Pint-sized running partner

At Holy Cross, the gym is my private retreat--the place where I can sweat away the thought of treacherous problem-sets and research papers.  I genuinely enjoy exercise and am a strong believer in those feel-good endorphins.  But hey, let’s face it, with the insanely caloric, Italian dinners that I’m eating every night, it’s probably a good thing that exercise and I get along so well!

I was pleased to discover a lovely, little park virtually outside my door here in Florence. There, natives run, ride their bikes, and walk their dogs. It’s perched perfectly along the Arno and is fairly reminiscent of Boston’s Esplanade and the Charles in the summertime, when people are out-and-about, running and enjoying the weather.

This isn't my park...but it is my side of the Arno!

I’ve spent the past few weeks--Reeboks on my feet and Gaga in my ears--jogging through the picturesque park and returning home with my runner’s high.  

Adair & I with our sweet, matching sneaks!

It’s become very clear to me, though, that Italians are not as gung-ho about working-out as we are in the States.  Rather, my Italian siblings (Oscar and Nina) explode at the sight of me in my running pants and ponytail.  They stare at me in awe as I stretch out after my run--sweaty back, red face, and all--panting on the hardwood floor.

Nevertheless, since my first run here, Nina has been dying to come along.  In fact, after we initially bonded over our shared love of American pop music (Oh hey, Justin Bieber) and Disney Channel TV shows (What’s up, Hannah Montana with Italian voice-overs?), she has been my little shadow.  Each time I go for a run, she begs my Italian host-mom, Sylvia, if she can join me.  Each time, we both tell her that we’ll take her to the park for a walk later on.  This week, however, Nina lucked out...

Sylvia asked me if I’d bring her with me. 

So, there I am, all dressed for a run and about to leave the house.  

Five minutes later, there I am, dressed for a run, about to leave the house accompanied by an eight-year-old. 

Fabulous.

I think my description of this “run” would best be by comparison.  One time this spring, I thought it would be a brilliant idea to bring Pearl for a run with me--you know, kill two birds with one stone, right? It goes without saying that Pearl and I made it all the way down one street at an actual speed.  For the remainder of the “run,” I dragged her home as if she were a block of lead on a leash.  (No offense, Pearl girl.)

Nina and I also made it down one little street.  Then, instead of having the next bridge as my goal, the water bubbler--virtually right next to us--became the goal.  (Fun fact: Even the water bubblers in Italy have the option of flat, “natural” water and bubbly, “gas” water. Strange!)

Though our run was far from a workout, it must have looked pretty hilarious.  We did receive some laughs and adoring glances from other park-goers... I mean, how many twenty-year-old girls have eight-year-old jogging partners? Probably not many.

My favorite part of the run was when we returned home to the apartment--Nina, exhausted, panting and pleased with herself and I...well...not.  Host-mom Sylvia who is a very sweet, Dutch woman proceeded to ask me if Nina was able to keep up with me.

Um, Sylvia... she’s EIGHT.  Has she ever really ran before? No. Was I expecting her to sprint alongside me at a normal pace? No.  If she were able to keep up with me, would I be seriously upset with myself? Yes, probably.

I haven’t dared put on my sneakers since I met my new running partner... I guess, next time I do, we’ll see if Nina thinks this is going to be a regular occurrence or if once was enough for her!