Don't Ask, Don't Offer

Some things should be left unasked (and unoffered). For example, rides to the airport. It may not be an unwritten rule for all Chicagoans, but it seemed to be with almost everyone I knew. The train was fast, cheap and easy and we used it.

From most small towns in northern Italy it seems equally fast, cheap and easy. There's the extra step of getting from your really small town to a little-bigger town with a train station, but after that it's quite simple. If asked to help with the extra step (sometimes I even offer) I accept, reminding my passengers that, like Ryan Air, my car doesn't have a lot of leg room and there's only enough space for one small, carry-on bag.

The other day a student told me she was driving her twin (another student) to the airport. I asked why her sister wasn't taking the train and explained in minute detail how easy it was; when to get off, where to buy tickets for the airport shuttle and the length of each leg of the trip.

Here's a story problem.  It takes one girl 5 minutes to drive to the train station, 56 minutes to ride the train, 3 minutes to catch the shuttle bus and 17 minutes to arrive at the airport. It takes her twin sister 75 minutes to drive to the airport and 75 minutes to drive back home. Who has the longer trip?

I'm not just good at English; I'm good at Math, too. But in my opinion something doesn't add up here. The one with the 81-minute trip will be rewarded with an exotic vacation where she'll willingly catch lots of trains and buses because her sister won't be there. The one with the 150-minute trip receives the consolation prize of another day in the office.

It took the whole English lesson to explain my theory on why you shouldn't take people to the airport. The end result was the perfect pronunciation of two words I teach most students on their first day, "You're right." She even said she'd think about catching the train for her upcoming trip to Peru. Afterall, she's not hiring a sherpa to schlep her to Machu Picchu, so why should she tire her twin to take her to Marco Polo (Venice's airport).

Years ago I was told I'd miss my flight out of Rio because high seas had blocked the boats from the small village I'd been visiting. Barefootedly braving the rainforest for 5 hours was the option that I took. But now that I live with a pampered population in Italy, I find myself feeling prouder of getting myself to the airport on an air-conditioned train than my Brazilian feat with barefeet.    

All this has got me thinking about designing a backpack patch for those adventurous looking travelers with zip-off pants shuffling through Europe's most beautiful cities. It could say something like, "I may look like a National Geographic explorer now, but my sister took me to the airport."

 

Take a Gander at Mother Goose

I occasionally find myself running through the countryside singing and reciting in English. What comes to mind is always unexpected; songs from Sunday school (I used to go to church), lines from high school plays (I used to be an actress) and my "What it Means to be American" speech from the Miss United Teenager Pageant (I used to be patriotic; take note, I didn't say beautiful because it wasn't called a beauty pageant).      

I don't remember having been friends with Little Miss Muffet, but for some reason she came running with me the other day. That's when I realized I was reciting a nursery rhyme with three words I'd never uttered outside the verse. I had no idea what a tuffet was, and only a vague inkling that curds and whey had something to do with cottage cheese.

Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet,
eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
who sat down beside her
and frightened Miss Muffet away.
-Mother Goose, 1805
 
Maybe I've gone off the deep end for expecting nursery rhymes to be deep, but there must be more than Miss Muffet sitting on a stool getting scared by a spider. The more I recited, the more I sought something profound from Ms. Goose. With no internet in my pocket and another 5 miles til home, I decided to analyze the rhyme without Mr. Google.

Little Miss Muffet (an average person)
sat on a tuffet (sofa, Lazy Boy, lounge chair),
eating her curds and whey; (pasta and potato chips [or cottage cheese, if you prefer]);
Along came a spider (the Grim Reaper, Cupid, life itself),
who sat down beside her
and frightened Miss Muffet away (to play, to live, to move).
-me, 2024

Hats off to the spider. Maybe Mother Goose should be sold in the self-help section.
 

Kids Do Things

I live on a small island that lies between the Adriatic Sea and the Venetian Lagoon. There's a sandy beach on one side, peely-painted wooden fishing boats on the other and a strip of land with gum drop-colored houses in between. 

Pedaling home for a popsicle the other day I saw my neighbors from the sandy side. Every year Gabriele comes to live with his grandparents for the summer and every day at 3:30pm they show up for another afternoon on the beach. Watching them from my hammock makes the thought of writing a novel for next year's 100 Best Summer Reads seem pretty easy. The only evidence of time is the family's fading umbrella and growing grandson. Everything else repeats itself from year to year with the simple simplicity of a little boy and his nonni  (grandparents) on a small Italian island.

Having said our summer goodbyes the day before, I was surprised to find Gabri and his grandpa in the tiny piazza (square) both dripping like my cherry red popsicle; one dripped beads of sweat and the other salty water from the lagoon. I asked the little one how the water was and told him that the day before I'd swum in the middle of the lagoon from my friend's (peely-painted wooden) boat. Then I asked the big one why he was still sweating. He enthusiastically recounted his childhood dips and dives seemingly longing to repeat them, but his exuberance ended when he told me he couldn't do it anymore because people would talk.

I said, "Those who talk should say, 'look at that great grandpa swimming in the lagoon with his grandson'. And if they don't, it's only because they, too, have been stopped by the imaginary alarm clock that some boring person set  to announce the time that all good things must come to an end." 

Then Gabri said, "Ten's right." (He might not have actually said that, but I like to think all kids agree with me.)

Is there an age to stop doing what you once loved just because the alarm has rung? I thought a witty comeback (to myself) might be, "Yes, or we'd all still be sucking our thumbs." However, a quick Google search has reminded me that thumb-sucking can lead to dental problems, so there's a reason to stop. But is it necessary to walk down the normal old sidewalk going from point a to point b when walking on curbs, low ledges and little walls is so much more fun? Is there a reason we have to stop making snow angels and ordering Pizza Patatosa (cheese pizza with french fries on top)?

I think it's time to hit 'snooze' on that imaginary clock. There's no reason to wake up from real dreams that aren't harmful to your health. We have to let the years repeat themselves with simple simplicity, accepting the things that fade naturally and refusing to let 'the people who talk' extinguish the colors still glowing and growing.

 

Kids Say Things

I'm not exactly sure what I was doing in the mountains. I'd like to say I was climbing, but some would say I wasn't. I've never really understood the difference between trekking and hiking, so I tend not to use those words as freely as my friends who use them for their afternoon outings in Michigan. But I'm sure it was more than just walking or I wouldn't have been wearing a helmet and harness.

I was apprehensive to accept the invitation for a night in a mountain refuge from a couple and their two girls, but decided if an 8-year old could do it, the family English teacher could do it, too. I warned them of my fears and made no promises to reach the top, but was assured I'd be just fine.

The first afternoon was a 90-minute uphill walk to reach the warm welcome of the refuge. "Are we there yet?" has a different ring to it in the mountains than in the backseat of an air-conditioned car with internet and video games. 

Upon arrival we stripped our sweaty clothes and hung them on the fence with those of our new roommates. Dinner was served early, followed by a few rounds of hide'n'seek. Little by little 25 people stresslessly shared one tiny bathroom leaving it as clean for the last person who brushed their teeth as it had been for the first.

When we entered the bunk-bedded dorm my friend whispered the sleeping instructions. My favorite part was his headlamp shining on the folded blanket at the foot of the bed. Two bright red feet had been unevenly embroidered on the heavy wool to indicate the bottom. Sleep came slowly; not from the fear of the following day, but from the realization of the finale of the first.  

The next morning I refolded the red feet, reused the clean bathroom and refueled on bread and Nutella. Day two had begun. The groups dispersed in different directions and ours went up.

Five hours into the adventure, instead of continuing up I tried giving up. It was a perfect place to rest and wait for the family to finish the climb without me. I stole their words and assured them I'd be just fine and I wouldn't (because I couldn't) move a muscle. That's when I learned that a mountain guide leaves no man behind, and certainly not his favorite English teacher. So, I continued.

Ten minutes later I tried giving up again and this time I cried. The rocks ahead looked higher and steeper and the hole behind looked bigger and deeper. They told me that after that 'one little hard part' (where I was crying and stuck to the wall like the Halloween decoration of the half-smashed witch) we'd be to the clearing and could stop for lunch.

At that point I lost my memory. Somehow between my tears of terror and the comfort of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I had managed to unstick myself and reached the clearing. In addition to the perfect place for lunch, it was also the perfect place to put bandaids on the scraped shins I'd crawled on when I could and should have been on my feet.

That's when 12-year old Giulia came bawling out from behind a boulder. She was completely distraught that their invitation for a fun day in the mountains had left me bloody (an overdramatization) and crying. I tried to console her, admitting that the first tears had come from sheer panic. But the second were tears of triumph. And those of the hour, the result of her unbridled sensitivity.

Just as I was calming down and proudly looking back at how far I'd come, the 8-year old innocently broke the silence with, "Ten, you know it's a lot harder going down, right?" As the family simultaneously shrieked "Chiara!", I smiled and said, "Grazie, lo so." (I know.)

If only the whole world had a little more of Giulia's compassion and Chiara's sincerity; we could surely climb a lot more mountains. Then maybe one day we could proudly say, "Look how far we've come."

Elegantly Unrefined

August in Italy means cellphones overflow with photos of beaches, mountains, an occasional medieval town and then more beaches and mountains. That's why the other day I was happy when a friend sent me a shot of a ramshackle staircase. It started out narrow, widened in the middle and narrowed again near the top before a sharp, left turn. The stairs were a mix of well-worn stone and what might have been unevenly poured concrete painted black or dark sheet metal folded and molded to cover the crumbling steps. The brick walls on the way up looked ready for tuckpointing. A week earlier they had probably been covered with perfectly scruffy, flowering weeds.

I received the photo with a few others that went unnoticed, but this one deserved a response.  "Che belle scale," I wrote (what beautiful stairs), to which she replied, "Sapevo che ti sarebbero piaciute. Ami le cose un po' storte e non rifinite perche' le senti piu' vere e con una loro indentita'." (I knew you would like them. You love things that are a little crooked and unrefined because you feel they are more real and have their own identity.)

Her message wasn't sent to flatter me, but it did. I'm not against elegance and order, but I find the beauty that comes with age (unless it's my own) more impressive. Dilapidated stairs aren't something we've discussed, but a quick walk around my house is all it takes to learn that the dog-eared pages in an Architectural Digest (if I read it) would be those dedicated to crooked and unrefined.

What flattered me about the message was her comprehension. When I finally get a chance to talk (outside of English lessons), I'm excited to share thoughts and ideas, but often left wondering if I've been understood. My friend's perfect interpretation of my feelings demonstrates an attentive and interested listener...one of the biggest compliments you can give someone. In addition, her message is a friendly reminder that the beauty that comes with age (even my own) is real and a necessary part of our identity.

Living the inside out

Seeing that I'm a bad decision-maker when it comes to long-term commitments, I decided to go without kitchen cabinets and drawers. It's safe to say my baby blues would tire of baby blue countertops long before the expiration of the Baker's Chocolate Squares hidden on the bottom shelf in the back.

Instead of cabinets, I've filled open shelves with a colorful array of mercatino merce (secondhand store stuff). In fact, my kitchens resemble a well-organized Goodwill until you get to the bowls. In shops they're stacked for safety. The big one on the bottom hides and holds the rest like a cheap set of Russian nesting dolls. The days I really feel like shopping I remove them one by one to search for decorative designs and buried treasures.

I've been told I live a bit more recklessly at home. I stack my bowls from smallest to largest which means sometimes things get a little shaky. When my knight in shining armour came to save the day, I explained that it doesn't make sense to hide the beauty on the inside just to keep things safe.  Instead of the protection and stability of the big bowl at the bottom, my risky stacking gives each bowl's border the light of every day.  

I know letting them wobble is a bit wanton, but it's the only way to enjoy their true colors. At least they have a moment in the spotlight to show their differences. And if they're destined to come crashing down, I'll give them a second chance to shine in my mosaics where broken bits are brought back to life.

Even if you can't beat 'em, please don't join 'em

If every day in Italy were like today I'd have no more friends or students. I usually silently smile through the conversations about checking for fevers, getting hit by air or the digestibility (or lack thereof) of last night's pizza. These topics are a standard part of most Italian encounters and fortunately I've found the strength to stop fighting.  

But today, at the end of six hours of incessant bombardment with all things Italian, my silent smile became praying hands with a slight downward chopping movement. It's a popular Italian gesture that means, "Oh, please! Come on! Be serious!"

Today's battle began with an old classic. I arrived at a student's house for a lesson and found tea and money arranged neatly on the dining room table; a sign that the teacher would only be looking out the window at the sunshine on the terrace instead of enjoying the light, dangerous breeze. As I hesitated to sit inside, my student expressed her reluctance to venture out, uncertain of the nonwailing wind. I asked if we could give it a try and promised (with motionless praying hands) that if it got too risky, we could go back in. She agreed and said that in any case she'd keep her scarf handy.

Lessons often involve talking about one's dirty laundry, and today it included her loads of whites, blacks, blues and colors. My simple division is whites and darks. And I have no problem mixing them a bit if they've been washed enough times to stop bleeding. However, today I learned that black underpants are never safe with blue jeans (even your good butt jeans that you've had since Clinton was president when you still had a good butt) because the chemicals from the denim dye could harm your privates. This time my smile almost laughed as I rested my chin on my praying hands and refrained from asking if she was kidding.

Next came the chemist. He's filled with emotion about a lot of sciency stuff that I seldom understand, but I go on smiling and correcting his grammar. Apparently he thinks I'm listening, because he often refers to things he's taught me in previous lessons. Today we strayed from lab talk to his 9-year old daughter that hates going to the pool because the after-pool process takes too long. The problem is that she 'has to' dry her hair.

Already feisty from nearly missing the beautiful breeze and frustrated with my new found fear of toxic undies, I decided to ask why she 'had to' dry her hair. The standard answer is that if you go out with wet hair you're sure to catch a cough and cold and\or get a catastrophic case of cervicale. But I wanted my chemist to elaborate. Sure enough. "Dust collects more quickly on wet surfaces. Your hair has a big surface area. For example, if you look at the surface area of a stone, it doesn't look like much. But when you smash it, there's a lot more than before. So think about your hair. It's not just the part you see on your head. But as you move your head more wet strands are exposed and more dust is collected. And with everything going on in the environment these days, it's better to dry your hair." 

With praying hands at my chest I started chopping and reminded him that he knew a blow dryerless woman that skis, goes to bed and drives her convertible with wet hair. And when that woman had her passport photo taken, the photographer gave her a photoshop haircut because there was too much surface area to fit in the required dimensions. Most importantly, she's more than 9-and-counting and still alive.

Luckily, that was the last lesson of the day. Tomorrow I'll fold my praying hands in my lap and focus more on English grammar than the dangers of la dolce vita in Italia.