Conversations are discouraged

Who knew there were "quiet cars" on trains?  I suppose you all did.  But I didn't.   I took the train to the suburbs last night and saw the little sign.  I wish I could remember exactly what it said, but I can't.  And, becasue I'm getting so good with my computer skills, I just googled it.  Okay.  Maybe I'm not that good.  I googled Chicago Metra Quiet Cars and the only articles that came up were those about the quiet cars.  None of them mentioned the little sign.  Would there have been a better thing to google? "Little signs in the Chicago Metra quiet cars"?  Tried it and it didn't work either.

Whatever.  They exist.  And here are the rules (as posted on the Metra website). In fact, the website calls them the "simple rules."
No cell phones.
Conversations are discouraged; if they must be held they should be short and in subdued voices. 
All electronic devices must be muted, and headphones should not be loud enough for anyone else to hear.

That's it.  Pretty simple, I guess.  Simply awful.  So, once I realized I was in the quiet car I'm sure you know what I did next.  Right.  I moved out to the little vestibule between the two cars to stand for my ride on the train.  And guess what?  There was another rebel out there with me.  He was eating popcorn.  "No crunching popcorn" wasn't on the list of simple rules, but maybe he just didn't want to risk it.  The website also says that the conductors carry small notices that they can discreetly present to the violaters.  I wonder what those say?  Do they just slip it under your nose for a quick read?  Or do they place it in your lap or on your seat like the people asking for money on European trains (maybe they do that here, too, but I don't take the train enough) and then come back and pick it up a minute later?  I'd kind of like to see the conductor's discreet presentation,  but I'm not sure it's worth another trip to the suburbs just for that!

So, Popcorn Guy and I stood in the vestibule and guess what we did?  We talked.  Out loud.  To each other.  I asked him if his popcorn was part of his daily commute.  Not everyday, but he does like popcorn.  I told him that I like to pop my own on the stove where you have to stand there shaking the pan.  He likes to make his in the microwave.   I thought to myself, "Oh, if only he knew how good and cheap it was to do your own on the stove instead of the greasy microwave bags" at the same time that he was saying, "It's not microwave popcorn that you buy in the store.  I use the same popcorn that you put in the pan on the stove.  I just put it in a brown lunchbag in the microwave."   That was news to me.  What about the oil?  You don't need it.  How does the bag stay closed?  Scotch tape.  Brilliant.

We talked about his job.  He said that he travels a bit for work and he'd rather go to the airport than take this commuter train.  He said that you have to be careful of some of the serious commuters because they'll run you right over.  I imagine those are the ones that wear sneakers with their suits and skirts.  I imagine they are probably also the ones that make a dash for the quiet cars.

He told me he worked for a power generating facility.  Did I really remember that?  I'm not sure.  It all came clear when he said, "windmills."  I usually need a visual.  So, I learned a little bit about that.  I'm not so sure that he learned anything from me, but I think that's okay.  Maybe he learned or will learn something from the girl that stood in my place in the vestibule yesterday or the one that will be there tomorrow.

Tonight when I told a friend at dinner about the quiet cars she told me her own train story.  She said that every morning for weeks (months?) she followed the same guy down the sidewalk with the same distance between them to the same train station.  They never talked.  Then, when she saw him on the platform on her reverse commute, she decided to introduce herself and tell him that she follows him every morning.  Now they go to each other's birthday parties.  Fortunately train stations don't have quiet platforms (yet).

Popcorn Guy and I talked about the quiet cars and then we both looked in at the quiet car passengers and laughed.  They all had their heads down buried in their gadgets.  No one talked.  No one looked at each other.  No one smiled.  The only person that learned that you can make popcorn in the microwave in a lunchbag sealed with scotch tape was the one that talked about it in an unsubdued voice in the vestibule.   Is it really a good idea to travel in a world where conversations are discouraged?  Wouldn't you rather giggle than google?

Salam

I don't think you have to wear black to funerals anymore.  The lady at the other end of my pew wore a light pink suit.  And a girl a few rows up wore a purple and green marbled blouse that reminded me of the hand marbled sheets and curtains at a hotel I stayed at in Istanbul.  (The sole reason I picked the hotel.)  Anyway, when the time comes again, I'll have to consider whether or not I'll wear black and I'll think a bit about my accessories, too.

I went to the funeral alone.  I sat alone.  I stood up alone.  I sat back down alone. And then I stood up alone again. I didn't kneel alone or respond alone or take Communion alone.  Those things I just watched with fascination.  Unfortunately, this funeral didn't seem much different than a Catholic wedding.  I never know what I'm supposed to be doing at a wedding and when I'm supposed to be doing it and my mind ALWAYS wanders to whether or not the other people are even aware of what they're doing or if they're just doing it because they've been doing it since they were 7 years old.  So, I miss half of the wedding or the funeral because I'm absorbed in my own little world of Catholic confusion.

And I'm not the only one.  I was telling a friend this story and she told me that she knew someone that had fainted at a Catholic funeral.  The person went to the doctor and had some tests done.  And then came some questions.  Where were you?  At a funeral.  Was it Catholic?  Yes, but what do you mean was it Catholic?  Does it matter what kind of funeral I fainted at?  And the doctor told her that she wasn't the first person to come in and say that she'd fainted at a Catholic funeral.  Some of us just can't handle all of the ups and downs.

Back to the funeral.  I knew the part was coming when we were supposed to hold hands with the people next to us. At least I thought I knew it was coming.   But, like I said, I was alone and I was sitting at the end of a pew alone.  Do you walk down to the other end of the pew to hold the stranger's hand?  Do you piggy-back with the group of three in the pew in front of you? I noticed some other loners holding their hands out to their sides as though they were holding imaginary hands.  I didn't do that. 

Miraculously (haha) I remembered that not much later we'd all be shaking hands and saying, "Peace be with you."  Now, this doesn't really even have to be religious, does it?  Shouldn't I just be able to do this part?  Don't I wish peace to others?  Of course I do.  And it's awfully nice to have it wished on me right now.  But, the first guy didn't say, "Peace be with you."  He just took both of my hands in his and said, "Hi."  Just hi.  It cracked me up because I was so ready for the "Peace be with you."  Does that mean he noticed that I wasn't kneeling and responding and taking Communion?  Wasn't that nice of him to just give me a friendly hi because he probably thought I wouldn't know that I was supposed to respond with, "And also with you."  Or no.  Wait a minute.  Maybe this isn't when you're supposed to say that.  Maybe that's more of a group response.  Anyway, I appreciated the fact that the kind man spared me the embarrassment and  I just said hi back.

But, as he took my hands I looked down at my bracelets and panicked.  I was wearing the religious bracelet I'd bought for $1 at Usatoland in Italy.  It's a bunch of little rectangles of wood with a bunch of little black and white pictures decoupaged on them. Pictures of saints and other important Catholic people.  (I don't know what they call the other important Catholic people and it doesn't seem like they would have been Popes.  Let's just stick with important Catholic people.) How could a girl wearing this bracelet not know what to do at a Catholic funeral?   Did it signify that I was a devout Catholic?  Why did I buy this bracelet if I'd had no idea what it meant?  I guess I just like cool bracelets.  Especially cool bracelets that only cost $1 at a second-hand store in Italy. 

75 minutes later the funeral ended.  We walked out in an orderly fashion pew by pew.  As we got to the entry corridor, the queue took a turn.  It passed the little fountain with holy water (of course it's not a fountain, but the little thing on the wall)  and everyone took something and did something and said something.  Not me.  I didn't even stay in the crooked line at this point.  I just kept walking straight out with a dry forehead and no water marks on my dress.

I've decided that the next time I go to a funeral I'm not going to wear black.  But I'll probably still wear my bracelet.  And I might couple it with my misbaha.  That's a strand of Islamic prayer beads that I fashioned into a bracelet. It was a gift from one of my Iraqi refugee students.  (Don't worry.  I asked him if it was okay before I dismantled it to make the bracelet.) Then when someone says, "Peace be with you," I'll say, "Salam" just to confuse them a little.  It would have confused me, too, because until five minutes ago when I googled it, I just thought it meant "goodbye."  But do you know what it really means?  It means peace.

Where do I go from here?

I have no idea how he does it.  I've tried and tried to follow the conversation and notice the change when it happens, but I never notice.  I know that we go from the description of the comfy white leather seats in the ambulance to the renaming of the music school at his alma mater.  But how we get from one to the other is beyond me.  I actually really concentrate, waiting for the change, ready to say to myself, "There it is.  I just heard it."  Instead, I keep listening and keep concentrating and the next thing you know we've gone from his girlfriend on Martha's Vineyard being mad at him because he didn't do what he said he was going to do which was to take a bike ride, but can you imagine her being upset because he didn't take a bike ride in the rain to the book sale at the church last year and how many boxes he carried up how many stairs how many times.  All of this with such a smooth transition that I can't find it.  And I'm really looking.


His name is Donald Larsons.  I'm only changing one letter in his name to protect the innocent.  I like his name.  And I like the name I just made up for him.  He's lived in the same studio apartment for 27 years.  He's lived there alone.  He's 81. I met him two years ago when I opened my new studio.  He lives next door and he doesn't come in everyday, but he comes in a lot.  He ordered some stationery awhile ago with a french horn on it.  He plays in a couple of bands.  (Orchestras?  Symphonies?)   He passes my door with the big french horn case on his back and sighs and says, "I'm off to rehearsal."   Last week he stopped to tell me that he wasn't sure what he was going to do in the fall.  He said the price to participate was $95.  "Well, that just seems crazy.  I could use that $95 to learn something new," he said.  Wouldn't you love to have the spirit at age 81 that you were wasting your money on something you could already do when there was still a whole world of things out there to learn?  Shouldn't we all be a little more like Donald?  And shouldn't we all start thinking this way before we're 81?


He's never been married.  He's had a couple of lady friends.  I think the one on Martha's Vineyard qualifies as one.  His real lady friend died last year.  She was 93.  She never told him how old she was.  He saw it on the papers when she died.  Her name was Ethel.  Donald and Ethel.  I'm not making this up.  You have no idea how many times (and sometimes how many times in one day) I heard the phrase, "blah, blah, blah with Ethel, you know, (voice lowered a bit) my lady friend."  I cracked up every time.   Sometimes I filled in the blank for him.  When he got to the "You know" part,  I'd say (voice lowered a bit), "Yeah, your lady friend."


So, why have I decided to tell you about Donald?  I guess I'm still not really sure.  I get something from him and maybe I thought you could get something from him, too.  Or, maybe I'm thinking you should go and  find yourself a Donald.  I'll admit.  He drives me crazy sometimes.  But after I think that he's driving me crazy, I always feel guilty and I think back to our conversation and I smile.  Maybe he's teaching me patience.   


When I first came home from Paris and Italy, I avoided the studio a bit.  I've been trying to ease back into it.  Should I close?  Should I turn it into something else?  A little 7 year old friend said, "Well, if you close it, what are you going to do?  Stay home all day?"  Good point, Siloe.  I don't know.  When I asked her for suggestions she said that maybe I should just build something out of Legos.  Maybe.


When I think about closing the studio, I think about Donald.  And the photographer down the street that comes over to chat for hours.  And the teenage boy next door that I saw smoking and told him it wasn't cool.  And the little girls that live around the corner that I heard on the sidewalk just as they were getting close to my door say, "She's back!" with such fascination.   And the couple whose daughter was having major surgery at Children's Memorial that just had to get out for a walk.  They came in and sat down and stayed for an hour.  That was the first and last time I ever saw them.  But I think their little visit made a difference.  For all of us.   And I think of the little girl that saves her money until she has enough to shop and she comes in and buys something.  And the guy that stops by on his way home from work to play my piano.  Or how about the maintenance supervisor that spends much more time than he should standing in my doorway?  He even left a chololate bar in my mail slot to welcome me home. And the older lady that brought me a giant bag full of old cards because she thought maybe I could do something with them.  I did something with them.  I read them.  They were all Get Well cards to her. She had cancer. And I learned something.


Am I like Olivier, the owner of my old neighborhood cafe in Paris?  I don't serve coffee, but my little place is a place for the people to come.  Maybe they come when they feel good.  Maybe they come when they don't feel so good.  But, they all come.  Sometimes I even see them walk up, peek in and keep walking if I'm busy with someone else.  Guess what?  They almost always come back a little later.  If I close up shop, what are they going to do?  Build something out of Legos?  Do they need me as much as I need them?   Where else am I going to find a job with a Donald next door that starts a conversation with, "That bike helmet looks nice on you" and finishes it an hour later with, "I just love those shoes!"   Maybe tomorrow's the day to put the OPEN sign back out on the sidewalk and get back to business.  (which has several definitions in the Random House Webster's College Dictionary.   #2:  the purchase and sale of goods with an attempt to make a profit. (not me)   #3:  a PERSON, partnership or corporation engaged in commerce, manufacturing or a SERVICE.  (me) )  That's it.  I'm a person with a service.  Even if the service is nothing more than just being there.

Bigger is better (only if it's a chocolate bar)

I just read an article about living in small spaces.  It says that the average new American home in 1973 was 1,600 square feet.  And in 2007 it was 2,300 square feet.  All I can ask is, "Why?"

I like small spaces.  They're cozier.  They're warmer.  They're more welcoming.  I think I've lived in the smallest space of anyone that I know.  My apartment in Paris was smaller than a dorm room.  And I didn't just survive.  I liked it.

So, when I heard a friend say that they'd bought the biggest sectional you would ever see, I was unimpressed.  First of all, the biggest sectional I would ever see would have to go in a pretty big space.  And I've already told you that I like small spaces.  But when I heard them say that it was so big that the whole family (a family of 6) could sit on it and they were so far apart that they couldn't even touch each other, I was sad.   I pictured them all with their own bowls of popcorn, their own pillows and their own blankets.  After all, if you can't even touch, you certainly can't share a blanket.  And who do you grab on to if you're watching a scary movie?

I know.  They didn't say that they always sit so far apart that they can't touch, but the fact that it's an option means it's too big for me.  In Mali I learned that the men gather every day in a special place built for the everyday gatherings of the men.  It's really just a bunch of stones put together to make seats.  Some big.  Some small.  Some with a little space between them and others that touch.  I suppose it's kind of like an outdoor African sectional.  The interesting thing was the roof.  The stone sectional was covered by a low roof made of tree branches and brush.  It's low enough that you can't stand up.  They said it's to keep the group close and calm.  No one can get mad, lose their cool and stand up quickly to leave or they'll bump their head and be forced to sit back down anyway.

I liked it.  A small space.  A small space with a low roof.....even better.  Cozier.  Warmer.  And more welcoming.

Would I have cared about this a year ago?  Would the discussion of the biggest sectional I would ever see have affected me?  Probably not.   But after spending my time in Paris and Italy, I have a new appreciation for small.  Some of my best memories are of three people on a love seat.  It was the only option.  The love seat or a dining room chair.  And we all chose the love seat.  And it was so small we had to  touch.

The fat lady has sung

Italian concerts.  I've been to a handful and wish I could go to more than a handful more. 

They're in churches, civic halls and auditoriums.  They always start late.  And by late I mean late as in 9 p.m. (Which is kind of late in the States if it's not a rock concert, isn't it?) And I also mean late as in never on time.  Sometimes they start with what I guess is the national anthem and everyone stands up and sings.  Well, everyone except whomever I go with.  And me.  Because I feel dumb standing up if they're not standing up and I'm not even sure what I would or wouldn't be standing up for.


They're beautiful.  And by beautiful I mean beautiful.  The sound fills the church whether it's voices or instruments or both and you really can feel it inside your soul.  Even when it's not soul music.  I cried at the last one I went to.  Maybe it was because I knew it was the last one I was going to. Or maybe it was because I was looking everywhere for Emilietta and Piero and I couldn't find them. I know they were there, I just couldn't find them.  And guess what?  They're farmers.  It really is me and the farmers at these concerts.


But, there are two things about concerts that I don't like.  First, they seem to have a lot to say and to be able to enjoy a little music, you have to sit through a lot of announcements. It doesn't bother me that much because I like to see how much Italian I can really understand, but I think if I were Italian I'd be a little disturbed.  And secondly, there's been an encore at every concert.  (Che bello!  Encore.....in Italian ancora means again.  I love making these connections.) Anyway, does every concert deserve an encore?  And should the musicians be expecting one to the point that if you look carefully you can see that they've already turned their sheet music to be ready for the final song?  Why can't the encore song just be the final song and then we clap and go home?  It's always quite dramatic, too.  They leave.  We applaud.  They come back with silly smiles as though they weren't expecting to be so adored.  They play.  We applaud.  And then they play again.  I've started looking for the fat lady to be sure it's really over so I know it's safe to get up and go home.  It was always a little something to laugh about at the end of the evening and it came in handy when I was crying.


And then last week, my concert came to an end.  After almost nine months of teaching, sending texts in Italian and French, making new friends, trains, planes, reading maps, running through fields,emails in English, eating too much, correcting mistakes, having mistakes corrected,  bike rides on the Seine and through the hills of Veneto, hugging and kissing (and smashing glasses when I couldn't remember where I was), picnics, dinners,  je ne sais pas' and non ho capitos (I'm not sure how to make those plural), nutella, burned out candles, second-hand shops (called Usatoland which translates as "used land" which makes me smile), tears, and cups of tea, the fat lady had finally sung and it was time to go home.  I couldn't have had a sweeter send off.  I was on the train and the door had closed.  The final words had been spoken.  And as the train pulled away, I saw my friend clapping.  My first reaction, (much like yours, perhaps) was that it meant, "Yay!  She's finally leaving."  Was it a way to make me laugh when I was crying?  I looked back confused and then came the hand signal to think about it. Two minutes later I figured it out and then it was confirmed by the last Italian text message that I'd receive:

Se ti applaudo (batto le mani) ritorni... If I applaud you (clap my hands), you return...

Che bellissima. 

The Sound of Music

Let's start at the very beginning. 
A very good place to start.
When you read you begin with A, B, C.
When you sing you begin with Do, Re, Mi. 

Why do I feel the need to continually remind you all that there's a lot I'm missing.  I think when I write about stuff that amazes me, it's with hopes that maybe someone else will step up and say, "Hey!  I didn't know that either."  So far that hasn't happened, yet I continue to divulge my latest revelations, albeit with a bit more fear that you're really beginning to wonder where I've spent the past 46 years.

I was talking to my 12-year-old Italian friend, Anna, about music.  She plays the recorder. I told her that I used to play the clarinet and that I used to be in the high school marching band.  The what?  So, I explained it to her and told her that I had to leave my cheerleading position a little early before half-time to change into the band uniform.  The whole cheerleading thing had come up awhile ago.  She only knows about cheerleaders the way they are portrayed on American TV.   I suppose that's really probably all there is to know about cheerleaders anyway, so I should be glad that she thought it was odd that I was one.

Anyway, the band discussion led to a piano discussion which led to a how-to-read-music discussion.  We both drew staffs and named the notes.  Who knew that the song from The Sound of Music really made sense?  (You all did, I suppose?  Am I really the only nut that didn't know this?)  When Italians sing they really do begin with Do, Re, Mi.  I think that's probably our C, D, E.  But we never really got to the bottom of exactly which note is "Do". And then I started thinking that I had heard of this before.  It wasn't brand new
to me.  I was 45 when my 11-year-old French friend, Flora, used to come to my studio after school.  She'd play her flute for me and I think we had a similar discussion one afternoon. So, I learned it from an 11-year-old and I was reminded of it by a 12-year-old. Is it a European thing or does it go beyond Europe?  Or do other countries use the C, D, E like we do?  Maybe I can find a 13-year-old to answer that.


So, why do music notes have different names in different languages?  And why do we give cities different names in different languages?  Shouldn't Venice always be Venice?  (Actually, I guess what I meant to say is shouldn't Venezia always be Venezia?)  Why would we change the name of a city?  And why would we change the names of notes?  They all sound the same when they're played and they're all in the same place on the staff, so why would we call them something else?  I guess I'm really the one that should have the answer to that since I'm as guilty as the name changers.  When I talk about my friend Mary when I'm in Italy, I call her Maria.  It just came out naturally the first time and then it stuck.  Cathy is Caterina and Sarah is stillSarah, but I pronounce it like "far".  And then one day  someone asked me about my Spanish friend that I often talk about.  I said, "What Spanish friend?"  They said, "Miguel."  I don't have a Spanish friend named Miguel.  It's
an American friend that I unintentionally gave a Spanish name when it should really be Mikele in Italian.  But that's not his name and I've never called him that, so why should I change it?


Anyway, let's get back to the very beginning.  In this case, a very good place to start and to end. I'd written this blog awhile ago, but never really knew what I was trying to say, so I never published it.  Then I was having coffee with some friends (don't worry.  I don't drink coffee, but I do love the tiny little cups) and we were talking about the piano.  I don't remember how it came up, but I can only remember that someone said something about Do, Re, Mi.  I said, "Do you mean C, D, E?" and they had no idea what I was talking about.  So, I proudly explained to them that when we read we begin with A, B, C and when we sing we begin with C, D, E.  I went to bed that night thinking that maybe I'm not missing as much as I think I am.

Gordissima

I seem to have a knack for creatively adapting my three languages.  The other day I exclaimed that I was "GORDISSIMA" and I got a good laugh out of everyone.  Gordo is Spanish and muy gordo didn't seem to have the same ring to it.  So, I added a little Italian to my Spanish and came up with the perfect word.  And at the moment, it's how I'm feeling.  And it's not only my imagination.  I happen to have some Italian friends JUST LIKE ME that don't hold back.  I actually know they meant it as a compliment, but two friends on two different occasions have said that they think I look better a little heavier.  Can you imagine how well that went over with me?!

So anyway, I decided it would be best if I warned you.  I'm  a little chubbier than I was when I left. I know you're saying, "Yeah, yeah.  It's the smart girl who says she failed the test.  It's the millionaire who says they can't afford something."  But it's really true.  I'm the skinny girl that isn't as skinny as I used to be.  And instead of making you feel uncomfortable when you first lay eyes on me after almost nine months away, I thought I'd tell you first so you can prepare yourself for the usual, "Welcome back.  You look great (and a little chubby.)"

If you'll notice in the photo, this giant ice cream cone outside the gelateria just happens to be next to the panificio.  That's the bakery.  And, I get a double scoop almost every night with far more than a dollop of whipped cream.  Ohhhh...the whipped cream. It's not just for sundaes.  It comes on the top of an ice cream cone.  At first I thought I didn't like it because it's usually not sweet.  But then I made a fantastic discovery.  I'd been eating the whipped cream first because that's the way I did it at home.  I would eat it off the top of my hot chocolate before it melted because if you let it melt you don't really get the joy of the whipped cream.  Well, here the best thing is when you kind of let it melt.  Because for some strange reason as it melts (?) it gets kind of firm and then you eat it with a mouthful of ice cream and voila....it's sweet!
So, I've been spending my time eating and eating and eating and not worrying a lot about how I've looked.  Trying to speak Italian, riding a bike with a bag over the handlebars instead of a basket, searching for the best second-hand shops in Italy, trying to catch a field in all of it's forms (tall hay, cut hay, raked-into-rows hay, baled hay and taken-away-hay), and trying to cook with no measuring spoons and bizarre ingredients seemed like enough good things to worry about instead of my kilos.
 
And then one day I saw myself.  And the next day I imagined you seeing me.  And I started running more and trying to eat less and it only worked for a day and then I went back to the gelateria.  I really wish I could be more like nude guy by his cow trough pool or the big lady that came and stripped down next to me on the river bank yesterday. They seem so free.  Unfortunately, I'm still trapped in the image that "Gordissima is not beautiful."  So, when you see me and tell me how great I look, I'll accept it with a smile and appreciate your honesty and pretend that I'm still in Italy, because when you translate great into Italian, it means large.

(p.s.  I don't have time to edit this because I'm on my way for a double scoop cone with whipped cream.)