It's Cool. Period.

I drove a Mazda Miata in Chicago. The fact that it was a Miata didn't matter. The fact that it was a convertible, did.

I considered every other two-seater convertible the same as mine. I'd see a nice color and say that I should've gotten one like that only to be reminded that BMWs came in that color, not Miatas. Why didn't mine have a bigger rack, like that one? Because that one was a Mercedes. And when I passed a car and said I'd never noticed how cool my rims were, I was told that the rims on a Porsche were cool, but I wasn't driving a Porsche.

When I left Chicago for Italy I left my Miata (and Mercedes and BMW and Porsche) behind. No Italian driver's license meant no car. Seven years later, back in the market for both, I searched for a Miata, not for its name but for its reliability. Then I learned that a neopatentato (someone who just got their license, whom I affectionately call a 'baby driver') has certain requirements their first year on the road. The government requirement is a car with low horse power. My requirements were topless and two seats (because they aren't available with only one). Benvenuto Opel Tigre.

My car and I get very little attention. There's nothing cool about the car and the driver has crazy, grey hair. The few looks I get come from either scarf-clad Italians that assume the top must be broken when it's down in January and or from kids that are young enough to be unimpressed by brands. (In Italy that means younger than 7.) They always look twice when I pass and some even shout, "Che figo!" (How cool!).

The other day when I showed up at my friend's for lunch the neighborhood kids stopped their pick-up soccer game in the street and followed me until I parked.  To them my car was the coolest thing they'd ever seen. They were thrilled to see the electric top go up and down (I preferred my Miata's manual rag top) and they searched for the backseat. They're too young to know the difference between a Mercedes and a Miata. For them it was a car with two seats and no roof.

That night I told their dad how nice it was to see the kids with no interest in the make of my car. I was happy to say that at least kids see things the way I do. Then came the million dollar question. "Don't you think it might be the other way around? The kids don't see things through your eyes. You see things through theirs."

You should try it. Not only is it more fun, it's also a lot less expensive.  

The Death of an Italian Island

August 2018 was the end of my third summer living on an island in Italy. I was still excited about the new life I'd found and wrote a piece with snippets of what had first attracted me. I kept its name a secret, but planned on sharing more details over time.

The two and a half-hour trip which includes a (convertible) drive, two walks and a boat ride never seemed too long. The final stop is the cemetery. In Chicago, living near a hospital depressed me. And now my bus stop (albeit a boat) is called cimitero (cemetery) and I get off smiling.

When I first wrote about the island my intention wasn't to share 'one of the last hidden gems' or invite readers to 'step back in time 100 years'. That's what guidebooks and travel videos do. I wrote to remind readers of an oft-forgotten life....evening chats in the lagoon for lack of air conditioning, doors with dangling keys in the locks, a sea of rusty bikes in front of the grocery store, old washing machines turned into grills for the fresh catch of the day, and the cheese truck, fruit and veggie truck, fish truck and ice cream truck parked in different places on different days. Daily life brings the islanders together.

The summer I wrote that piece there were a few more tourists than usual. When I complained, some of the residents grumpily agreed while others welcomed the fresh faces and exposure to the outside world.

Post Labor Day always drew a handful of visitors, mostly tolerable, vacationing retirees. But that September the ferryboat never stopped bringing families, couples and groups of 30-somethings, 40-somethings and 50-somethings. I thought I'd get back to writing about the island when the kids got back to school and life got back to normal. But since that summer, the island has never gotten back to normal.

In November of 2019 things got worse. "One of the last hidden gems" was flooded----twice. First by acqua alta (high water) which made the evening news. And then by tourists who'd discovered the island on the evening news, waited for the high water to recede and then reflooded it with bikes, shiny boats and cool sunglasses.

In 2020, the pandemic forced the whole world to stick closer to home and Italians began their search for something new in the land of La Bella Vita. People with expensive cars and fancy watches started baking bread and talking to their neighbors.  And what better place than a forgotten island to discover and appreciate a life where time stands still?

It's true that I was once a tourist on the island. But only once. Because on my second visit I became a house shopper. And not long after, a homeowner. Then I became "La Foresta" (dialect for a person from the outside), "L'americaaaaaana" (said with a smile) and "Ten" (which makes me feel at home). It didn't take long to lose my tourist status. The islanders don't give tourists pet names and tourists don't remember the islanders' birthdays or deliver handmade Christmas cards.

Sadly, in the past few years my behavior has changed. I've become a person I would never like. It's impolite to look away when a tourist smiles. It's rude to say I don't have time to help with directions. It's immature to say that I hate tourists. I don't like being impolite, rude and immature but I also don't like being invaded. People don't understand why it bothers me so much and I could never really explain it. But after two years of rental bikes, sunset-selfies and long lines at the gelateria I might finally have an explanation that works.

Try this. You love your living room. You love how you feel in it. The colors are right. The layout of the room is right. Everything feels good. Maybe sometimes you don't fold the afghan on the back of the sofa or your kids' toys aren't put away and you feel a little unsettled so you straighten things up. Then you look around, light a candle (it's really time you start lighting your candles!) and feel good again. You like being there because you like how it makes you feel. It makes you feel good.

Now imagine that the wall you'd painstakingly painted Sea Breeze has suddenly been painted  Bittersweet Shimmer. And the pastels you had done of the kids at the county fair (does anyone do that anymore?) have been replaced by a wall sized poster of Times Square.  These things can't be folded up and put away like the afghan and toys. This is your new space and you have to live with it.

You start complaining that it's changed. It's not how it was when you fell in love with it. Your friends hope to help by reminding you that it's actually the same place.  You can still do everything in your living room that you used to do. It offers what it's always offered....great light and a beautiful view from the big window, comfortable furniture, and lots of memories.   

It's true. The living room is still the same place, but Bittersweet Shimmer doesn't make you feel the same as Sea Breeze. And you prefer the calm of the kids pastel faces looking down at you, not the chaos of Times Square.   

That explains how I feel on the island. It's the same place, but the sea breeze has a different feel and arriving at the cimitero comes with a bittersweet shimmer.