago half the year and Austin half the year?) was playing at the Saxon Pub with a band from Chicago featuring Billy Prine (John's brother), and I went there with Lynn and Terry.  It was a blast.  There was something about the harmonica player that got us all going....there are just not enough Italian men in Austin, that's all there is to it.  There were loads of them growing up in Pittsburgh, with names like Vespignani, Spizzoletti, Luppinacci, Cirincione, and on the rare occasion that I encounter an Italian man in Texas, I find myself staring, almost hypnotically.  Those prominent noses, those sad dark eyes.  Oh My God.