Clowns and Kings

I probably should have thought twice before putting on my bright red, round-toed shoes with a yellow and white polkadot sweater; you can't get much clownier than that. But the right outfit was the least of my worries. It was my first English lesson with a 7-year-old boy. That's cause for panic no matter what I'm wearing.

For the first meeting I'd decided to go to his house. His wide eyes and little grin at my entrance reminded me I was still wearing my favorite large-brimmed convertible hat (which nicely topped off the clown suit). I removed it as he reluctantly approached for the formal introduction.

I lost a few points when I didn't understand his name. His mom told him to speak up and explained that he was still getting used to his new retainer. He tried again and I thought I'd heard Pedro, but that's not Italian. I crossed my fingers and said, "I think you said Pedro, but if I'm wrong it's not your fault, it's mine. I'm American and I don't understand Italian very well." He said I was right and told me his dad is from Argentina, otherwise he'd have been Pietro.

Next came the light, motherly scolding for not having dried his hair. Of course there's always risk in taking the kids' side, but I gave him an accomplice's grin and showed him my wet locks; ready for my own reprimand. That was enough to regain the points I'd lost earlier and also enough for Mom to know she could go upstairs for an hour.

Once alone, he asked my name again and I said Ten. He asked, "Why? Are you ten years old or something?" I told him more or less, yes, because grownups always say I act like I'm ten. Then he said, "OK, what do you want to do?" It felt just like a real play date.

I suggested some kind of game. When he asked which one, I said I didn't know games' names in Italian. The only one I remembered was scacchi (chess) and his mom had told me he liked that so I gave it a try. But when he asked if I knew how to play I couldn't lie and my suggestion that he teach me didn't go over so well. He said, "Well, if you don't know how to play, we're not playing." Then he went upstairs to get Monopoly.

We reviewed the names of the pieces and counted our moves in English and the hour was over before we could pass go and collect 200. When his mom came down she sent him outside with a snack so we could talk. That's the part I hate. We teach kids not to talk behind each other's backs, but we do it to them all the time. The kid in me always feels sad, but maybe my playmates don't even notice.

In our private meeting I was invited back and I accepted. Seemingly on cue, Pedro reappeared with a yogurt-covered face. My first thought was that a 7-year-old shouldn't have made such a mess eating yogurt. Then I remembered I had the same problem last week licking the aluminum lid of my chocolate parfait.

Instead of giving him homework, I promised I'd learn how to play chess for the next lesson. I don't care a lot about the bishops and rooks. I just want to learn the right moves to capture the heart of my new little king.
 

An English Tip

Italians know I'm not Italian. But in the rest of the world I can choose to embrace or conceal my Americanism. To foreign onlookers, other than my lack of puffy coat and athletic shoes, I seem Italian; my mamma mias are as authentic as the next guy's. Therefore, travelling outside of Itlay, I can decide which country I'm from.

I'm happy to accept my adopted nationality and keep my smile to myself when I hear a fellow American ask if their 10.15 train leaves in the morning or at night. I feel a little sad when I see them being refused at pizzerias because they're asking for dinner before the fire in the woodburning oven has been lit. And I cringe when they say stereotypically American things with a certain certainty that no one in earshot speaks English.

One place being red, white and blue is an advantage is in restaurants outside of Italy. I  learned this at a Greek diner in Berlin where I was instructed by an Italian to speak English with the waiter so we'd get better service. The room was so filled with opas that, at the table, our quiet Italian conversation (seems like an oxymoron) went unheard. Then when it was time to order more ouzo, I pulled out my best West Michigan accent.

Initially I didn't question the request to speak to the waiter in English. I  proudly imagined Greeks had a soft spot for Americans. But later I was reminded that I was the only one in Europe who had forgotten that Italians don't tip. Thanks to l'americana, we got good food and good service and the waiter got a good tip.

Last year I went to Vienna with an Italian student and his family. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten the importance of showing my real roots in European restaurants. We accidently entered as five Italians only to be greeted by an unhappy host and served by surly staff. When the disgruntled family quietly complained about their cold cutlets I confessed that it was probably my fault for not flaunting my stars and stripes. I told them that Italians are known as non-tippers and explained that in most countries waiters earn very little and rely on tips. The sight of five famished Italians meant only one thing; all work and no pay.

Several weeks later I met my travel mates for tea. We were joined by another family that had just visited England. They spoke more dramatically about the restaurants' worthless waitstaff than the London Bridge and Big Ben. As I was about to explain why, the cold cutlet crew stepped in. Minutes later I had the name for my next intensive English course: Give Up on Grammar. It's Time to Accentuate Your American Accent.
 

One Size Doesn't Fit All

On a trip to Mali many years ago, I saw barbers on the street with mirrors attached to one tree and signs with numbered, sketched heads and hairstyles attached to another. You ordered your cut by number, sat in the kitchen chair between the two trees and left looking just like the sketch on the cardboard sign.

I'm not really sure what's involved for an Italian nose job, but I have a feeling the selection process might be similar; perhaps with a photoshop advantage. You pick nose number three and they print it on your photo while you wait. If it's not the nose you were looking for you, you pick a new number and try again.  

Like snowflakes, no two faces are alike. Your small lips are your small lips. And your big nose is your big nose. Your wrinkles were formed along the way with too much laughing or crying or too many days on the slopes or at the sea (or both). In the end, your life is what makes you unique.

That's why I have a (high cheek) bone to pick with a cosmetic surgery clinic whose brochure boasts:

Tailor-made beauty. Enhance your uniqueness with the art of cosmetic surgery.  

Won't cosmetic surgery kill your uniqueness? There's nothing special about nose number nine. Someone else could have ordered the same one yesterday. And that porcelain doll skin doesn't represent your unique past. So, I've decided to rent a billboard outside the clinic. It's going to say:

Your beauty was tailor-made. Enhance your uniqueness with the art of living.
 

 

(For my sensitive readers....I'm not opposed to incision decisions; only  this clinic's marketing madness.)

Conscious Avoidance

I had to do a speech about the Iran Contra Affair in my high school Government class. I asked my mom what it was and she told me to read the newspaper. I fought back saying that if it had already been in the news for months I'd never understand and she explained that journalists recap everything in the first few lines to get people up to date. In my opinion, those first few lines didn't update me on anything. They explained what had been happening recently, but never the outdated news of the current event. Alas, my ignorance of world events began.

These days my friends overseas keep me updated on what's happening overseas. And fortunately, they keep me updated on breaking news in Italy, too. Last week's third message asking if I was going to Bezos' wedding in Venice forced investigation. I don't have a TV and I don't listen to the radio (unless I'm in the mood to stream WBEZ Chicago for NPR). The only news I get online is news I search for. So, I searched for the wedding in Venice; then I googled Bezos.  (I'm not sure if I'm proud or embarrassed to say that the difference between Bezos, Gates, Musk and Zuckerberg has never been clear. And I've only recently discovered Warren Buffet wasn't a singer.)

Last night over dinner with new friends the conversation didn't turn to politics, it began with politics. After incessant interruptions, "Who's that? When was that? And what does that mean?" I decided to crawl back under my rock, contemplate why I'm willfully ignorant and enjoy my pizza. When the other three seemed to be running out of interesting reasons to explain why they used to be sinistra and now they're destra or why they refuse to give up their ideology even if they oppose the current party (I'm sure that's not right, but I wasn't really listening) I suggested they eat their pizzas while I tried to interest them in life.

My friend had mentioned earlier that she'd love to spend a month in Rome. She fantasized walking the streets and learning their names and doing as the Romans do. Then she said she'd love to go to the mountains for a month; or the beach. So, while they chewed, I googled them with questions like, "So, why don't you go? You're retired. If you didn't give all your money to your kids, you'd have enough for a month here and a month there, right?" Her husband (an animated debater on the political situation in Italy) looked down, lacking his vivacious vocabulary and previous passion. He seemed to have used it all up elsewhere. My curious question about his own current events was never answered.

I'm a bit ashamed of my lack of interest in what most deem important in the world around us. But if that passion leads so few to the piazza to fight (and I thank those that do), isn't it passion misspent?  

Perhaps my inquisition at this dinner was with hopes to convince these friends that the emotions they feel about the rights and wrongs of the world around them would reap richer rewards if they were more interested in introspection. I'd rather live under a rock missing Bezos' wedding and the current price of eggs than bury my head in the sand and lose sight of my own life.
 

To have to or not to have to

It comes up a few times a year; a lesson with have to and must. And every time, I have to (or I must) get out the grammar book to relearn the differences. I apologize for not knowing and explain that in the US we use have to for almost everything and that's why I'm in doubt. Grammatically speaking, the difference lies in the obligator. If I obligate myself, it's one of the two and if someone else obligates me, it's the other. But don't forget, I don't remember.  

I really should know the difference because it's become my mantra. I have to write. I have to study. I have to start the Christmas cards. More than one therapized-friend has encouraged me to stop saying it. They tell me I should be saying I want to. They say I'll never do things if I think I have to do them, but if I want to, I will. According to them I have to/must pay more attention to my vocabulary. To which I reply my lack of doing has nothing to do with my word choice.

Last week my French teacher and I were trying (because I can't really speak French) to talk about traveling. She said she seldom makes plans in advance. She hates feeling like she has to go to Rome just because she's already bought the train tickets and reserved the room. She likes to feel free. Unsure if she should have said she has to or she must go to Rome, I made no correction there. Instead, I questioned her need to feel free.

As a fellow freedom seeker and part-time therapist, I was proud of my observation. I've always defined my aversion to advanced bookings as giving up control. But her romantic (and perhaps therapeutic) choice of words was that she liked to feel free. If it's as easy as that to go from being a control freak to a free spirit, I want to start choosing my words more wisely.  
 

Stop. It's good for you.

When I need a little pick me up I go for a convertible ride. It's not the wind in my hair or my favorite song that does the trick; it's stopping at crosswalks. I don't mean the ones at traffic lights where everyone stops. I mean the ones seemingly randomly placed in small towns and the countryside; the ones that few people stop at and that might even do more harm than good. Stopping at those is a real tiramisu (pick me up).

I have friends that don't like being stopped for. If there's no traffic in either direction, they think crosswalk-stoppers like me are silly. I'm neither saving their lives, nor saving them time. The crosswalk-stopper-haters think I'm only adding pressure to an otherwise calm crossing. Fortunately not everyone agrees with them or I'd never get my crosswalk high.

For me the surprised smiles, gentle gestures and cockeyed nods are just what the doctor ordered. There's a brief moment I think I'm an above-average citizen; different from the rest and appreciated.  I picture them telling their friends that today someone actually stopped at a crosswalk. And I pretend the response is, "Was it a lady with crazy, grey hair (or a crazy lady with grey hair) in a tiny convertible? She stopped for me last week, too."

Some people stop for beautiful blondes and others for babies on board. I stop for pedestrians. And I've never regretted putting another notch in my dashboard. When I reach 1000 maybe I'll tell Officer Friendly and he'll award me with a shiny, metal badge. Until then, I'll keep patting myself on the back and wondering why the tiny connnection I've just made with fellow mankind lifts my spirits so.    

Rainy Daze

In the past, to run or not to run was not the question. I set goals and reached them. To achieve 2006 miles in 2006 I had to run rain or shine, and the last six miles were a breeze. At age 51 the goal for the year was 51 wet or dry kilometers a week. I ran them and then I turned 52.

It's only running with no goal that brings up debate. If you've no reason to record results the alarm, frost and rain challenge the reason for the run. I try to keep this personal parley to a minimum and begin the difficult transition from pajamas to running clothes as soon as possible. Once clad in battle gear, the rest is a walk in the park (that's our secret).

I admit I like the praise that comes after 6 soggy miles, but this morning's mountain run made me wonder if I'm undeserving. Instead of suffering, I was aglow. The tiny beads of water danced on the sleeves of my slicker like the slippery silver balls in the tiny maze game. Keen control of my pace left no puddles unsplashed. I hit each one like Frogger hit the lily pads, smiling and imagining the disapprobation of all good Italian parents.

After a gradual, downhill run my driver picked me up to get on with our errands. I changed my clothes, wiped my wet my face and controlled my mileage. Minutes later, from the warm, dry car I saw another runner through the raindrops on the windshield. I watched him with admiration. Definitely drenched and seemingly cold and tired, I saw a real warrior. Immediately upon giving him kudos I wondered why I hadn't applauded myself. The heavy raindrops hitting him were the same ones I'd just dried, yet my run seemed like a frolic and his a feat.

We're often told that things are easier said than done, but I beg to differ. Sometimes it's just a matter of changing your pajamas. With the right armor, even the heaviest raindrops fall like feathers.

An Unamusing Muse

Dare I declare thyself a muse, at least for my own amusement?  

A couple of years ago while waiting for the vaporetto I saw a man (less than discretely) taking my photo. It happened the day after I'd written a post about taking more than just selfies. When I asked where he'd found the courage he said he couldn't resist. (That's the muse taking over. I really have no idea what he said.) In any case, the vaporetto was arriving and there was time for nothing more than giving him my number and insisting that he send the photos.

One minute out to sea (the Venetian Lagoon) the photos arrived.  He attached a message to his favorite and commented on my violin. I thanked him and sent the link to the coincidental post. In addition to the photos he'd taken of the old lady with the ukelele (the instrument of the modern muse) the blog added fuel to the fire.

Day after day I received poetic messages relating to minute details in the blog; it has never been read with such attention. Photos I'd posted were artistically rendered in small watercolors and sketches.  Gianluigi made my red teapots whistle and my beat-up backpack beam.

Most that have heard this story (and perhaps you, too) call it stalking and discourage me from letting it continue. I, on the other hand, am inspired just being another's inspiration. Following his lead and painting on pizza boxes and unofficial watercolor paper my brush feels lighter. And even though there's little to no improvement, I paint more.

Several months after the photo shoot I discovered his artistic touch on the beach. He'd found my art installation with buoys and driftwood but he didn't find me, so he left a splotchily painted white linen shirt on one of my statues, a drawing of a sunset on my table and a clear plastic ball with a shell inside dangling from the pole of my capanna (hut).  

Then one day he showed up at the turquoise door of my tiny yellow house. (It's not hard to find the only American on the island.) We shared a CocaZero near the lagoon and with every word I spoke I felt sure to be tainting the image he'd so creatively created of me. He had bits from the blog, but nothing more. As an artist he didn't fill in the blanks like a paint-by-number. He created someone that suited him and then brought his creation on walks in the mountains and on bike rides near the sea. She never complained or talked too much and she didn't ask too many questions. She lived in his world just the way he wanted her to.  

Nearly two years have passed and it seems he finds me less amusing. I must admit I miss him. Perhaps he's taken photos of another unusual subject, gotten her number and found new inspiration. And maybe now he's living different days with her. Instead of midnight bonfires, there might be fancy dinners. This time she could really be by his side or she could just be another momentary part of his imagination. But if it's a happy place for him, I (unlike so many others) don't find it sad or creepy.

In an imaginary world there are no rules or restrictions; it's not a paint-by-number. You can choose the colors and go out of the lines when you want. If you start feeling sad, add more color; if things are overwhelming, tone them down a bit. Made-up people and places are there for us when the real ones let us down. They give us hope and inspiration.

Pondering this post before publication, I had a revelation. (From whom it came, we'll never know.) Is the tale I've told so different from a relationship with God? People read the Bible. Their image of God is created based solely on the readings (there's not even a Coke in the lagoon.) This imaginary creation provides company and inspiration when needed and is very often forgotten when not. Perhaps God is merely a muse; and his followers stalkers?


 

New Year's Intentions

It's easy to avoid talking about New Year's resolutions in Italy because it's usually only a part of the post-holiday inquisition when l'americana brings it up. I often avoid the subject altogether because new year after new year I find myself frustrated with such a different interpretation.

According to Cambridge Dictionary, a resolution is a promise to yourself to do or not to do something. Instead, Oxford Languages says it's a firm decision to do or not to do something. I prefer Brittanica Dictionary's definition: a promise to yourself that you will make a serious effort to do something that you should.

In Italian, New Year's resolutions are called Buoni Proposti, which translates as good intentions. Imagine asking your colleagues at the water cooler (if offices still have water coolers) about their good intentions for the new year. And how about the first week of February when you have to confess that you no longer do sit-ups every night before bed. Is it grammatically correct to say that you've broken your good intention?

We've  all been told where the road paved with good intentions leads, and in case you've forgotten, it's not heaven. So this year why not follow the yellow brick road which leads to brains, courage and love; three essentials for achieving goals. And for those of us that have written 'travel more' on 2025's resolution list, perhaps it's time to realize there's no place like home.
 

*For international readers, the yellow brick road is from a children's novel, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, written by Frank L. Baum in 1900.


 

May I have a word with you?

I don't realize that I've been missing words until they pop up again. The other day I heard a big brother (an ex-student) call his little brother (a current student) a clown. "You're a real clown," he said. And I smiled more about his word choice than the fact that the little brother and I had just played a good trick on the big one.

There are also words I miss because I refuse to use them. Words like 'chat'. It was probably archaic when I used it, but I liked it. Thanks for the chat, let's chat soon and there's nothing like a good chat all referred to real conversations. Many current users probably have no idea that you can chat in person. If I accidently use the word, they think I'm involved in an internet relationship.

I've lived in Italy so long that my vocabulary lacks lots of the latest lingo. I pick up a few words from my cool students that learn them on Instagram and Netflix. They're easy to memorize, but I'm never sure how to throw OG (old gangster) into a sentence. And the other day when I accepted a student's invitation with, 'I'm in' he corrected me with 'I'm down'. I used to say 'I'm down with that' in the 90s; 'I'm down' must be the new abbreviation. But now that I think about it, after saying 'I'm in' it's probably the perfect time to add, 'I use that term because I'm OG.'

Sometimes English words pop up Italianized. Years ago there was lots of talk about 'the Joe Backed'. I always wondered who Joe was and I didn't understand why he deserved an article in front of his name. I finally asked and here's the reply. "You don't know WHAT the Joe Backed is?" (That should have been my first clue, WHAT instead of WHO.) He continued, "I throw an American term in an Italian sentence and that's the only word you don't understand?" When he said that politicians say it every day I realized that 'the Joe Backed' was the Italian pronunciation of 'the Job Act'.

The other day someone referred to their 'coperta di LEE-noose'. That's not the right spelling but I wanted you to hear how it's pronounced. Coperta is blanket. Lino (pronounced LEE-no) is linen. I thought they were talking about a linen blanket. Weeks later I saw it written. The coperta di Linus is Linus' blanket, aka security blanket. I'm afraid my mini-Oxford Dictionary isn't the Linus' blanket it used to be. I'm sure I wouldn't have found that if I'd looked under 'L'.

I've been told by American friends that I suffer from the 'FOMO'. I don't think that's how to use it in a sentence, but I know it means 'fear of missing out.' I don't know if you suffer from the 'FOMO' or if you are a 'FOMO'. But that sounds like 'MOFO', which I've yet to understand why it's not 'MOFU' since that's the correct abbreviation of THOSE two words.

It's time to stop clowning around and get back to serious things like stoking fires; in the water heater for hot water, in the fireplace for a warm livingroom and in the stove to cook my dinner. And even though those are the most important events of the day at the mountain house, I don't (often) suffer from the FOMO. It's a place where I feel like a tough MOFO and a real OG.