Life's worhtwhile, if you'll just smile

Today a stranger asked me who makes me smile. The question (chi ti fa sorridere?) was written on a sheet of typing paper and taped to an old marble column in the piazza. Unlike the missing Bic at the bank, a pen was tied to a long string that blew in the wind and invited passersby to respond.

I wondered if it had been a school assignment, but for which class? Art? Philosophy? Literature? Or it could have been a teenage dare. Was the sign maker disguised in the distance hoping to catch their Mr. or Ms. Right secretly adding their name to the list?

If the author's mission was to get a smile, it was accomplished. Merely thinking about who makes you smile, inevitably makes you smile. Most people simply added a name. A few added hearts and stars. But my favorite wrote, "Who makes me smile? YOU. The one who asks me who makes me smile. You are a poet."    

In Chicago it was the 'Hi Guy' that made us smile. His bike, his t-shirt and his rainbow striped beanie all said the same thing -- Hi. He dotted the 'i's with smiley faces (before we had emojis). His only goal as he traveled through town was to make you smile. He said hi to everyone and most everyone said hi back. And usually that was enough to add two more smiley faces to the streets of the Windy City.

Dallas had the "Free Advice Guys". Every Sunday morning for nearly 20 years they set out a couple of chairs on a popular path around the lake and offered advice. I never accepted their services, but their FREE ADVICE sign made me smile. And in turn, maybe that smile was all the advice I really needed.

I was a kid when I learned from the Reader's Digests stacked on the back of the toilet that Laughter is the Best Medicine. I'd like to thank the stranger who left the 'Who Makes You Smile?' sign in the piazza for reminding me that smiling is the second best. If only all of the people whose names were written on that sign knew that they were someone else's happy pill.
 

As American as Torta alla Mela

There are Americans that love Italy and Italians that love America. I don't mind either group. But Italians who insist that everything in Italy is better yet surround themselves with Yankee goods ruffle my American (Indian) feathers.

I've stood through proud demonstrations of my friends' frigoriferi americani (American fridges). They're thrilled with the immensity and usually conclude the tour with, "And it even makes ice!" It's hard not to remind them that they used to boast of their daily trips to the market for fresh vegetables and fruit (for which a giant fridge is unnecessary) and that when we're out for dinner they order their beverages at temperatura ambiente because drinking things cold can cause congestione (something like cramps that can kill you).  And it's especially difficult  to refrain from asking why they aren't worried that their giant fridge could lead to obesity, a perpetual prejudice against an entire population.  

The most important thing outside Italians' kitchens is inside their closets. Italians are known for their style. Train conductors, bus drivers and shopkeepers all provide their services with panache. As a visitor in the 90s I wrote about the population's polished shoes and well-pressed 'everything else'. Unfortunately, current fashion trends reek of Rocky instead of Mr. Rogers. What was once a Fruit of the Loom sweatsuit now costs 500 dollars and has to be ironed.

I have a student that said I couldn't deny that Italian fashion was better than American. She said Milan is the fashion capital of the world and reminded me that Gucci, Fendi and someone else important were all Italian. I agreed that many of the top designers came from Italy and that some of the most famous fashion shows were in Milan. And then I commented on her outfit that started with Stan Smiths (sneakers) and ended with a Carharrt hat. (There was probably a pair of Levi's in between, but I can't remember.) Next I questioned the comfort of her Adirondack chair and the convenience of her Weber grill. I refrained from reminding her that she was also taking (American) English lessons.  

If you're cool in Italy, guess who caters your 30th birthday party. A food truck that serves burgers and fries, not pasta. Your 40th might be the theme of your favorite American series on Netflix. Your 50th? The trend seems to be a 70s party with a lot of signs that say peace and love, not pace and amore. And the party's sure to be Stayin'Alive, Stayin'Alive with a few Rhinestone Cowboys and the YMCA crew.

Italians of all ages love sunglasses. In 1999 Italy's Luxottica bought RayBan, formerly owned by American Bausch & Lombe. That's probably the year the logo over-appeared on both stems and lenses. Maybe that's what has blurred so many Italians' vision. Or perhaps they're not using eye protection mode on their iPhones, (which I needn't remind you are not produced by a company called Mela).  

 

This is Your Brain

Filled with enthusiasm for having risen before the sun, I left home for a walk and some photos.  I'm much more interested in what the world looks like at dawn. By the time the sun shows up, my excitement has usually waned.

I like to let the sun rise behind me while I head toward its special effects in the west. The dark mountains turn violet and the white contrails pink. But that morning it was the east that I found more photoworthy. It wasn't the sunrise itself, but the little world in front of it that came alive on my cell phone screen.

At first click (I'm not sure how one mimics taking a photo on a cell phone) I was still in the field behind the farmer's house. But the more I squinted and framed the shot, the more detached I became from my immediate surroundings. I continued clicking, gone from the real world yet enthusiastically alive in a tiny forest with dead trees still standing and live ones seeming to silently fall. For seven unearthly minutes, I was lost in the enchanted forest I'd created on the screen.  

Once the sun had risen I woke up (for the second time that day). I thought about where I'd just been. When I looked back at the real scene with no cell phone to impair my vision, I saw nothing more than a clump of tall weeds backlit by the sunrise. I saw reality. I compared my surreal experience to life on social media, where we're connected and disconnected at the same time. (And usually for more than 7 minutes.)

In my Alice in Wonderland moment at least I was the creator, living in a fantasy world designed by me. I wasn't a follower and if there's such thing as a copier, I wasn't a copier either. But I had been momentarily absorbed in a different world and felt morbidly alive inside that tiny screen. 

The 1980s frying pan and eggs commercial has already been remade with a non-Teflon pan and fresh eggs. But if the Partnership for a Drug-Free America needs a new campaign they couldn't go wrong with a photo of a person and their cell phone on a bus (escalator,  sofa or chairlift), at a soccer game (restaurant, school concert or museum) or in a car (waiting room, checkout line or field). The same slogan applies. "This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?"