Now Hear This.

I've been pondering a week with no pay.  I don't mean a week OFF with no pay, simply a week with no pay. Students would still come with their blankets and winter coats to talk by the potbelly stove in the yard and I'd still stay 10-feet away in my beret and montone to listen. The only difference is that if they weren't paying me, maybe I'd feel a little less guilty talking.

My job description includes nothing more than carrying on a conversation and correcting mistakes. (I occasionally get into 8th grade grammar rules, help with resumes, learn about people like Virginia Woolf and edit documents like the masonry quality of seismic performance in historic buildings.) But the truth is, we usually just talk about LIFE. Rather, we usually just talk about THEIR lives.

My students feel like friends. We exchange Christmas gifts and send silly messages. I help them quit their jobs, break up with their boyfriends and girlfriends and pick colors for their new kitchens. I love them and I love my job, but something is missing. I don't feel like they know much about me.    

When a one-hour lesson (which is seldom less than 75 minutes because I'm having fun) is over, I cap my pen (so they know it's over) and throw in a comment about my own life. I continue with the closure signs to make sure they know I'm not talking on their dime and I speak with a little less guilt.

Last week I got a message from one of my favorites, 73-year old Mr. Bean. (He has authorized the publication.)

Hi Ten.
I'd like to write some notes.
Actually I consider you not only as a teacher but as a sort of valley surrounded by high mountains. Many many times I've walked in the mountains and I used to shout to listen an echo, to feel nature answering me. In this case the nature is you. In other words, having no blog, no Facebook, I consider you, how could I say: my follower, my friend, my audience, or....simply an unpaid strict teacher or a psychologist whom I ask only to listen.

Although Mr. Bean's English is very good (better than usual in this note) there was a mistake with his use of 'unpaid' because in fact, he pays me. Perhaps he meant underpaid? Clarification confirmed  that he wanted to say that he recognizes correcting his midnight messages (when I'm unpaid) isn't part of my job, so he asks that I only listen (read them). Bravo, Mr. Bean. His English teacher must be good if he can write so eloquently. But his psychologist is a little dim to have misinterpreted "whom I ask only to listen" as "just be quiet."

Unfortunately, my job has a negative effect on my non-student friends. When I'm not working and finally feel free to talk, I can't shut up. During lessons with students I tell myself, "You can't talk. You have to listen." And on walks through fields with friends I tell myself, "You can talk 'til you get to the next tree and then you absolutely must stop."

To the friends who've had to walk in silence and to the students who've heard a story or two before the pen was capped, I apologize and leave you with my favorite quote from Anne of Green Gables. "I won't say another word--not one. I know I talk too much but I am really trying to overcome it, and although I say far too much, if you only knew how many things I want to say and don't, you'd give me some credit for it."

If I've mentioned that quote in the past, I apologize. I thought it was just one of the things I wanted to say and didn't.

As always, thanks for listening.
 

I'm not lovin' it

I'd been yearning for a milkshake for a few years, but kept putting it off. What nut puts off a milkshake? Living in the land of gelato, milkshakes are called frappe and I didn't yearn for a frappe, I yearned for a milkshake. I came close in London, but couldn't quickly convert the pounds to euros and didn't want a million dollar milkshake. Then there was the fake Big Boy in Lido. I considered spending the six euros (three times the price of an ice cream cone) but thought a fake Big Boy might also mean a fake milkshake.

Last week after my booster shot I decided I deserved one. But I got to the drive-thru speaker, panicked, and ordered my usual Perugina Baci McFlurry. (If only they could tape the Love Note to the bottom of the McFlurry cup. For more info on Perugina Baci Love Notes, google it. If I were getting paid for the advertising I'd figure out how to attach the link.)

Yesterday I wasn't in London or Lido and I hadn't overcome any traumas like the vaccine, but between the English lessons with the 61-year old designer talking about art and architecture and the 16-year old girl talking about boys, I had an extra hour. The sun was out, the top was down (it's down even when the sun's not out) and it was time.

I went to McDonald. (It's not a typo, that's what Italians call it. When they say, "Yesterday I go to McDonald" I'm more apt to correct the pronunciation of McDonald than the incorrect verb tense.) This time there was no deciding between a McFlurry and a milkshake, I was committed at all costs. The only decision was the size. In America I always ordered a large and even though I'd already had enough at the halfway point, I kept drinking and ordered a large the next time, too.

As I approached the drive-thru speaker I practiced the pronunciation of frappe. It seemed as ridiculous to order a frappe at McDonald as it does to order a grande latte at our other favorite American chain.

Drive-thru menus were never that easy to follow and with all the combos and limited time specials it's become impossible. I madly searched for frappe, but couldn't find it. Then, in the nick of time, I found a milkshake for one euro. (It reminded me of their 6-cent cones in Russia in 2003.)  A milkshake (instead of a frappe) with no sizes and just one price? I thought it must have been the kids' menu, but the speaker squawked "Benvenuto a McDonald" (Welcome to McDonald's) and I had to order. With no sizes or prices to choose from I simply said, "A long-awaited vanilla milkshake, please." (I didn't really say the long-awaited part, but had I known the word in Italian, I would have.)

At the second window, I paid my euro, collected my tiny cup and started drinking. And even though it wasn't large like the old days, I'd still had enough at the halfway point. It wasn't because I wasn't lovin' it, but because I couldn't stand what seemed like a wooden straw (referred to as an evolved paper straw). It was like paying a euro to scratch a chalkboard.  

Several months ago, to avoid the awful wooden spoon (referred to as fibre-based wooden cutlery) that comes with McFlurries, I decided to keep a metal one in my glove compartment. Now it's time to add a plastic 'silly straw', too. Not only will I welcome the good old-fashioned taste of plastic instead of wood, but the time it takes to pass through the extra inches of straw will make the tiny milkshake last longer.

Flexibility is not my forte, but if I start with some silly twists and turns maybe before long I'll be rolling with the (eco-friendly) changes.





 

The Gist for You AND Me. Crying at the Dentist

I normally don't have a problem with the dentist. Every other thing that has to do with checking or fixing something on my body is more than likely going to be faced with tears. But with the dentist, other than the quick tongue flip, I'm usually quite calm; until this morning when I slid into the baby blue vinyl chair, took my mask off and started to cry. There was no sobbing or sniffling, just a few tears rolling down my cheeks into my ears and out of my ears and down the back of my neck. Then as quickly as they started, they stopped. They had nothing to do with the trip to the dentist, but were merely an accumulation of some sad news throughout the week, disappointment in myself for not having been more productive and my looming booster shot in the afternoon.   

When I got home I sent the dentist a simple message that said, "I'm sorry I cried." She answered almost immediately. "Ma figurati.....sei una person sensibile Tenley.....e questa non e' una colpa ma un valore." (Don't be silly....you're a sensitive person Tenley....and this is not a fault, but a virtue.) Then I cried again. And thanks to her kind message the doctor at the vaccination site was spared a grown woman in tears and instead inoculated a courageous (sensitive) one.