What I have discovered is that Ruling Woman is not a just a monologue -- but an exchange. RW seems to inspire reciprocal observations from many who read it. I consistently get notes and letters from -- dare I call them -- MY readers.

Take my tale of the little lingerie lady who, when I was lost, locked up her store to take me to the chocolate shop near the Pantheon. After I shared that experience, I got this e-mail from a dear friend in the Midwest.

Your story of the chocolate shop, the lady who led you to your destination; caused a little glow in my heart because it confirmed that we live in a world of subtle and invisible connections.

A few weeks ago I was visiting a friend who lives in Roseville, Minnesota. About once a month we go to lunch at a place she has dubbed the "Hunk-a-Deli" because of the team of handsome young men who work behind the counter. As we were about to set out, I experienced one of those split seconds of anger, self-loathing, regret, and grim acceptance of the irrevocable: I had locked my keys in the car.

We waited by the car for about ten minutes before the locksmith, who turned out to be from Liverpool, arrived. As he went about his work, he chattered on about the dark art of lock-picking in his Beatle accent. Within a minute, the door was open. It was one of those pleasant experiences of watching someone do with ease and expertise what training and practice alone can accomplish; a simple task, yet one that I could not have done in any amount of time. The experience came at a price however, and as we settled up another car approached, hesitated, and finally pulled into the driveway.

Two elderly ladies were in the front seat, and only the driver spoke any English at all. They were from Italy and looking for a residential address. She was able to make herself understood, but obviously spoke only after mentally translating from her native language, dredging up English lessons from decades ago. For some reason they wanted us to know that they were going to visit a friend who was not well. There was a certain urgency in their eyes, and I could only assume that after coming all the way from Italy at their age, this must be a friend of long and close acquaintance and that the ladies were here to either surprise their friend into recovery or to say "arrivederci." Though I wanted to, I did not ask why there was no one to drive them.

We got out a map, drew a route on it and gave it to them. They reluctantly but with sincere gratitude took it and proceeded to the next corner, where they promptly turned in the wrong direction. My friend and I looked at one another and knew we were being called to help them. Visiting the sick is, after all, right up there next to feeding the hungry in the Christian ethical hierarchy. We set off in pursuit.

We caught up to them a couple of lights later where they were in the wrong lane and about to become even more lost. We shouted and gestured in what we took to be an Italian manner that they should follow us. They looked relieved and were only too glad to be guided. We led them to a semi-rural area and found the house which was set back off the road a hundred yards or so. We could only speculate as to who was inside to exert such a force upon these ladies. For days afterwards I wondered what would have happened to them if I hadn't locked my keys in the car for only the second time in my life.

© Robert Gage

Until my next dispatch -- grazie e arrivederci!