(Try to ) Just Do It

Nike doesn't tell us to just think about it; they tell us to just do it. I've adopted their motto to get me going, but have unfortunately added the thinking part when I finish the task.
 
This morning I saw a guy I used to see nearly every morning on my running route. We would to stop for a neighborly chat which I welcomed for the break, not the gossip. Through the years my routes and times have changed making the 'bumping intos' less frequent, but today our paths crossed. His opening line was, "Sempre di corsa" (which I translated as you're always running). However, this time it was followed by, "But now you're walking." It hit me like the wall at mile 20 (that's marathon talk) and I unnecessarily retorted, "I ran yesterday."

I spent the last three miles sadly walking and thinking about the half empty glass. Preaching the bright side is a lot easier than seeing it. I have all that's necessary to feel good about myself, but sometimes I JUST don't DO IT.

I waste time thinking I don't run as fast and far as I used to, when I should realize that for an old lady I'm not so bad. And instead of feeling sad about walking instead of running, I must remember that a (much) younger friend said she prefers walks with me because I'm the fastest walker she knows. Should these thoughts fill or empty my glass?

Thinking about this post (once again, not JUST DOING IT) I verified the translation of 'sempre di corsa.' While 'corsa' may mean running to a runner, it means motion, too. The three words together are translated as 'Always in a hurry.' So in the end, the real problem isn't my running at all. It's that I still haven't learned to slow down.


 

Huge Portions and Friendly Atmospheres

You know you're far from the US when you forget it's Thanksgiving Day. This morning I found the table set with candles, an orchid, the treasure chest of tea, a red chocolate heart, a tray of cookies called 'baci di dama' (lady's kisses), a jar of peanut butter and a note with three words: Happy Thanks Giving! (an improvement on last year's Happy Tanks Giving!).

Without the note, I would have simply thought someone liked me. There were no signs of my favorites (mashed potatoes, gravy and green bean casserole), yet the table had an element of feast. I'd thought of the holiday last week when I saw the tablecloth I use on Turkey Day for my traditional meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup. But apparently that wasn't enough to remind me to buy the thirteen necessary ingredients for the soup. (If not on a Warhol print, Campbell's is hard to come by here.)
 
I suppose I should have remembered it was Thanksgiving Eve in last night's English Conversation class. It's structured (they'd laugh if they knew I defined this class as structured) to talk about life. As one practiced her speaking skills telling us that she doesn't go dancing on Wednesday because her daughter comes home from university, the others practiced their listening skills. Not surprisingly, they thought nothing of the fact that one usually doesn't dance OR return from univeristy on Wednesdays. That's when the teacher butt in to ask where one dances on mercoledi (Wednesday) and the woman realized she'd meant to say Friday.  Then came a helpful tip from a fellow classmate. "Dai (come on), it's easy to remember...we don't have Black Wednesday, it's Black Friday." A good teacher might have explained the origin of Black Friday and in turn remembered that the next day was an American holiday.

And so it goes, another entertaining English lesson and another Thanksgiving with no mashed potatoes and gravy. Fortunately, I'd already organized to have dinner with an old student tonight. After a vacation (more than a year ago) he said I was too skinny and he had just the right place to fatten me up again. Unfortunately, the skinny thing was shortlived, but I never forgot about the promised dinner. So, tonight I'm unexpectedly celebrating Thanksgiving at Galloway's, described in an AI overview as 'a chain of casual gastropubs in Italy that serve American-style food like burgers and fries....known for their large portions and friendly atmospheres.' 

Nothing says Thanksgiving better than that.  I just hope he's reserved a place at the kids' table.

The Butcher, the Banker, the Candlestick Maker and the Teacher

The Italian school bell rang several weeks ago. Retirees have returned to the cartolibreria for gluestick and cigarettes without facing lines of last second school supply shoppers. Moms and buses have eased back into the traffic flow. And Italian kids dressed in dark-colored hoodies, Vans and Carharts flow down the sidewalks like a muddy river. The only thing left in limbo is the learning.

The first month of school is considered a provisional period. Some kids still have to meet their permanent teachers. (They may have started with a pregnant teacher who is obligated to work the first two weeks of school so she can qualify for maternity leave only to return when her current high school sophomores have become college freshman.) Others are waiting for their schools to organize their classes before they can organize their extra curricular activities. And a few others aren't sure which days they leave early enough to get to my yard for English by the fire. In Italy, it's more like 'back to school months' than 'back to school days.'

I no longer question why things for the new school year can't be organized at the end of the previous one. The resounding answer was, "Because we're in Italy." I try to embrace this bureaucratic glitch as yet another part of LA not so DOLCE VITA and consider the new school year's beginning Halloween instead of Labor Day.

Sadly, it's not just little girls in plaid dresses carrying lilacs to their teachers (like me) that say they want to be a teacher when they grow up. In Italy, some want to teach simply because there's nothing else to do with a degree in History. And others turn to teaching for the hours. I have a friend that took a test to qualify to become a teacher. Passing the test meant he could be put on a list to teach in case he got tired of his job at the bank. In the end he passed the test, he's on the list and I have my fingers crossed that he never tires of banking.
 
Another reason to teach is that it's hard to be fired. My favorite 15-year old student, Beatrice, had a terrible English teacher. I encouraged her to join her classmates and write a letter to the principal.  She was sure it would never work. She feared the teacher would find out, still be her teacher and things would only get worse. In the end, she wrote the letter, they won the case and finished their last two years of high school with a different teacher.

The following year I had a student who spoke almost perfect English when she was telling me about a cute boy in class, but had a D on her report card. Next to the D was the name of Beatrice's old teacher. Instead of being fired, she was transferred and left to wreak havoc on the self-confidence of 25 more kids.  

I'm sure I lack the ABCs of what makes a qualified teacher in Italy, but I think I make up for it with the PPPs....patience, passion and perseverance.  My students can't write to the principal to complain about me. But if they could, I'd probably consider looking for a job at the bank. 

Peace Be With Me

I'm tired of living in this unfortunate place called No Man's Lang. That's not a typo. In addition to lang being a word few know the meaning of in America's favorite New Year's  song, it's also the abbreviation of language when followed by a period.  

In No Man's Lang. neither my English (mother tongue) nor my Italian (second language) serve me well. According to me, residents of No Man's Lang. are unable to fully and freely express themselves in their current digs. With last week's American visitors I noticed that I didn't have to try at all. Communicating and understanding joy, pain and anger was effortless. In fact, the sensation of complete calm and comprehension reminded me my 'not so new' home away from home has left me feeling anywhere but at home.

With Italians, describing anything deeper than last night's thin, easily digestible pizza crust leaves the real me somewhat speechless. My Italian isn't good enough to speak off the cuff, so deeper thoughts are stifled. And if there's a chance to open up in English, my very-good-but-still-non-native-listeners can't digest what comes from my gut, so thoughts are swallowed. Depending on my audience, I either can't speak Italian well or I'm not allowed to speak English well, leaving my normal expressive self in silence in the heart of No Man's Lang.

I'm a word nerd. I love puns and Scrabble and red pens. I used to underline passages in great books to share with other nerds, but now I savor them for myself. I seldom have witty comebacks on the running path or at the weekly market. There's no bragging about exceptional Wordle wins or discovering new authors at the bookstore. In Italy my Christmas cards are pretty, but the messages mean nothing. I've learned that soap boxes have little room for non-native speakers and Melania's speech to the United States Marine CORPSE is proof.

It looks like the only solution is to live in limbo in No Man's Lang. Peace be with me while I wait for the arrival of my next American visitors. Until then, here's to auld lang syne. 

There's a Time and a Place

I don't know how old I was when I discovered lip-syncing. If they didn't do it on The Lawrence Welk Show or The Partridge Family I probably wasn't aware of it until some Super Bowl halftime show in the 80s. I imagine someone explained it in a way that made it seem like the latest technical advancement and necessary for acoustic perfection or something like that. But I'm sure at that age (and this age) I responded that it was stupid.

I can't say that I've ever been to a real concert; I mean the kind with thousands of people looking at a tiny singer on a giant smoking stage or looking at the tiny pores of a giant singer on a Jumbotron. The closest I've come to an arena full of people was at the opera in Verona. The place has 2000-year old stone seats and was built when arenas were used to watch real gladiators (not the ones on your big-screen tv). The lions didn't lip-sync in their day and I'd like to think Figaro wasn't lip-syncing in the show I saw ten years ago, but I may be mistaken.

There's one place I definitely wasn't fooled; a summer sagra (town festival) last year. Sagras on the island are spectacular; hot, starry nights in the lagoon, strands of little lights strung between the pink and green Venetian light posts, young kids running around without their parents, sweaty volunteers serving fried fish, and live island music written and performed by real islanders for other real islanders (and one American). I don't know the name of the band, but I know some of the members. I call them Five Old Guys from the Island. It's perfect convertible music and I've learned all the songs by heart in the local dialect.

This year at the sagra I noticed something strange. The singers weren't sweating enough to be hitting such high notes and they sounded exactly like they were riding with me in the convertible. The spectators were participating; singing and dancing like always. But the band wasn't. They were lip-syncing.  

Take other artists. Cary Grant didn't send Hugh Grant to the stage to fill his shoes. We aged and he aged with us. Painters don't start making photo copies of their masterpieces; their strokes just change. Some day beautiful ballerinas stop getting leading roles, but if they make a few lower leaps at a higher age, they still deserve kudos. So why do singers stop singing on stage?

If I spent a night lip-syncing I'd sadly go to bed thinking, "Wow. I used to be really good." I'm speaking from experience. Conversations with new people often turn to the past; I talk about things I was proud of. I used to run marathons. I used to travel alone to exotic countries. I used to look good playing volleyball in my bikini. But the applause for the way I was brings a sadness for the way I am. My past performances can't be lip-synced so they have to be tweaked. And if they can't be tweaked they should be remembered, but set aside to make room for new things to be proud of. Don't forget, no one really cares what Grandma Moses did in her forties.   
 

P.S. Keep Writing

Several Christmases ago I gave friends stationery hoping to hold on to the tradition of handwritten notes. I was pleased when three of the many recipients requested more, but three of many isn't enough for a revival.
 
For me, part of the peaceful days after Christmas includes a sharp Sharpie, pretty paper and a few words of gratitude for the great gifts. But for most, saying thanks at the presentation of the present is enough. It's not that 'have you written Grandma a thank you note yet?' is ringing in my ears, because I think I was usually quick to do it. It's just that I appreciate gifts, I'm happy to find letters in the mailbox (aren't you?) and I consider a stack of freshly stamped envelopes a piece of art.

I've just finished a ten-day tour with some old and new American friends. At the end I was given a gift and told not to open it until comfortably settled on the train. Goodbyes were said and tears were shed in a mysteriously dark bar in Venice where Sartre and Beauvoir sometimes met to linger on life. As much as I'd loved to have lingered, it was time for my wet walk to the station through the rain and teardropped sparkling streets of my favorite city.
 
Soaked with sweet memories, I'd forgotten about my gift until I was almost home. I had enough time to open it, but not enough to acknowledge it. I thought of sending a quick thanks with a smile, knowing I'd follow up with a heartfelt, handwritten card later, but I was afraid they'd spend three weeks thinking I wasn't really happy with the gift only to discover my true appreciation when the Pony Express had finally arrived with the mail. But seeing that an immediate response is now possible, sending nothing didn't seem right either. Make a call? Then the romance of the written word really is reduced to nothing.

I took a poll on this antiquated art and there was almost unanimous agreement. A thank you text is sufficient. And a thank you text followed by a handwritten note is redundant. Admittingly recognizing the redundancy, I'm still unwilling to contribute to the death of handwritten sentiments. I'm not ready for a world where gratitude is given and received in the blink of an eye.

Technology is about to ruin yet another simple pleasure. My 'anything but junk' drawer is filled with everything the rest of the world keeps on their phones. The brochure from a hat shop in Rome, the address of some campers in Michigan and tattered envelopes, stamped and postmarked with handwritten notes inside. Rediscovering these random things in writing takes me back to those people, places and things. When I find them in my search for safety pins I can laugh out loud (not LOL) and kiss them and hold them to my heart if I want; all things that would seem silly to do with your phone in line at the grocery store.

 

Letter writing on the part of a busy man or woman is the quintessence of generosity.  Agnes Repplier
 

Maybe

‌If only the Fruit of the Loom guys were around to see how popular t-shirts have become in Italy. In the past I've shared the popularity of English phrases about love, sunshine and happiness resting on one's breast. Now fake American university and team shirts have arrived. I do my best to keep quiet and let the unaware wearers enjoy the wrong colors and flags.

It's quite possible I've missed something in the past 13 years. Perhaps those donning t-shirts in English that I don't understand are more in the know than I am. For example, my 8th grade friend showed up in a cropped t-shirt that said nothing more than MAYBE. Although curious, I asked no questions. I thought it might be a secret club she doesn't want me to know about.

My search in the piazza for other MAYBE members was unsuccessful, so I took a poll on its meaning. My question was, "Does MAYBE convey strength or weakness?" and the most popular answer was, "It depends." As much as I hate to admit it, maybe they're right.

I think of YES and NO as strength. They're committed, decisive words. That left MAYBE as non-committal and indecisive; words that reek weak. But when I decided to look at the glass as half full I saw the hope and possibility in MAYBE. Doors aren't open, but they aren't closed either. Is my black and white world making room for grey?

One thing's for sure. I'm going to contact Fruit of the Loom to propose an idea for 2026; a t-shirt that says IT DEPENDS, available only in grey.