Sad, but true, it seems that I'm officially old enough to be flirted with by younger men. It's happened three times in one week and I think that has sealed the deal for me. I'm no longer in the age group that I could possibly misconstrue their sweet comments for pick-up lines. I'm old enough that they feel safe. They can say whatever they want to say because it's cute and they're doing it to make an old lady feel good.
Maybe it's my punishment for all of the years I spoke sweetly and harmlessly (I thought) to older men. Did I make them feel the same way this guy made me feel today? Or the way the other boy made me feel last week? Or the waiter yesterday? If it's happened three times in one week, it's official, isn't it? I've crossed into a new group. So does that mean I should stop speaking that way to older men? I used to think an older man might have enjoyed hearing that I liked his super white hair. Or his bow tie. That's why I said it. But now I see that it might just make him feel sad and old, like it made me feel today when the 23-year old said that he liked my shoes.
Actually, he didn't really say that he liked my shoes. He said, "Nice shoes," to which I replied, "Are you teasing me?" I really thought he might be joking because when I put them on this morning I had questioned them myself. But he answered, "No. Really. I think it's cool that you're wearing high heels on your bike." Now, I don't think a 30-year old would say that to another 30-year old. And I don't think it would be exchanged between 46-year olds either. But, a 23-year old to a 46-year old seems like a big enough gap (in addition to the fact that I could be his mother) to give him a certain safety net from misinterpretation.
I understand that the best thing would be to accept the compliments and feel flattered that a young man took the time to say anything to an old(er) lady riding past on her bike, right? And I should be happy that a waiter even wants to call me "honey." Unfortunately, it's still a little hard to swallow. Am I going to continue to fight the fact that I'm aging or am I going to adopt the healthy attitude of Donald, my 81-year old neighbor? He thinks it's cool to be old and youthful. He told me that he's fallen three times in the past week. Most recently, he was standing on the bus for 15 minutes and felt fine, but then he got off and fell. I told him that a handsome (there I go again) 81-year old man deserves a seat on the bus and he said with a shy smile, "Well now, it hardly seems fair to accept a seat offered by a pretty young girl when I'm on my way to the gym for a workout!"
Fortunately, I have 35 more years to practice being a little more like Donald. And hopefully instead of shyly refusing an offered seat on the bus, I'll be gracefully accepting a compliment on my bike.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Better late than never
I'm seldom late. And I guess I should also say that I'm seldom early, which only means that I'm almost always on time. By on time, I mean EXACTLY on time. I fill every minute before my departure doing "something". This means I often arrive with an unbuttoned shirt under an untucked sweater, an unclasped charm bracelet stashed in a pocket, unplaced toes in toe socks (terribly uncomfortable), untied boots or unbuckled sandals and sometimes even unglossed lips (which seldom happens due to my obsession with what I refer to as "lipstuff", a term I started using when I thought lipstick sounded too grown-up, lipgloss sounded too Seventeen Magazine, and chapstick really wasn't the truth because it was obvious, albeit embarrassing, that I'd moved on to more girlie products. So, I settled on the term "lipstuff", which, by the way, has definitely outlasted all Long Stay Lipsticks.)
And one more thing about my lipstuff. Before running 50 feet to the corner mailbox the other day, I thought I'd reapply because you never know who you might bump into and you don't want to get caught with bare lips. Really! I never had a mom that insisted I "put a little lipstick on" before heading out the door, so I don't know why it's become such a habit. But I reapplied, ran to the mailbox and was happy to smile a pink smile (it wasn't shiny because I've run out of the glossy part, so I suppose it almost looked like grown-up lipstick) when I unexpectedly ran into a friend in his shiny blue car at the corner.
But I was talking about being late, right?
An hour before my lunch date I texted my friend to say that I'd be arriving at 12:29 with hopes that he could skeedaddle (I actually texted that) at 12:30. He'd sent a message several days ago when we were making the date that 12:30 was a good time, but that I should meet him at his store "a bit before then." Why should I arrive "a bit before then" if we'd actually scheduled lunch for 12:30? Was it necessary that I stood there waiting while he used his last few minutes (which could have also been MY last few minutes) to organize his employees and get his jacket? It seemed odd, so I sent the text to clarify that I'd be there at 12:29. And he said okay.
When I arrived (at 12:29) I didn't see him. When the employees asked if I needed help I told them I was waiting for the manager. When 12:34 rolled around and I still didn't see him, I started getting restless. I admit it's a bit ridiculous to get restless after only 4 minutes, but restless is so much better than mad, isn't it? Imagine if I'd arrived "a bit before" 12:30? I'd have already been waiting for 8 minutes, and then I would've been REALLY restless, but hopefully still not mad. I've been practicing this "not getting mad when people are late" for awhile and I think it's working. I've started carrying a language dictionary everywhere I go and if I find myself with a free minute or two, I learn a new word or two.
There's no need for every detail. I'd sent him a bit testy text asking where he was. I'd decided to leave, told the staff (whom I'm sure saw my agitation, but I really wasn't mad!) to tell him I'd be at the restaurant, stepped outside, and suddenly realized that today was Thursday and we were scheduled to meet on Friday.
My only question is this: Wouldn't you wonder why you were getting a text with a detail as specific as 12:29 a day in advance? Shouldn't that have triggered a text back saying,"Lunch is on Friday, right?"
Isn't the correct answer: Yes, you would wonder about a text with a specific detail a day in advance? Unless of course it's from Tenley, who is already worried about how she'll spend her spare 4 minutes the following day.
It was all my fault. He called. I apologized for the testy text. He asked if we were still on for Friday at 12:30 and I said that we were, but that I'd have to wait outside because I'd be too embarrassed to see his employees after I'd been so sure that it was all his fault. I knew the right thing to have done would have been to have gone back inside to admit that I'd made a mistake, but I felt ashamed for getting agitated. So, I pedaled off. A few blocks later I couldn't take the guilt. I turned around and went back to tell them that it was MY fault and I'd see them again the next day at 12:29.
I wish I could be more like Anne Shirley of Anne of Green Gables by Maud Montgomery. She says,
...And I promise I'll never do it again.
That's the one thing about me.
I never do the same wrong thing twice.
I wish I could say that. But I'm sure I'll still get a little agitated the next time someone is late and I'm sure I'll get really agitated the next time I'm a day early.
Anne Shirley's words are much better words to live by than the ones I found in my Italian dictionary while I was waiting for someone that was late.
Meglio tardi che mai. (Better late than never.)
I suppose sometimes this phrase has its place. For instance, when you reach the finish line of a marathon later than you'd hoped. When a long-awaited letter shows up. When you finally arrive at that one place in the world you've always wanted to get to. When something you've been studying for a long time sinks in. When you find peace. When you're still filled with doubts about something and it scares you, but you do it anyway. These are all definitely better late than never.
However, it wasn't appropriate tonight when I ARRIVED LATE for a Christmas dinner with two dear friends. ('Better late than never' that at least I didn't have a car accident, yes. But 'better late than never' as an answer for being late, no.) I got there 8 minutes late and was greeted by, "I was just telling her that I was shocked that you weren't here yet because you're never late." I apologized and said that it was a good thing I hadn't finished the blog I'd been working on yesterday where I proclaimed that I'm almost always on time. I hadn't finished it because I couldn't find an ending. That is, until we exchanged gifts and I received a tube of shiny new lip gloss! Better late than never. And for those of you that have been asking for the next blog, here it is. Meglio tardi che mai.
And one more thing about my lipstuff. Before running 50 feet to the corner mailbox the other day, I thought I'd reapply because you never know who you might bump into and you don't want to get caught with bare lips. Really! I never had a mom that insisted I "put a little lipstick on" before heading out the door, so I don't know why it's become such a habit. But I reapplied, ran to the mailbox and was happy to smile a pink smile (it wasn't shiny because I've run out of the glossy part, so I suppose it almost looked like grown-up lipstick) when I unexpectedly ran into a friend in his shiny blue car at the corner.
But I was talking about being late, right?
An hour before my lunch date I texted my friend to say that I'd be arriving at 12:29 with hopes that he could skeedaddle (I actually texted that) at 12:30. He'd sent a message several days ago when we were making the date that 12:30 was a good time, but that I should meet him at his store "a bit before then." Why should I arrive "a bit before then" if we'd actually scheduled lunch for 12:30? Was it necessary that I stood there waiting while he used his last few minutes (which could have also been MY last few minutes) to organize his employees and get his jacket? It seemed odd, so I sent the text to clarify that I'd be there at 12:29. And he said okay.
When I arrived (at 12:29) I didn't see him. When the employees asked if I needed help I told them I was waiting for the manager. When 12:34 rolled around and I still didn't see him, I started getting restless. I admit it's a bit ridiculous to get restless after only 4 minutes, but restless is so much better than mad, isn't it? Imagine if I'd arrived "a bit before" 12:30? I'd have already been waiting for 8 minutes, and then I would've been REALLY restless, but hopefully still not mad. I've been practicing this "not getting mad when people are late" for awhile and I think it's working. I've started carrying a language dictionary everywhere I go and if I find myself with a free minute or two, I learn a new word or two.
There's no need for every detail. I'd sent him a bit testy text asking where he was. I'd decided to leave, told the staff (whom I'm sure saw my agitation, but I really wasn't mad!) to tell him I'd be at the restaurant, stepped outside, and suddenly realized that today was Thursday and we were scheduled to meet on Friday.
My only question is this: Wouldn't you wonder why you were getting a text with a detail as specific as 12:29 a day in advance? Shouldn't that have triggered a text back saying,"Lunch is on Friday, right?"
Isn't the correct answer: Yes, you would wonder about a text with a specific detail a day in advance? Unless of course it's from Tenley, who is already worried about how she'll spend her spare 4 minutes the following day.
It was all my fault. He called. I apologized for the testy text. He asked if we were still on for Friday at 12:30 and I said that we were, but that I'd have to wait outside because I'd be too embarrassed to see his employees after I'd been so sure that it was all his fault. I knew the right thing to have done would have been to have gone back inside to admit that I'd made a mistake, but I felt ashamed for getting agitated. So, I pedaled off. A few blocks later I couldn't take the guilt. I turned around and went back to tell them that it was MY fault and I'd see them again the next day at 12:29.
I wish I could be more like Anne Shirley of Anne of Green Gables by Maud Montgomery. She says,
...And I promise I'll never do it again.
That's the one thing about me.
I never do the same wrong thing twice.
I wish I could say that. But I'm sure I'll still get a little agitated the next time someone is late and I'm sure I'll get really agitated the next time I'm a day early.
Anne Shirley's words are much better words to live by than the ones I found in my Italian dictionary while I was waiting for someone that was late.
Meglio tardi che mai. (Better late than never.)
I suppose sometimes this phrase has its place. For instance, when you reach the finish line of a marathon later than you'd hoped. When a long-awaited letter shows up. When you finally arrive at that one place in the world you've always wanted to get to. When something you've been studying for a long time sinks in. When you find peace. When you're still filled with doubts about something and it scares you, but you do it anyway. These are all definitely better late than never.
However, it wasn't appropriate tonight when I ARRIVED LATE for a Christmas dinner with two dear friends. ('Better late than never' that at least I didn't have a car accident, yes. But 'better late than never' as an answer for being late, no.) I got there 8 minutes late and was greeted by, "I was just telling her that I was shocked that you weren't here yet because you're never late." I apologized and said that it was a good thing I hadn't finished the blog I'd been working on yesterday where I proclaimed that I'm almost always on time. I hadn't finished it because I couldn't find an ending. That is, until we exchanged gifts and I received a tube of shiny new lip gloss! Better late than never. And for those of you that have been asking for the next blog, here it is. Meglio tardi che mai.
Friday, December 2, 2011
62 Bold Snowflakes
He told me that she was going to have it done a couple of weeks ago. He said that she's always hated her nose and she finally decided to change it. It actually didn't seem that strange to me. (Not her nose....but the idea of changing it!) She HATED it, she had the money and she thought it would make her feel better, so why not? To each his own, I thought. I really thought it! Believe it or not, this is a phrase I'm working on adopting.
The day of the surgery I sent my friend a text to pass on my good wishes to his wife. I tried to insert a smiley face with a smaller, cuter nose. I searched the keyboard to come up with something unique but ended up resorting to "options" and picked one of the readymade faces. This made me smile and wonder if you could actually google "nosejob" and there might be an "options" heading and you could pick your new nose. Probably.
Anyway, I met my friend for lunch a few days ago and he said that everything went well with the nose, but then he started talking about her jaw. Her jaw? I thought it was her nose? He said, "Yes. She had rhinoplasty, but she also had her jaw reshaped." I asked him why. I'd accepted the nose job relatively easily, but the jaw I didn't get. He told me that the doctor had proposed it and it seemed like it would really look great, so she did it. And this is where I'm still in the adoption phase of that famous phrase. Why could I "to each his own" her nosejob, but not her "jawjob"? And instead of just silently accepting the idea (which you know I find impossible) I went on for a bit about how this seemed different because she'd really hated her nose and she'd finally done something about it, but she'd never really hated her jaw and then changed it on a whim. Shouldn't we just accept what we have? Shouldn't we be strong enough to believe in ourselves "as is" with hopes that how we look shouldn't make that big of a difference? I had a lot more of those "shouldn't we..." ideas that I shared with him, but will spare you.
When I was sure that he'd had about enough of me, I went back to the studio to clean. That's when I found an envelope filled with little handcut snowflakes that I'd made a long time ago for a Christmas card. I considered throwing them away but instead, opened the envelope and took them out one by one for a closer look. It was just as I'd expected. No two were alike. They were really cool! And the fact that they were all different made them even cooler. But is it true that no two snowflakes are alike or was this another one of those things I'd been taught as a kid and was foolish enough to go on believing? I checked. According to a National Geographic article from October 2010, experts are in agreement the likelihood of two being identical is next to impossible.
As I pedaled home I thought about writing something about the nosejob. Then I thought about writing about the snowflakes. That's when it hit me that they could go together. One is about someone going to great lengths to change her differences and the other is about finding beauty in something because it's different. To each his own, I guess.
So I started writing and putting the two together and thinking about how it made me feel. It really hadn't dawned on me earlier when I'd delivered my "shouldn't we accept" monologue, but here's something that makes me think I owe someone an apology. I color my hair. I do it because I think it makes me look better and I like how it makes me feel. Sound familiar? I didn't accept what I had. And apparently I wasn't strong enough to believe in myself "as is" with hopes that how I look shouldn't make that big of a difference. It seemed to me like I was coloring my hair for the same reasons that she was having plastic surgery.
I've run this idea by a few people (including my hairstylist) and no one agrees with me. They say that a nosejob and reshaping your jaw are much bigger deals than coloring your hair. Okay. I agree that a nosejob is major surgery and risky and permanent (at least until you google nosejob and click on "options" again) and changing your hair color isn't any of that. However, my rant on the jaw reshaping had nothing to do with the idea of the risk of major surgery. It was merely a rant on how crazy I thought it was that someone would consider changing something about their appearance instead of accepting it. And if I make it that basic, I think I'm guilty of the same offense. It seems like now's the time to sign the adoption papers on that phrase and own it. (so to speak!)
To each his own.
Who would've thought that finding a little envelope full of snowflakes would lead to my acceptance of plastic surgery? Some of you may be reading this thinking that I'm the last person in the world to say, "To each his own." It's funny, as much as I like to use it on myself or have it used on me (living in an apartment in Paris with the bathroon in the hall, wearing miniskirts on my bike, buying secondhand clothes, eating Big Boy hot fudge cake for breakfast) it's true (but sad) that I'm not always the first to accept those differences in others. But, this whole "rhinoplasty hair coloring comparison" has really started to make me think before I speak and with enough practice I'll stop speaking and then eventually hopefully I won't even think the judgmental thought!
And last but not least, in my research for this blog (you're right, it's not really worthy of research) I googled the phrase. Then I did my usual cross-referencing in Italian. I decided to see if there was something similar in my Dictionary of 1000 Italian Proverbs. It seemed rather unlikely that I'd find anything under the word "own" but I tried it. It lead me to the word "pasta" (don't all roads lead to pasta in my life?!) and here's the proverb:
Ognuno puo' far della sua pasta gnocchi.
My amateur translation of that is, "Everyone can make gnocchi from their pasta." The English equivalent that appears below it is, "Be bold with what is your own." That's my kind of phrase, no? But doesn't that really mean that I shouldn't be coloring my hair?
Friday, October 7, 2011
Face it, communication is difficult
Back to the chalk faces. They got me thinking. And it's always nice to have something to think about when you're doing sit-ups. Where did the smiley face symbol come from? It really doesn't look like a face, but we all know it when we see it. And at what age do we start to recognize it?
It reminded me of when I was teaching English to an entry level class of refugees. First I taught them the words for bird and tree and house using real photographs of these things. Then, we moved on to a little drawing and they had to identify how many of each of the items were in each drawing. That's when I learned that not every 40-year old man in the world knows that the little "m" floating around in the background of a drawing is a bird. And he didn't know what the tree was either. When I asked him how many birds there were in drawing number 9, he couldn't answer. He quickly went to the correct drawing, which proved to me that he knew his numbers. But then he just sat there silently looking at the little house with two chimneys, the sidewalk, three trees and 4 birds. In Africa, if you don't go to school and you don't have crayons and paper to color with, you don't learn that little "m's" are birds. And maybe you don't learn that a circle with a couple of dots with another half circle inside is a smiley face.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately for a nut like me, I didn't grow up in Africa. I learned that the circle around the two dots with the other half circle meant happiness. I also learned that a cowboy with a few big letters in the background (but some blocked out so you really couldn't read anything) stood for Marlboro cigarettes. And luckily I knew that a giant golden M in the sky wasn't a big bird. Sometimes we have to extrapolate. Now, ask me to extrapolate with words and I can't do it. We have plenty of words to link a few of them together, make a coherent sentence and say what we really mean. I think it's a dangerous business to say something with hopes or assumptions that your listener will understand. Immature on my part? Taking things too literally? Maybe. But why risk it? You might be making a big mistake thinking that your audience has understood your obvious, or sometimes hidden, meaning.
Now for a girl who loves foreign languages, this presents a bit of a problem. I certainly can't be sure that I know what I'm saying or that I'm really understanding what I'm hearing. My boss in France almost always spoke English with me. But when he really wanted it to be clear, he spoke French and I had to extrapolate! It might have made him feel more comfortable to try to get his point across in his own language,
but his audience was left with a giant cowboy in front of a few of the letters and it made no sense at all.
Sometimes even when we're speaking the same language we still only hear what we want to hear. Take yesterday as an example. As I pulled up to the studio on my bike one of my neighbors yelled out, "You look great today." I quickly accepted the compliment with, "Thank you." Only to realize a few minutes later that he actually said, "You were late today."
Back to the chalk under the canopy in the park. I had to choose between a smiley face and a frown. Or I could've chosen a part of the ground that hadn't been drawn on, but why live in no-man's land? I had a choice to make and it seemed like doing sit-ups on a giant smiley face would be a great way to start my day. Especially because the artist really made himself clear. In addition to the drawings, he'd labeled them with words. One said "happy face" and the other said "mad face." Without the words I would've taken it as a sad face. Who thinks of the frown as a mad face? This artist does. And instead of making me extrapolate, he spelled it out. There's a big difference between SAD and MAD and as I momentarily considered doing the sit-ups on the sad face because it's okay to be sad and sometimes one should embrace their sadness, I never would've considered plopping myself down on the mad face. I applaud this artist for making it clear.
Some people say a picture paints a thousand words. I say words paint a thousand pictures. Either way, things aren't always clear. And I think it's okay to ask for a thousand more words if that's what it takes to get the picture. :-)
Friday, September 30, 2011
I never thought I'd miss elevator music
Is it possible to find good ol' elevator music anymore? It seems like my past several rides have been shared with a little TV screen instead of bad music. I prefer the bad music. At least there was a chance you might have a short conversation with a fellow rider. Now everyone is so engrossed in the screen that I'm afraid to make idle chit-chat for fear of interrupting. I admit that it was just idle chit-chat. But at least it was human contact. In fact, I've learned some interesting things in elevators. One elevator in Chicago held three out of four riders with summer homes in Michigan. Once I was told for the fourth time that I had the look of a Kennedy. (Which I'd always taken as a compliment until I saw pictures in a special article on the Kennedys in Newsweek Magazine. Oh well.) In elevators, I've collected names of new perfumes, told dapper gentlemen that I liked their bow ties and learned how to say some numbers in Arabic. All of which I find much more interesting than the weather on the little TV screen.
Instead of absorbing myself in the screen on my last elevator ride, I started thinking about all of the other things I'm missing due to modern technology. I'm sure there are plenty of modern things that I use everyday and never think about how much I appreciate them. But they're here now and maybe I'll be mourning them in 20 years when they're gone. Here are a few of the things that I wish were still around.
-The smell of bacon coming from open windows on summer mornings, instead of sealed up houses full of air conditioning.
-Wondering who's calling, instead of deciding if I want to answer.
-Kids with grass stains from real grass playgrounds.
-Not paying extra for the guy to pump my gas.
-Small, messy bookstores, instead of huge bookstores or worse yet, no bookstores at all.
-Wool sweaters that got stinky when they got wet, instead of fleece. (Do cheerleaders still wear wool?)
-The anticipation of checking the real mailbox when I get home.
-Kids carrying their books to school, girls held to their chests and boys to their sides, instead of wheeling their backpacks.
-Hearing people's conversations in their cars at red lights because they had their windows down.
-Dressing up for flights.
-Bird songs outside my window, instead of the neighbor's air conditioner.
-Photo albums, instead of computer screens.
-Seeing how people so precisely fold their newspapers to read them in public places. Does anyone read the newspaper anymore?
-Learning something about strangers at a bus stop based on the titles of their books, instead of their titleless Readers, Nooks and iPads.
-Square ice cubes from real ice cube trays, instead of automatic ice makers.
-Passing houses on the sidewalk and hearing plates and silverware clank in the kitchen. Strange, but it's one of my favorites, and I'm afraid air conditioners have robbed that one, too.
-Brown lunch bags with potato chip grease stains, instead of colorful, nylon insulated bags.
-Chalkboards. Green ones with yellow chalk and black ones with white chalk.
-The swishing of brooms and scraping of rakes, instead of noisy leaf blowers.
-Ladies with curlers in their hair.
I guess I shouldn't have shrugged my shoulders when my parents used to talk about the good old days. Eventually we all mourn them. But they must be good enough to appreciate while we have them, or we wouldn't miss them when they're gone. So I thought I might suggest that on your next elevator ride you could pass the time thinking about what you miss about the good old days and what you appreciate about the present days. Unless, of course, you find the weather more interesting.
Instead of absorbing myself in the screen on my last elevator ride, I started thinking about all of the other things I'm missing due to modern technology. I'm sure there are plenty of modern things that I use everyday and never think about how much I appreciate them. But they're here now and maybe I'll be mourning them in 20 years when they're gone. Here are a few of the things that I wish were still around.
-The smell of bacon coming from open windows on summer mornings, instead of sealed up houses full of air conditioning.
-Wondering who's calling, instead of deciding if I want to answer.
-Kids with grass stains from real grass playgrounds.
-Not paying extra for the guy to pump my gas.
-Small, messy bookstores, instead of huge bookstores or worse yet, no bookstores at all.
-Wool sweaters that got stinky when they got wet, instead of fleece. (Do cheerleaders still wear wool?)
-The anticipation of checking the real mailbox when I get home.
-Kids carrying their books to school, girls held to their chests and boys to their sides, instead of wheeling their backpacks.
-Hearing people's conversations in their cars at red lights because they had their windows down.
-Dressing up for flights.
-Bird songs outside my window, instead of the neighbor's air conditioner.
-Photo albums, instead of computer screens.
-Seeing how people so precisely fold their newspapers to read them in public places. Does anyone read the newspaper anymore?
-Learning something about strangers at a bus stop based on the titles of their books, instead of their titleless Readers, Nooks and iPads.
-Square ice cubes from real ice cube trays, instead of automatic ice makers.
-Passing houses on the sidewalk and hearing plates and silverware clank in the kitchen. Strange, but it's one of my favorites, and I'm afraid air conditioners have robbed that one, too.
-Brown lunch bags with potato chip grease stains, instead of colorful, nylon insulated bags.
-Chalkboards. Green ones with yellow chalk and black ones with white chalk.
-The swishing of brooms and scraping of rakes, instead of noisy leaf blowers.
-Ladies with curlers in their hair.
I guess I shouldn't have shrugged my shoulders when my parents used to talk about the good old days. Eventually we all mourn them. But they must be good enough to appreciate while we have them, or we wouldn't miss them when they're gone. So I thought I might suggest that on your next elevator ride you could pass the time thinking about what you miss about the good old days and what you appreciate about the present days. Unless, of course, you find the weather more interesting.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
If you know you'll be happy, just do it
I've never gone to bed telling myself that I wished I hadn't run that day, but I often go to bed telling myself that I wish I had.
Why is it so hard to do what we KNOW will make us feel happier in the end? I suppose there are a thousand self-help books on this subject. Don't worry. This isn't a chapter from one of those. If I'd read one, maybe I wouldn't keep making the same mistakes. Then again, I suppose I probably would or there wouldn't be quite as many books published because we all would've kicked this bad habit of not doing what we know we really want to be doing day after day, or more likely, year after year.
Take running for example. (And remember it's only one example. I could talk about eating McDonald's, cleaning my closet, watching some stupid TV show, finding myself a dinner date when I'd rather be alone, staying in one town when I'm traveling and really getting to know it instead of listening to the little voice that tells me to move on and see it all....or wait a minute. I've kicked that one, haven't I?)
Anyway, back to running. I love to run. I love how I feel when I'm running. I love seeing people that I know on the running path. I love seeing people that I don't know yet and wondering if one day I'll know them. I love hearing my GPS watch beep every time I finish a mile. I love how my running shoes feel. I even love how they feel when it's raining and my hot feet keep the water inside my shoes warm. I love feeling the breeze go through my sweaty hair on the days I'm not too embarrassed to take the ponytail out. (It's kind of like skinny dipping.) I love running in the snow. I love running on super hot days and stopping to stretch and having my own real beads of sweat fall from my elbows and hit the ground. The first time I felt it I was surprised. I thought it only happened to the athletes in Gatorade commercials. Anyway, you get the point. I love to run. So, why is it a struggle nearly every morning to get up and go when I know it's the thing that will make me happy?
I've never gone to bed telling myself that I wished I would've wasted more time lying awake in bed in the morning. And I've never said that I'm in such great shape that an extra mile or so would have just put me over the perfection edge. I've never told myself that I'm glad I didn't see if the lake was calm or wavy or ferocious like those cold mornings I catch the waves crashing on the corrugated breakwall one indentation at a time like hammers in a grand piano hitting string after string to play a scale. (That sounds like a bad attempt at poetry which, if you've been following this blog, is nothing that I ever do. But it really happens like that. Just stop and picture it for a second. They crash, but not all at once. They really do fill each section one at a time, first really tall and loud and little by little shorter and quieter and it's like notes are playing. There is no less-flowery way to explain it. And speaking of flowers....) I know I'd be sad to miss the day that the daffodils had bloomed. And I'm certainly never happy to have missed a morning that the lion stood roaring for a few minutes in the zoo.
Get the picture? I love running. I actually can't think of one thing to say about running that I don't like. Well, lately there has been one thing. I've wasted my whole run trying to remember all the verses to "Twas the Night Before Christmas" because the only line that seems to keep repeating itself is the one about the bowl full of jelly shaking when Santa laughs. At least mine only shakes when I run, something Santa probably wishes he could do.
So, you've heard it all. I've said it a thousand times, now I've written it and I've reread it. Do you think it will be any easier to get out of bed tomorrow morning? Shouldn't yesterday's deliberation while looking out at the rain and finally deciding to just go and then being greeted by a rainbow and the only 30 minutes of blue skies for the whole day be enough to remind me that in the end I'm definitely going to be happier if I run? I don't really need a self-help book, do I? I may not be lucky enough to catch the rainbow everyday, but I almost always find the pot of gold.
Why is it so hard to do what we KNOW will make us feel happier in the end? I suppose there are a thousand self-help books on this subject. Don't worry. This isn't a chapter from one of those. If I'd read one, maybe I wouldn't keep making the same mistakes. Then again, I suppose I probably would or there wouldn't be quite as many books published because we all would've kicked this bad habit of not doing what we know we really want to be doing day after day, or more likely, year after year.
Take running for example. (And remember it's only one example. I could talk about eating McDonald's, cleaning my closet, watching some stupid TV show, finding myself a dinner date when I'd rather be alone, staying in one town when I'm traveling and really getting to know it instead of listening to the little voice that tells me to move on and see it all....or wait a minute. I've kicked that one, haven't I?)
Anyway, back to running. I love to run. I love how I feel when I'm running. I love seeing people that I know on the running path. I love seeing people that I don't know yet and wondering if one day I'll know them. I love hearing my GPS watch beep every time I finish a mile. I love how my running shoes feel. I even love how they feel when it's raining and my hot feet keep the water inside my shoes warm. I love feeling the breeze go through my sweaty hair on the days I'm not too embarrassed to take the ponytail out. (It's kind of like skinny dipping.) I love running in the snow. I love running on super hot days and stopping to stretch and having my own real beads of sweat fall from my elbows and hit the ground. The first time I felt it I was surprised. I thought it only happened to the athletes in Gatorade commercials. Anyway, you get the point. I love to run. So, why is it a struggle nearly every morning to get up and go when I know it's the thing that will make me happy?
I've never gone to bed telling myself that I wished I would've wasted more time lying awake in bed in the morning. And I've never said that I'm in such great shape that an extra mile or so would have just put me over the perfection edge. I've never told myself that I'm glad I didn't see if the lake was calm or wavy or ferocious like those cold mornings I catch the waves crashing on the corrugated breakwall one indentation at a time like hammers in a grand piano hitting string after string to play a scale. (That sounds like a bad attempt at poetry which, if you've been following this blog, is nothing that I ever do. But it really happens like that. Just stop and picture it for a second. They crash, but not all at once. They really do fill each section one at a time, first really tall and loud and little by little shorter and quieter and it's like notes are playing. There is no less-flowery way to explain it. And speaking of flowers....) I know I'd be sad to miss the day that the daffodils had bloomed. And I'm certainly never happy to have missed a morning that the lion stood roaring for a few minutes in the zoo.
Get the picture? I love running. I actually can't think of one thing to say about running that I don't like. Well, lately there has been one thing. I've wasted my whole run trying to remember all the verses to "Twas the Night Before Christmas" because the only line that seems to keep repeating itself is the one about the bowl full of jelly shaking when Santa laughs. At least mine only shakes when I run, something Santa probably wishes he could do.
So, you've heard it all. I've said it a thousand times, now I've written it and I've reread it. Do you think it will be any easier to get out of bed tomorrow morning? Shouldn't yesterday's deliberation while looking out at the rain and finally deciding to just go and then being greeted by a rainbow and the only 30 minutes of blue skies for the whole day be enough to remind me that in the end I'm definitely going to be happier if I run? I don't really need a self-help book, do I? I may not be lucky enough to catch the rainbow everyday, but I almost always find the pot of gold.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
It's in the bag.
My mom's purse that I remember the best was the white one that looked like a basket. It had a gold clasp and I used to like to turn it and pull the top part off of the bottom part. They would only come apart when they were lined up perfectly. Then the two pieces would flop back and the bag would be open. The lining was blue fabric with little white flowers on it. It wasn't attached at the bottom, so you could turn it inside-out and really get it clean. That's the only time I'd see the one red flower that my mom said had been colored in by an uncapped, red felt-tipped pen. I loved the artistic accident.
She kept her purses in the sweater closet. It was half-filled with handknit sweaters and half-filled with purses, but it was still only named the sweater closet. The "changing of the purses" (as my brothers and I called the process of emptying the contents of, for example, the brown vinyl one that looked like a bowling bag into the red corduroy one with chain handles) usually took a little while. If it was REALLY time to get out of the house, she wouldn't make the change. It always involved emptying the unwanted junk from the bottom of the purse that had been stashed in the closet, and then refilling it with only the essentials from the one currently in use. What this meant was that the one being retired to the closet would be tucked away with all of the unwanted stuff that didn't make the transfer. And then, when she wanted that purse again, it had to be emptied for the next change. I always wondered why she didn't just throw the junk out in the first transfer, but she never did. It wasn't until the next time that she had the courage to part with the paperclips, safety pins, gritty pennies, kleenex with pink lipstick blots and leaky red pens.
Before my trip to Ecuador last week I did a "changing of the wallets." The stuff that got changed? An Italian stamp, the 5k race times of my Ethiopian friends scribbled on a six and a half year old tiny sheet of paper now as soft as kleenex, two rupees and a fortune which read, "Get your mind set....confidence will lead you on." (I HAD TO transfer that! Pulling it out of the tiny inner pocket of the wallet was like pulling it out of a cookie again. Only this time, I swore I was going to live it).
And today, as I finally accepted the fact that the straw summer bags should be tucked away and the leather ones pulled to the front, I had a "changing of the bags." Unlike my mother (and my practices with my wallet) I always empty my bags before they're stashed. The thought of finding the chewed gum wadded up in a napkin or a couple of stray Sugar Babies with sand and hair stuck to them has been enough to keep me emptying! The only problem is, this prevents surprises. Unless, of course, you have a bag with 8 diffferent pockets and compartments. And that's the one I had with me at the restaurant tonight when I was madly searching for a pen.
I knew I hadn't put one in the bag this morning, but I was sure that there must have been one that was overlooked in last year's emptying frenzy. Nope. No pen. But, I discovered a treat in the inside back pocket with the smaller zipped pocket inside that one. I found a clipping from the New York Times of February 2005. It was an article about Paris with a photo of the carousel on Place des Abbesses. Someone had given it to me before I ran the 2005 Paris Marathon. It didn't mean anything to me at the time. I was going to Paris to run a marathon, not ride a carousel. But for some reason, it got stashed in the bag and never emptied. And there it was today to remind me that in 2005 I'd had no idea that I'd be living in Paris in 2010 and take my own photo of the carousel in Place des Abbesses.
So, as I struggle with decisions of just what to do with my life in 2011, who knows what I might have absentmindedly stashed away to be discovered in 2016. Maybe I'd better go back to the trash can and dig out the instruction manual for my new camera lense and the brochure for the fall session of writing classes at Newberry Library. Wouldn't it be fun to discover those in the bottom of a bag in 5 years and be able to smile? And why does the fortune stay with the stuff that gets transferred instead of the stuff that gets emptied? What's it going to take to make me believe in that one little cookie from 1999?
She kept her purses in the sweater closet. It was half-filled with handknit sweaters and half-filled with purses, but it was still only named the sweater closet. The "changing of the purses" (as my brothers and I called the process of emptying the contents of, for example, the brown vinyl one that looked like a bowling bag into the red corduroy one with chain handles) usually took a little while. If it was REALLY time to get out of the house, she wouldn't make the change. It always involved emptying the unwanted junk from the bottom of the purse that had been stashed in the closet, and then refilling it with only the essentials from the one currently in use. What this meant was that the one being retired to the closet would be tucked away with all of the unwanted stuff that didn't make the transfer. And then, when she wanted that purse again, it had to be emptied for the next change. I always wondered why she didn't just throw the junk out in the first transfer, but she never did. It wasn't until the next time that she had the courage to part with the paperclips, safety pins, gritty pennies, kleenex with pink lipstick blots and leaky red pens.
Before my trip to Ecuador last week I did a "changing of the wallets." The stuff that got changed? An Italian stamp, the 5k race times of my Ethiopian friends scribbled on a six and a half year old tiny sheet of paper now as soft as kleenex, two rupees and a fortune which read, "Get your mind set....confidence will lead you on." (I HAD TO transfer that! Pulling it out of the tiny inner pocket of the wallet was like pulling it out of a cookie again. Only this time, I swore I was going to live it).
And today, as I finally accepted the fact that the straw summer bags should be tucked away and the leather ones pulled to the front, I had a "changing of the bags." Unlike my mother (and my practices with my wallet) I always empty my bags before they're stashed. The thought of finding the chewed gum wadded up in a napkin or a couple of stray Sugar Babies with sand and hair stuck to them has been enough to keep me emptying! The only problem is, this prevents surprises. Unless, of course, you have a bag with 8 diffferent pockets and compartments. And that's the one I had with me at the restaurant tonight when I was madly searching for a pen.
I knew I hadn't put one in the bag this morning, but I was sure that there must have been one that was overlooked in last year's emptying frenzy. Nope. No pen. But, I discovered a treat in the inside back pocket with the smaller zipped pocket inside that one. I found a clipping from the New York Times of February 2005. It was an article about Paris with a photo of the carousel on Place des Abbesses. Someone had given it to me before I ran the 2005 Paris Marathon. It didn't mean anything to me at the time. I was going to Paris to run a marathon, not ride a carousel. But for some reason, it got stashed in the bag and never emptied. And there it was today to remind me that in 2005 I'd had no idea that I'd be living in Paris in 2010 and take my own photo of the carousel in Place des Abbesses.
So, as I struggle with decisions of just what to do with my life in 2011, who knows what I might have absentmindedly stashed away to be discovered in 2016. Maybe I'd better go back to the trash can and dig out the instruction manual for my new camera lense and the brochure for the fall session of writing classes at Newberry Library. Wouldn't it be fun to discover those in the bottom of a bag in 5 years and be able to smile? And why does the fortune stay with the stuff that gets transferred instead of the stuff that gets emptied? What's it going to take to make me believe in that one little cookie from 1999?
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Believing in Ballerinas and Butterflies
Just how many things did I believe or do I still believe that my parents made up? And I'm not talking about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.
I'm talking about the game in the backseat of the car with the magic dome light. Do cars even have dome lights anymore? I didn't think about that until I started writing this, but now that it comes to mind, I can't picture any. Anyway, in case you're younger and don't know what I'm talking about, cars used to have a light in the middle of the roof. (Do you say roof when you're talking about the inside of the car or is it the ceiling? Why is it one dumb thing that I don't know always seems to lead to the next dumb thing that I don't know?) Ok. So, here's the game. My mom would touch the dome light in the perfect place and it would magically come on. My brothers and I tried for hours to touch it in exactly the same place that my mom had touched it and it never worked. Then we'd forget about it for awhile. But, when we woke up or when we finished the game of "When my grandma went to Mississippi she took A apples, B books and C candles" we'd always give it a few more taps to see if we could turn it on. Never!
I'm not sure how the truth behind this one ever came out, but it finally did. The button to control the light was on the floor of the driver's side. My mom put one hand on the light and the other on my dad's knee. When she wanted the light to come on, she touched his knee, he clicked the button on the floor and she tapped the dome. Voila! The magic dome light. It seems a bit ridiculous now that we ever believed it, but we did and it was exciting to know that my mom had some magical powers.
And did you know that a group of miniature ballerinas used to perform in my backyard? The only problem was that their show was so early that I could never wake up in time to see it. They used to dance on the mushrooms at the base of the biggest tree in the yard. When I asked my dad what the mushrooms were he told me they were little stages waiting for ballerinas to come out to dance. I really believed it. I don't know for how long. And I don't know how old I was. But I imagined that the ballerinas looked just like Dawn Dolls. Do you remember those? They were about 7 inches tall with really long hair. That's who I imagined twirling in circles on the mushroom stages even though I never saw them. Maybe that's what kept the dream alive. If I was never up that early, I could never really know whether or not they came out. Brilliant, Dad. Make it impossible to discover the truth and one goes on believing.
Or how about my ring that was made from a REAL butterfly wing? I was walking through the zoo the other morning and when I walked past the gift shop (which I've walked past hundreds of times and it's never had an effect on me) I was struck by some gift shop memories. I remembered the thrill I'd had buying the ring that I was told was made with a real butterfly wing. It seems to me like it looked exactly like a sunset. Are there butterflies with sunset wings? If so, I'd like to see one. I sure believed it then. I can remember that I showed it to everyone and I told them all that it was a real butterfly wing. I was thrilled with my little ring that really wasn't what I thought it was at all. Or was it?
A few minutes ago I decided to google 'rings made with butterfly wings.' Guess what? They exist. Then I looked at the pictures and they were just butterfly SHAPED rings. Whew! I wasn't sure how I'd felt about being fooled and then being unfooled. But then I decided to search a little deeper. Next I typed in 'rings made with REAL butterfly wings.' They exist, too! The only problem is, they cost $80 and none of them look like a sunset. Which leads me to believe I probably didn't have the kind of ring I was told I had because I'm sure it wasn't expensive. OR, could a $10 ring in 1975 be an $80 ring today? I suppose it could be. Should I google "sunset butterflies" now?
So, is it okay to tell these little fibs? Do all parents do it? It kind of makes me think I want to start doing it with my friends' kids because it seems that some of my favorite childhood memories come from these little stories. But I really can't imagine that I could say something to a kid on the beach right now that he'd still be thinking about in 2046. I suppose the biggest difference is that a 7-year old kid today wouldn't be waiting 39 years to find out the real story. He'd just go home and google it and the mystery would have only lasted a few hours instead of a few decades. And that's why I'm not going to google 'little ballerinas on mushroom stages'. Some things are better left un-googled. I'd rather go on believing that I just don't get up early enough to see them.
I'm talking about the game in the backseat of the car with the magic dome light. Do cars even have dome lights anymore? I didn't think about that until I started writing this, but now that it comes to mind, I can't picture any. Anyway, in case you're younger and don't know what I'm talking about, cars used to have a light in the middle of the roof. (Do you say roof when you're talking about the inside of the car or is it the ceiling? Why is it one dumb thing that I don't know always seems to lead to the next dumb thing that I don't know?) Ok. So, here's the game. My mom would touch the dome light in the perfect place and it would magically come on. My brothers and I tried for hours to touch it in exactly the same place that my mom had touched it and it never worked. Then we'd forget about it for awhile. But, when we woke up or when we finished the game of "When my grandma went to Mississippi she took A apples, B books and C candles" we'd always give it a few more taps to see if we could turn it on. Never!
I'm not sure how the truth behind this one ever came out, but it finally did. The button to control the light was on the floor of the driver's side. My mom put one hand on the light and the other on my dad's knee. When she wanted the light to come on, she touched his knee, he clicked the button on the floor and she tapped the dome. Voila! The magic dome light. It seems a bit ridiculous now that we ever believed it, but we did and it was exciting to know that my mom had some magical powers.
And did you know that a group of miniature ballerinas used to perform in my backyard? The only problem was that their show was so early that I could never wake up in time to see it. They used to dance on the mushrooms at the base of the biggest tree in the yard. When I asked my dad what the mushrooms were he told me they were little stages waiting for ballerinas to come out to dance. I really believed it. I don't know for how long. And I don't know how old I was. But I imagined that the ballerinas looked just like Dawn Dolls. Do you remember those? They were about 7 inches tall with really long hair. That's who I imagined twirling in circles on the mushroom stages even though I never saw them. Maybe that's what kept the dream alive. If I was never up that early, I could never really know whether or not they came out. Brilliant, Dad. Make it impossible to discover the truth and one goes on believing.
Or how about my ring that was made from a REAL butterfly wing? I was walking through the zoo the other morning and when I walked past the gift shop (which I've walked past hundreds of times and it's never had an effect on me) I was struck by some gift shop memories. I remembered the thrill I'd had buying the ring that I was told was made with a real butterfly wing. It seems to me like it looked exactly like a sunset. Are there butterflies with sunset wings? If so, I'd like to see one. I sure believed it then. I can remember that I showed it to everyone and I told them all that it was a real butterfly wing. I was thrilled with my little ring that really wasn't what I thought it was at all. Or was it?
A few minutes ago I decided to google 'rings made with butterfly wings.' Guess what? They exist. Then I looked at the pictures and they were just butterfly SHAPED rings. Whew! I wasn't sure how I'd felt about being fooled and then being unfooled. But then I decided to search a little deeper. Next I typed in 'rings made with REAL butterfly wings.' They exist, too! The only problem is, they cost $80 and none of them look like a sunset. Which leads me to believe I probably didn't have the kind of ring I was told I had because I'm sure it wasn't expensive. OR, could a $10 ring in 1975 be an $80 ring today? I suppose it could be. Should I google "sunset butterflies" now?
So, is it okay to tell these little fibs? Do all parents do it? It kind of makes me think I want to start doing it with my friends' kids because it seems that some of my favorite childhood memories come from these little stories. But I really can't imagine that I could say something to a kid on the beach right now that he'd still be thinking about in 2046. I suppose the biggest difference is that a 7-year old kid today wouldn't be waiting 39 years to find out the real story. He'd just go home and google it and the mystery would have only lasted a few hours instead of a few decades. And that's why I'm not going to google 'little ballerinas on mushroom stages'. Some things are better left un-googled. I'd rather go on believing that I just don't get up early enough to see them.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Conversations are discouraged
Who knew there were "quiet cars" on trains? I suppose you all did. But I didn't. I took the train to the suburbs last night and saw the little sign. I wish I could remember exactly what it said, but I can't. And, becasue I'm getting so good with my computer skills, I just googled it. Okay. Maybe I'm not that good. I googled Chicago Metra Quiet Cars and the only articles that came up were those about the quiet cars. None of them mentioned the little sign. Would there have been a better thing to google? "Little signs in the Chicago Metra quiet cars"? Tried it and it didn't work either.
Whatever. They exist. And here are the rules (as posted on the Metra website). In fact, the website calls them the "simple rules."
No cell phones.
Conversations are discouraged; if they must be held they should be short and in subdued voices.
All electronic devices must be muted, and headphones should not be loud enough for anyone else to hear.
That's it. Pretty simple, I guess. Simply awful. So, once I realized I was in the quiet car I'm sure you know what I did next. Right. I moved out to the little vestibule between the two cars to stand for my ride on the train. And guess what? There was another rebel out there with me. He was eating popcorn. "No crunching popcorn" wasn't on the list of simple rules, but maybe he just didn't want to risk it. The website also says that the conductors carry small notices that they can discreetly present to the violaters. I wonder what those say? Do they just slip it under your nose for a quick read? Or do they place it in your lap or on your seat like the people asking for money on European trains (maybe they do that here, too, but I don't take the train enough) and then come back and pick it up a minute later? I'd kind of like to see the conductor's discreet presentation, but I'm not sure it's worth another trip to the suburbs just for that!
So, Popcorn Guy and I stood in the vestibule and guess what we did? We talked. Out loud. To each other. I asked him if his popcorn was part of his daily commute. Not everyday, but he does like popcorn. I told him that I like to pop my own on the stove where you have to stand there shaking the pan. He likes to make his in the microwave. I thought to myself, "Oh, if only he knew how good and cheap it was to do your own on the stove instead of the greasy microwave bags" at the same time that he was saying, "It's not microwave popcorn that you buy in the store. I use the same popcorn that you put in the pan on the stove. I just put it in a brown lunchbag in the microwave." That was news to me. What about the oil? You don't need it. How does the bag stay closed? Scotch tape. Brilliant.
We talked about his job. He said that he travels a bit for work and he'd rather go to the airport than take this commuter train. He said that you have to be careful of some of the serious commuters because they'll run you right over. I imagine those are the ones that wear sneakers with their suits and skirts. I imagine they are probably also the ones that make a dash for the quiet cars.
He told me he worked for a power generating facility. Did I really remember that? I'm not sure. It all came clear when he said, "windmills." I usually need a visual. So, I learned a little bit about that. I'm not so sure that he learned anything from me, but I think that's okay. Maybe he learned or will learn something from the girl that stood in my place in the vestibule yesterday or the one that will be there tomorrow.
Tonight when I told a friend at dinner about the quiet cars she told me her own train story. She said that every morning for weeks (months?) she followed the same guy down the sidewalk with the same distance between them to the same train station. They never talked. Then, when she saw him on the platform on her reverse commute, she decided to introduce herself and tell him that she follows him every morning. Now they go to each other's birthday parties. Fortunately train stations don't have quiet platforms (yet).
Popcorn Guy and I talked about the quiet cars and then we both looked in at the quiet car passengers and laughed. They all had their heads down buried in their gadgets. No one talked. No one looked at each other. No one smiled. The only person that learned that you can make popcorn in the microwave in a lunchbag sealed with scotch tape was the one that talked about it in an unsubdued voice in the vestibule. Is it really a good idea to travel in a world where conversations are discouraged? Wouldn't you rather giggle than google?
Whatever. They exist. And here are the rules (as posted on the Metra website). In fact, the website calls them the "simple rules."
No cell phones.
Conversations are discouraged; if they must be held they should be short and in subdued voices.
All electronic devices must be muted, and headphones should not be loud enough for anyone else to hear.
That's it. Pretty simple, I guess. Simply awful. So, once I realized I was in the quiet car I'm sure you know what I did next. Right. I moved out to the little vestibule between the two cars to stand for my ride on the train. And guess what? There was another rebel out there with me. He was eating popcorn. "No crunching popcorn" wasn't on the list of simple rules, but maybe he just didn't want to risk it. The website also says that the conductors carry small notices that they can discreetly present to the violaters. I wonder what those say? Do they just slip it under your nose for a quick read? Or do they place it in your lap or on your seat like the people asking for money on European trains (maybe they do that here, too, but I don't take the train enough) and then come back and pick it up a minute later? I'd kind of like to see the conductor's discreet presentation, but I'm not sure it's worth another trip to the suburbs just for that!
So, Popcorn Guy and I stood in the vestibule and guess what we did? We talked. Out loud. To each other. I asked him if his popcorn was part of his daily commute. Not everyday, but he does like popcorn. I told him that I like to pop my own on the stove where you have to stand there shaking the pan. He likes to make his in the microwave. I thought to myself, "Oh, if only he knew how good and cheap it was to do your own on the stove instead of the greasy microwave bags" at the same time that he was saying, "It's not microwave popcorn that you buy in the store. I use the same popcorn that you put in the pan on the stove. I just put it in a brown lunchbag in the microwave." That was news to me. What about the oil? You don't need it. How does the bag stay closed? Scotch tape. Brilliant.
We talked about his job. He said that he travels a bit for work and he'd rather go to the airport than take this commuter train. He said that you have to be careful of some of the serious commuters because they'll run you right over. I imagine those are the ones that wear sneakers with their suits and skirts. I imagine they are probably also the ones that make a dash for the quiet cars.
He told me he worked for a power generating facility. Did I really remember that? I'm not sure. It all came clear when he said, "windmills." I usually need a visual. So, I learned a little bit about that. I'm not so sure that he learned anything from me, but I think that's okay. Maybe he learned or will learn something from the girl that stood in my place in the vestibule yesterday or the one that will be there tomorrow.
Tonight when I told a friend at dinner about the quiet cars she told me her own train story. She said that every morning for weeks (months?) she followed the same guy down the sidewalk with the same distance between them to the same train station. They never talked. Then, when she saw him on the platform on her reverse commute, she decided to introduce herself and tell him that she follows him every morning. Now they go to each other's birthday parties. Fortunately train stations don't have quiet platforms (yet).
Popcorn Guy and I talked about the quiet cars and then we both looked in at the quiet car passengers and laughed. They all had their heads down buried in their gadgets. No one talked. No one looked at each other. No one smiled. The only person that learned that you can make popcorn in the microwave in a lunchbag sealed with scotch tape was the one that talked about it in an unsubdued voice in the vestibule. Is it really a good idea to travel in a world where conversations are discouraged? Wouldn't you rather giggle than google?
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Salam
I don't think you have to wear black to funerals anymore. The lady at the other end of my pew wore a light pink suit. And a girl a few rows up wore a purple and green marbled blouse that reminded me of the hand marbled sheets and curtains at a hotel I stayed at in Istanbul. (The sole reason I picked the hotel.) Anyway, when the time comes again, I'll have to consider whether or not I'll wear black and I'll think a bit about my accessories, too.I went to the funeral alone. I sat alone. I stood up alone. I sat back down alone. And then I stood up alone again. I didn't kneel alone or respond alone or take Communion alone. Those things I just watched with fascination. Unfortunately, this funeral didn't seem much different than a Catholic wedding. I never know what I'm supposed to be doing at a wedding and when I'm supposed to be doing it and my mind ALWAYS wanders to whether or not the other people are even aware of what they're doing or if they're just doing it because they've been doing it since they were 7 years old. So, I miss half of the wedding or the funeral because I'm absorbed in my own little world of Catholic confusion.
And I'm not the only one. I was telling a friend this story and she told me that she knew someone that had fainted at a Catholic funeral. The person went to the doctor and had some tests done. And then came some questions. Where were you? At a funeral. Was it Catholic? Yes, but what do you mean was it Catholic? Does it matter what kind of funeral I fainted at? And the doctor told her that she wasn't the first person to come in and say that she'd fainted at a Catholic funeral. Some of us just can't handle all of the ups and downs.
Back to the funeral. I knew the part was coming when we were supposed to hold hands with the people next to us. At least I thought I knew it was coming. But, like I said, I was alone and I was sitting at the end of a pew alone. Do you walk down to the other end of the pew to hold the stranger's hand? Do you piggy-back with the group of three in the pew in front of you? I noticed some other loners holding their hands out to their sides as though they were holding imaginary hands. I didn't do that.
Miraculously (haha) I remembered that not much later we'd all be shaking hands and saying, "Peace be with you." Now, this doesn't really even have to be religious, does it? Shouldn't I just be able to do this part? Don't I wish peace to others? Of course I do. And it's awfully nice to have it wished on me right now. But, the first guy didn't say, "Peace be with you." He just took both of my hands in his and said, "Hi." Just hi. It cracked me up because I was so ready for the "Peace be with you." Does that mean he noticed that I wasn't kneeling and responding and taking Communion? Wasn't that nice of him to just give me a friendly hi because he probably thought I wouldn't know that I was supposed to respond with, "And also with you." Or no. Wait a minute. Maybe this isn't when you're supposed to say that. Maybe that's more of a group response. Anyway, I appreciated the fact that the kind man spared me the embarrassment and I just said hi back.
But, as he took my hands I looked down at my bracelets and panicked. I was wearing the religious bracelet I'd bought for $1 at Usatoland in Italy. It's a bunch of little rectangles of wood with a bunch of little black and white pictures decoupaged on them. Pictures of saints and other important Catholic people. (I don't know what they call the other important Catholic people and it doesn't seem like they would have been Popes. Let's just stick with important Catholic people.) How could a girl wearing this bracelet not know what to do at a Catholic funeral? Did it signify that I was a devout Catholic? Why did I buy this bracelet if I'd had no idea what it meant? I guess I just like cool bracelets. Especially cool bracelets that only cost $1 at a second-hand store in Italy.
75 minutes later the funeral ended. We walked out in an orderly fashion pew by pew. As we got to the entry corridor, the queue took a turn. It passed the little fountain with holy water (of course it's not a fountain, but the little thing on the wall) and everyone took something and did something and said something. Not me. I didn't even stay in the crooked line at this point. I just kept walking straight out with a dry forehead and no water marks on my dress.
I've decided that the next time I go to a funeral I'm not going to wear black. But I'll probably still wear my bracelet. And I might couple it with my misbaha. That's a strand of Islamic prayer beads that I fashioned into a bracelet. It was a gift from one of my Iraqi refugee students. (Don't worry. I asked him if it was okay before I dismantled it to make the bracelet.) Then when someone says, "Peace be with you," I'll say, "Salam" just to confuse them a little. It would have confused me, too, because until five minutes ago when I googled it, I just thought it meant "goodbye." But do you know what it really means? It means peace.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Where do I go from here?
I have no idea how he does it. I've tried and tried to follow the conversation and notice the change when it happens, but I never notice. I know that we go from the description of the comfy white leather seats in the ambulance to the renaming of the music school at his alma mater. But how we get from one to the other is beyond me. I actually really concentrate, waiting for the change, ready to say to myself, "There it is. I just heard it." Instead, I keep listening and keep concentrating and the next thing you know we've gone from his girlfriend on Martha's Vineyard being mad at him because he didn't do what he said he was going to do which was to take a bike ride, but can you imagine her being upset because he didn't take a bike ride in the rain to the book sale at the church last year and how many boxes he carried up how many stairs how many times. All of this with such a smooth transition that I can't find it. And I'm really looking.
His name is Donald Larsons. I'm only changing one letter in his name to protect the innocent. I like his name. And I like the name I just made up for him. He's lived in the same studio apartment for 27 years. He's lived there alone. He's 81. I met him two years ago when I opened my new studio. He lives next door and he doesn't come in everyday, but he comes in a lot. He ordered some stationery awhile ago with a french horn on it. He plays in a couple of bands. (Orchestras? Symphonies?) He passes my door with the big french horn case on his back and sighs and says, "I'm off to rehearsal." Last week he stopped to tell me that he wasn't sure what he was going to do in the fall. He said the price to participate was $95. "Well, that just seems crazy. I could use that $95 to learn something new," he said. Wouldn't you love to have the spirit at age 81 that you were wasting your money on something you could already do when there was still a whole world of things out there to learn? Shouldn't we all be a little more like Donald? And shouldn't we all start thinking this way before we're 81?
He's never been married. He's had a couple of lady friends. I think the one on Martha's Vineyard qualifies as one. His real lady friend died last year. She was 93. She never told him how old she was. He saw it on the papers when she died. Her name was Ethel. Donald and Ethel. I'm not making this up. You have no idea how many times (and sometimes how many times in one day) I heard the phrase, "blah, blah, blah with Ethel, you know, (voice lowered a bit) my lady friend." I cracked up every time. Sometimes I filled in the blank for him. When he got to the "You know" part, I'd say (voice lowered a bit), "Yeah, your lady friend."
So, why have I decided to tell you about Donald? I guess I'm still not really sure. I get something from him and maybe I thought you could get something from him, too. Or, maybe I'm thinking you should go and find yourself a Donald. I'll admit. He drives me crazy sometimes. But after I think that he's driving me crazy, I always feel guilty and I think back to our conversation and I smile. Maybe he's teaching me patience.
When I first came home from Paris and Italy, I avoided the studio a bit. I've been trying to ease back into it. Should I close? Should I turn it into something else? A little 7 year old friend said, "Well, if you close it, what are you going to do? Stay home all day?" Good point, Siloe. I don't know. When I asked her for suggestions she said that maybe I should just build something out of Legos. Maybe.
When I think about closing the studio, I think about Donald. And the photographer down the street that comes over to chat for hours. And the teenage boy next door that I saw smoking and told him it wasn't cool. And the little girls that live around the corner that I heard on the sidewalk just as they were getting close to my door say, "She's back!" with such fascination. And the couple whose daughter was having major surgery at Children's Memorial that just had to get out for a walk. They came in and sat down and stayed for an hour. That was the first and last time I ever saw them. But I think their little visit made a difference. For all of us. And I think of the little girl that saves her money until she has enough to shop and she comes in and buys something. And the guy that stops by on his way home from work to play my piano. Or how about the maintenance supervisor that spends much more time than he should standing in my doorway? He even left a chololate bar in my mail slot to welcome me home. And the older lady that brought me a giant bag full of old cards because she thought maybe I could do something with them. I did something with them. I read them. They were all Get Well cards to her. She had cancer. And I learned something.
Am I like Olivier, the owner of my old neighborhood cafe in Paris? I don't serve coffee, but my little place is a place for the people to come. Maybe they come when they feel good. Maybe they come when they don't feel so good. But, they all come. Sometimes I even see them walk up, peek in and keep walking if I'm busy with someone else. Guess what? They almost always come back a little later. If I close up shop, what are they going to do? Build something out of Legos? Do they need me as much as I need them? Where else am I going to find a job with a Donald next door that starts a conversation with, "That bike helmet looks nice on you" and finishes it an hour later with, "I just love those shoes!" Maybe tomorrow's the day to put the OPEN sign back out on the sidewalk and get back to business. (which has several definitions in the Random House Webster's College Dictionary. #2: the purchase and sale of goods with an attempt to make a profit. (not me) #3: a PERSON, partnership or corporation engaged in commerce, manufacturing or a SERVICE. (me) ) That's it. I'm a person with a service. Even if the service is nothing more than just being there.
His name is Donald Larsons. I'm only changing one letter in his name to protect the innocent. I like his name. And I like the name I just made up for him. He's lived in the same studio apartment for 27 years. He's lived there alone. He's 81. I met him two years ago when I opened my new studio. He lives next door and he doesn't come in everyday, but he comes in a lot. He ordered some stationery awhile ago with a french horn on it. He plays in a couple of bands. (Orchestras? Symphonies?) He passes my door with the big french horn case on his back and sighs and says, "I'm off to rehearsal." Last week he stopped to tell me that he wasn't sure what he was going to do in the fall. He said the price to participate was $95. "Well, that just seems crazy. I could use that $95 to learn something new," he said. Wouldn't you love to have the spirit at age 81 that you were wasting your money on something you could already do when there was still a whole world of things out there to learn? Shouldn't we all be a little more like Donald? And shouldn't we all start thinking this way before we're 81?
He's never been married. He's had a couple of lady friends. I think the one on Martha's Vineyard qualifies as one. His real lady friend died last year. She was 93. She never told him how old she was. He saw it on the papers when she died. Her name was Ethel. Donald and Ethel. I'm not making this up. You have no idea how many times (and sometimes how many times in one day) I heard the phrase, "blah, blah, blah with Ethel, you know, (voice lowered a bit) my lady friend." I cracked up every time. Sometimes I filled in the blank for him. When he got to the "You know" part, I'd say (voice lowered a bit), "Yeah, your lady friend."
So, why have I decided to tell you about Donald? I guess I'm still not really sure. I get something from him and maybe I thought you could get something from him, too. Or, maybe I'm thinking you should go and find yourself a Donald. I'll admit. He drives me crazy sometimes. But after I think that he's driving me crazy, I always feel guilty and I think back to our conversation and I smile. Maybe he's teaching me patience.
When I first came home from Paris and Italy, I avoided the studio a bit. I've been trying to ease back into it. Should I close? Should I turn it into something else? A little 7 year old friend said, "Well, if you close it, what are you going to do? Stay home all day?" Good point, Siloe. I don't know. When I asked her for suggestions she said that maybe I should just build something out of Legos. Maybe.
When I think about closing the studio, I think about Donald. And the photographer down the street that comes over to chat for hours. And the teenage boy next door that I saw smoking and told him it wasn't cool. And the little girls that live around the corner that I heard on the sidewalk just as they were getting close to my door say, "She's back!" with such fascination. And the couple whose daughter was having major surgery at Children's Memorial that just had to get out for a walk. They came in and sat down and stayed for an hour. That was the first and last time I ever saw them. But I think their little visit made a difference. For all of us. And I think of the little girl that saves her money until she has enough to shop and she comes in and buys something. And the guy that stops by on his way home from work to play my piano. Or how about the maintenance supervisor that spends much more time than he should standing in my doorway? He even left a chololate bar in my mail slot to welcome me home. And the older lady that brought me a giant bag full of old cards because she thought maybe I could do something with them. I did something with them. I read them. They were all Get Well cards to her. She had cancer. And I learned something.
Am I like Olivier, the owner of my old neighborhood cafe in Paris? I don't serve coffee, but my little place is a place for the people to come. Maybe they come when they feel good. Maybe they come when they don't feel so good. But, they all come. Sometimes I even see them walk up, peek in and keep walking if I'm busy with someone else. Guess what? They almost always come back a little later. If I close up shop, what are they going to do? Build something out of Legos? Do they need me as much as I need them? Where else am I going to find a job with a Donald next door that starts a conversation with, "That bike helmet looks nice on you" and finishes it an hour later with, "I just love those shoes!" Maybe tomorrow's the day to put the OPEN sign back out on the sidewalk and get back to business. (which has several definitions in the Random House Webster's College Dictionary. #2: the purchase and sale of goods with an attempt to make a profit. (not me) #3: a PERSON, partnership or corporation engaged in commerce, manufacturing or a SERVICE. (me) ) That's it. I'm a person with a service. Even if the service is nothing more than just being there.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Bigger is better (only if it's a chocolate bar)
I just read an article about living in small spaces. It says that the average new American home in 1973 was 1,600 square feet. And in 2007 it was 2,300 square feet. All I can ask is, "Why?"
I like small spaces. They're cozier. They're warmer. They're more welcoming. I think I've lived in the smallest space of anyone that I know. My apartment in Paris was smaller than a dorm room. And I didn't just survive. I liked it.
So, when I heard a friend say that they'd bought the biggest sectional you would ever see, I was unimpressed. First of all, the biggest sectional I would ever see would have to go in a pretty big space. And I've already told you that I like small spaces. But when I heard them say that it was so big that the whole family (a family of 6) could sit on it and they were so far apart that they couldn't even touch each other, I was sad. I pictured them all with their own bowls of popcorn, their own pillows and their own blankets. After all, if you can't even touch, you certainly can't share a blanket. And who do you grab on to if you're watching a scary movie?
I know. They didn't say that they always sit so far apart that they can't touch, but the fact that it's an option means it's too big for me. In Mali I learned that the men gather every day in a special place built for the everyday gatherings of the men. It's really just a bunch of stones put together to make seats. Some big. Some small. Some with a little space between them and others that touch. I suppose it's kind of like an outdoor African sectional. The interesting thing was the roof. The stone sectional was covered by a low roof made of tree branches and brush. It's low enough that you can't stand up. They said it's to keep the group close and calm. No one can get mad, lose their cool and stand up quickly to leave or they'll bump their head and be forced to sit back down anyway.
I liked it. A small space. A small space with a low roof.....even better. Cozier. Warmer. And more welcoming.
Would I have cared about this a year ago? Would the discussion of the biggest sectional I would ever see have affected me? Probably not. But after spending my time in Paris and Italy, I have a new appreciation for small. Some of my best memories are of three people on a love seat. It was the only option. The love seat or a dining room chair. And we all chose the love seat. And it was so small we had to touch.
I like small spaces. They're cozier. They're warmer. They're more welcoming. I think I've lived in the smallest space of anyone that I know. My apartment in Paris was smaller than a dorm room. And I didn't just survive. I liked it.
So, when I heard a friend say that they'd bought the biggest sectional you would ever see, I was unimpressed. First of all, the biggest sectional I would ever see would have to go in a pretty big space. And I've already told you that I like small spaces. But when I heard them say that it was so big that the whole family (a family of 6) could sit on it and they were so far apart that they couldn't even touch each other, I was sad. I pictured them all with their own bowls of popcorn, their own pillows and their own blankets. After all, if you can't even touch, you certainly can't share a blanket. And who do you grab on to if you're watching a scary movie?
I know. They didn't say that they always sit so far apart that they can't touch, but the fact that it's an option means it's too big for me. In Mali I learned that the men gather every day in a special place built for the everyday gatherings of the men. It's really just a bunch of stones put together to make seats. Some big. Some small. Some with a little space between them and others that touch. I suppose it's kind of like an outdoor African sectional. The interesting thing was the roof. The stone sectional was covered by a low roof made of tree branches and brush. It's low enough that you can't stand up. They said it's to keep the group close and calm. No one can get mad, lose their cool and stand up quickly to leave or they'll bump their head and be forced to sit back down anyway.
I liked it. A small space. A small space with a low roof.....even better. Cozier. Warmer. And more welcoming.
Would I have cared about this a year ago? Would the discussion of the biggest sectional I would ever see have affected me? Probably not. But after spending my time in Paris and Italy, I have a new appreciation for small. Some of my best memories are of three people on a love seat. It was the only option. The love seat or a dining room chair. And we all chose the love seat. And it was so small we had to touch.
Monday, June 13, 2011
The fat lady has sung
They're in churches, civic halls and auditoriums. They always start late. And by late I mean late as in 9 p.m. (Which is kind of late in the States if it's not a rock concert, isn't it?) And I also mean late as in never on time. Sometimes they start with what I guess is the national anthem and everyone stands up and sings. Well, everyone except whomever I go with. And me. Because I feel dumb standing up if they're not standing up and I'm not even sure what I would or wouldn't be standing up for.
They're beautiful. And by beautiful I mean beautiful. The sound fills the church whether it's voices or instruments or both and you really can feel it inside your soul. Even when it's not soul music. I cried at the last one I went to. Maybe it was because I knew it was the last one I was going to. Or maybe it was because I was looking everywhere for Emilietta and Piero and I couldn't find them. I know they were there, I just couldn't find them. And guess what? They're farmers. It really is me and the farmers at these concerts.
But, there are two things about concerts that I don't like. First, they seem to have a lot to say and to be able to enjoy a little music, you have to sit through a lot of announcements. It doesn't bother me that much because I like to see how much Italian I can really understand, but I think if I were Italian I'd be a little disturbed. And secondly, there's been an encore at every concert. (Che bello! Encore.....in Italian ancora means again. I love making these connections.) Anyway, does every concert deserve an encore? And should the musicians be expecting one to the point that if you look carefully you can see that they've already turned their sheet music to be ready for the final song? Why can't the encore song just be the final song and then we clap and go home? It's always quite dramatic, too. They leave. We applaud. They come back with silly smiles as though they weren't expecting to be so adored. They play. We applaud. And then they play again. I've started looking for the fat lady to be sure it's really over so I know it's safe to get up and go home. It was always a little something to laugh about at the end of the evening and it came in handy when I was crying.
And then last week, my concert came to an end. After almost nine months of teaching, sending texts in Italian and French, making new friends, trains, planes, reading maps, running through fields,emails in English, eating too much, correcting mistakes, having mistakes corrected, bike rides on the Seine and through the hills of Veneto, hugging and kissing (and smashing glasses when I couldn't remember where I was), picnics, dinners, je ne sais pas' and non ho capitos (I'm not sure how to make those plural), nutella, burned out candles, second-hand shops (called Usatoland which translates as "used land" which makes me smile), tears, and cups of tea, the fat lady had finally sung and it was time to go home. I couldn't have had a sweeter send off. I was on the train and the door had closed. The final words had been spoken. And as the train pulled away, I saw my friend clapping. My first reaction, (much like yours, perhaps) was that it meant, "Yay! She's finally leaving." Was it a way to make me laugh when I was crying? I looked back confused and then came the hand signal to think about it. Two minutes later I figured it out and then it was confirmed by the last Italian text message that I'd receive:
Se ti applaudo (batto le mani) ritorni... If I applaud you (clap my hands), you return...
Che bellissima.
The Sound of Music
A very good place to start.
When you read you begin with A, B, C.
When you sing you begin with Do, Re, Mi.
Why do I feel the need to continually remind you all that there's a lot I'm missing. I think when I write about stuff that amazes me, it's with hopes that maybe someone else will step up and say, "Hey! I didn't know that either." So far that hasn't happened, yet I continue to divulge my latest revelations, albeit with a bit more fear that you're really beginning to wonder where I've spent the past 46 years.
I was talking to my 12-year-old Italian friend, Anna, about music. She plays the recorder. I told her that I used to play the clarinet and that I used to be in the high school marching band. The what? So, I explained it to her and told her that I had to leave my cheerleading position a little early before half-time to change into the band uniform. The whole cheerleading thing had come up awhile ago. She only knows about cheerleaders the way they are portrayed on American TV. I suppose that's really probably all there is to know about cheerleaders anyway, so I should be glad that she thought it was odd that I was one.
Anyway, the band discussion led to a piano discussion which led to a how-to-read-music discussion. We both drew staffs and named the notes. Who knew that the song from The Sound of Music really made sense? (You all did, I suppose? Am I really the only nut that didn't know this?) When Italians sing they really do begin with Do, Re, Mi. I think that's probably our C, D, E. But we never really got to the bottom of exactly which note is "Do". And then I started thinking that I had heard of this before. It wasn't brand new
to me. I was 45 when my 11-year-old French friend, Flora, used to come to my studio after school. She'd play her flute for me and I think we had a similar discussion one afternoon. So, I learned it from an 11-year-old and I was reminded of it by a 12-year-old. Is it a European thing or does it go beyond Europe? Or do other countries use the C, D, E like we do? Maybe I can find a 13-year-old to answer that.
So, why do music notes have different names in different languages? And why do we give cities different names in different languages? Shouldn't Venice always be Venice? (Actually, I guess what I meant to say is shouldn't Venezia always be Venezia?) Why would we change the name of a city? And why would we change the names of notes? They all sound the same when they're played and they're all in the same place on the staff, so why would we call them something else? I guess I'm really the one that should have the answer to that since I'm as guilty as the name changers. When I talk about my friend Mary when I'm in Italy, I call her Maria. It just came out naturally the first time and then it stuck. Cathy is Caterina and Sarah is stillSarah, but I pronounce it like "far". And then one day someone asked me about my Spanish friend that I often talk about. I said, "What Spanish friend?" They said, "Miguel." I don't have a Spanish friend named Miguel. It's
an American friend that I unintentionally gave a Spanish name when it should really be Mikele in Italian. But that's not his name and I've never called him that, so why should I change it?
Anyway, let's get back to the very beginning. In this case, a very good place to start and to end. I'd written this blog awhile ago, but never really knew what I was trying to say, so I never published it. Then I was having coffee with some friends (don't worry. I don't drink coffee, but I do love the tiny little cups) and we were talking about the piano. I don't remember how it came up, but I can only remember that someone said something about Do, Re, Mi. I said, "Do you mean C, D, E?" and they had no idea what I was talking about. So, I proudly explained to them that when we read we begin with A, B, C and when we sing we begin with C, D, E. I went to bed that night thinking that maybe I'm not missing as much as I think I am.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Gordissima
So anyway, I decided it would be best if I warned you. I'm a little chubbier than I was when I left. I know you're saying, "Yeah, yeah. It's the smart girl who says she failed the test. It's the millionaire who says they can't afford something." But it's really true. I'm the skinny girl that isn't as skinny as I used to be. And instead of making you feel uncomfortable when you first lay eyes on me after almost nine months away, I thought I'd tell you first so you can prepare yourself for the usual, "Welcome back. You look great (and a little chubby.)"
If you'll notice in the photo, this giant ice cream cone outside the gelateria just happens to be next to the panificio. That's the bakery. And, I get a double scoop almost every night with far more than a dollop of whipped cream. Ohhhh...the whipped cream. It's not just for sundaes. It comes on the top of an ice cream cone. At first I thought I didn't like it because it's usually not sweet. But then I made a fantastic discovery. I'd been eating the whipped cream first because that's the way I did it at home. I would eat it off the top of my hot chocolate before it melted because if you let it melt you don't really get the joy of the whipped cream. Well, here the best thing is when you kind of let it melt. Because for some strange reason as it melts (?) it gets kind of firm and then you eat it with a mouthful of ice cream and voila....it's sweet!
So, I've been spending my time eating and eating and eating and not worrying a lot about how I've looked. Trying to speak Italian, riding a bike with a bag over the handlebars instead of a basket, searching for the best second-hand shops in Italy, trying to catch a field in all of it's forms (tall hay, cut hay, raked-into-rows hay, baled hay and taken-away-hay), and trying to cook with no measuring spoons and bizarre ingredients seemed like enough good things to worry about instead of my kilos.
And then one day I saw myself. And the next day I imagined you seeing me. And I started running more and trying to eat less and it only worked for a day and then I went back to the gelateria. I really wish I could be more like nude guy by his cow trough pool or the big lady that came and stripped down next to me on the river bank yesterday. They seem so free. Unfortunately, I'm still trapped in the image that "Gordissima is not beautiful." So, when you see me and tell me how great I look, I'll accept it with a smile and appreciate your honesty and pretend that I'm still in Italy, because when you translate great into Italian, it means large.
(p.s. I don't have time to edit this because I'm on my way for a double scoop cone with whipped cream.)
Friday, May 27, 2011
Il Contadino Nudo ( The Naked Farmer)
So, does the fact that I swam in a cow trough make it easier to understand why I've fallen in love with this Italian country lifestyle? Not that I've seen anyone swimming in a cow trough. Well, not a real metal one like mine. But, I did see a guy floating in what might be today's version of a trough that seems to be inflatable (maybe?) and blue and square. Not so good for making whirlpools!
I was running (of course) and getting braver everyday. I'd seen a little trail I'd wanted to take, but was still a little hesitant. Three days ago, I took it. What I didn't know was that the trail had a little turn and before I knew it I came upon a car and a farmer. I said, "Buongiorno," and kept running. He was on a little patch of land enclosed by a fence. Inside the fence was a tiny garden and a brick shed, if sheds can be brick. It
definitely wasn't a house. That was that. I didn't seem to be bothering him and I was happy to have found a new place to run without worrying about this shed and fence.
Day two. Same place and more or less the same time. I turned the corner on my trail and saw two feet sticking up over the edge of what I first thought was a kiddie pool. I was shocked and didn't really want to look, but there was a guy floating in this little modern blue trough. I really do think that's what it is. It's too industrial to be a kiddie pool and not finished enough to be a pool-pool. I'd found an Italian with his own trough and I ran right by.
Day three. Same place and unfortunately more or less the same time. I didn't see the bare feet sticking up over the edge of the pool, even though I accidently had my glasses on. And I'm sorry to say, they weren't my sunglasses. Instead, I was greeted by a naked farmer. He said, "Buongiorno!" and a lot of other stuff I didn't understand. So, I responded with the usual, "I'm sorry. I don't speak Italian very well," and we kept
talking. Where are you from? How far do you run everyday? Is your family Italian? The usual first time stuff. (Okay. Just kidding. Did you really think I'd have this casual conversation with a naked man in a field?!) But the rest is real! He seemed to have timed it perfectly to be exiting the little shed right when I ran by. Was it planned? My Italian friends would say naturalmente, of course! What?! Yes, they said. He just thought he'd give it a try. And who knows? You might be in the mood and stop.
Day four. Same place. I wasn't about to give up one of my fields just becasue there was some naked guy in it. I had to go back. All I wanted to do was run by with the hope that he wouldn't be there and I could take a picture to show you all. (Sorry girls. I didn't have my camera yesterday.) Anyway, I got lucky and he wasn't there and I took a picture of the little shed and the little pool and now the picture is in my iPod and I don't know how to get it out to attach it to my blog! Oh well. You'll just have to imagine it all.
So, that's the story of the only other person I know who swims in a cow trough. I liked him better when the only thing bare was his feet.
Update: January 31, 2012.
I just figured out how to get pictures from my iPod to the blog, so I've added this one.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Get out of your rut (if you're in one)
Sometimes I get in a rut when I run. There is something nice about being in a rut, I think. You don't have to make decisions, you see the same things day after day, it's fun to see them change throughout the seasons and you get to know the other people in the same rut as you. It's kind of nice.
There are other times when I go off the beaten path. Those times usually end up better in the end, but it's hard to make the decision to get out of my rut. Fortunately, yesterday I made the decision. Sometimes I run on designated paths (intended for tractors, bikes, motorcycles and horses. I'm not sure why they spelled out horses cavalli on the sign. Maybe they didn't have the clip art?). Other times I run through fields, along creeks, up hills, down hills and over little bridges. Yesterday I decided to run to Liedolo. I'd driven through it the night before and I liked how it felt, so I thought I might like it even more in my running shoes. I knew how to get there, but it meant running on the big roads. By big, I guess I mean 'bigger'. A little more traffic (tractor traffic), a few more houses and the possibility of some dogs that I hadn't yet met. But, I did it.
The town ended up being 3.25 miles from where I was staying. Perfect. As I turned around to run back I noticed a little gravel road. I knew it wouldn't get me home, but I had to check it out. A little further down the road there was an electric box or something like that in a chain link fence. But on the fence there was a little arrow with trincee 13-15. The arrow pointed up a tiny dirt trail (it seemed like the kind of trail bad kids
would have made, instead of a manicured path) up a REALLY steep hill and into a really thick forest. I had no idea what trincee meant and kind of thought it might lead to more of these little electric boxes in chain link fences, but something made me want to go up this big hill. These days, I seem to have enough courage that if there's no sign that says proprieta privata, I go!! So, up I went. And up and up and up.
The forest was dark and kind of cold and a little spooky, I'd say. Then I saw a little cave. It didn't say proprieta privata, but this time I wasn't quite as courageous and I didn't go in. Then I noticed a sign that said la prima guerra mondiale (WWI) and some other stuff I didn't understand right away. I kept running up the path and thinking about this sign and trying to figure out what it meant (I don't take my dictionary running. In fact, I seldom take it anywhere anymore!) There were more caves and little trails that seemed like trenches three-feet deep that went on and on. Aha! Trenches....trincee.....that's how I'm learning
Italian. It takes me awhile, but eventually I make a connection. I was pretty sure now that these were leftover trenches from WWI. The best part? There was no entrance fee and no gate and I didn't see anyone the whole time I was there. It was just me and some cool caves and some amazing trenches that were dug a long, long time ago. And the only reason I discovered these trenches (REALLY deep ruts, let's say) is because I got out of my own. And instead of taking the well-worn paths that I take everyday, I went in a different direction. And when I reached the top I was excited to run back down and see it all again. And somewhere on my way down, I'd found enough courage to go inside the same cave I was afraid of on my way up. And it was worth it.
"Do not go where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Monday, May 16, 2011
I suppose some things are better left undone
It's May in Italy and that has something to do with the month of the Madonna. For all I know it's the month of the Madonna in Chicago, too. But I know I've never seen these little gatherings in the middle of nowhere every evening in May in Chicago.The first time I saw it I was confused. There's a little wooden hut on the side of the little country road next to a little bridge and a little stream. Inside there's a statue and some flowers and some candles and it's been sitting there every day every time I've been to Italy. There's never been any action around it. In fact, now that I think about it, I can remember running in the country here 7 years ago and seeing these little "things" and wondering what they were. My Catholic friends are about to kill me. It's not a hut. Is it a tiny little church? A tiny little chapel? I'm sure it has a name, but if I waited to ask a friend for help every time I was writing I'd never publish anything. So, I just go with it and say it like I see it, a wooden (and sometimes concrete) hut. (I wanted to say shrine, but I'm sure that's not right either.)
So, we were driving past and there was a small group of people gathered around it. There's a small bench that I think is always there, and some people brought their own lawn chairs. It looked like a little garden party on the side of the road. It actually reminded me of what I call the Sunset Club in Michigan when all the neighbors walk down to the edge of the beach and sit on the benches at the top of the stairs to watch the sunset. I've often thought of joining the Sunset Club and making up some story of who I am. I'd make myself really interesting and go there every night and pretend that's who I was. I still haven't done it and I'm pretty sure I never will.
Anyway, I asked what was going on. (Don't worry, I asked my friend in the car. I didn't get out and ask the little group.) He said it was a group of people that got together every evening at 20:10 in the month of May to pray to the Madonna. Sorry, I don't know if you pray TO a Madonna or FOR a Madonna or what you do with a Madonna. But I like the fact that Madonna brings this little group of neighbors together every evening in May. I find the whole thing charming and a bit sad. These little gatherings are finished in May. Why not do something else together a few evenings in the summer? Sometimes at 20:10 I have the urge to go join them and tell them that they could get together every now and then in June, too, without Madonna, but I'm pretty sure I'll never do that either.
Pianoforte a quattro mani
At first glance, my new home away from home seems like my childhood home. Fields, farmers, gardens, little sheds, gravel roads...all the stuff that makes the countryside the countryside. What I don't remember about Ada, Michigan was art and music and theater. Maybe I was too young. Or maybe there was really nothing more than fields, farmers, and gardens.
Anyway, dotted throughout the fields in Veneto are lovely little towns. And dotted
throughout the towns are galleries, performances and cafes. I went to a concert in Asolo
last week. It was two pianists playing on one piano. But that's not how you say it. It's
pianoforte a quattro mani. That's a piano with four hands. I've never seen it before
(or should I say heard it?) but it was great!
First we had pizza, of course. And then we went for coffee (and I had tea, of course). And
then, the concert. It was in the il museo civico. You walk under a few arches and through
a few columns to the entrance. Then it's up some well-worn stone stairs and into the
concert hall (one would think). But, instead of an auditorium it was just a big, dusty,
beautiful room. On a little platform made from sheets of plywood sat a shiny, black grand
piano. Two ladies in sequined tops came out to play. They're the same two ladies with no
sequins that sat at the table next to us in the cafe. At the cafe they were just two
normal ladies. Here they were shining stars.
All around the room the top of the walls were painted with shields and names and dates. Giant, dusty chandeliers missing some arms and crystals hung from the ceiling. There were enough uncomfortable straight-backed chairs for about 60 people, but I think I only counted about 32. I had a front row seat so I could see the four hands perfectly. One lady operated the pedal and the other turned the pages.
In the front corner of the room, next to the plywood stage there were two big tables. Big,
old, beat up wooden tables that would sell for thousands in an antique shop in Michigan.
Here, they were just shoved in the corner covered with dust. On one of them there was an
unplugged flat screen tv. It's cord and other random cords were strewn across the stage
and every time the ladies got up to bow I was afraid they might trip.
Nothing about the place was in order. And I'm sure nothing about it was beautiful to the
Italians. They wouldn't notice the tables or painted walls or chandeliers. But, did it
really matter? These 32 people were only there to hear Brahms and Satie and Bach. Were
they the same people that spent the day in the fields? I like to think they were. And now
when I'm running through the fields in the morning, I like to think that they're the same
people that were at the concert.
Anyway, dotted throughout the fields in Veneto are lovely little towns. And dotted
throughout the towns are galleries, performances and cafes. I went to a concert in Asolo
last week. It was two pianists playing on one piano. But that's not how you say it. It's
pianoforte a quattro mani. That's a piano with four hands. I've never seen it before
(or should I say heard it?) but it was great!
First we had pizza, of course. And then we went for coffee (and I had tea, of course). And
then, the concert. It was in the il museo civico. You walk under a few arches and through
a few columns to the entrance. Then it's up some well-worn stone stairs and into the
concert hall (one would think). But, instead of an auditorium it was just a big, dusty,
beautiful room. On a little platform made from sheets of plywood sat a shiny, black grand
piano. Two ladies in sequined tops came out to play. They're the same two ladies with no
sequins that sat at the table next to us in the cafe. At the cafe they were just two
normal ladies. Here they were shining stars.
All around the room the top of the walls were painted with shields and names and dates. Giant, dusty chandeliers missing some arms and crystals hung from the ceiling. There were enough uncomfortable straight-backed chairs for about 60 people, but I think I only counted about 32. I had a front row seat so I could see the four hands perfectly. One lady operated the pedal and the other turned the pages.
In the front corner of the room, next to the plywood stage there were two big tables. Big,
old, beat up wooden tables that would sell for thousands in an antique shop in Michigan.
Here, they were just shoved in the corner covered with dust. On one of them there was an
unplugged flat screen tv. It's cord and other random cords were strewn across the stage
and every time the ladies got up to bow I was afraid they might trip.
Nothing about the place was in order. And I'm sure nothing about it was beautiful to the
Italians. They wouldn't notice the tables or painted walls or chandeliers. But, did it
really matter? These 32 people were only there to hear Brahms and Satie and Bach. Were
they the same people that spent the day in the fields? I like to think they were. And now
when I'm running through the fields in the morning, I like to think that they're the same
people that were at the concert.
Any way you slice it.......France wins
Let's get back to the bread. Why don't they have good bread in Italy? I've finally found an Italian to discuss this with. He's had bread in France and he wonders why there are no Italians running over to France, learning how to make good bread and coming back to Italy to open the best "panificio" in Italia. Unfortunately, all he does is wonder. So, there is still no good bread in Italy. I went to one place that had four different kinds of little roll-looking things behind the counter. I asked what the difference was, hoping that somehow maybe one was better than another. She said, "Really, the only difference is the shape." I'll keep trying.In the meantime, I've actually decided I prefer what is basically Wonder Bread. And to top it off, at dinner the other night I was served AMERICAN BREAD. I know you can't read it all in this little picture, so I'll give you the details. The first line says "mordibidissimo pane bianco." Morbidissimo? My first thought was death. Dead white bread? I mean REALLY dead white bread? That's the "issimo" part. You can think of it as REALLY. But, I checked my dictionary and "morbido" means soft, not dead. So, here we have our REALLY soft white bread.
The next line says, "Ricetta Americana." That means American Recipe. For bread?! Is there an American recipe for bread? Well, thanks to this great marketing, the Italians think there is.
And the expiration date? It's now May 12. This bread, which I have no idea when it was purchased, is good until June 13. Is bread ever good for a month and a day? I don't think so.
Here's the best part of all. In fine print it says, "Prodotto in Francia." Do I have to translate that? Produced in France. What do you know?! No matter what, my favorite bread in Italy is French bread.
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