Kimberly Menozzi, Author

I feel like I'm slowly getting back on track after a very unproductive holiday-filled six weeks. It's been difficult -- much harder than I'd have anticipated, actually.

However, I'm determined to get back into the proper headspace for 27 Stages, and I made a little headway last night, thanks in part to a documentary Alle and I watched about Italian cyclist Fausto Coppi. Yesterday was the fifty-first anniversary of Coppi's death from malaria at the age of forty-one, and since Coppi was one of Italy's greatest cyclists, it is not a day likely to pass without commemoration in this country.

Just about every fan of cycling is aware of who Coppi is. The son of farmers in the Apennines in Northwest Italy, he rose to the heights of his chosen sport, fought in World War II, then returned to compete and achieve further acclaim as Italy worked to find its footing as a nation once again. Only his affair with a married woman -- while still married himself -- managed to tarnish his reputation in many eyes, and brought him into conflict with the laws of that time.

It's hard for me to imagine, now, that an extramarital affair could be punished by sending the participants to prison. It's hard to imagine how strongly he must have felt for "la dama in bianco" -- "the woman in white", as she was described in the press at the time -- that he would be willing to endure such public outcry (which included being spat on by spectators of the races he rode) and criticism (from no less than the Pope himself).

But he did.

He loved her and gave up his family and a good deal of his popular acclaim in order to be with her. Right or wrong, he followed his heart and did what he thought he had to in order to be with her. They dealt with the consequences, started their family (they had a son in spite of the fact they couldn't legally wed in Italy) and tried to go forward together. In the end, of course, it didn't work out the way they'd planned. Coppi died after contracting malaria during a safari trip in Burkina Faso. (The malady was misdiagnosed as influenza when it emerged after his return to Italy.)

In the last few weeks, I've seen this documentary and I've read William Fotheringham's biography of Coppi. Viewing what Coppi went through makes the prose on the page still more vivid.

After watching the documentary on television yesterday, Coppi has been on my mind even more: what he sacrificed and what he salvaged, who he loved and who he hurt, his own private losses throughout it all (his brother, Serse, who became a cyclist after Fausto did, died after crashing during the final sprint in the Giro del Piemonte in 1951).

And all of this gets turned over and over in my head, tiny elements sticking together and becoming a different whole.

I'm thinking a lot about what I've written so far in 27 Stages. Yes, it's fiction, but it's clear to me that the stakes need to be raised, the risks need to be greater than what I've written up to now. I know, if only because the reality is so much greater than anything I could ever invent, I need to do my damnedest to do the stories justice.

Because their stories deserve no less.

As I start to write this, it is 10:30 in the morning. In twenty-four hours I'll be waiting to board my flight (a whole two-hour journey) to London out of Bologna.

My bags are almost completely packed (just a few items to go).

I've read and re-read my excerpts for the readings until I'm nearly sick of seeing 'em.

I've decided on my outifits for the launch and the readings. (Dressy, not fussy; quite "me", really.)

When Alle and I arrive in London, we'll find my mother and my friend who are waiting for us there (their flight gets in earlier), and we'll get them to the hotel. We'll rest, have dinner, and then?

My nerves will start kicking in and I'll become a chattering, blithering idiot, most likely. LOL! Not that anyone can tell the difference, I reckon.

No, I'm sure we'll have a quick toddle around our neighborhood before we retire to our rooms, chat and then get some rest. Thursday morning, to one degree or another, my London adventure will begin. I hope things go smoothly, and that I don't actually make a fool of myself in front of anyone.

To quote the Grateful Dead (and when you think London, don't you just think of Jerry and the gang?) "What a long, strange trip it's been..." I mean, I started out writing this little short story which I initially meant to be just for me and mine, and instead it became something much, much bigger - both literally and figuratively.

In the end, a story about Bologna is taking me to London, and then back home again where the real world will intrude once more - and regularly at that. I'll have to look on the next ten days as something out of the norm, and cross my fingers and hope and wish and pray that all goes as well as it can.

And then I'll have to knuckle down and get to writing again. I want to see where the next story takes me.

Hello, all! I fell behind a bit this week, so I thought I'd share a little something from my upcoming release, Ask Me if I'm Happy, this week. So, please allow me to present to you:

1) What nerve he has—and where do Italians learn that smirk, anyway? Is it genetic or something? If I never see that look again, it’ll be too soon.

2) “Amazing… I mean, what are the odds of reading an article and having the author sitting right across from you on the train like some average Joe? Or, in this case, like some average Giuseppe?”

3) He shrugged modestly, a faint pinkness shading his cheeks. “We all read the magazines in the doctor’s office, whether we have an interest in fashion and gossip or not.”

4)  “Most of what you see in here isn’t mine. These treasures belonged to my predecessor.”

“Oh, what happened to him?”

“He died.”

Oops.

5)  “It means that I, well… I teach English at a language school in Padova. It’s nothing special, not a very big school. Just me and a few other English teachers, a Chinese teacher, a German teacher, a couple of Spanish and Portuguese teachers… I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“Sì,” he grinned, “but it’s quite charming.”

6) Pragmatism forced away the thought, yet it returned when his eyes met hers straight-on. The draw of his eyes was almost tactile. She straightened her shoulders until she felt the back of the chair, hard and unyielding against her spine.

7) …When they stepped apart, his hand slipped down to caress her cheek, to encourage her to smile. “Emilia, dai—fammi un sorriso.”

There was no reason to resist, yet she felt the tugging at the corners of her mouth as though it was happening to someone else, somewhere else. The piazza, so bustling and noisy moments ago, seemed to have gone silent, or might have been drowned out by the rhythm of her heartbeat as Davide moved closer to her again.

8) A question lurked between them. It fidgeted behind her eyes, waiting to be spoken aloud. He wasn’t certain whether he dared invite it, no matter how much he hoped it was the same question he wanted to ask.

The waiter arrived to take their orders and Davide was grateful for the chance to focus on something else for a few moments. Still, his eyes were drawn back to hers. Each time he found it harder to breathe, harder to focus on the world around them. Each time, he realized all he wanted was to be able to look into those eyes uninterrupted for an hour, or perhaps for a lifetime.

9) In an instant, he saw it all: the two of them in the elevator, his hand stroking her cheek, then reaching and tugging at the elastic that bound back her hair away from her face. He could feel the silken smoothness of her hair beneath his fingertips as the elastic slid down the length of her ponytail at his urging, until it all fell free and loose against his palm.

He imagined twining his fingers in her hair, then, holding her in place and tilting her head back, her mouth opening to receive his, willing, wanting…

“Davide?”

“Sì, sì…” He shook his head to clear away the images, although he would have liked to see the vision through to the end.

10) “Cazzo!” he snarled, standing up just as Emily emerged from the bathroom, already dressed in faded jeans and a misshapen cable sweater that had once been a pale gray.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, sì, sì; I just, how do you say… ‘stumped’ my toe on the carpet.”

“‘Stubbed’ your toe,” she corrected with a small laugh. “You ‘stubbed’ your toe on the carpet.”

He offered her an embarrassed smile in reply. “Right.”

11) “Okay. Great. I’ll see you then.” Paul stood, pushed his chair back under the table and picked up the tray which had held her drink. “I’d better get back to work.”

Smiling at him, Emily watched him go, turning her eyes back to her computer screen when she realized she was paying more attention to his retreating khakis than was appropriate. A belated blush finally rose in her cheeks and she gulped down some of her cooled-down drink before logging in to her e-mail.

12) “And then,” she continued, “there’s the fact that once I’m here, I’m thrilled to be here again. Almost every time I’ve come back, I’ve had another little ‘honeymoon’ period, you know? Where everything I see just seems so beautiful, I can’t believe I wanted to leave it in the first place.

“I fall in love with this place every time I step out of the airport. Even the people who drive me crazy make me want to grab them and give them a hug. Well, except for the guy peeing under the overpass.”

“Who is that?” Davide laughed harder than ever and Emily did the same.

“Seriously, you haven’t noticed? There’s always a man peeing under the overpass—especially when you leave the airport.”

“Oddio, Emilia. This is too much.”

“It’s true, Davide! Watch the next time you go to the airport—I’m telling you, you’ll see him! It might even be same guy.”

“So you think there’s a serial overpass pisser? Really?”

“Well, okay. I’m not sure it’s him every time. I don’t look that closely, to be honest.” 

13)  “That’s the one?” Michele tilted his head toward the door and Davide nodded. “Wow,” he said, pursing his lips in appraisal. “Che bel tocco di –”

“She speaks Italian, Miki,” Davide interrupted, knowing where the next words were likely to lead.

“–ragazza,” his friend finished. “What a sweet girl she seems to be—that’s what I meant to say.”

“She’s a woman, Miki. Not a girl.”

“And an attractive woman, at that.”

“You thought she wouldn’t be?”

“A volte si fanno trottare anche gli asini,” Michele said, making a gesture as though pulling back on reins.

At times, even donkeys can trot. Davide sighed. There goes Miki with his charming sayings again.

Ciao for now!