Melting Walls

English lessons come in all shapes and sizes. I do phone lessons walking through fields, vineyards and Venice and live lessons in parks, kids' bedrooms and my garden (that's British for yard). The grammar stays the same, but the people, places and things change.

For the past several months I thought I'd been doing an English lesson at the back door of a 335-year old church. I share the shady stoop with a student who's too embarrassed to speak English where someone might hear him. We arrive by car, walk through the little churchyard and reach a well-weathered door accessible only on foot. It seemed like 'a' service entrance, for the delivery and removal of whatever goods might come and go from a church (God only knows). But then I discovered it was 'the' service entrance; the one used for Sunday services when the priest still delivered the weekly mass.

The day I discovered I'd been resting my back on the front door was the same day I realized I'd been oblivious to what lie on the other side. Distracted by the sloping green lawn, cypress trees and English mistakes on my side of the door, I'd never considered the possibility of an eavesdropping ear getting a free lesson on the other side.

I decided to search for photos of the church. I was surprised to find that the dark, dusty curtains visible through the barred windows from the outside are bright red on the inside. The nook for the small altar has pink columns and the walls are vanilla buttercream. In the middle of the room a small blue table shows through under its lacy tablecloth. The brown wooden pews face each other instead of facing the altar. It looks like a tiny room in a Victorian dollhouse.

My little glimpse of the inside has changed the way I approach the stoop. The church has become more than just a backdrop for the weekly lesson. I visualize the photo and wonder if I'll ever really see what's on the inside. I still spread out my waterproof blanket for two, but my studnet no longer brings his plastic bag filled with newspapers (emergency temporary seating for many Italians). Instead of lighting anti-mosquito spirals for the hot, summer lessons we light candles for the dark, autumn ones. After months of ignoring the cold, closed door now I feel its presence.

Doors, like lessons, come in all shapes and sizes. Perhaps at first we're oblivious to them. But when our curiousity is peaked, there's nothing left but the hope to discover what lies on the other side. Closed doors don't always protect us. Opening them could reveal a sweet world with vanilla buttercream walls. And if we find the courage to be truly confessional, even the walls might start to melt.

Mac Your Day, one way or another

Most would think it's sacreligious to eat a box of macaroni and cheese that isn't Kraft. Add attempting the feat in Italy, and you might even be breaking a Commandment. Seeing that I've never sported a WWJD bracelet, you can imagine that I wasn't afraid to try.

The marketers did a nice job of replicating the blue and yellow box. It looks just like home sweet home. One side lists the ingredients, instructions for preparation and nutritional value in 10 languages. The other three sides say the same thing: MAC YOUR DAY, Preparation for Mac & Cheese, and Macaroni & Cheese. Much to my surprise 'Mac Your Day' isn't a catchphrase, it's the brand. I'd like to think I'm one of the few that knows it was also a McDonald's slogan in Australia in 2003.

Treasures like this not only have a long shelf life in terms of usable, fit for consumption or saleable, but also a long life in my pantry waiting for an undeniably depressing day deserving of such a treat. Some things outlast their 'best by' dates. I decided that expired Heath bars were better than no Heath bars at all, as I waited for news of my next American visitors.  

Looking back I can't remember why the day to make the mac had finally come. Just opening the box had it's pomp and circumstance. I stuck my thumb in the perforated half moon and peeled off the top. Then I squeezed my hand in to retrieve the metallic pack of cheese sauce mix (those words are untranslateable in Italian). I searched carefully trying to keep the tiny smiles of macaroni from overflowing. In a 7.25oz box (carefully delineated for foreign consumers as 178gr+28gr=206gr) it shouldn't have taken so much searching to discover that the 28 grams were missing. I wondered if the powdered cheese sauce mix had been taped to the side or rolled up on the bottom, so I poured out the macaroni. Unable to obey Kraft's orders to 'smmmmile because it was the cheesiest', I frowned because it was cheeseless. It was worse than a 5-year old discovering his Cracker Jack's had no prize.

Instead of crying over spilled milk (the quarter cup I'd prepared to make the cheese), I took the lemons (macaroni) and made lemonade (a macaroni necklace). If anyone needed a break that day it was me. So I put on my new necklace and went to Mac My Day at McDonald's.

 

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.