Writing is only half the job.

I woke up early on my last full day in Rome to go to a little cafe I had been admiring for days. We passed it nearly every time we headed out to explore and I kept picturing myself writing away as I sat under the porch awning next to the green octagon shaped building. But when I was finally there enjoying a delicious cappuccino, I was so distracted it was hard to put pen to paper for fear I would miss something that was happening around me. The cafe was full of people starting their days greeting each other and I was drawn to watch and listen (with my limited Italian) to the exchanges and conversations.

Although I missed most of what was being said I understood what I saw. There was friendship between the men standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar talking loudly, drinking quickly and then parting with hug and a warm pat on the back. “Ciao, Ciao.”

There was impatience from the barista who seemed to know what everyone wanted before they even ordered. “Yes, I will have a cappuccino and. Cornetto. Grazie” He never missed a beat as he called out to a woman riding by on a bike or the young priest on a fast-moving scooter. “Ciao, Ciao!”

There was uniformed reverence as one small cluster of nuns combined with another “ciao, ciao!” and they walked together in their sensible shoes up the cobblestone hill toward the Vatican.  

Even though I left the cafe that morning with only a few words written in my notebook I wasn’t disappointed. Writing is only half the job of the writer. The other half is being aware of the world around us wherever we are.