The people I meet traveling are almost always more memorable than the places I see. And sometimes the people I DON'T meet leave a lasting impression, too.
At a photo exhibition in Mostar, Bosnia I saw a girl in her thirties. She was wearing leggings, a baggy sweater and a scarf. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was pushing a bike with a wicker basket just like mine. This photo was different than the faded black and white war photos I'm used to with people in strange clothes with funny hairdos. The girl looked like she could have been my friend. The photo was taken in 1993 and she had just crossed the Mostar Bridge (which was bombed later that same year).
Maybe she was out to fill her basket with groceries and fresh flowers or returning from a cafe where she'd just met a friend for coffee. The war lasted so long that most people had no choice but to continue trying to live their lives. This girl was living history.
Most of you are living history, too. The history of the Covid-19 pandemic. But I'm not. I'm hiding in my tiny house in my tiny town in Italy. And when I'm not home, I'm close to home in the big field next door. I don't watch news about the coronavirus because I don't have a TV (my choice). And even though I could get updates on the internet, I seldom do that either (my choice). I was frightened by the costumed men that came to test my neighbors for the virus on February 22 and since then I've done my best to avoid other unsettling images.
I should probably be embarrassed to admit that I wonder if I'll regret my choice. But the truth is, I am embarrassed and I do wonder. I'm an observer, not a participant. Actually, I'm not even an observer. I haven't walked through an eerily empty piazza. I haven't heard the announcement at the grocery store that the folks in aisle 4 have to keep their distance. I haven't bought bread at the bakery that allows one customer in at a time and I haven't had pizza delivered from the masked guy on his Vespa. The only images I have of life in Italy during the pandemic are the ones I've created myself.
I hope the girl on Stari Most (Mostar Bridge) is still alive and sitting in a cafe in Bosnia (or her new country, if she fled as a refugee) telling her friend that she remembers the last time she crossed that beautiful bridge on her bike. And I hope one day in the future when I'm in a bar (cafe) in Italy and my friend tells me that she remembers seeing a hearse, a priest and one onlooker in front of the town's church I'll finally have the courage to listen without humming loudly and plugging my ears. But I'll remain silent. Walking hundreds of miles in the field next door and living 63 (and sadly counting) days with no pizza is far from tragic. I'll have no stories to share because history is in the eye of the beholder and I haven't beheld.
(!!!Please note: I'm well aware that life during the Bosnian War and the coronavirus pandemic are worlds apart, but living on lockdown has made me think about life during war times. I cautiously broached the subject with my Bosnian friend in Chicago who wasn't offended and said that in fact, there are some similarities.)
Wednesday, April 22, 2020
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
Memories of West Michigan
Dear Readers,
My hometown newspaper asked me to write this article. It won't make any sense to a lot of you, but I wanted to share it here anyway, because there might just be someone reading in West Michigan.
I also used some lines from a past blog (in case you're keeping track).
--Tenley
__________________________________________________________________
I told Toto long ago that we weren't in Kansas anymore, but I'm constantly reminded that even when you're somewhere over the rainbow you're not so far from home. Between 1965 and 1987 West Michigan was home, but in the past 33 years I've found pieces of home all over the world, and those that I haven't found will go on living in MY memories of West Michigan.
In the 80s, "Let's go to Paris" meant I was in the mood for Yesterdog. Hearing the sound of the road change when the tires hit the bricks made me dream of a cobblestone street in Paris. Many years later when I actually lived on a cobblestone street in Paris the bumps made my bike bell ring which reminded me of Yesterdog's tip horn. If only the guys on the streets of Paris sold cheddardogs instead of just Nutella crepes.
After Eastown came East Grand Rapids for a double dip of mint chocolate chip ice cream at Jersey Junction, my favorite place for a date. Or, if I wanted to be served by a friendly waitress in a little gold dress with white trim and an apron I'd go for a piece of Mint Chip Pie at Sweetland's on Plainfield. I'd discovered the pie when I was a teenager and no longer qualified for the free gum drop sundae that came with the kid's meal. And neither ice cream treat was complete without a little bag of seafoam from the candy counter.
If Sweetland's was closed (or our favorite waitress that really knew the meaning of whipped cream wasn't working) we'd head a little further down Plainfield for some Bill Knapp's Hot Fudge Cake (also served by a friendly waitress in a gold dress) and a Bing Crosby serenade, because it was always someone's birthday.
Living in Italy there's never a shortage of gelato (ice cream), but it would be nice if it were served in a place that features fabulous food and fantastic fountain fantasies to frolicking fun-filled festive families, like Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor. And I've yet to leave a gelateria (ice cream parlor) with a piece of foot long licorice for dessert.
According to my American visitors ice cream in Italy is better, but I think half of it is the thrill of an ice cream cone at 5:30pm. In Michigan that's when your mom says you can't have it because it's almost suppertime. In Italy, it's part of Happy Hour, and dinner can wait.
At least one Italian American family has convinced Michiganders that a late supper is worth the wait. The long lines on the front and back staircases of Fricano's in Grand Haven are proof. I hope the red and white checked tablecloths are still shaken out (right behind your back) and turned over for the next customer. And I hope you still get a paper placemat with the list of 5 ingredients and the sketch of the gondola. Had you asked me 35 years ago what kind of pizza I'd be eating in 2020 I would've said cheese, just like at Fricano's. But had you told me that one day I'd be learning how to "vogare alla Veneziana" (row a gondola-like boat with one oar while standing) I would've said, "I suppose you also think fountains can sing."
Which brings us back to dessert, a soft serve cone from Dairy Treat with it's whimsical wall of giant circles and a walk on the pier, followed of course, by the musical fountain.
I think if I really looked I could find some of these things in Italy. But for now if I just close my eyes and click my red heels, it's not hard to find what I'm missing.
My hometown newspaper asked me to write this article. It won't make any sense to a lot of you, but I wanted to share it here anyway, because there might just be someone reading in West Michigan.
I also used some lines from a past blog (in case you're keeping track).
--Tenley
__________________________________________________________________
 |
| A lesson in the lagoon |
In the 80s, "Let's go to Paris" meant I was in the mood for Yesterdog. Hearing the sound of the road change when the tires hit the bricks made me dream of a cobblestone street in Paris. Many years later when I actually lived on a cobblestone street in Paris the bumps made my bike bell ring which reminded me of Yesterdog's tip horn. If only the guys on the streets of Paris sold cheddardogs instead of just Nutella crepes.
After Eastown came East Grand Rapids for a double dip of mint chocolate chip ice cream at Jersey Junction, my favorite place for a date. Or, if I wanted to be served by a friendly waitress in a little gold dress with white trim and an apron I'd go for a piece of Mint Chip Pie at Sweetland's on Plainfield. I'd discovered the pie when I was a teenager and no longer qualified for the free gum drop sundae that came with the kid's meal. And neither ice cream treat was complete without a little bag of seafoam from the candy counter.
If Sweetland's was closed (or our favorite waitress that really knew the meaning of whipped cream wasn't working) we'd head a little further down Plainfield for some Bill Knapp's Hot Fudge Cake (also served by a friendly waitress in a gold dress) and a Bing Crosby serenade, because it was always someone's birthday.
Living in Italy there's never a shortage of gelato (ice cream), but it would be nice if it were served in a place that features fabulous food and fantastic fountain fantasies to frolicking fun-filled festive families, like Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor. And I've yet to leave a gelateria (ice cream parlor) with a piece of foot long licorice for dessert.
According to my American visitors ice cream in Italy is better, but I think half of it is the thrill of an ice cream cone at 5:30pm. In Michigan that's when your mom says you can't have it because it's almost suppertime. In Italy, it's part of Happy Hour, and dinner can wait.
At least one Italian American family has convinced Michiganders that a late supper is worth the wait. The long lines on the front and back staircases of Fricano's in Grand Haven are proof. I hope the red and white checked tablecloths are still shaken out (right behind your back) and turned over for the next customer. And I hope you still get a paper placemat with the list of 5 ingredients and the sketch of the gondola. Had you asked me 35 years ago what kind of pizza I'd be eating in 2020 I would've said cheese, just like at Fricano's. But had you told me that one day I'd be learning how to "vogare alla Veneziana" (row a gondola-like boat with one oar while standing) I would've said, "I suppose you also think fountains can sing."
Which brings us back to dessert, a soft serve cone from Dairy Treat with it's whimsical wall of giant circles and a walk on the pier, followed of course, by the musical fountain.
I think if I really looked I could find some of these things in Italy. But for now if I just close my eyes and click my red heels, it's not hard to find what I'm missing.
Saturday, April 18, 2020
Masks....Not Just For Carnevale Anymore
To mask or not to mask? That's usually a question Italians ask every year at the end of February during Carnevale. And although this year's event was cut short due to the coronavirus, the question remains.
In the beginning there was a myriad of mixed messages. When we were told masks were only necessary for doctors we wondered why they worked for doctors and not the rest of us. And then we were told they were only for doctors and infected people. But with a 14-day incubation period there were a lot of infected people seemingly healthy and maskless. That seems like it might have been the right time to say we should all be wearing them.
On March 12, nine Chinese epidemic experts came to help out with the crisis in Italy. Upon arrival they were photographed with the President of the Italian Red Cross. Only one person pictured was maskless (and he wasn't Chinese).
One of the biggest concerns for the Chinese 9 (as I affectionately call them) was that few Italians were wearing masks. That seems like it might have been another good time to make them compulsory. Experts from a country already devastated by the disease are in shock that we're not using masks and we continue not using them.
A few weeks ago companies were required to supply their employees with masks and the employees were required to wear them. But this rule only applied at work. I asked myself why you should protect yourself from your co-workers but not the guy at the gas station.
The last week of March I'd heard that volunteers from the Civil Protection Agency would be delivering masks to each home in the community. It's not the kind of delivery one gets excited about, yet I found myself waiting anxiously (not for the masks, but for fear of the masked men).
I've been spending most of my time in the yard during the lockdown, but fortunately on delivery day I was sitting at my kitchen table. Seeing the car in the driveway was enough to make me cry. A masked man jumped out and came toward the house. I waved, motioned to leave the masks on the windowsill and gave him a thumbs up. I imagine he smiled under his mask then ran back to the car delivering good cheer to the rest of the town.
I left the little plastic-wrapped package outside on the windowsill all day. I could read the first few lines of the upsidedown letter from inside the house.
"Dear Citizens,
It's a time of patience and responsibility.
We still can't say with certainty how long all of this will last. It is definitely a difficult period for all of us, no one excluded."
The letter was folded at that point so I couldn't read the rest. I do know that on that day, March 30, masks still weren't mandatory. This was just a goodie bag from Officer Friendly.
On April 14, Italy changed its rules and entered 'lockdown soft'. 51 days after they canceled the conclusion of Carnevale due to the coronavirus they have finally decided that masks are obligatory for everyone... everywhere (except at home).
I hope other countries don't wait for the (finally)-masked-Italian 9 to show up on their doorstep before deciding it's the right time to make masks mandatory. To mask or not to mask? Don't wait until Carnevale 2021 to decide.
In the beginning there was a myriad of mixed messages. When we were told masks were only necessary for doctors we wondered why they worked for doctors and not the rest of us. And then we were told they were only for doctors and infected people. But with a 14-day incubation period there were a lot of infected people seemingly healthy and maskless. That seems like it might have been the right time to say we should all be wearing them.
On March 12, nine Chinese epidemic experts came to help out with the crisis in Italy. Upon arrival they were photographed with the President of the Italian Red Cross. Only one person pictured was maskless (and he wasn't Chinese).
One of the biggest concerns for the Chinese 9 (as I affectionately call them) was that few Italians were wearing masks. That seems like it might have been another good time to make them compulsory. Experts from a country already devastated by the disease are in shock that we're not using masks and we continue not using them.
A few weeks ago companies were required to supply their employees with masks and the employees were required to wear them. But this rule only applied at work. I asked myself why you should protect yourself from your co-workers but not the guy at the gas station.
The last week of March I'd heard that volunteers from the Civil Protection Agency would be delivering masks to each home in the community. It's not the kind of delivery one gets excited about, yet I found myself waiting anxiously (not for the masks, but for fear of the masked men).
I've been spending most of my time in the yard during the lockdown, but fortunately on delivery day I was sitting at my kitchen table. Seeing the car in the driveway was enough to make me cry. A masked man jumped out and came toward the house. I waved, motioned to leave the masks on the windowsill and gave him a thumbs up. I imagine he smiled under his mask then ran back to the car delivering good cheer to the rest of the town.
I left the little plastic-wrapped package outside on the windowsill all day. I could read the first few lines of the upsidedown letter from inside the house.
"Dear Citizens,
It's a time of patience and responsibility.
We still can't say with certainty how long all of this will last. It is definitely a difficult period for all of us, no one excluded."
The letter was folded at that point so I couldn't read the rest. I do know that on that day, March 30, masks still weren't mandatory. This was just a goodie bag from Officer Friendly.
On April 14, Italy changed its rules and entered 'lockdown soft'. 51 days after they canceled the conclusion of Carnevale due to the coronavirus they have finally decided that masks are obligatory for everyone... everywhere (except at home).
I hope other countries don't wait for the (finally)-masked-Italian 9 to show up on their doorstep before deciding it's the right time to make masks mandatory. To mask or not to mask? Don't wait until Carnevale 2021 to decide.
Friday, April 17, 2020
Italy's New "Lockdown Soft"
 |
| The shepherd working His green pastures |
My first scent of the day came as I sat on the front stoop lacing my running shoes. One of the neighboring fields was being treated by the manure spreader. I never plugged my nose when I passed a farm in the US. I actually liked the smell of manure. My brothers used to gag in the backseat of the Plymouth '66, but if it was my turn for the window seat it meant that I controlled the window and it stayed down.
Had I grown up in Italy, the window would have gone up when I passed a farm. Guidebooks leave out the part that Italian manure stinks. The mucche (cows) eat beautiful fields of yellow, white and purple wildflowers, but in the end, everything doesn't come out roses. My neighbor told me there's a law that manure can only be spread in the middle of the night when most people are sleeping. Apparently this farmer thought lockdown soft meant people were sleeping IN.
I left the stoop and passed under my rainbow. It's fading a little, but my hope for peace isn't. I picked a daisy and counted its petals, even though it was no longer necessary. On lockdown when I could only be 200 meters from home, I dropped a petal with every lap to count and pass the time. On lockdown soft, the 200-meter limit has been lifted and replaced with some typical Italian phraseology. Here's a translation of the governor's speech:
"Motor activity is individual, and must be performed in proximity of your home. I have removed the 200 meters, this is an act of great trust. Proximity doesn't mean 4 kilometers. The law says: in proximity."
I wonder if 3.9 kilometers is in proximity.
Even though I could have let freedom ring a little, I hopped my neighbor's fence to return to the security of my Coronavirus Trail. The shepherd had been there the past few days and for some reason I can't get enough of the fact that I run in a field with a shepherd and his sheep. Unfortunatley, instead of finding them, I found the manure-spreading tractor loading up the fields on both sides of my canal.
This forced me to follow the next lockdown soft rule...always wear a mask. I'd had one tucked in my Coronavirus Kit for nearly two months so I pulled it out. Hopefully it will work better for the virus than it did for the manure. My only choice was to run farther than 200 meters.
That's it for how lockdown soft has affected me on Day One. The only real changes in most people's lives are that gloves and masks are obligatory and we don't have to stay within 200 meters of home, but 4 kilometers is out of the question. Another interesting one is if you're out and stopped by the police they'll check your temperature. If it's above 37.5 degrees celcius (99.5 degrees fahrenheit), it's a reato (crime, violation, felony, misdemeanor). It seems my dictionary is as vague as our governor.
As for how far I'll dare stray from home tomorrow, maybe I'll ask the shepherd. He might know what proximity means. He puts an orange fence around his flock and goes home with Lassie for lunch every day (which seems an act of great trust). He has a beard, a staff and sheep. What would HE do?
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
The 100-Mile Coronavirus Challenge
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| My Nike Running Club profile photo |
I was invited to participate by a friend in Chicago. The challenge was to encourage those that could no longer go to their closed gyms to get moving. The goal was to reach 100 miles in the month of April.
I'm not a gym-goer and have never needed a reason to get out the door. I'd been running and walking on lockdown in Italy for nearly a month when the invitation came and my far-from-home adventures had become 200-meter-from-home outings. The idea of the lady on the Nike app reporting mileage from my pocket every now and then sounded like a nice distraction, so I accepted the 100-Mile Challenge.
It wasn't long until I was near the top of the list and with a last name that starts with 'Y', being at the top of a list was new for me. The other participants signed up with their names and cute workout photos and I entered as "Tenley in Italy" and put a photo of my canal in the field. After each workout, the results were updated and your position on the list changed (or didn't).
My goal from the beginning wasn't as much about reaching 100 miles as it was about winning. I had no doubt about completing that mileage in one month (barring unforeseen circumstances). My goal was to do it before everyone else. Until yesterday, that is, when I realized that in the 21 marathons I've run, I'd never once thought about winning. I hated the hecklers that told us after 2 hours and 5 minutes we could stop running because the race had already been won. Marathons are a self-challenge, not something to win and I suddenly felt guilty for wanting to win the Coronavirus Challenge.
I spent the next hundred laps in my 200-meter-field-away-from-home contemplating the difference between competition and challenge. I'd approached the event as a competition instead of a challenge. In English they have different meanings but in Italian they're most often used as synonyms. Maybe I've been living in Italy too long which explains why I attacked the Challenge with such a competitive edge.
I finished 100 miles today, the 14th of April instead of the 30th. (My competitive side wants to whisper (instead of yell) that I started on April 5th.) I'm sure when I head out for my laps tomorrow I'm going to miss the lady in my pocket. I'll continue checking the site and silently rooting on the participants in Chicago because it's a self-challenge and there are 16 more days to complete it.
One thing is embarrassingly worth noting. I've seldom entered a competition I didn't think I could win, which is the sign of a coward, not a victor. I'm sure we'd all rather be winners than losers. But that doesn't mean losers don't deserve a victory lap. A loser deserves a lot more than a coward.
Monday, April 13, 2020
From Italian Literature to Dirty Books
I suppose it was the Pope's idea not to announce the extension of the current coronavirus lockdown in Italy on Easter Day. It wouldn't have been religiously correct. But the current decreto (decree) states that the lockdown lasts until April 13, and that's tomorrow. Talk of the new rules usually starts a few days before the current deadline, but since that's just talk, we wait anxiously for the signing of the official decree. Italians like making rules, changing rules and breaking rules. And all of this involves a lot of time and paperwork.
According to the talk, our lockdown will be extended to May 3. Here's a translation of things that will change on April 14. Bookstores, stationery stores and shops that sell clothes for infants and kids will reopen. Forestry activity, industry involving wood and the production of computers can start back up. Parks and playgrounds remain closed in addition to the cancellation of all sports activities and professional training. Motor activity is still permitted in the vicinity of home, but only alone and maintaining distance.
One of the most made-fun-of items on the last several decrees is something called auto certificazione (self certification). Any time you're not at home, you're required to carry this paper. The form has changed four or five times since the beginning of the lockdown. With each change you're required to have the latest version. And with each new version, comes a new meme.
Our current lockdown says we can't be more than 200 meters from home with the exception of trips to the pharmacy, medical visits, grocery shopping or work. If stopped by the police these activities have to be declared, as does walking alone in a field. The auto certificazione must be signed and given to the officer for later confirmation of the validity of your response. If there's discrepency, you'll be fined.
The selection of shops that have permission to reopen on April 14 has left us somewhat befuddled. No one's talking about the kid's clothing shops being open, after all we're in Italy where fashion comes first. But the reopening of bookstores is getting a lot of press.
Apparently some intellectuals (that's what they say) and booksellers have signed a petition asking for bookstores to reopen. They say that reading books can be like talking to a neighbor and since many on lockdown can't do that, it's time to start reading. That doesn't sound so intellectual to me. Maybe their next petition will say: Why talk to your neighbor when you can read?
Bookstore employees, however, aren't so enthused about the reopening and claim there's no way to clean the coronavirus from a book. But the intellectuals have solved that problem with a new rule. Before going to the bookstore you have to know what you're going to buy. (Maybe it will have to be written on the new auto certificazione before leaving home.)
Opening bookstores means opening cartolibrerie (stationery shops) because in addition to pens and paper, they also sell books, and what's fair for one bookseller is fair for another. Cartolibrerie also sell office supplies and offer UPS, fax and photocopying services.
And we mustn't forget the ribbon cutting ceremonies at grocery stores that can finally cut the tape on their aisles of pens and paper. These aisles have been off limits since the beginning of the lockdown. It took some real intellectuals to decide that if you went to the grocery store you could only buy groceries.
Even though we're still waiting for the official decree, people have already started planning their new lighter lockdown excursions. First, the cartolibreria to make copies of the new auto certificazione because no one is going to work where they can make free copies. Second, the grocery store for some good reading snacks and a pen (because you forgot to pick one up at the cartolibreria and fortunately the pen aisle is now open). And third, a quick trip to the bookshop where book-buying must be efficient. You touch it, you buy it. Unfortunately, in coronavirus times, you have to judge a book by its cover.
According to the talk, our lockdown will be extended to May 3. Here's a translation of things that will change on April 14. Bookstores, stationery stores and shops that sell clothes for infants and kids will reopen. Forestry activity, industry involving wood and the production of computers can start back up. Parks and playgrounds remain closed in addition to the cancellation of all sports activities and professional training. Motor activity is still permitted in the vicinity of home, but only alone and maintaining distance.
One of the most made-fun-of items on the last several decrees is something called auto certificazione (self certification). Any time you're not at home, you're required to carry this paper. The form has changed four or five times since the beginning of the lockdown. With each change you're required to have the latest version. And with each new version, comes a new meme.
Our current lockdown says we can't be more than 200 meters from home with the exception of trips to the pharmacy, medical visits, grocery shopping or work. If stopped by the police these activities have to be declared, as does walking alone in a field. The auto certificazione must be signed and given to the officer for later confirmation of the validity of your response. If there's discrepency, you'll be fined.
The selection of shops that have permission to reopen on April 14 has left us somewhat befuddled. No one's talking about the kid's clothing shops being open, after all we're in Italy where fashion comes first. But the reopening of bookstores is getting a lot of press.
Apparently some intellectuals (that's what they say) and booksellers have signed a petition asking for bookstores to reopen. They say that reading books can be like talking to a neighbor and since many on lockdown can't do that, it's time to start reading. That doesn't sound so intellectual to me. Maybe their next petition will say: Why talk to your neighbor when you can read?
Bookstore employees, however, aren't so enthused about the reopening and claim there's no way to clean the coronavirus from a book. But the intellectuals have solved that problem with a new rule. Before going to the bookstore you have to know what you're going to buy. (Maybe it will have to be written on the new auto certificazione before leaving home.)
Opening bookstores means opening cartolibrerie (stationery shops) because in addition to pens and paper, they also sell books, and what's fair for one bookseller is fair for another. Cartolibrerie also sell office supplies and offer UPS, fax and photocopying services.
And we mustn't forget the ribbon cutting ceremonies at grocery stores that can finally cut the tape on their aisles of pens and paper. These aisles have been off limits since the beginning of the lockdown. It took some real intellectuals to decide that if you went to the grocery store you could only buy groceries.
Even though we're still waiting for the official decree, people have already started planning their new lighter lockdown excursions. First, the cartolibreria to make copies of the new auto certificazione because no one is going to work where they can make free copies. Second, the grocery store for some good reading snacks and a pen (because you forgot to pick one up at the cartolibreria and fortunately the pen aisle is now open). And third, a quick trip to the bookshop where book-buying must be efficient. You touch it, you buy it. Unfortunately, in coronavirus times, you have to judge a book by its cover.
Friday, April 10, 2020
How Was Your Lockdown?
If wireless lie detectors exist, I think it's time they become available as an app. Turn it on as you approach someone, ask the obligatory question, and find out if they really are fine.
I've hated (and periodically refused) saying HOW ARE YOU since I was a child. I asked my mom why people asked the question since no one cared about the answer anyway. I told her I was going to start responding that I was sad because my grandpa had died just to see if they'd react. I was sure I'd find that some didn't even listen to an irresistible chubby kid with ringlets.
The fact that the expression is taught on the first day of ESL (English as a Second Language) classes proves its ridiculousness. You can show the class a ball and teach the students BALL. And you can wave to teach HELLO. But at the first lesson you can't explain HOW ARE YOU to a class unless you know how to say it in Arabic, Somalian, Ethiopian and Bhutanese. You're left to act out a small scene with a smile (also teachable), a wave and a friendly HELLO. But the teacher's manual throws in HOW ARE YOU and I'M FINE with no real explanation, simply because that's what comes next. I don't think any refugee on their second day in America is really fine.
Guidebooks teach it, parents teach it and teachers teach it and I think it's a bad lesson. It makes those of us that don't ask seem impolite. And those of us that answer how we really are seem extreme. We should form a club and wear a special pin that says, "Don't ask unless you really care." But I suppose no one would take too kindly to that either. There's no place for the realists.
On the 34th day of Italy's lockdown I realized that people have been taking the question more seriously lately. They show real concern and ask with sincerity. And they finally listen to the answer. If I had the special pin I wouldn't wear it on lockdown. I'd be happy to ask and happy to be asked.
I'm sure the first week of liberty from lockdown will be just like the first week after summer vacation and Christmas break. People don't ask how you are, they ask what you did. And they're no more interested in your vacation than how you were before you left.
The second week after lockdown when we return to HOW ARE YOUS and I'M FINES, I predict a lot of folks won't really be fine. And for those that have the courage to answer truthfully, will the askers take time to listen? Guidebooks, parents and teachers didn't prepare us for what comes next.
Seeing that I went into lockdown two weeks earlier than everyone else, I think I'll come out two weeks later. Maybe that'll save me from HOW WAS YOUR LOCKDOWN. By that time everyone will be tired of the obligatory question and I'll just sneak into the bar (cafe') with my pin, lie detector app and an open ear.
I've hated (and periodically refused) saying HOW ARE YOU since I was a child. I asked my mom why people asked the question since no one cared about the answer anyway. I told her I was going to start responding that I was sad because my grandpa had died just to see if they'd react. I was sure I'd find that some didn't even listen to an irresistible chubby kid with ringlets.
The fact that the expression is taught on the first day of ESL (English as a Second Language) classes proves its ridiculousness. You can show the class a ball and teach the students BALL. And you can wave to teach HELLO. But at the first lesson you can't explain HOW ARE YOU to a class unless you know how to say it in Arabic, Somalian, Ethiopian and Bhutanese. You're left to act out a small scene with a smile (also teachable), a wave and a friendly HELLO. But the teacher's manual throws in HOW ARE YOU and I'M FINE with no real explanation, simply because that's what comes next. I don't think any refugee on their second day in America is really fine.
Guidebooks teach it, parents teach it and teachers teach it and I think it's a bad lesson. It makes those of us that don't ask seem impolite. And those of us that answer how we really are seem extreme. We should form a club and wear a special pin that says, "Don't ask unless you really care." But I suppose no one would take too kindly to that either. There's no place for the realists.
On the 34th day of Italy's lockdown I realized that people have been taking the question more seriously lately. They show real concern and ask with sincerity. And they finally listen to the answer. If I had the special pin I wouldn't wear it on lockdown. I'd be happy to ask and happy to be asked.
I'm sure the first week of liberty from lockdown will be just like the first week after summer vacation and Christmas break. People don't ask how you are, they ask what you did. And they're no more interested in your vacation than how you were before you left.
The second week after lockdown when we return to HOW ARE YOUS and I'M FINES, I predict a lot of folks won't really be fine. And for those that have the courage to answer truthfully, will the askers take time to listen? Guidebooks, parents and teachers didn't prepare us for what comes next.
Seeing that I went into lockdown two weeks earlier than everyone else, I think I'll come out two weeks later. Maybe that'll save me from HOW WAS YOUR LOCKDOWN. By that time everyone will be tired of the obligatory question and I'll just sneak into the bar (cafe') with my pin, lie detector app and an open ear.
Wednesday, April 8, 2020
No Lemons on Lockdown? Make Lemonade Anyway
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| Dancing Raindrops for Agata |
Last week I heard that a little girl in my borghetto (little neighborhood) was about to have a coronavirus lockdown birthday. All I know about Agata is that she loves to be outside and every time she rides by on her blue bike she says, "Hell-0" (it rhymes with Jell-0). If her 8th birthday hadn't been on the 26th day of lockdown, I know she would've been with her friends and extended family. But since they were off limits, I decided to add something to this year's unusual birthday celebration.
I wanted to write on her driveway with sidewalk chalk, but I had no chalk. I didn't have any helium for my balloons either and I hate breath-filled balloons taped to the wall and tied to light fixtures. They look upsidedown and make me sad instead of happy. I do like carpets of balloons that silently float away as you walk through them, but in the grass the silence would have been a pop concert.
My Theodore Roosevelt solution was to tie the balloons to an open umbrella and prop the umbrella in the plant at the end of Agata's driveway. I called the piece DANCING RAINDROPS and I thought it made a nice addition to the rainbow installation at the end of my driveway. I wrapped up a pack of handmade English/Italian flashcards and offered free pronunciation tips every time she passes on her bike.
Sadly aware that a piece of Agata's chocolate birthday cake wouldn't go down well under the circumstances (coronavirus), I decided to bake my own. Since Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines aren't expats, I've learned to make chocolate cake from scratch, but it takes cocoa which wasn't on the last lockdown shopping list.
I moved on to pumpkin bread. It seems a little strange in April, but I had a can of soon to expire pumpkin puree (almost Libby's, which I consider my greatest find of 2019). Unfortunately, the pumpkin bread recipe also lacked an ingredient. It was time to do what I could with what I had and get a little help from the slow internet. Thanks to my mother-in-law's Snickerdoodle recipe, I had a half teaspoon of cream of tartar which when mixed with a quarter teaspoon of baking soda equals a teaspoon of the missing ingredient...baking powder.
The recipe makes two loaves, but I only have one bread pan. I did what I could with a baking dish which in the end seems to have been the secret ingredient. Upon first bite I heard, "Perche' mi hai detto che stavi facendo pane di zucca? Questa e' una torta." (Why did you tell me you were making pumpkin bread? This is cake.)
With the advice of Mr. Roosevelt, I turned upsidedown balloons into dancing raindrops, cream of tartar into baking powder and bread into cake. Now it's time to see what you can do.
Monday, April 6, 2020
A Spring Fashion Show from Locked Down Italy
Pizza's not the only thing I miss on lockdown in Italy. I miss my spring coats, too. My Ethiopian running coat is the only one that's made it out this year. I wear it on the impromptu Italian runway along the canal in the field 200 meters from home.
The coat serves two purposes. One, the more I look like an athlete, the less problems I'll have explaining that I'm out in the field for motor activity (an activity allowed on lockdown) and not just a leisurely walk. And two, from far away I look like a member of the Civil Protection Department so if other people out participating in motor activity see me, they run the other way, thus protecting me from the coronavirus.The fact that spring has come (and will probably go) while I'm on lockdown means that I won't get to wear my spring coats this year. So I've decided to air them out and share them here.....with hopes for better luck next year.
Collin's Dictionary defines a fashionista as "a person who follows trends obsessively and strives continually to adopt the latest fashions." But I prefer Merriam Webster's definition of style "a distinctive appearance." And if we must define distinctive, let's go with Oxford's definition, "characteristic of one person or thing, and so serving to distinguish it from others."
LIVE from Italy....... the fashion capital of the world, a show of distinctive (yet unfashionable) spring coats.
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| Shanghai, China |
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| Jodhpur, India |
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| Chicago, Illinois |
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| Michigan City, Indiana |
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| Paris, France |
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| Ptuj, Slovenia |
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| New York, New York |
Sunday, April 5, 2020
Still Without a Coronavirus Evacuation Plan
Today's story is about diarrhea. If that upsets your stomach you can come back tomorrow for a piece on Coronavirus Fashion. Suit yourself.
I've been living in fear (panic) of the coronavirus for 43 days. In the first 13 days I had very little contact with the outside world. And for the past 30, I've had none. I've either been home or in the fields surrounding home (as far as I wanted to venture at first, but now with a 200-meter restriction).
It sounds safe until I tell you that I live with someone that still has to go to work. That's where the hysteria sets in. I wouldn't be afraid of my tiny blue house and all of its drawer pulls and doorknobs if they, too, had no contact with the outside world. But Flavio (not Fabio, for my American readers) works in a building with three other people and I've nicknamed them "the outside world." Fortunately he has his own office and shares the floor with only one person, but it's still not home-sweettinyblue-home.
He and his colleagues are required to use up old vacation days in an attempt to keep the number of people in the building at one time as low as possible. Masks are required, but they have all chosen to wear their own rather than those the office provided (which are much more effective as cleaning rags than masks).
Flavio only has permission to drive to and from work. His extra-curricular activites include getting gas and buying groceries. If there's no self service, he drives on. If there is more than one car in the grocery store parking lot, he doesn't stop. After 32 days with no shopping, he finally found an empty parking lot and once again, we have Nutella.
A couple of days after the shopping spree he came home from work early with diarrhea. I knew I should have read the instructions on what to do if you have coronavirus symptoms instead of reading the cereal box, because there were probably also instructions on what to do if the person you live with has the symptoms. (I wouldn't have known diarrhea was a symptom had I not listened to the first eight seconds of a message from the States about a friend's brother-in-law that had diarrhea and then the coronavirus. I was well aware of the big symptoms like fever, cough and difficulty breathing. Unfortunately, my avoidance of all media wasn't enough to protect me from a fourth symptom.)
When Flavio got home he tried to convince me he'd eaten bad salami and then he went straight to bed. I was thankful that I don't like salami and I went straight to panic mode. I'm a terrible nurse, but did find the courage to leave a cup of tea outside the bedroom door.
I talked to friends, cried and tried to eat some pasta pomodoro (pasta marinara). Then it came to mind that maybe Flavio's homemade sauce was the culprit. And although I'd prefer bad-tomato-sauce induced diarrhea to the coronavirus, I stopped eating anyway.
I refused to go to the back half of the house. I wore my mask (for the first time) in the front half. And seeing that the bathroom wasn't in my half I waited until it got dark and then watered the tree in the front yard.
I knew Flavio would tell me if he had a fever (the instructions probably said to inform family members) so I didn't ask. I just lay in bed counting the minutes between flushes and working on an evacuation plan. If Flavio was sick no one would take me in because I might be sick, too. And what about the recent MIT study (I hope it's not true) suggesting droplets carrying the coronavirus can travel up to 27 feet? My house is only 24. I finally fell asleep to those sweet dreams only to wake a few hours later to a flush, but still no fever.
I spent the morning masked and waiting for news. The request at noon for chicken noodle soup was the beginning of the end. The salami was thrown away and the tomato sauce was put in the freezer with a masking tape label that says "diarrhea."
We returned to normal life on lockdown....dining like royalty at the opposite ends of a long table, forwarding funny videos instead of watching them together on the same phone, cleaning the doorknobs and drawer pulls with pink alcohol, over-washing our hands and hoping.
For the thousands of people whose nightmare didn't end with a cup of chicken noodle soup, mi dispiace (I'm sorry). Mi dispiace tantissimo (I'm really, really sorry).
I've been living in fear (panic) of the coronavirus for 43 days. In the first 13 days I had very little contact with the outside world. And for the past 30, I've had none. I've either been home or in the fields surrounding home (as far as I wanted to venture at first, but now with a 200-meter restriction).
He and his colleagues are required to use up old vacation days in an attempt to keep the number of people in the building at one time as low as possible. Masks are required, but they have all chosen to wear their own rather than those the office provided (which are much more effective as cleaning rags than masks).
Flavio only has permission to drive to and from work. His extra-curricular activites include getting gas and buying groceries. If there's no self service, he drives on. If there is more than one car in the grocery store parking lot, he doesn't stop. After 32 days with no shopping, he finally found an empty parking lot and once again, we have Nutella.
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| I considered this wild boar hunting blind as a housing option. |
A couple of days after the shopping spree he came home from work early with diarrhea. I knew I should have read the instructions on what to do if you have coronavirus symptoms instead of reading the cereal box, because there were probably also instructions on what to do if the person you live with has the symptoms. (I wouldn't have known diarrhea was a symptom had I not listened to the first eight seconds of a message from the States about a friend's brother-in-law that had diarrhea and then the coronavirus. I was well aware of the big symptoms like fever, cough and difficulty breathing. Unfortunately, my avoidance of all media wasn't enough to protect me from a fourth symptom.)
When Flavio got home he tried to convince me he'd eaten bad salami and then he went straight to bed. I was thankful that I don't like salami and I went straight to panic mode. I'm a terrible nurse, but did find the courage to leave a cup of tea outside the bedroom door.
I talked to friends, cried and tried to eat some pasta pomodoro (pasta marinara). Then it came to mind that maybe Flavio's homemade sauce was the culprit. And although I'd prefer bad-tomato-sauce induced diarrhea to the coronavirus, I stopped eating anyway.
I refused to go to the back half of the house. I wore my mask (for the first time) in the front half. And seeing that the bathroom wasn't in my half I waited until it got dark and then watered the tree in the front yard.
I knew Flavio would tell me if he had a fever (the instructions probably said to inform family members) so I didn't ask. I just lay in bed counting the minutes between flushes and working on an evacuation plan. If Flavio was sick no one would take me in because I might be sick, too. And what about the recent MIT study (I hope it's not true) suggesting droplets carrying the coronavirus can travel up to 27 feet? My house is only 24. I finally fell asleep to those sweet dreams only to wake a few hours later to a flush, but still no fever.
I spent the morning masked and waiting for news. The request at noon for chicken noodle soup was the beginning of the end. The salami was thrown away and the tomato sauce was put in the freezer with a masking tape label that says "diarrhea."
We returned to normal life on lockdown....dining like royalty at the opposite ends of a long table, forwarding funny videos instead of watching them together on the same phone, cleaning the doorknobs and drawer pulls with pink alcohol, over-washing our hands and hoping.
For the thousands of people whose nightmare didn't end with a cup of chicken noodle soup, mi dispiace (I'm sorry). Mi dispiace tantissimo (I'm really, really sorry).
Saturday, April 4, 2020
Sealed with an Italian Kiss
The last time I measured, one meter was about three feet. Although the metric system never caught on in the States, that's one that stuck with me in third grade. I memorized that three feet was a yard, and I could visualize a yardstick. Now that I live in Italy I just visualize yardsticks when someone talks about meters and I'm all set. And if I run out of yardsticks I switch to football fields.
Learning the temperature in celsius was also on my third grade teacher's list of things to teach, but all I remember is that 32 in one system equals zero in the other. That's a hard one to compute because when the temp hits 0 degrees celsius Italians complain about the cold and for this Chicagoan it's a balmy 32.
Most Italians talk more about their body temperature than the air temperature, so I've found a new helpful conversion. A healthy American is 98.6 degrees fahrenheit and a healthy Italian is 37 degrees celsius. The only difference is that when a temperature in fahrenheit goes up a little, Americans continue their day and still feel healthy. But as the celsius numbers climb, Italians stop everything because they're sick. Of course all of this was before the coronavirus. It doesn't care if you're imperial or metric. Rising mercury means panic in both languages.
My Italian vocabulary increased with Covid 19 (pronounced co-veed diciannove) but fortunately some words are similar or adopted from English. Italians have been using English words for a long time. Some of my favorites are weekend (weekend), shopping (shopping) (secondhand, of course) and picnic (picnic)....all words that we haven't used in Italy for a month. Now the English word that's making Italian headlines is lockdown (lockdown). (Note to self...use this on the next "which word is different?" test. Weekend, shopping, picnic, lockdown.)
For several weeks using 'lockdown' to describe the situation in Italy to my American friends was met with no objection. But when the coronavirus caught a flight to the US and I welcomed friends into the lockdown I was corrected and told their current status was 'safer-at-home.' The next day with a different friend I politely used the new term, but was corrected once again. His state was 'stay-at-home.' There seemed to be a friendly competition in titles and I understood that no one wanted to be 'sheltering-in-place.'
Emails from two friends in Michigan in 'quarantine' were a bit alarming until I continued reading about their neighborhood walks and trips to the grocery store. In Italian being in quarantena means that you are sick or you've been exposed to someone sick and grocery shopping and walks are forbidden. (I think it means the same in English, but I teach my Italian students, not my American friends.)
I'm doing my best to avoid quarantena, but I'm embracing the lockdown (seeing that I can't embrace anything else) and don't need a kinder, gentler term like 'stay-at-home.' What would you rather say 10 years from now, "Remember the 2020 Lockdown?" or "Remember the 2020 Safer-At-Home?" And I'm already practicing, "I made this giant rug out of old sweaters when I was on lockdown," and "I learned this Bach piece on lockdown." I think it has a nice ring to it.
We found out yesterday that Italians will be safer-at-home until April 13 which gives me enough time to double check the metric system. The math doesn't add up on social distancing. Italian laws say one meter while in America it's six feet. What happened to one meter equals a yardstick equals three feet? Have I been miscalculating since third grade or does the coronavirus respect cultural differences? Two yardsticks would be nearly impossible in a country where "It's nice to meet you" is sealed with a kiss.
Learning the temperature in celsius was also on my third grade teacher's list of things to teach, but all I remember is that 32 in one system equals zero in the other. That's a hard one to compute because when the temp hits 0 degrees celsius Italians complain about the cold and for this Chicagoan it's a balmy 32.
Most Italians talk more about their body temperature than the air temperature, so I've found a new helpful conversion. A healthy American is 98.6 degrees fahrenheit and a healthy Italian is 37 degrees celsius. The only difference is that when a temperature in fahrenheit goes up a little, Americans continue their day and still feel healthy. But as the celsius numbers climb, Italians stop everything because they're sick. Of course all of this was before the coronavirus. It doesn't care if you're imperial or metric. Rising mercury means panic in both languages.
My Italian vocabulary increased with Covid 19 (pronounced co-veed diciannove) but fortunately some words are similar or adopted from English. Italians have been using English words for a long time. Some of my favorites are weekend (weekend), shopping (shopping) (secondhand, of course) and picnic (picnic)....all words that we haven't used in Italy for a month. Now the English word that's making Italian headlines is lockdown (lockdown). (Note to self...use this on the next "which word is different?" test. Weekend, shopping, picnic, lockdown.)
For several weeks using 'lockdown' to describe the situation in Italy to my American friends was met with no objection. But when the coronavirus caught a flight to the US and I welcomed friends into the lockdown I was corrected and told their current status was 'safer-at-home.' The next day with a different friend I politely used the new term, but was corrected once again. His state was 'stay-at-home.' There seemed to be a friendly competition in titles and I understood that no one wanted to be 'sheltering-in-place.'
Emails from two friends in Michigan in 'quarantine' were a bit alarming until I continued reading about their neighborhood walks and trips to the grocery store. In Italian being in quarantena means that you are sick or you've been exposed to someone sick and grocery shopping and walks are forbidden. (I think it means the same in English, but I teach my Italian students, not my American friends.)
I'm doing my best to avoid quarantena, but I'm embracing the lockdown (seeing that I can't embrace anything else) and don't need a kinder, gentler term like 'stay-at-home.' What would you rather say 10 years from now, "Remember the 2020 Lockdown?" or "Remember the 2020 Safer-At-Home?" And I'm already practicing, "I made this giant rug out of old sweaters when I was on lockdown," and "I learned this Bach piece on lockdown." I think it has a nice ring to it.
We found out yesterday that Italians will be safer-at-home until April 13 which gives me enough time to double check the metric system. The math doesn't add up on social distancing. Italian laws say one meter while in America it's six feet. What happened to one meter equals a yardstick equals three feet? Have I been miscalculating since third grade or does the coronavirus respect cultural differences? Two yardsticks would be nearly impossible in a country where "It's nice to meet you" is sealed with a kiss.
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