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.