Life's worhtwhile, if you'll just smile

Today a stranger asked me who makes me smile. The question (chi ti fa sorridere?) was written on a sheet of typing paper and taped to an old marble column in the piazza. Unlike the missing Bic at the bank, a pen was tied to a long string that blew in the wind and invited passersby to respond.

I wondered if it had been a school assignment, but for which class? Art? Philosophy? Literature? Or it could have been a teenage dare. Was the sign maker disguised in the distance hoping to catch their Mr. or Ms. Right secretly adding their name to the list?

If the author's mission was to get a smile, it was accomplished. Merely thinking about who makes you smile, inevitably makes you smile. Most people simply added a name. A few added hearts and stars. But my favorite wrote, "Who makes me smile? YOU. The one who asks me who makes me smile. You are a poet."    

In Chicago it was the 'Hi Guy' that made us smile. His bike, his t-shirt and his rainbow striped beanie all said the same thing -- Hi. He dotted the 'i's with smiley faces (before we had emojis). His only goal as he traveled through town was to make you smile. He said hi to everyone and most everyone said hi back. And usually that was enough to add two more smiley faces to the streets of the Windy City.

Dallas had the "Free Advice Guys". Every Sunday morning for nearly 20 years they set out a couple of chairs on a popular path around the lake and offered advice. I never accepted their services, but their FREE ADVICE sign made me smile. And in turn, maybe that smile was all the advice I really needed.

I was a kid when I learned from the Reader's Digests stacked on the back of the toilet that Laughter is the Best Medicine. I'd like to thank the stranger who left the 'Who Makes You Smile?' sign in the piazza for reminding me that smiling is the second best. If only all of the people whose names were written on that sign knew that they were someone else's happy pill.
 

As American as Torta alla Mela

There are Americans that love Italy and Italians that love America. I don't mind either group. But Italians who insist that everything in Italy is better yet surround themselves with Yankee goods ruffle my American (Indian) feathers.

I've stood through proud demonstrations of my friends' frigoriferi americani (American fridges). They're thrilled with the immensity and usually conclude the tour with, "And it even makes ice!" It's hard not to remind them that they used to boast of their daily trips to the market for fresh vegetables and fruit (for which a giant fridge is unnecessary) and that when we're out for dinner they order their beverages at temperatura ambiente because drinking things cold can cause congestione (something like cramps that can kill you).  And it's especially difficult  to refrain from asking why they aren't worried that their giant fridge could lead to obesity, a perpetual prejudice against an entire population.  

The most important thing outside Italians' kitchens is inside their closets. Italians are known for their style. Train conductors, bus drivers and shopkeepers all provide their services with panache. As a visitor in the 90s I wrote about the population's polished shoes and well-pressed 'everything else'. Unfortunately, current fashion trends reek of Rocky instead of Mr. Rogers. What was once a Fruit of the Loom sweatsuit now costs 500 dollars and has to be ironed.

I have a student that said I couldn't deny that Italian fashion was better than American. She said Milan is the fashion capital of the world and reminded me that Gucci, Fendi and someone else important were all Italian. I agreed that many of the top designers came from Italy and that some of the most famous fashion shows were in Milan. And then I commented on her outfit that started with Stan Smiths (sneakers) and ended with a Carharrt hat. (There was probably a pair of Levi's in between, but I can't remember.) Next I questioned the comfort of her Adirondack chair and the convenience of her Weber grill. I refrained from reminding her that she was also taking (American) English lessons.  

If you're cool in Italy, guess who caters your 30th birthday party. A food truck that serves burgers and fries, not pasta. Your 40th might be the theme of your favorite American series on Netflix. Your 50th? The trend seems to be a 70s party with a lot of signs that say peace and love, not pace and amore. And the party's sure to be Stayin'Alive, Stayin'Alive with a few Rhinestone Cowboys and the YMCA crew.

Italians of all ages love sunglasses. In 1999 Italy's Luxottica bought RayBan, formerly owned by American Bausch & Lombe. That's probably the year the logo over-appeared on both stems and lenses. Maybe that's what has blurred so many Italians' vision. Or perhaps they're not using eye protection mode on their iPhones, (which I needn't remind you are not produced by a company called Mela).  

 

This is Your Brain

Filled with enthusiasm for having risen before the sun, I left home for a walk and some photos.  I'm much more interested in what the world looks like at dawn. By the time the sun shows up, my excitement has usually waned.

I like to let the sun rise behind me while I head toward its special effects in the west. The dark mountains turn violet and the white contrails pink. But that morning it was the east that I found more photoworthy. It wasn't the sunrise itself, but the little world in front of it that came alive on my cell phone screen.

At first click (I'm not sure how one mimics taking a photo on a cell phone) I was still in the field behind the farmer's house. But the more I squinted and framed the shot, the more detached I became from my immediate surroundings. I continued clicking, gone from the real world yet enthusiastically alive in a tiny forest with dead trees still standing and live ones seeming to silently fall. For seven unearthly minutes, I was lost in the enchanted forest I'd created on the screen.  

Once the sun had risen I woke up (for the second time that day). I thought about where I'd just been. When I looked back at the real scene with no cell phone to impair my vision, I saw nothing more than a clump of tall weeds backlit by the sunrise. I saw reality. I compared my surreal experience to life on social media, where we're connected and disconnected at the same time. (And usually for more than 7 minutes.)

In my Alice in Wonderland moment at least I was the creator, living in a fantasy world designed by me. I wasn't a follower and if there's such thing as a copier, I wasn't a copier either. But I had been momentarily absorbed in a different world and felt morbidly alive inside that tiny screen. 

The 1980s frying pan and eggs commercial has already been remade with a non-Teflon pan and fresh eggs. But if the Partnership for a Drug-Free America needs a new campaign they couldn't go wrong with a photo of a person and their cell phone on a bus (escalator,  sofa or chairlift), at a soccer game (restaurant, school concert or museum) or in a car (waiting room, checkout line or field). The same slogan applies. "This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?"

Gift-Receiving 101

In 1975 you could buy a little index card with 24 tiny holes that held 12 pairs of earrings. The cards cost $3.99 and were intended to offer one person a wide selection of styles and colors. Instead, with my small allowance and big desire to give I cut the card into 12 little squares, wrapped 11 little gifts and kept the ugliest pair for myself. It didn't matter that they weren't worth their weight in nickel-free stainless steel. I just liked wrapping and tying tiny bows. But most of all, I liked giving.

Gift-Giving 101 is full of helpful hints on how to find the perfect gift, but I'm not a subscriber. I prefer giving things that can be tucked away and used from time to time (travel accessories, recipe cards and portable kleenex holders for allergy season) or things that are disposable (notecards that get mailed, candles that get burned and potholders that get dingy). Once I gave my friends a framed quote about life. I removed the hangers from the frames because I didn't think I should choose what got hung on their walls. My instructions were to hide the quote at the bottom of their underwear drawer to encourage a reread at the time of rediscovery. It's the  underwear-drawer-cleaning-days that we really need a reminder of what life's all about.

Seeing that there are two ends to every bow and no websites called Gift-Receiving 101, I follow my father-in-law's rule that once a gift is given, so are the rights to ownership. As a giver I've seen a scarf used as a tablerunner, a handmade book used as a block of scrap paper and an oversized dishtowel used as a breakfast placemat. Instead of lamenting that my labors of love are misinterpreted, I silently applaud my friends for their creativity.

As a receiver, my new ownership should entitle me to return, recycle, regift and repurpose guilt-free. Until the rule is universally accepted, I'm afraid I'll be misunderstood. Fortunately, my close friends are getting used to the transformations and are no longer offended.  I've decoupaged a clock, cut off the welcoming cows on a cast iron doorbell, and exchanged an $89 t-shirt for a pair of earrings that I'm still wearing 17 years later. The gifts were given (and received) with love, they just didn't fit my style (or lack thereof). I didn't want to hide them in my underwear drawer because that wasn't part of their instructions for use. Better to be seen in a different light, than no light at all.

If the overabundance of gifts I've received from my friends' holidays (a bottle of sand from Miami Beach, a silver spoon from London, a key chain from Corfu...) were displayed on a dusty shelf I wouldn't SEE them anymore. And if they'd been tossed in the donate bin, I wouldn't HAVE them anymore. Instead, they're joyfully unwrapped every twelve months and hung on my Christmas tree.

Had I learned the phrase "It's more blessed to give than to receive" instead of "it's better to give than to get" I might have understood (before today when I was googling 'receiving') that it was a message from God, instead of just something big people said. And if He'd invented the Christmas tree instead of just Christmas, He would have understood the importance of receiving. For without receivers, givers can't give. And if my giving friends hadn't thought of me in the souvenier shop in Spain and the bazaar in Bucharest I'd be without my yearly reminder of what life's all about.  
 

Who are you wearing?

My wardrobe is one of proper nouns, not brand names. No one else knows who I'm wearing, but I hold the designers near and dear.

Most of my clothes are from secondhand shops. I usually don't know who donned the duds before me unless there's a name stitched in the collar for the dry cleaner or a monogram on the cuff. Once I found a love note to Isabel in a breast pocket. Other than that, they're anonymous.  

Some of my favorite pieces were offered (or snatched) from friends' pitch piles before being hauled off to charity shops (where there's a chance I'd have bought them three days later).

The few things I own that aren't secondhand were gifts. I love wrapping myself in something someone picked out just for me. And although some gifts are brand name, I prefer to affectionately call them my Tracey pants and Ruthie scarves.

I love my 'trip clothes'. I'm sure I'll wear my Serbian shoes and Burmese beach skirts far past their expiration dates, but I'd rather have worn them out than thrown them out.

Perhaps most interesting is what I've found in drawers and on hooks when buying houses. After the grown children selling their childhood homes had collected their final memories they told me they'd toss the rest before the closing date. Instead, I offered to take care of what was left and asked if they'd mind seeing me in their mom's old apron one day.  

When I get dressed I don't stop to think about who's going into an outfit. But usually at some point during the day I take an inventory from toe to head and the combinations beat the best Milano runway.

Last weekend I was wearing my friend's deceased husband's athletic socks (brand new because as long as I'd known him, dear Giorgio had never been an athlete), an Aileeny t-shirt (Cuddl Duds, but I feel more cuddled calling it 'an Aileeny'), a wool sweater found in the house on the island (for me it's a sweater, but Italians call it 'maglia di salute' which translates as a t-shirt for your health), the previous owner of the mountain house's denim workshirt (his name is Quinto which means 'fifth' because they used to name their kids with numbers), a green vest from Swiss Betty's donation pile and the blue windbreaker Signora Elda used to wear riding her Vespa in the mountains when she was 84.

Some say that clothes make the man. In my case, I say that other men's clothes make me. I don't want to be Tommy, Ralph or Max. (It was hard to come up with three designers; impossible three designers from the 21st century.) It's more fun being Isabel and Elda in whatever size or shade they chose. Winnie the Pooh says, "A hug is always the right size."

Take a Selfless

In the age of selfies I was tickled when a 16-year old student wanted to use me as a model to sell her pants online. It's nice to know teens can't solve all of their problems alone in their bedrooms with their phones. Sometimes the unorthodox English teacher is called to assist.
   
Like any good photo shoot, Matilde crawled on the floor and climbed on chairs looking for the right angle and I reluctantly struck every ridiculous pose she requested. Her hours of research on how to take photos of her friends in the high school bathroom had paid off. She'd made me look five pounds thinner and the pants looked so good I considered buying them myself.

Although technique plays an important role in photography, it's not everything. A perfect shot isn't always the result of timing, the right light, a good eye or a thousand tries. Sometimes it involves a sixth sense.

Two of the best photos of me were taken by people that barely knew me. The photographers didn't crawl or climb. They just pointed and shot and captured the Kodak moments.

The first one was in Japan in 2001. I'd met a German boy twenty years my junior in Tokyo. Three days and 280 miles later he found me sitting at a temple in Kyoto and said, "Give me your camera. I think you're going to like this picture." I allowed one shot. I wasn't willing to waste two on a silly thing like me writing in my journal. I didn't fluff my hair or move my leg to make it appear more like a rifle than a cannon. What he saw was what he shot. And when I got back to Chicago and developed the film what I got was the most zenlike photo of the trip.

The second photo was taken recently by a new Moldavian friend in the mountains. On a run one morning my quick stop to say hello turned into orange juice on a glass tray with a crocheted doily. The juice was in a wine glass (just the way I like my Diet Coke) and next to her tiny coffee cup there was a pot of honey (she puts a spoonful on her tongue and then drinks her coffee over it).  

As I sat on her stoop in my sweaty running clothes admiring the tray she said, "Give me your phone. I think you're going to like this picture." I didn't use pursed lips or peace signs to distract from my cannons clad in running pants. I just sat there and smiled and accepted the shot 'as is'. Valentina was right. I like the photo. Maybe weekends in Valle di Seren bring out my serenity.

I wouldn't describe myself as zen or serene and neither would anyone else I know. Yet, these two people that barely knew me saw it and fortunately had the sixth sense to know it was something I needed to see in myself. Selfies don't catch these moments. Grabbing your camera, tilting your head and sillyly smiling at yourself changes the whole mood.

The next time you go for a selfie, why not go selfless? You don't need Matilde's moves to make the subject look better than they really are. Just look for someone that needs a photographer to find in them what they haven't yet found in themselves.

 






 

How to Live Life Before Retirement

Twenty-five years ago, after burgers and beers with an older couple, I was thanked for a pleasant night out instead of another organ recital. At their age dinners with friends always included a detailed description of their in-tune and out-of-tune organs. They said it was a pleasant change to talk about my future instead of their pasts.   

Although my current dinner conversations with peers aren't full-fledged recitals, I'll admit I'm starting to feel like a member of the warm-up band. What was once considering career paths is now reviewing retirement plans. Seeing that I never really had a path and still don't have a plan I usually just wait for the subject to change. ‎While they calculate their years left to work, I contemplate my years left to live.  

Just before Christmas I stopped by an old friend's office to deliver her card and heard that she'd retired a few days earlier. The plaque on the door still had her name so I took a photo and sent a message of congratulations. Later that evening on my way through the piazza to meet a student for coffee and conversation (aka work) I got a voicemail from the recent retiree. 

She said, "I have no more desire to push papers around a desk.... for me that's 'stupid' (my kinder, gentler translation). I have no desire to sit behind a computer or answer the telephone. Really, for me, I want to live my life, provided God gives me good health. Live my life? You might ask how I'm going to live my life. I'll live well just staying home looking out at the fields behind my house and enjoying the sunshine, taking a walk and doing any silly thing there is to do. For example, crocheting, knitting, going out to find a friend that I haven't seen for awhile just to drink coffee and talk. For me this is life and freedom. And then, also to travel a bit. This for me is living. I've had enough work. Enough. Now I'm really happy." 

Her message was an unexpected gift. It seemed like she'd taken a page from my book (a book I call How to Live Life Before Retirement). The excitement she felt about her new life to-be sounded just like the current life of me. I have to remember that my everyday life (albeit simple) is what many dream of for retirement. 

I don't know how to crochet (yet), but I've got the rest of her list down to a T.  Fortunately I don't have to wait for my last day of work (aka coffee and conversation in the piazza) to say, "Now I'm really happy."