Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme to Grate the Nutmeg

I wouldn't consider the simple life all that simple.  My neighbors seem to pull it off like nothing, but for me it's a lot of work.  I suppose it's kind of like shabby chic.  Shabby doesn't take much effort to achieve.  It's just a matter of time, and all things become shabby.   But striving to look like you made no effort at all (shabby chic) takes a little extra time.


Life in a small country town in Italy follows a few of the Oxford Dictionary's definitons of simple.
--easily understood or done; presenting no difficulty
--plain, basic or uncomplicated in form, nature or design
--composed of a single element
--of very low intelligence
--basic or plain without anything extra or unnecessary


Although some are true (I won't tell you which ones), life is far from easily done and presenting no difficulty.   A simple life is a little bit like most people that have never lived one think it is...the quaint, sweet, charming part.  But one thing it isn't is simple.


I heat my country house with a wood-burning stove.  In early summer a big truck comes and drops a huge pile of wood in my yard.  Three days, 72 mosquito bites and 13 slivers later it's systematically stacked.  When winter comes you have to go out every day rain or shine to systematically restack it in the house.  You light a fire every morning and you stoke it all day.  If you're not home all day, you re-enter a cold house and rebuild the fire.  Turning up the heat seems a little simpler. 


I also heat my beach house with wood.  There's no big truck to deliver it because the house is on an island.  There's never a huge pile because the wood gets collected on the beach a little bit at a time every winter weekend.  Then it gets rolled back to the house in a metal shopping cart I found in my attic. Quaint, sweet, and charming yes.  Simple?  Not so.


And here's the dirty laundry on laundry in Italy.  It starts with a weather check.  If I wash a load now is it going to be sunny long enough for the clothes to dry outside?  Clothes are washed in a regular old American-style washer. Simple.  Then each piece is taken out of the washer, flung a couple of times to get some of the wrinkles out, and hung on a drying rack in perfect order.  The t-shirts go here, the underpants go there and the pairs of socks get paired and hung next to each other.  Next you add the clothespins for fear of the colpo d'aria (hit of air http://10leaves.blogspot.it/2013/10/living-with-bunch-of-old-wives.html) and the rack full of heavy, wet clothes is awkwardly carried outside.  When it's dry it's carried back inside and the clothespins are removed.  Then the wrinkled clothes are removed, folded and organized in a pile in the corner until ironing day (which usually comes after you've accumulated a few loads).  Italian women iron more than just pants and shirts.  I suppose some American women do, too, but I'm not one of them.  T-shirts, sheets, hankies, dish towels and tablecloths are all as smooth as silk (which is really the only thing worth handwashing and putting on the drying rack).  Passing a load from the washer to the dryer, taking it out and flinging it a few times to get the final wrinkles out seems a little simpler.


Washing lettuce isn't on my list of favorite things to do.  And washing it a thousand times?  When my farmer friends offer me fresh lettuce from their fields I refuse.  It takes at least 15 minutes to really clean it.  I know.....you have to wash lettuce from the supermarket, too, but somehow the fact that it's already been in a store makes it seem like it has a cleaner start.  The farmers' stuff is filled with the same dirt I clean from the treads of my shoes after a run through the fields.  But how green, how bio (Italian for organic) how wonderful to grow your own food.  Not for this Chicagoan. It only takes two seconds to cut off the top of a bag.


And the prep for that head of lettuce?  I'm friends with the early morning and early evening bus driver that becomes a farmer at midday.  Last summer I found him in a big field picking weeds.  Not in a little garden in his backyard.  That's doable.  (Not for me, but for many.)  Antonio was in a real field-sized field picking weeds by hand.  I stopped in shock. "Stai scherzando?" I asked.  (Are you kidding?)  He said that instead of powders and sprays, he's the weed killer.  When I asked him if he was really going to walk up and down every row of what seemed like four football fields, he asked me if I was really going to run 10 more kilometers to get home. 


That got me thinking about all of the things I do instead of SIMPLY going to IKEA.  (And I can speak with authority now because I've been to one in Italy.  Once.  It's even got guys directing traffic in the parking lot just like I imagine they do in Schaumburg.)  IKEA sells dishrags and they're only a buck.  So why do I knit my own?  Good question.  And making new candles from the remnants of old ones?  I know they don't always burn that well, but there's some strange satisfaction in watching something that I created glow.  Just like the farmers that find satisfaction in watching something that they planted grow, I suppose.  (And I must admit.  I've received IKEA candles as gifts and they make great gifts.) 


Once again I'll be celebrating Thanksgiving with a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.  I've gotten over the fact that there's no Campbell's around here and I've learned how to make my own.  It's pretty simple.  And a real grilled cheese with bakery-bread instead of plastic bag-bread and three different kinds of cheese instead of the stuff you peel from the little plastic sheet is pretty good.  But I still miss pumpkin pie.  I know it can't be that hard to make a pie crust (Ritz is in the same cemetery as Campbell's) but I've been avoiding it.  Fortunately I don't have to buy a pumpkin and learn how to turn it into Libby's 100% Pure Pumpkin because a friend sent me a can last year.  The most difficult part of my Thanksgiving prep will be grating my nutmeg.  

Instead of finding a little jar of ground nutmeg at my local market I found a small cellophane envelope with two nuts and a tiny little grater.  It reminded me of the prize in a box of cereal. Grating my nutmeg will probably take as long as cooking your turkey.      

And I guess now is when I'm supposed to say that I'm thankful for the simple life, which is defined by the MacMillan Dictionary as a way of living without all the possessions and worries of modern life.  I must say, the coagulated reddish-orange mass that plops out of the Campbell's can never worried me all that much.  Speaking of which, enjoy your cranberry sauce.   

Losing Control

For a control freak, there are times that having no control at all is just what I need.  My discomfort and panic come from not being in control when I think I should be.

Let's take a dinner party at my house.  It's impossible to remain calm and charming if the guests arrive 22 minutes early.   And when they present me with dessert that I've asked them not to bring?  Lovely hostesses graciously accept it thinking, "the more time together and the more to eat, the better."  Instead, I think, "How could you possibly come early and why would you bring something that I asked you not to bring?"  That being thought (the truth is it's actually also been said) I'm not such a lovely hostess if my rules aren't followed.

There were two times in my life when having absolutely no control gave me peace.  The first was a 6-day journey on the Trans-Siberian Express.  Making the choices before the trip were agonizing because I could control them all.  When should I leave?  How far should I go?  What kind of food should I bring?  Should I take the top bunk or the bottom one?  But the moment I boarded, the moment that I totally lost control of my life for 6 days, I was at ease.  There were no decisions to make.  I couldn't control anything.  I could only get an ice cream cone when the train made one of its three, 20-minute daily stops.  If the stops were at 6am, 2pm and 3am there was nothing to think about.  I got the cone at 2pm and it was okay.  (Not to say that I've never eaten ice cream at 6am or 3am.)      

To be polite, I followed my roommates' schedules for everything else.  I ate when they ate and I went to bed when they went to bed.  I was decisionless and it felt like a real vacation.  Being trapped on a train for 6 days meant freedom.  I had nothing to do but knit, braid the hair of the little girl that was travelling with her grandpa and play poker with the Russian soldiers in the next cabin.  When we went over a bridge, everyone got up and looked out the window.  There weren't many bridges and the guidebook didn't talk about them so I didn't have to decide which ones I wanted to see. I looked when the others looked because it was the only choice I had.

I took my watch off.  It didn't really matter what time it was.  The passengers that had boarded where I had were on my time schedule, but those that had boarded earlier or later in the journey were totally different. I think I crossed five time zones in six days.  In the Moscow time zone I'd left behind maybe I really was eating the ice cream cone at 3am.  But it didn't matter.  I was out of control and it felt good.  If only the Trans-Siberian weren't express.

My second favorite holiday lasted 45 days.  I spent it on my couch with a broken knee.  Much like being trapped on the Trans-Siberian, being trapped on the sofa meant freedom.  I couldn't control anything because the broken knee controlled me. Getting a little chubby was acceptable because it wasn't my fault.  I wasn't disappointed in myself for not running a certain amount of miles each week because I couldn't run.  It didn't mean I was lazy if I read all day, it meant that I didn't have a choice.  And all of these things felt good.

I read three books in Italian after having lived in Italy for only three months.  A miracle. Reading in Italian four years later, I lose my patience.  I can't concentrate because I keep thinking that I should be doing something more productive, so I quit.  Now that I'm back in control I miss the freedom of being confined to my sofa.

Today's tea bag quote:
  Let things come to you.
That's not so easy for a control freak.  But I'll try.

I know it shouldn't take a broken knee or a trip to Siberia to feel free. Most people read as much as they want to read when they want to read and run as far as they want to run when they want to run.  They've set no limits and created no logs.

Maybe instead of being in control and losing myself I should start losing control and being myself.

Less is More

If my mom heard me say that I've never liked wearing clothes with labels, she'd clear her throat.  In high school my loafers had to be Weejuns, my polos had to be Izod and my pants had to be Dickies.  Not long after, my boat shoes had to be Topsiders (not Docksiders), my polos had to be Ralph Lauren and my jeans had to be Guess.  And then for some reason I changed my mind.  I decided it was cooler to have bermudas with daisies and a long, wool MSU band coat that could only be found at the Salvation Army, Goodwill and garage sales.

I'll admit, I like knowing that my Clark's are Clark's.  It's kind of hard to distinguish real from fake, but I know they're originals (no pun intended, for those of you that know what real Clark's are) and that's all that matters.  I do it for myself, not for everyone else.  And I especially like knowing that my Ray-Bans are Ray-Bans, because I'm sure I'm the only one that knows.  

I noticed the other day that in addition to Ray-Ban being written on the lens of one of my student's sunglasses, it was also written on the right stem.  And if I'm not mistaken, it was on the left stem, too.  After his lesson, I went to check my Ray-Ban drawer.   I haven't bought a pair for more than 15 years, but in my small collection (of  9) none of them boldly display the logo more than once.  And the Wayfarers don't show it at all.  "Wayfarer" is stamped on the inside of the stem.  If I were to wear them with my student he'd think they were fakes.  And that would be okay with me.

Contrary to my high school phase of flaunting designer labels I find it rather embarrassing now.  And if I don't want to be seen with a little pony on my breast you can bet I don't want to be seeing from a pair of sunglasses seemingly dipped in Ray-Ban.

Who decided one insignia wasn't enough?  Was there a Ray-Ban executive talking to someone on his left that remembered the logo was on the right and thought, "Wait a minute!  This guy isn't going to know these are Ray-Bans if I don't get him to come to my other side."  Is that when they started the triple dipping?

The Cambridge Dictionary defines insignia as "an object or mark that shows that a person belongs to a particular organization or group, or has a particular rank."  I want to be a member of a group so exclusive that only those of us who are in it know that we're in it.  We can recognize each other without an insignia.  A group where we're all so embarrassed by our 300 dollar logo-less shoes that we only want to be recognized by the other people crazy enough to spend that much on a pair of shoes that doesn't scream their name.  We can call ourselves The Hidden Label Club.  And the best part is, I can be a member without renouncing my membership to the Daisy Bermuda Club.

If you've got it, flaunt it. If you don't, just smile.

Cream.  Lotion.  Lipstick.  Waxing.  Fingernails.  Toenails.  Hair.  Stilettos.  Make-up.   Cellulite solutions.  Breast enhancements.  Tummy tucks.  Eyebrows.  Push-up bras.  Facials.  If I'm aware of this many feminine fixations, it means that real women are aware of a whole lot more.  

It's finally hot in Italy, so the other day I left home a bit less covered than usual.  My skirt was shorter, my neckline was lower and I didn't have sleeves.  This got me so much attention I thought maybe I'd put my shirt on backwards and the v was exposing my belly button.  I even looked down to double check that I was wearing a skirt, but everything was in place.

It started when I crossed in front of a car on my bike.  I saw that it was the owner of the bar where I've been parking lately, so I smiled.  Every time I've locked my bike there I've wondered if it bothered him, so pulling up to the spot while he was still in sight made me a bit uncomfortable.  Then he said something that I didn't understand.  After two "Scusi, non ho capitos", I went to his window.  He repeated for the third time that he hoped having a beautiful woman pass in front of him and smile would be a sign of good luck for the rest of the day.  (I guess I can stop worrying about my new parking spot.)

That's when I realized that I have nothing to flaunt but my smile.  My bra size is 34A.  The only thing smaller is 32A.  The 34 part just means I'm a little girthier than I used to be.  I don't use lotion or foundation or wrinkle cream.  I wash my face with a bar of Ivory soap and if I run out I dig around in my junk drawer until I find a little bar wrapped in plastic that I brought home from some cheap hotel.  I use the same three beauty products at 51 that I used at 15--the pink and green brand of mascara, a little plastic case of blush that breaks the first time you drop it and lip stuff.  The only other thing I do to enhance my beauty is run.  So what I save on make-up I spend on running shoes.

One of my students is a cute, 28-year old blonde.  She's recently started going to the gym which led to a fresh new topic for her English lesson.  I was surprised to hear that she wears knee-length leggings and a short-sleeved t-shirt in the un-airconditioned gym in June.  Her reason is that she doesn't like the men in the gym to look at her, which led to the next question.  Didn't she think working out was going to make her look even better (in and out of the gym) which would garner even more unwanted attention?  She agreed that it might be true, but claimed that she's only working out to look better for herself and no one else.

That's when I started asking other women about their motives for beautification.  All of them told me that they do it for themselves.  And I told all of them that I don't think they're telling the truth.  I'll be the first (and maybe only) to admit that though I don't do much, the little that I do is for more than my eyes only.  I find it hard to believe that Cosmo and Elle readers go to the lengths they do with no hopes of being noticed.

Let's talk waxing.  In Italy,  I don't have any friends that don't wax their legs.  And it seems that age 16 isn't too early to start.   I know what it feels like right when you leave the esthetician's (a word I didn't know until I moved to Italy) because I've been demanded by friends to touch their legs.  They feel as smooth as a chubby baby's leg.  (And if you don't have a chubby baby around, just touch the fatty part of the palm of your hand.)  But give it a week (I'll be generous and say 10 days) and the thrill is gone.  And after two and a half weeks it's time to start wearing pants again, even if it's 90 degrees.  Whenever I see a well-groomed women dressed in pants on a hot summer day I know she's in between expensive waxings.

When I suggest shaving every day and wearing summer clothes whenever you want to they all say, "But when you shave, the hair grows back dark and thick."  To which I reply, "If you shave every day, you never know how it grows back."  Sometimes I even reach the 36-hour mark and it's not as smooth as it was right after shaving, but at least I don't have to overdress for the next 12 days waiting to see my estetista.  And one lesson they all seem to learn at Italian beauty school is that fuzzy legs should be hidden and fuzzy armpits exposed.

Then there's the expensive electric muscle builder.  Apparently you just plug it in and it works (so you don't have to).  When I went for physical therapy after I broke my leg the therapist attached little pads to my thigh and then attached my little thigh (after 40 days in a cast it was a little thigh) to a machine and left the room.  He said that if  it was too uncomfortable I could call him.  It was a little electric shock to stimulate muscle growth.  I asked if I could please just do more squats.  He said that if Italian women thought that way a lot of companies would go out of business. I find it hard to believe that women suffer these small doses of shock just for themselves with no hopes of an outside compliment.

Maybe I lost my stomach for beauty when I was a contestant in the 1982 Miss United Teenager Pageant.  I loved my turquoise taffeta dress with puffy sleeves and the floor-length lacy white one. When I gave my speech on "What My Country Means to Me" I wore a knee-length red skirt and a white ruffled shirt with a little blue vest.  Fortunately there was no swimsuit competition because at that time I was probably still too small for the 32A.  I made it to the top 15 finalists and then I had a meltdown backstage.  Someone was coming around with Vaseline to rub on your gums.  As it was my first pageant I was unaware of the tricks of a real beauty queen.  A swab of Vaseline on your gums gives you a permanent smile.  That's when I lost my enthusiasm.  What was I doing in a group of girls that couldn't just smile a natural smile when it was the right time to smile?  Needless to say, I wasn't Miss United Teenager that year.

My father-in-law used to say that a chubby, bikini-clad girl on the beach was more attractive than a skinny one that put her shorts on to take a walk.  Put a smile on the chubby one and she definitely takes the cake.
 
Girls are so busy hiding behind emoticons on their smart phones that they forget to look up and smile.  Someone needs to send them a message that it's the cheapest and most effective beauty product on the market.  

The End


The author wishes to express a few beauty truths that didn't come out in this piece.  
1.  She colors her hair because when her sick friend went to try on wigs she played along and tried a blond one.  It brightened her cheeks so much she could almost stop spending money on the little breakable case of blush.  So, she went blond and always asks the hairdresser to leave a piece of gray in the front to show who she really is.
2.  She's gone from Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers to a long-lasting lipstick by Revlon.  It costs 12 euro which is the most expensive beauty purchase on her list.  She has recently discovered it's also the best sunblock for lips she's ever used and therefore justifies the price.
3. Having been struck by a board nearly 20 years ago she found herself lying flat on her stomach below a crew of onlooking construction workers shouting, "Don't move!" from the second storey.  Her only response was, "I imagine this is a pretty good view of my cellulite."   A week later she bought an expensive cellulite cream by Clarin's.  According to her and many others, it worked.  She didn't believe anything cured cellulite, but the product tightened the skin and made it seem more like ricotta than cottage cheese.  The problem was, should she apply it before her morning run to look better while running and then wash it all away in the shower?  Or after the run to look better on the beach for a few minutes until it washed away in the lake?  In the end she decided she preferred the cellulite to the additional gray hair and wrinkles incurred by the stress of deciding the best time to use an expensive beauty product.
           
             

Mamma's Boys and Girls

There's a law in Italy that says something like you can't kick your kid out of the house if he can't support himself.  In one case some parents took their 41-year old unemployed son to court just to get him out of the house. However, it seldom comes to that because most Italian parents and their kids (30-year old "kids", successful or not) are very happy living under the same roof.  

I worked when I was in high school.  All of the money I made was given to my parents and put away for college.  They gave me spending money, which you could say was the money that I earned scooping ice cream and serving burgers, or you could say that my spending money was my parents' money and it was my burger money that went for college.  In any case, my funds were controlled.  The only money that ever went straight into my piggybank just for me was the money that I earned babysitting when I was 13 (and still using a piggybank).  That's a bit different than the 18-year old Italian that was asked to babysit by a new mother only to be told by the father that she was too young.  I suppose that's probably because most Italian babysitters are over 60 and they're almost always called Grandma and Grandpa.

The four years that I lived at university I got a letter from my mom every Friday.  Every Friday.  And with the letter came a twenty dollar bill.  I'm not sure what happened to all of those letters, but all of the twenty dollar bills were spent on Diet Coke, ice cream, Sunday night pizzas (because the dorm cafeteria was closed), toiletries, stamps and greeting cards.

The reason my money came in the mail every Friday is because I never went home.  Never.  University life meant a new life.  New friends.  New places.  New things to do.  And on the list of "new things to do" were things like laundry, budget my twenty dollars, iron, study and learn how to live without my parents.  As far as I'm concerned they were all good things to do.

Most of the Italians that I know that attended university either lived at home or went home every weekend.  They didn't learn how to do their laundry.  They didn't learn how to budget their twenty euros.  They didn't really learn how to make new friends because they still went out with their high school friends.  And they didn't learn how to live without their parents.  Maybe that's why so many find it necessary to continue living at home for a lot more than just a couple of years after college.

At age 29 one of my female students finally decided to get an apartment and live on her own.  She lasted six months and then decided to move back home.  Her decision was based on the fact that she couldn't go out as often, she couldn't take vacations and she couldn't go shopping because she had to pay for rent and food.  Moving back home gave her back her independence.  And if parents are willing to live with their adult children and do their laundry and cook their meals and share their cars, why not live at  home?

Another 29-year old girl said that she's only recently started thinking about living alone.  She said it seems like a step toward maturity.  Not a bad idea to finally have the desire to grow up considering 30 is right around the corner.  

I have a 31-year old male student that is having a really hard time leaving home.  He's almost done moving into the house down the street that his parents bought for his brother.  (His brother got married and moved into the house his wife's parents bought for her, so the brother's house was available.)  I think he's been in the process of moving for almost a year, but he's not quite ready.  In the past couple of weeks he's spent a few nights there.  He's eaten there a few times, but since he doesn't really have time to grocery shop (I think he works about 40-45 hours a week) it's just easier to eat at his parents' house.  After the lesson last week I asked him if he was going home (to his new home).  He said he had plans to meet friends at 9pm so he'd called his mom before the lesson to tell her he'd be home (his parents' house) for dinner because he'd only have an hour between the lesson and the bar and that really wasn't enough time to go to his own house to eat.

How do 30-year olds in Chicago survive without their mommys?  (And 23-year olds and 35-year olds?)  They work the same 40-45 hours a week, or more.  They fit grocery shopping in at some point, because they have to.  A dinner cooked by mamma isn't necessary because they can live on a sandwich and still make it to the bar by 9pm.  They might live alone in a tiny studio apartment or they might share a bigger place with 2 or 3 roommates if they want to save money.  If they have to stay up late or get up early to do their laundry, they do it......because their mothers don't.

The difference is that American kids don't only do it because they have to, but they also want to.  I know I did.  And I know my friends did.  There's something different in the way young Americans think.  They're excited to be on their own.  I'm quite sure if an American guy had a house waiting for him down the street (and no mortgage payment, don't forget, it was a gift.) he wouldn't be slow to move in.  And he'd be happy to eat a box of macaroni and cheese every night if he couldn't find the time to shop and cook.  

When young Americans declare their independence it means life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  When young Italians declare theirs it means the opposite.  They have less life and liberty because they have to do their own laundry and aren't free to spend money on whatever they want. And their pursuit of happiness seems to lead them right back to the home sweet home of their mamma.

The Garlic is Free

I seldom venture far from a Pizza Margherita (cheese pizza), but the other night at the take-out place I ordered a Pizza Marinara.  That's a pizza with tomato sauce, garlic and oregano.  It cost 3euro50.  At the last minute I decided I couldn't live without cheese so I added mozzarella di bufala.  That's fancy mozzarella.  It's usually on the extras list where you find prices for stuff like an extra-large pizza, an extra-small pizza (called a baby pizza for the real babies that can't eat a normal-sized pizza) and extra toppings.  The addition of mozarella di bufala was 1euro.  When I got the receipt I noticed that my pizza cost 6euro.  The receipt only lists the prices and not the kind of pizza you've ordered, so you never really know what you're being charged for.

Just to be safe, I went back to the counter to see if she'd understood my order.  (When you make a big move like straying from a normal cheese pizza, you want it done right.)  In situations like this I still apologize and say that it's probably my fault because my Italian isn't perfect.  I repeated my order, "A Pizza Marinara with the addition of mozzarella di bufala."  She said that she'd understood and that the garlic was free.  Still confused, I repeated my order again and said that my receipt said 6euro but it should have only been 4euro50.   That's when she said she'd charged me for a Mozzarella di Bufala instead of a Marinara, and then added garlic which she happily repeated was free.  She'd chosen to charge me for a more expensive pizza and throw in the garlic instead of for the pizza I'd ordered and charge me for the cheese.  I probably would've caused a scene in the States, but life in Italy has few rules so you seldom win.  I let her keep my 1euro50 and tried to enjoy my fancy cheese.

Keeping my cool with public services is a different story.  How about the bus that came 7 minutes early?  I'm used to running for buses and trains because I'm always late, but should I have to run when I'm early, too?  I got on and asked the driver, "For future reference, is this bus always early?"  He said, "Oh, am I early?  What time am I supposed to be here?  I'll pull over now and wait."  He seemed proud of himself for responding to the public's needs.  After a three-minute pause he started up again.  Apparently arriving at the rest of the stops four minutes early is acceptable.

And the post office?  I don't think I'm the only one who has left in tears. Having sent birthday cards to America for 2euro in October, I was shocked in December when the clerk said 100 stamps would cost 400euro.  I told him I was sure there was a mistake because I'd paid half that price only two months earlier.  He said, "This is life in Italy."  Not ready to spend 400euro to mail my Christmas cards, I started to cry and left.

I decided to research the cost of mailing a letter to the States from neighboring countries.  I thought 300euro might get me a weekend in Austria and I'd spend the extra 100 on Austrian stamps.  I checked Greece and Slovenia, too.  Maybe sending Christmas cards could become an adventure.  Then, during my research, I learned that the current price of an Italian stamp for a card to the States was 2euro30.  An increase of 30 cents in two months was acceptable (and very Italian).  I was sure I couldn't get a trip to Greece AND 100 stamps for 230euro, so I went back to the post office a few days later.

After a 37-minute wait, the same handsome clerk was all mine.  I told him that I'd done my research and as much as I'd liked the idea of a 400-euro weekend in Slovenia just to mail my Christmas cards, it seemed a bit more practical to buy them from him for the correct sum of 230euro.  He continued trying to convince me that the stamps cost 4euro.  He even turned his computer screen my direction to show me the calculation.  Then he slowly and quietly turned it back.  "Oh.  I get it now, " he said.  "The last time you were here I was still on the screen of the packages you'd mailed before you asked me for the stamps.  I'd given you the small package price of 4euro instead of the stamp price of 2euro30.  How many do you want?  A hundred?"

Had there been an apology or a thank goodness you double checked or a please forgive me, it would've been easier to accept.  But when someone thinks they've done nothing wrong by accidently asking me to pay an extra 170euro and there's not even fancy cheese on top, I go postal.

Welcome to Italy where even the people who speak the language perfectly have a hard time saying they've made a mistake.
       

Forget me not

When I make the Sign of the Cross I don't think of God.  The funny thing is, I have a feeling I'm not the only one.  The difference is, I'm not really making a gestural prayer, I'm just looking for my glasses.  Sometimes I store them on my head and other times they hang from my collar.   If they're not on my face when I need them, I go for my head.  If I don't find them there, I touch my chest.  And there you have it---the first two strokes of the Sign of the Cross.

I'd been doing it for years without thought.  It was a visit from my 15-year old niece that brought it to my attention.  I hadn't seen her for a couple of years and I suppose anything can happen when one moves to Italy, but I was shocked when she asked if I'd converted to Catholicism.  "What?!" I said.  She said she'd noticed that I was always making the Sign of the Cross.  God was never in my thoughts when I did it, but now my niece is.
 
Several years ago one of my favorite lunchmates told me that she used to notice how I destroyed my napkin eating a bagel with cream cheese and a little packet of strawberry jam.  When I got too lazy to spread the jam I'd just dip the bagel into the little plastic packet.  It's not the easiest thing to do without making a little mess.  I'm glad she didn't tell me until I moved away because I liked eating it that way.  Now when I start shredding my napkin as I'm enjoying a pizza with big, wet pieces of mozzarella di bufala, I go for my knife and fork and think of her.    

In the past I don't think MY idiosyncrasies made me think of other people.  I'd be reminded of old friends by certain restaurants, wavy days at the lake, a particular kind of weather, a shoe style or a certain word or phrase, but not by things that I did.  The little joy I feel when I search for my glasses and crumple my napkin got me thinking that maybe I could force people to think of me by discreetly touching on some of their quirks and mannerisms.  

I started with an exceptionally handsome (that's "old lady" for hot) young student.   We had our lessons at a bar over cappuccino and a hot milk with cocoa.  I know that sounds a little "old lady", too, but that's how I order my hot chocolate here.  Ordering a cioccolata calda in Italy is entirely different from a tall skim cocoa at Starbucks.

Fortunately, he liked to add sugar to his cappuccino or I would've missed out on the way he cleaned his spoon.  Some days it seemed like he stirred it a hundred times while I sat patiently waiting for the lick, which wasn't really even a lick.  He just put it in his mouth and slowly enjoyed the sugary foam that stuck to the spoon.  Then it was all over before he could say, "I sorry, but I haven't study many," with his wonderful accent.  (Keep in mind, I got paid for this.) At his last lesson he blushed when I told him that I was going to miss the way he licked his spoon.  The seed had been planted.

Sometimes I feel a little guilty trying to plant it, as if I'm trying to control something that shouldn't be in my control.  I've even started thinking about times that I'd like to be thought of to see if I can plant some seeds there.  Like when someone blows out a candle.  It's often done at the conclusion of a special evening or before someone makes a wish.  Those would be nice times to pop into someone's head.  But how can I plant that seed?  Am I going to say, "I like the way you blow out candles"?  I suppose it's no stranger than, "I'm going to miss the way you lick your spoon."

I guess all I'm really trying to do is be remembered.  Or to not be forgotten.  In the end it doesn't really matter when you think of me as long as you do it from time to time.  But if you need a little help, I can plant a few seeds.  (Unfortunately they won't be about your personal quirks, those will have to be done on a one-to-one basis.)  Don't worry, I won't try to steal the show and say at the grand finale of the fireworks or when you see a rainbow or a shooting star.  I know those are reserved for someone special.  But here's a little list of when I'd like to come to mind.

When the pilot says, "prepare for landing,"
when you do a cannonball,
when you're squeezing out the ketchup at McDonald's,
the first day in a new pair of running shoes,
when you wear hot pink,
the first bite of a soft-serve ice cream cone,
while you're listening for the last pops of your popcorn,
when you lick the beaters,
when you see heat lightening,
when you can't get the ribbon to slide off a gift,
when the waiter brings two spoons with your dessert and you don't have the courage to tell him one is plenty,
when your TV breaks,
and of course.....when you eat chocolate chip cookies.

There.  Some seeds have been planted.  Now I just hope they'll be sown.

Givers Can Be Choosers

I used to take private piano lessons and now I give private English lessons.  There's definitely something the givers know that the takers don't.  And in case you're a taker or you know a taker or you plan to be a taker some day, this is a private lesson to teach you how to be a good one.

When I was a taker I didn't consider the effect canceling had on my teacher's day.  I never thought about her other lessons or trips to the post office or social life.  And I certainly didn't think that my cancellation had an impact on her salary.  But the truth is, it did.
   
Don't forget that teaching private lessons is a job.  And with a job there's an income with which teachers pay their bills, buy their groceries and plan their weekly budgets.  The lesson that you've scheduled with them at 3p.m. on Tuesday might not be important to you, but it is to them.  They've decided it's okay to invite a friend to a movie because they know your lesson will cover the cost of the ticket.  They've ridden their bike to the grocery store in the rain on Tuesday morning because they've reserved Tuesday afternoon for you.  And they may have refused other students that wanted a lesson at 3p.m. because you already said you'd be there.

When you cancel your lesson because you just don't feel like going or something better has come up, they've lost their money for the movie, they could've shopped in the sunshine in the afternoon instead of in the rain in the morning and they should've accepted a lesson from a more faithful student and earned the money they've lost from you.

You might think that you're taking piano lessons from the granny at the end of the block, but if you're paying her, she's not just doing it for fun.  And if you decide to cancel a lesson because you were lazy and didn't practice or you feel a bit of a cold coming on, give it a second thought. When I was a taker, I definitely didn't.  I'm sure I cancelled a few lessons the day before and thought nothing of it.  As long as I called and cancelled it seemed there was no harm in it.  Now that I'm the granny at the end of the block I'd like to apologize to my old teachers.

I've recently begun refusing students that have cancelled too many times (and it sure feels good).  One teenage girl even came to my house on a Sunday afternoon to ask if she could start taking lessons again.  I listed the number of times she'd cancelled and the excuses she'd given.  She wasn't the only one surprised to hear, "I'm sorry, but it's not worth the risk."  Somewhere along the line I've finally realized that givers can be choosers.  It may mean a few less trips to the gelateria, but that's never really hurt anyone.

In the first four months of this year, 21 students have cancelled their lessons with me. Considering that most months have 20 working days, that comes to one lesson a day for a month.  None of them had a car accident or appendicitis.  They didn't even have the flu. They were students that didn't sleep well the night before or had a little stomachache or a faulty alarm clock.  Some had a bad day at school, a hard day at the office or too much homework.   This many lessons would have paid for a long weekend out of town with a flight on EasyJet, a cheap hotel and some street food.

The next time I have a month with an extra 21 students maybe I'll plan the little getaway. Don't worry, I won't cancel any lessons at the last minute.  Out of respect for the students, I'll give plenty of notice and do my best to reschedule the lesson.  


Givers have to set limits because takers rarely do.  Irma Kurtz

Take Time to Smell your Friends

I have students and acquaintances of all ages.  I would've written friends instead of acquaintances, but in Italy the word friend is hard to come by.

For me an acquaintance is the Indian lady I used to buy Diet Coke from at the convenience store in Chicago.  But having bought as many as I had, she'd practically become a friend.  For many Italians an acquaintance is a person you've had dinner with 20 times, someone you've gone on vacation with or your older sister's best friend that grew up under the same roof.  It seems to take an awful lot to be considered a friend.

Here's a brief sampling of some conversations I've had with a diverse group of Italian students and acquaintances that have one thing in common: an unusual idea of the value of friendship.

A 16-year old once asked me what I thought about a certain group of women.  I asked her to tell me what she thought first because I didn't want to sway her with my ideas.  She said, "They don't really seem like friends.  They talk about recipes and beach vacations and their kids.  But it doesn't seem to me like they've ever cried together.  Or shared secrets. Or asked each other for advice.  And isn't that what friends are for?"  Brava.  I like this kid.

A 50-year old woman moved 30 miles from her hometown at the age of 38.  She's lived in the new town for 12 years and has spent 6 months a year in Boston for the past three years.  As a part-time Italian transplant in Boston she's made more American friends than in the 12 years she's lived in her "not-so-new" northern Italian community.  In Boston she's probably even friends with the lady at the convenience store.

I asked an 18-year old girl if she had a best friend and she said, "Of course."  Then I asked if her mother had a best friend and she said, "No."  I asked her if that seems sad and she said, "No. It's normal.  She doesn't need a best friend.  She's married and has a family."  It sure seems sad to me.

I once apologized to a 38-year old Italian friend saying that I was sorry if we'd lost touch because I'd been a bit blue and heavy when we got together.  I told her that I was feeling better and I hoped we could see each other soon.  Here's how she responded in a text.  "Never say again something like this because it's not true!!  Don't say such a stupid thing! We don't see each other much because I'm working a lot and I have my niece and nephew, my boyfriend's mother and my grandma and I want to stay with my boyfriend who is completely alone the whole day!! I'm a bad friend because instead of saying, 'ok, now is Tenley's time,' I always say 'tomorrow' and so the time passes by and I never meet you!  Sorry and it's MY fault, not yours."  This wouldn't have been so bad if it had concluded with, "So, when do you want to go out?"  But it didn't.  It ended there.  It seems that between a job and a family there's no time for a friend.    

And then there's my new 55-year old friend that I invited out for pizza in early December.  She seemed happy that I'd asked and told me we could do it in the spring. I let it go, but couldn't help but wonder why we had to wait until spring.  Later she was talking about how she never did anything for herself and she only thought about doing everything for her husband and grown children.  (Grown as in 20 and 24 years old.)  I said, "Is that why we have to wait four months to go out for pizza?  Because you have so much to do for your family?"  She said, "Yes.  It's crazy.  I'm crazy.  I could go out for pizza with you tomorrow, right?"  And fortunately we went a couple of weeks later.

As an American with a lot of friends (not just acquaintances) this doesn't seem normal to me.  It doesn't seem healthy either.  And apparently it doesn't seem healthy to an Italian organic food producer called GerminalBio.  They have an ad campaign that says, "Dedica senza fretta del tempo alla vera amicizia."   Dedicate time, without hurrying, to true friendship.  Or better yet, "make time for friends."  I saw the publicity hanging by the elevators at the hospital.  It's a good place to remind people that in addition to taking care of their health they should be taking care of their relationships.  Before it's too late.

I agree with reminding people to take time to smell the roses.  That's something a lot of us don't do.  We forget that the little things in life are important and we need to be reminded every now and then that it's the little things that add up to the big things. (check http://10leaves.blogspot.it/2011/01/sweet-life.html)  But a reminder to make time for friends seems like a reminder that I'm making a big mistake.  No one has to remind me that it's fun to eat pizza with friends.  And it's fun to take walks, go to the opera, sit on the beach and hike in the mountains.

I admit that there are a lot of things I have to be reminded about that Italian women don't.  They don't have to be told to mop the floor, make dinner for the family (and breakfast and lunch), wash the curtains and sweep the stoop. This all comes quite naturally for them, whereas I could use a little prodding.  But at the end of  life will they be happier with a house full of clean windows or a house full of friends?

The ad at the hospital also said, "Vivi biologico. Scgeli Germinal Bio." Live Organic.  Choose Germinal Bio.  I would have written, "Vivi felicemente.  Scegli amicizia."  Live Happily.  Choose Friendship.