Smart Working or Smart Living?

In a world of smart phones, smart watches and Smart cars, I'm dumbfounded at how often my students don't know what smart means. I used to ask if they were kidding. It's not a very nice thing for the English teacher to say, but I thought it beat telling them that smart was something they weren't. 

Most Italian students have studied British English and have learned that a British lift is an American elevator, a British garden is an American yard and a British queue (great Scrabble word) is an American line. But for some reason they've taken a fancy to Webster's third definition of smart, 'stylish or elegant in dress or appearance' (British) and haven't learned the first definition, 'intelligent' (American). Maybe it's because they're Italian, where being stylish or elegant in dress or appearance is what really matters. If I taught English in another country they might understand that smart phones were intelligent and not stylish.

Now that Covid and smart working have become universal (or so I thought) I'm hopeful that the word smart will take on a new meaning.  (Not a new meaning, but rather definition number one). All of my students use the word differently. For example....when I have smartworking, when I'm in smart working and when I'm on smart working. I correct them and say it doesn't need a preposition, but the truth is I'm not sure how to use the word. So, I turned to my fellow Americans. These are the responses from a Sales Representative, a Portfolio Manager and an ex-Office Manager of a premier news magazine (in other words, they ain' t dumb).

"Need more info on smart working, not sure what you're asking."
"Smart working? Doesn't ring a bell."
"Haven't heard that before."

Those answers came from people that have been working from home throughout the pandemic and they call what they're doing 'Working From Home.' So much for my fellow Americans, I returned to my friend Google. I searched 'Chicago smart working' and the words never appeared together. 'Smart working LA' produced an article about Italy. It was 'smart working London' where I found the connection.

It seems the British, who once waited in a queue for the lift are now at home in their gardens smart working (and hopefully playing Scrabble). But where does that leave me...an American in Italy that won't accept students if they don't agree to anti-Covid, open-air lessons in the YARDen? If I say I'm working from home, my Italian friends think it means I'm doing housework. And if I tell my American friends I'm smart working they don't get it.  So I decided I needed a word of my own and I picked smart living.

How do you describe outside English lessons that may include frost and fog at dawn, sunshine at noon or ski coats and candles in the evening?  It feels more like smart playing than smart working. I considered calling it Lessons in Wonderland, but that sounds like I only teach kids. And as much as the kids love coming once a week, it's the adults that have pleasantly surprised me. In a land where 40 degrees fahrenheit is cold and people protect themselves from all old wives' tales regarding health, it's hard to believe students are unobligatorily drawn to my cast iron stove for English lessons.

6:30 a.m. the day before Halloween

Italians are famous for LA BELLA VITA, as long as it involves good food and wine, smart clothes and all other things sensible. I'm trying to show them LA really BELLA VITA which includes lying on the ground with no blanket, walking in the moonlight with no flashlight and feeling a cool breeze with no scarf.

I'm not a Portfolio Manager (I'm not even sure what that is). I'm a Smart Living Manager. My services are included in English lessons at no extra cost. Sign up soon. When the pandemic has passed I'm expecting a queue.   

Come......High Water

A boat on the wrong side of the wall.

I'd looked at photos of floods, watched movies with floods and seen floods on the news. Then one night a flood knocked at the door of my tiny yellow house with turquoise shutters and this time the photos, videos and news were about people and a place that I knew.

My house is on a long, thin island between the Venetian Lagoon and the Adriatic Sea.  At its narrowest it's 16 feet and at its widest, about a quarter of a mile. There are only two roads on the island, one by the sea and one by the lagoon. Colorful houses line the lagoon and face the sea, but most (like mine) are tucked in the tiny calli (lanes) between the two.

Storms on the island are always spectacular.  The residents congregate in the lagoon to watch the clouds roll in and the whitecaps grow.  As it gets colder and windier, most head back inside, but some of us don't give in until the first cold raindrops fall.

On November 12, 2019 I wasn't on the island for the storm. That night I received a video with waves sloshing over the low wall on the lagoon side, 30 steps from my front door.  The message said that everyone was on alert for acqua alta (high water). There were voices in the background on the video, but they didn't sound much different from what I usually hear at the beginning of a storm...oohs and aahs like spectators at  a good American fireworks display and a few ciaos from people pedaling past on their bikes to beat the rain. 

Acqua alta wasn't new on the island, but it hadn't been around for nearly two decades after pumps were installed to protect the island from seasonal high water. It took several years before the residents found the courage to store their emergency acqua alta panels in the attic.  That's where I found mine when I bought the house and for history's sake decided to use them as kitchen shelves.

The beginning of the eerie clean-up.

Shortly after receiving the first video, I got a message saying that no one had seen anything like it (which was alarming since many of the islanders are old enough to remember the flood of 1966).  Then came the video with waves pouring (instead of sloshing) over the wall and heading straight down my calle.

The videographer was my neighbor.  She's of the group that usually runs for cover before the first raindrops fall, so her videos were shot from her second floor window. Twenty-eight minutes after her first message she wrote that the water in our calle was one meter high (3 feet, 3 inches) and there was no electricity. Next came a photo with water as high as the bottom of my first floor window. There was nothing to do but wait in my safe, dry kitchen (a 90-minute drive and 20-minute boat ride away) while my friends on the island waited in their second floor bedrooms (because they no longer had safe, dry kitchens). 

The island skyline.

Some families spent the night bailing water out their windows while others tired and went upstairs to bed. Everyone knew the water would eventually recede but many worried about when it would rise again.  Acqua alta had always been a part of life on the island. This group was just out of practice.

For a few hours that night the island and lagoon had become one. Those that slept woke to bikes and upturned dumpsters floating past their doors and found boats where cars were once parked.  I was told to wait a day before making the trip because parts of the island were still under water.

Two days after the flood I shared  the ferryboat with a lot of new stoves, fridges and washing machines. When I arrived on the island I was greeted with somber yet resilient hellos from a population insistent on staying afloat instead of bailing out.

Several years ago I found a sunken boat washed up in the lagoon. I made it into a sofa. This time it didn't sink. It floated around my livingroom until the flood receded.

Runnin' in the Rain

My grandma had a mudroom. When you went in the house through the garage, it was on the left. There were probably a couple of hooks on the wall and there was definitely a stool where my grandpa sat to put on his boots.      

We had the same kind of room at my childhood house. It was also on the left when you went in from the garage, but we called it the back bathroom instead of the mudroom. It didn't have a stool because my house didn't have a grandpa. But you could sit on the toilet if you had to tie your boots .

Our back bathroom was long and narrow. One wall was lined with waist-high hooks overhung with clothes we never wore. The hooks were meant to be used for dirty football uniforms and wet winter clothes. As a family of skiers, snowman builders and tobaggoners, winter was our wonderland. I was never told not to get wet....not until moving to Italy, anyway. Here I'm often warned of the dangers of dampness and looked at in disbelief when I walk through the piazza without an umbrella on big snowflake days.

In Chicago I was a year-round runner. Traction cleats on my running shoes solved the problem of slippery sidewalks, I didn't care how fat I looked in two pairs of running pants and I liked the sound of the icicles clicking in my hair. Even though my Chicago house didn't have a back bathroom, life went on in any kind of weather.    

Due to the great care (many) Italians take to avoid draughts and siutations that involve sweating when there's no hot shower close at hand, it's not surprising that rain can ruin more than just a good Italian parade. It can also (almost) ruin a good run.  Dark clouds out my back window are commonplace.  Behind the olive grove are the mountains and behind the mountains the sky is either convertible blue or 50 shades of grey.  

I was pleasantly surprised the day my 40 year-old neighbor wanted to run on one of those grey days.  And she was unpleasantly surprised when it started to rain. She thought we should turn around until I reminded her we were exactly halfway from home. When she started running faster I told her that we'd be drenched when we got home no matter how fast we ran. She was nervous and cold and uncertain and said she'd definitely have to wash her running shoes as soon as she got home and that her mom was going to kill her. I can't remember if she really said that part about her murdering mom, but all of the scolding kids get for walking in the grass in their socks and sitting on the dirty floor and keeping their coats zipped up leads me to believe a 40-year old might still be afraid of her mom if she came home with wet shoes.

Believe it or not (for my Italian readers), we made it home safely from the rainy run. And, believe it or not (again for my Italian readers), my nervous, cold and uncertain friend finished the run quite giddy and proud to send her husband (but not her mom) a photo of her smudged mascara and huge smile.

I'm not sure what she did with her running shoes when she got home because Italian houses don't have mudrooms.  Collin's Dictionary defines a mudroom as "a room in a house used for the removal and storage of wet or muddy footwear and outerwear." American houses are designed with the idea that we might find ourselves wet and muddy. But the words for mudroom in Italian are atrio/ingresso and those words translate as lobby and entrance, with no mention of mud. It seems Roman architects were too worried about the Colosseum to consider just how much a good mudroom can change your life.

Great Expectations

I imagine I'm not the only one with "Covid friends." I don't mean new friends that I made in the hospital as Covid patients.  I mean people that I reconnected with at the beginning of the pandemic, when Covid 19 was still called the Coronavirus. People from grade school, middle school and high school. Relatives, university friends, old work friends and friends of my mom. These folks may have been lost forever if not for Covid.

It's no doubt that living in Italy spurred the connections. There's nothing like a lot of really sick, scared and dying people to get your attention. Then put them all in a country known for La Dolce Vita (the sweet life) and it becomes a mini-series worth watching. And if you happen to know one of the characters it'd be hard not to tune in.

I happily accepted calls and emails from around the world and shared my limited view of the suddenly not so sweet life. Then, just as suddenly, the calls of concern about life in Italy became calls for advice about how to live with Covid in the rest of the world. There was a need to reconnect. People wanted to share and they were willing to listen.  And it seemed like almost everyone had more time.  Lockdowns, stay-at-home orders and quarantines meant people were available. But even those smartworking and managing kids' online lessons from their bedrooms seemed to find time for things they couldn't find time for before.

Then as weeks of living with Covid became months of living with Covid we were encouraged to get back to normal life (albeit with masks and alcohol). And unfortunately, it seems that for many, normal life often lacks the things you like and the things you consider important.

Collins Dictionary says "something that is normal is usual and ordinary and what people expect." That means returning to normal life comes with the expectation that we'll have no time to connect and share. If you start out with that expectation there's certainly less room for disappointment, but Dickens would be far from proud. According to Sparknotes, the moral theme of his Great Expectations is quite simple: affection, loyalty and conscience are more important than social advancement, wealth and class.

I'd like to think that what we didn't learn from Dickens we might have learned from the first few weeks of Covid. Making connections should be more about affection than social advancement. 

I'd rather live a life with great expectations than live a normal life.  

Sex, Religion, Politics and ........

In February (and March and April and.....) my fear of Covid was a fear of infection and death. While I can't say that I've officially erased that fear, I can say that it's taken a backseat. I don't hold my breath anymore when I pass people in fields and I don't always wear my glasses in public. My groceries are no longer rubbed down with alcohol and my mail doesn't spend an extra day in the mailbox before it gets opened.  I still worry about touching things (in public, but no longer at home) and I try to be downwind for conversations on the beach. I've added to my already obssessive behaviours in public bathrooms, but I don't hold it anymore.

We were told we'd have to learn to live with the virus and I'm trying.  My current fear has gone from losing a battle with Covid to losing friends over a battle about Covid.  I'm taking small steps to adjust to the new way of life, but unlike many friends, I think it's real, I think it could be dangerous and I think it's better to be safe than sorry.    

Walking through the piazza last week I was surprised by a friend.  In 2019 had she come from behind with a hug I would have been startled, then laughed.   In 2020 I was still startled, then shocked. I shook her arm off and told her it made me uncomfortable.  Fortunately, the tension lasted as long as the hug and we continued walking and talking (at a safe distance) and it seemed like 2019 again. Thirty minutes later I got a message.

She wrote that she really can't understand me. She said that for her it was nice to see me in the piazza, but for me it wasn't. She said I made her feel like she had infested me with the Plague and that Covid had taken over my brain. She said that a lot of people are living really badly because of huge misinformation from the media and that I'm living as though I'm already sick.

I'm not sure what happened after our friendly chat in the piazza about her cute outfit and her son's new girlfriend, but it seems all she could remember was the hug I'd refused (a decision based on guidelines from the CDC, not the local anchorman). 

I wanted to say that social distancing saves lives, but I didn't.  I wish I would've said that if she thinks I'm living the way someone sick is living, then the sick people are really quite lucky because they still go running everyday and spend their weekends on the beach, but I didn't.  Instead I wrote that, in fact, I was happy to see her and I wasn't living badly. Period.

I'm tired of feeling guilty for shunning a hug.  And I've stopped feeling embarrassed about taking one step back (again and again) while people continue taking two steps forward.  My behaviors aren't excessive. I haven't worn gloves for months, I haven't locked myself in my house and I haven't stopped going out for pizza and ice cream. Life goes on with masks and social distancing.  

One of my students is a chemist.  He agrees with my behavior and he disagrees with huggers and handshakers.  In addition to suggesting lessons in the park on sunny winter days, he's also stocked me with some special masks.  He says they're better than the cute ones I've made from old buttondowns and one in particular is to use when I'm only concerned about protecting myself. I hope I'm wearing that one the next time someone comes up from behind with a surprise hug. 

As an American I learned to avoid three taboo subjects.....sex, religion and politics. (Quite the contrary in Italy). I think the time has come to add a fourth....Covid. Losing a friend to Covid would be devastating.  Losing a friend over Covid would be stupid.  
    






 

Big Girls Do Cry

A few weeks ago Italy's lockdown lightened a little.  News spread to the States that people were out and life was beginning again.  But for many Italians, these new rules hadn't changed life at all. 

Bars (cafes) could open for take-away coffee, but that had never been part of an Italian's daily life and the fear of no customers kept many bars closed. Those that did open had to buy paper cups because although a cappuccino grande sounds Italian, walking down the street with one is a whole new thing. And there was still confusion on who could grab a coffee to-go because we were still required to carry the auto-certification and going out for a cup of coffee wasn't on the list.

The lightened lockdown included a lot more things that we couldn't do, than things we could do. You still couldn't take a walk with a friend.  You couldn't talk to more than one person at a time in the street.  And you couldn't buy more than two packs of yeast at the grocery store--- the only one of the three 'couldn'ts' that wasn't fineable. (Some joked that on lockdown Michiganders take to the streets with guns while Italians just bake more bread. I was happy to confirm that there was a yeast shortage in the States, too.) 

On the new could-do-list you could visit family, but having no Italian roots, that didn't affect me. You could also drive somewhere, take a walk, and then drive home.  But since I'm used to walking 10 miles a day it seemed silly to drive (alone) to another town that I could just as easily have walked to. You could go to gelaterie (ice cream shops) but were obligated to get your ice cream (one at a time), leave immediately and enjoy it in your car or walking. There was no licking in front of the gelateria or on a nearby bench in the piazza because that came with a fine. I decided gelato could wait for the next phase.

Six days ago (71 days into the lockdown, three days before phase 2 ) I stopped on the street to talk to a neighbor.  She was in her yard and I stayed on the other side of her gate because visiting friends was still prohibited. A few minutes later another neighbor came out for a walk and stopped for a 6-foot visit.  That was prohibited, too, because it's considered an assembly in a public place, but we decided to risk it. 

I asked the newcomer about her bar.  She was one of the few that had tried to open with paper cups. She didn't answer, but started to cry a little.  I responded with a few tears of my own only to be followed by the crying woman on the other side of the fence.   There we stood, barely friends before the coronavirus, yet nearly three months later able to understand each other's silence and unable to offer a pat on the shoulder or hug.  Whoever said Big Girls Don't Cry had no idea of life with the coronavirus.
 

History is in the Eye of the Beholder

The people I meet traveling are almost always more memorable than the places I see. And sometimes the people I DON'T meet leave a lasting impression, too. 

At a photo exhibition in Mostar, Bosnia I saw a girl in her thirties. She was wearing leggings, a baggy sweater and a scarf. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was pushing a bike with a wicker basket just like mine. This photo was different than the faded black and white war photos I'm used to with people in strange clothes with funny hairdos.  The girl looked like she could have been my friend.  The photo was taken in 1993 and she had just crossed the Mostar Bridge (which was bombed later that same year).

Maybe she was out to fill her basket with groceries and fresh flowers or returning from a cafe where she'd just met a friend for coffee.  The war lasted so long that most people had no choice but to continue trying to live their lives. This girl was living history.

Most of you are living history, too.  The history of the Covid-19 pandemic. But I'm not. I'm hiding in my tiny house in my tiny town in Italy. And when I'm not home, I'm close to home in the big field next door. I don't watch news about the coronavirus because I don't have a TV (my choice). And even though I could get updates on the internet, I seldom do that either (my choice).  I was frightened  by the costumed men that came to test my neighbors for the virus on February 22 and since then I've done my best to avoid other unsettling images.

I should probably be embarrassed to admit that I wonder if I'll regret my choice. But the truth is, I am embarrassed and I do wonder. I'm an observer, not a participant. Actually, I'm not even an observer.  I haven't walked through an eerily empty piazza. I haven't heard the announcement at the grocery store that the folks in aisle 4 have to keep their distance. I haven't bought bread at the bakery that allows one customer in at a time and I haven't had pizza delivered from the masked guy on his Vespa. The only images I have of life in Italy during the pandemic are the ones I've created myself.

I hope the girl on Stari Most (Mostar Bridge) is still alive and sitting in a cafe in Bosnia (or her new country, if she fled as a refugee) telling her friend that she remembers the last time she crossed that beautiful bridge on her bike. And I hope one day in the future when I'm in a bar (cafe) in Italy and my friend tells me that she remembers seeing a hearse, a priest and one onlooker in front of the town's church I'll finally have the courage to listen without humming loudly and plugging my ears. But I'll remain silent.  Walking hundreds of miles in the field next door and living 63 (and sadly counting) days with no pizza is far from tragic. I'll have no stories to share because history is in the eye of the beholder and I haven't beheld.



(!!!Please note:  I'm well aware that life during the Bosnian War and the coronavirus pandemic are worlds apart, but living on lockdown has made me think about life during war times.  I cautiously broached the subject with my Bosnian friend in Chicago who wasn't offended and said that in fact, there are some similarities.)

Memories of West Michigan

Dear Readers,
My hometown newspaper asked me to write this article.  It won't make any sense to a lot of you, but I wanted to share it here anyway, because there might just be someone reading  in West Michigan.
I also used some lines from a past blog (in case you're keeping track).
--Tenley
__________________________________________________________________

A lesson in the lagoon

I told Toto long ago that we weren't in Kansas anymore, but I'm constantly reminded that even when you're somewhere over the rainbow you're not so far from home. Between 1965 and 1987 West Michigan was home, but in the past 33 years I've found pieces of home all over the world, and those that I haven't found will go on living in MY memories of West Michigan. 

In the 80s, "Let's go to Paris" meant I was in the mood for Yesterdog.  Hearing the sound of the road change when the tires hit the bricks made me dream of a cobblestone street in Paris. Many years later when I actually lived on a cobblestone street in Paris the bumps made my bike bell ring which reminded me of Yesterdog's tip horn. If only the guys on the streets of Paris sold cheddardogs instead of just Nutella crepes.

After Eastown came East Grand Rapids for a double dip of mint chocolate chip ice cream at Jersey Junction, my favorite place for a date. Or, if I wanted to be served by a friendly waitress in a little gold dress with white trim and an apron I'd go for a piece of Mint Chip Pie at Sweetland's on Plainfield. I'd discovered the pie when I was a teenager and no longer qualified for the free gum drop sundae that came with the kid's meal.  And neither ice cream treat was complete without a little bag of seafoam from the candy counter.

If Sweetland's was closed (or our favorite waitress that really knew the meaning of whipped cream wasn't working) we'd head a little further down Plainfield for some Bill Knapp's Hot Fudge Cake (also served by a friendly waitress in a gold dress) and a Bing Crosby serenade, because it was always someone's birthday.

Living in Italy there's never a shortage of gelato (ice cream), but it would be nice if it were served in a place that features fabulous food and fantastic fountain fantasies to frolicking fun-filled festive families, like Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor. And I've yet to leave a gelateria (ice cream parlor) with a piece of foot long licorice for dessert.

According to my American visitors ice cream in Italy is better, but I think half of it is the thrill of an ice cream cone at 5:30pm. In Michigan that's when your mom says you can't have it because it's almost suppertime. In Italy, it's part of Happy Hour, and dinner can wait.

At least one Italian American family has convinced Michiganders that a late supper is worth the wait. The long lines on the front and back staircases of Fricano's in Grand Haven are proof. I hope the red and white checked tablecloths are still shaken out (right behind your back) and turned over for the next customer. And I hope you still get a paper placemat with the list of 5 ingredients and the sketch of the gondola. Had you asked me 35 years ago what kind of pizza I'd be eating in 2020 I would've said cheese, just like at Fricano's. But had you told me that one day I'd be learning how to "vogare alla Veneziana" (row a gondola-like boat with one oar while standing) I would've said, "I suppose you also think fountains can sing."

Which brings us back to dessert, a soft serve cone from Dairy Treat with it's whimsical wall of giant circles and a walk on the pier, followed of course, by the musical fountain.

I think if I really looked I could find some of these things in Italy.  But for now if I just close my eyes and click my red heels, it's not hard to find what I'm missing. 

Masks....Not Just For Carnevale Anymore

To mask or not to mask?  That's usually a question Italians ask every year at the end of February during Carnevale.  And although this year's event was cut short due to the coronavirus, the question remains.

In the beginning there was a myriad of mixed messages. When we were told masks were only necessary for doctors we wondered why they worked for doctors and not the rest of us.  And then we were told they were only for doctors and infected people. But with a 14-day incubation period there were a lot of infected people seemingly healthy and maskless. That seems like it might have been the right time to say we should all be wearing them.

On March 12, nine Chinese epidemic experts came to help out with the crisis in Italy.  Upon arrival they were photographed with the President of the Italian Red Cross.  Only one person pictured was maskless (and he wasn't Chinese).

One of the biggest concerns for the Chinese 9 (as I affectionately call them) was that few Italians were wearing masks. That seems like it might have been another good time to make them compulsory. Experts from a country already devastated by the disease are in shock that we're not using masks and we continue not using them.

A few weeks ago companies were required to supply their employees with masks and the employees were required to wear them. But this rule only applied at work. I asked myself why you should protect yourself from your co-workers but not the guy at the gas station.

The last week of March I'd heard that volunteers from the Civil Protection Agency would be delivering masks to each home in the community. It's not the kind of delivery one gets excited about, yet I found myself waiting anxiously (not for the masks, but for fear of the masked men).

I've been spending most of my time in the yard during the lockdown, but fortunately on delivery day I was sitting at my kitchen table. Seeing the car in the driveway was enough to make me cry. A masked man jumped out and came toward the house. I waved, motioned to leave the masks on the windowsill and gave him a thumbs up. I imagine he smiled under his mask then ran back to the car delivering good cheer to the rest of the town.

I left the little plastic-wrapped package outside on the windowsill all day. I could read the first few lines of the upsidedown letter from inside the house.  

"Dear Citizens,
It's a time of patience and responsibility.
We still can't say with certainty how long all of this will last. It is definitely a difficult period for all of us, no one excluded."

The letter was folded at that point so I couldn't read the rest.  I do know that on that day, March 30, masks still weren't mandatory. This was just a goodie bag from Officer Friendly. 
   
On April 14, Italy changed its rules and entered  'lockdown soft'. 51 days after they canceled the conclusion of Carnevale due to the coronavirus they have finally decided that masks are obligatory for everyone... everywhere (except at home). 

I hope other countries don't wait for the (finally)-masked-Italian 9 to show up on their doorstep before deciding it's the right time to make masks mandatory.  To mask or not to mask? Don't wait until Carnevale 2021 to decide.    

Italy's New "Lockdown Soft"

The shepherd working His green pastures

Just as I was starting to enjoy the rules for the lockdown in Italy they changed it to the lockdown soft. Here's how Day One went.

My first scent of the day came as I sat on the front stoop lacing my running shoes. One of the neighboring fields was being treated by the manure spreader. I never plugged my nose when I passed a farm in the US. I actually liked the smell of manure. My brothers used to gag in the backseat of the Plymouth '66, but if it was my turn for the window seat it meant that I controlled the window and it stayed down.

Had I grown up in Italy, the window would have gone up when I passed a farm. Guidebooks leave out the part that Italian manure stinks. The mucche (cows) eat beautiful fields of yellow, white and purple wildflowers, but in the end, everything doesn't come out roses. My neighbor told me there's a law that manure can only be spread in the middle of the night when most people are sleeping. Apparently this farmer thought lockdown soft meant people were sleeping IN.

I left the stoop and passed under my rainbow.  It's fading a little, but my hope for peace isn't. I picked a daisy and counted its petals, even though it was no longer necessary. On lockdown when I could only be 200 meters from home, I dropped a petal with every lap to count and pass the time.  On lockdown soft, the 200-meter limit has been lifted and replaced with some typical Italian phraseology. Here's a translation of the governor's speech:

"Motor activity is individual, and must be performed in proximity of your home. I have removed the 200 meters, this is an act of great trust. Proximity doesn't mean 4 kilometers. The law says: in proximity."

I wonder if 3.9 kilometers is in proximity.

Even though I could have let freedom ring a little, I hopped my neighbor's fence to return to the security of my Coronavirus Trail. The shepherd had been there the past few days and for some reason I can't get enough of the fact that I run in a field with a shepherd and his sheep. Unfortunatley, instead of finding them, I found the manure-spreading tractor loading up the fields on both sides of my canal.
   
This forced me to follow the next lockdown soft rule...always wear a mask.  I'd had one tucked in my Coronavirus Kit for nearly two months so I pulled it out.  Hopefully it will work better for the virus than it did for the manure. My only choice was to run farther than 200 meters.

That's it for how lockdown soft has affected me on Day One. The only real changes in most people's lives are that gloves and masks are obligatory and we don't have to stay within 200 meters of home, but 4 kilometers is out of the question. Another interesting one is if you're out and stopped by the police they'll check your temperature.  If it's above 37.5 degrees celcius (99.5 degrees fahrenheit), it's a reato (crime, violation, felony, misdemeanor). It seems my dictionary is as vague as our governor.

As for how far I'll dare stray from home tomorrow, maybe I'll ask the shepherd. He might know what proximity means. He puts an orange fence around his flock and goes home with Lassie for lunch every day (which seems an act of great trust). He has a beard, a staff and sheep.  What would HE do?  

  

The 100-Mile Coronavirus Challenge

My Nike Running Club profile photo

I went to bed last night knowing that in the morning I'd be the first to complete a 100-mile challenge.  I affectionately call it my Coronavirus Challenge.

I was invited to participate by a friend in Chicago. The challenge was to encourage those that could no longer go to their closed gyms to get moving. The goal was to reach 100 miles in the month of April.

I'm not a gym-goer and have never needed a reason to get out the door. I'd been running and walking on lockdown in Italy for nearly a month when the invitation came and my far-from-home adventures had become 200-meter-from-home outings. The idea of the lady on the Nike app reporting mileage from my pocket every now and then sounded like a nice distraction, so I accepted the 100-Mile Challenge.

It wasn't long until I was near the top of the list and with a last name that starts with 'Y', being at the top of a list was new for me. The other participants signed up with their names and cute workout photos and I entered as "Tenley in Italy" and put a photo of my canal in the field. After each workout, the results were updated and your position on the list changed (or didn't). 

My goal from the beginning wasn't as much about reaching 100 miles as it was about winning. I had no doubt about completing that mileage in one month (barring unforeseen circumstances). My goal was to do it before everyone else. Until yesterday, that is, when I realized that in the 21 marathons I've run, I'd never once thought about winning. I hated the hecklers that told us after 2 hours and 5 minutes we could stop running because the race had already been won. Marathons are a self-challenge, not something to win and I suddenly felt guilty for wanting to win the Coronavirus Challenge.

I spent the next hundred laps in my 200-meter-field-away-from-home contemplating the difference between competition and challenge. I'd approached the event as a competition instead of a challenge.  In English they have different meanings but in Italian they're most often used as synonyms.  Maybe I've been living in Italy too long which explains why I attacked the Challenge with such a competitive edge.

I finished 100 miles today, the 14th of April instead of the 30th.  (My competitive side wants to whisper (instead of yell) that I started on April 5th.) I'm sure when I head out for my laps tomorrow I'm going to miss the lady in my pocket.  I'll continue checking the site and silently rooting on the participants in Chicago because it's a self-challenge and there are 16 more days to complete it. 
 
One thing is embarrassingly worth noting. I've seldom entered a competition I didn't think I could win, which is the sign of a coward, not a victor. I'm sure we'd all rather be winners than losers. But that doesn't mean losers don't deserve a victory lap.  A loser deserves a lot more than a coward.     

From Italian Literature to Dirty Books

I suppose it was the Pope's idea not to announce the extension of the current coronavirus lockdown in Italy on Easter Day.  It wouldn't have been religiously correct. But the current decreto (decree) states that the lockdown lasts until April 13, and that's tomorrow. Talk of the new rules usually starts a few days before the current deadline, but since that's just talk, we wait anxiously for the signing of the official decree. Italians like making rules, changing rules and breaking rules.  And all of this involves a lot of time and paperwork.

According to the talk, our lockdown will be extended to May 3. Here's a translation of things that will change on April 14. Bookstores, stationery stores and shops that sell clothes for infants and kids will reopen. Forestry activity, industry involving wood and the production of computers can start back up. Parks and playgrounds remain closed in addition to the cancellation of all sports activities and professional training. Motor activity is still permitted in the vicinity of home, but only alone and maintaining distance.

One of the most made-fun-of items on the last several decrees is something called auto certificazione (self certification). Any time you're not at home, you're required to carry this paper. The form has changed four or five times since the beginning of the lockdown. With each change you're required to have the latest version. And with each new version, comes a new meme.

Our current lockdown says we can't be more than 200 meters from home with the exception of trips to the pharmacy, medical visits, grocery shopping or work. If stopped by the police these activities have to be declared, as does walking alone in a field. The auto certificazione must be signed and given to the officer for later confirmation of the validity of your response. If there's discrepency, you'll be fined.

The selection of shops that have permission to reopen on April 14 has left us somewhat befuddled. No one's talking about the kid's clothing shops being open, after all we're in Italy where fashion comes first. But the reopening of bookstores is getting a lot of press.

Apparently some intellectuals (that's what they say) and booksellers have signed a petition asking for bookstores to reopen. They say that reading books can be like talking to a neighbor and since many on lockdown can't do that, it's time to start reading. That doesn't sound so intellectual to me. Maybe their next petition will say: Why talk to your neighbor when you can read?

Bookstore employees, however, aren't so enthused about the reopening and claim there's no way to clean the coronavirus from a book. But the intellectuals have solved that problem with a new rule. Before going to the bookstore you have to know what you're going to buy. (Maybe it will have to be written on the new auto certificazione before leaving home.)

Opening bookstores means opening cartolibrerie (stationery shops) because in addition to pens and paper, they also sell books, and what's fair for one bookseller is fair for another. Cartolibrerie also sell office supplies and offer UPS, fax and photocopying services.

And we mustn't forget the ribbon cutting ceremonies at grocery stores that can finally cut the tape on their aisles of pens and paper. These aisles have been off limits since the beginning of the lockdown. It took some real intellectuals to decide that if you went to the grocery store you could only buy groceries.

Even though we're still waiting for the official decree, people have already started planning their new lighter lockdown excursions. First, the cartolibreria to make copies of the new auto certificazione because no one is going to work where they can make free copies. Second, the grocery store for some good reading snacks and a pen (because you forgot to pick one up at the cartolibreria and fortunately the pen aisle is now open). And third, a quick trip to the bookshop where book-buying must be efficient. You touch it, you buy it. Unfortunately, in coronavirus times, you have to judge a book by its cover. 

How Was Your Lockdown?

If wireless lie detectors exist, I think it's time they become available as an app. Turn it on as you approach someone, ask the obligatory question, and find out if they really are fine.

I've hated (and periodically refused) saying HOW ARE YOU since I was a child.  I asked my mom why people asked the question since no one cared about the answer anyway. I told her I was going to start responding that I was sad because my grandpa had died just to see if they'd react. I was sure I'd find that some didn't even listen to an irresistible chubby kid with ringlets.

The fact that the expression is taught on the first day of ESL (English as a Second Language) classes proves its ridiculousness. You can show the class a ball and teach the students BALL.  And you can wave to teach HELLO. But at the first lesson you can't explain HOW ARE YOU to a class unless you know how to say it in Arabic, Somalian, Ethiopian and Bhutanese. You're left to act out a small scene with a smile (also teachable), a wave and a friendly HELLO. But the teacher's manual throws in HOW ARE YOU and I'M FINE with no real explanation, simply because that's what comes next. I don't think any refugee on their second day in America is really fine.     

Guidebooks teach it, parents teach it and teachers teach it and I think it's a bad lesson. It makes those of us that don't ask seem impolite.  And those of us that answer how we really are seem extreme. We should form a club and wear a special pin that says, "Don't ask unless you really care." But I suppose no one would take too kindly to that either. There's no place for the realists.

On the 34th day of Italy's lockdown I realized that people have been taking the question more seriously lately. They show real concern and ask with sincerity. And they finally listen to the answer. If I had the special pin I wouldn't wear it on lockdown. I'd be happy to ask and happy to be asked.

I'm sure the first week of liberty from lockdown will be just like the first week after summer vacation and Christmas break. People don't ask how you are, they ask what you did. And they're no more interested in your vacation than how you were before you left.

The second week after lockdown when we return to HOW ARE YOUS and I'M FINES,  I predict a lot of folks won't really be fine.  And for those that have the courage to answer truthfully, will the askers take time to listen? Guidebooks, parents and teachers didn't prepare us for what comes next.

Seeing that I went into lockdown two weeks earlier than everyone else, I think I'll come out two weeks later. Maybe that'll save me from HOW WAS YOUR LOCKDOWN. By that time everyone will be tired of the obligatory question and I'll just sneak into the bar (cafe') with my pin, lie detector app and an open ear.
 

No Lemons on Lockdown? Make Lemonade Anyway

Dancing Raindrops for Agata

Theodore Roosevelt said, "Do what you can with what you have where you are."  As an American expat in Italy, I've been heeding his advice since touchdown. I lived without Diet Coke in pizzerias for several years until Italians finally discovered Coca Zero. Cutting chocolate bars to make chocolate chips is a lot easier than it used to be. And going from no internet to slow internet is promising.

Last week I heard that a little girl in my borghetto (little neighborhood) was about to have a coronavirus lockdown birthday. All I know about Agata is that she loves to be outside and every time she rides by on her blue bike she says, "Hell-0" (it rhymes with Jell-0). If her 8th birthday hadn't been on the 26th day of lockdown, I know she would've been with her friends and  extended family. But since they were off limits, I decided to add something to this year's unusual birthday celebration. 

I wanted to write on her driveway with sidewalk chalk, but I had no chalk. I didn't have any helium for my balloons either and I hate breath-filled balloons taped to the wall and tied to light fixtures.  They look upsidedown and make me sad instead of happy.  I do like carpets of balloons that silently float away as you walk through them, but in the grass the silence would have been a pop concert.

My Theodore Roosevelt solution was to tie the balloons to an open umbrella and prop the umbrella in the plant at the end of Agata's driveway. I called the piece DANCING RAINDROPS and I thought it made a nice addition to the rainbow installation at the end of my driveway.  I wrapped up a pack of handmade English/Italian flashcards and offered free pronunciation tips every time she passes on her bike.

Sadly aware that a piece of Agata's chocolate birthday cake wouldn't go down well  under the circumstances (coronavirus), I decided to bake my own. Since Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines aren't expats, I've learned to make chocolate cake from scratch, but it takes cocoa which wasn't on the last lockdown shopping list.

I moved on to pumpkin bread. It seems a little strange in April, but I had a can of soon to expire pumpkin puree (almost Libby's, which I consider my greatest find of 2019). Unfortunately, the pumpkin bread recipe also lacked an ingredient. It was time to do what I could with what I had and get a little help from the slow internet. Thanks to my mother-in-law's Snickerdoodle recipe, I had a half teaspoon of cream of tartar which when mixed with a quarter teaspoon of baking soda equals a teaspoon of the missing ingredient...baking powder.

The recipe makes two loaves, but I only have one bread pan. I did what I could with a baking dish which in the end seems to have been the secret ingredient. Upon first bite I heard, "Perche' mi hai detto che stavi facendo pane di zucca? Questa e' una torta."   (Why did you tell me you were making pumpkin bread?  This is cake.)     

With the advice of Mr. Roosevelt, I turned upsidedown balloons into dancing raindrops, cream of tartar into baking powder and bread into cake.  Now it's time to see what you can do.

A Spring Fashion Show from Locked Down Italy

Pizza's not the only thing I miss on lockdown in Italy.  I miss my spring coats, too. My Ethiopian running coat is the only one that's made it out this year. I wear it on the impromptu Italian runway along the canal in the field 200 meters from home. 

The coat serves two purposes. One, the more I look like an athlete, the less problems I'll have explaining that I'm out in the field for motor activity (an activity allowed on lockdown) and not just a leisurely walk. And two, from far away I look like a member of the Civil Protection Department so if other people out participating in motor activity see me, they run the other way, thus protecting me from the coronavirus.

The fact that spring has come (and will probably go) while I'm on lockdown means that I won't get to wear my spring coats this year. So I've decided to air them out and share them here.....with hopes for better luck next year.


Collin's Dictionary defines a fashionista as "a person who follows trends obsessively and strives continually to adopt the latest fashions." But I prefer Merriam Webster's definition of style "a distinctive appearance." And if we must define distinctive, let's go with Oxford's definition, "characteristic of one person or thing, and so serving to distinguish it from others."

LIVE from Italy....... the fashion capital of the world, a show of distinctive (yet  unfashionable) spring coats.

Shanghai, China

Jodhpur, India

One' di Fonte, Italy

 

Chicago, Illinois

Michigan City, Indiana

Paris, France

Ptuj, Slovenia

New York, New York

Still Without a Coronavirus Evacuation Plan

Today's story is about diarrhea.  If that upsets your stomach you can come back tomorrow for a piece on Coronavirus Fashion.  Suit yourself.

I've been living in fear (panic) of the coronavirus for 43 days.  In the first 13 days I had very little contact with the outside world.  And for the past 30, I've had none. I've either been home or in the fields surrounding home (as far as I wanted to venture at first, but now with a 200-meter restriction). 

It sounds safe until I tell you that I live with someone that still has to go to work.  That's where the hysteria sets in.  I wouldn't be afraid of my tiny blue house and all of its drawer pulls and doorknobs if they, too, had no contact with the outside world. But Flavio (not Fabio, for my American readers) works in a building with three other people and I've nicknamed them "the outside world." Fortunately he has his own office and shares the floor with only one person, but it's still not home-sweettinyblue-home.  

He and his colleagues are required to use up old vacation days in an attempt to keep the number of people in the building at one time as low as possible. Masks are required, but they have all chosen to wear their own rather than those the office provided (which are much more effective as cleaning rags than masks).

Flavio only has permission to drive to and from work.  His extra-curricular activites include getting gas and buying groceries. If there's no self service, he drives on. If there is more than one car in the grocery store parking lot, he doesn't stop. After 32 days with no shopping, he finally found an empty parking lot and once again, we have Nutella.

I considered this wild boar hunting blind as a housing option.

A couple of days after the shopping spree he came home from work early with diarrhea. I knew I should have read the instructions on what to do if you have coronavirus symptoms instead of reading the cereal box, because there were probably also instructions on what to do if the person you live with has the symptoms. (I wouldn't have known diarrhea was a symptom had I not listened to the first eight seconds of a message from the States about a friend's brother-in-law that had diarrhea and then the coronavirus. I was well aware of the big symptoms like fever, cough and difficulty breathing. Unfortunately, my avoidance of all media wasn't enough to protect me from a fourth symptom.)

When Flavio got home he tried to convince me he'd eaten bad salami and then he went straight to bed.  I was thankful that I don't like salami and I went straight to panic mode.  I'm a terrible nurse, but did find the courage to leave a cup of tea outside the bedroom door.

I talked to friends, cried and tried to eat some pasta pomodoro (pasta marinara). Then it came to mind that maybe Flavio's homemade sauce was the culprit.  And although I'd prefer bad-tomato-sauce induced diarrhea to the coronavirus, I stopped eating anyway.

I refused to go to the back half of the house. I wore my mask (for the first time) in the front half.  And seeing that the bathroom wasn't in my half I waited until it got dark and then watered the tree in the front yard.

I knew Flavio would tell me if he had a fever (the instructions probably said to inform family members) so I didn't ask.  I just lay in bed counting the minutes between flushes and working on an evacuation plan. If Flavio was sick no one would take me in because I might be sick, too. And what about the recent MIT study (I hope it's not true) suggesting droplets carrying the coronavirus can travel up to 27 feet? My house is only 24. I finally fell asleep to those sweet dreams only to wake a few hours later to a flush, but still no fever.

I spent the morning masked and waiting for news. The request at noon for chicken noodle soup was the beginning of the end. The salami was thrown away and the tomato sauce was put in the freezer with a masking tape label that says "diarrhea."

We returned to normal life on lockdown....dining like royalty at the  opposite ends of a long table, forwarding funny videos instead of watching them together on the same phone, cleaning the doorknobs and drawer pulls with pink alcohol, over-washing our hands and hoping.

For the thousands of people whose nightmare didn't end with a cup of chicken noodle soup, mi dispiace (I'm sorry). Mi dispiace tantissimo (I'm really, really sorry).  
     

Sealed with an Italian Kiss

The last time I measured, one meter was about three feet.  Although the metric system never caught on in the States, that's one that stuck with me in third grade. I memorized that three feet was a yard, and I could visualize a yardstick. Now that I live in Italy I just visualize yardsticks when someone talks about meters and I'm all set. And if I run out of yardsticks I switch to football fields.

Learning the temperature in celsius was also on my third grade teacher's list of things to teach, but all I remember is that 32 in one system equals zero in the other.  That's a hard one to compute because when the temp hits 0 degrees celsius Italians complain about the cold and for this Chicagoan it's a balmy 32.    

Most Italians talk more about their body temperature than the air temperature, so I've found a new helpful conversion. A healthy American is 98.6 degrees fahrenheit and a healthy Italian is 37 degrees celsius. The only difference is that when a temperature in fahrenheit goes up a little, Americans continue their day and still feel healthy. But as the celsius numbers climb, Italians stop everything because they're sick.  Of course all of this was before the coronavirus.  It doesn't care if you're imperial or metric.  Rising mercury means panic in both languages.

My Italian vocabulary increased with Covid 19 (pronounced  co-veed diciannove) but fortunately some words are similar or adopted from English.  Italians have been using English words for a long time.  Some of my favorites are weekend (weekend), shopping (shopping) (secondhand, of course) and picnic (picnic)....all words that we haven't used in Italy for a month. Now the English word that's making Italian headlines is lockdown (lockdown). (Note to self...use this on the next "which word is different?" test. Weekend, shopping, picnic, lockdown.)

For several weeks using 'lockdown' to describe the situation in Italy to my American friends was met with no objection. But when the coronavirus caught a flight to the US and I welcomed friends into the lockdown I was corrected and told their current status was 'safer-at-home.'  The next day with a different friend I politely used the new term, but was corrected once again.  His state was 'stay-at-home.' There seemed to be a friendly competition in titles and I understood that no one wanted to be 'sheltering-in-place.'

Emails from two friends in Michigan in 'quarantine' were a bit alarming until I continued reading about their neighborhood walks and trips to the grocery store. In Italian being in quarantena means that you are sick or you've been exposed to someone sick and grocery shopping and walks are forbidden. (I think it means the same in English, but I teach my Italian students, not my American friends.)

I'm doing my best to avoid quarantena, but I'm embracing the lockdown (seeing that I can't embrace anything else) and don't need a kinder, gentler term like 'stay-at-home.'  What would you rather say 10 years from now, "Remember the 2020 Lockdown?" or "Remember the 2020 Safer-At-Home?" And I'm already practicing, "I made this giant rug out of old sweaters when I was on lockdown," and "I learned this Bach piece on lockdown." I think it has a nice ring to it. 

We found out yesterday that Italians will be safer-at-home until April 13 which gives me enough time to double check the metric system. The math doesn't add up on social distancing. Italian laws say one meter while in America it's six feet. What happened to one meter equals a yardstick equals three feet? Have I been miscalculating since third grade or does the coronavirus respect cultural differences?  Two yardsticks would be nearly impossible in a country where "It's nice to meet you" is sealed with a kiss. 

Italy is Calling

I've been visiting the US Department of State's website Travel.State.Gov for years. The site monitors the current safety of each country and assigns a level from one to four. Level 1: Exercise Normal Precautions. Level 2: Exercise Increased Caution. Level 3: Avoid Nonessential Travel.  Level 4: Do Not Travel.  Before checking available flights, I check available countries and then head out for a dictionary and a guidebook.

I didn't know about this site when I went to Egypt.  After recent terrorist attacks in Cairo (the late nineties), things seemed to have settled down. Those were the days some of us thought recent attacks meant tightened security and safer trips. Instead of a travel advisory from the State Department, I took my father-in-law's advice and grabbed my backpack.

I wouldn't take the same risk now. And I definitely wouldn't scrouch, climb and crawl through the tunnel to get to the innards of The Great Pyramid of Giza, one of the Seven Great Wonders of the World. But I'm sure glad I did it then. (Thanks, Bob.)

When Bolivia struck my fancy it was Level Two (Exercise Increased Caution).  But I was drawn to the country's long braids, colorful clothes and little black hats so I kept checking. When it jumped to Level One on the charts, I bought my tickets.

On a recent road trip to France (unimpressed by the same landscape I'm used to in Italy), I checked the travel advisory for Uzbekistan and learned that it was travelable. I googled some photos and maps before returning to the off-season fields of lavendar.

When I got home, I let the France trip sink in for a month before I started talking about Uzbekistan again.  Most people responded with alarm and advised me that it was unsafe, so I checked my favorite site and confirmed that it was still Level One (Exercise Normal Precautions). Just for fun, I checked Italy.  Due to recent acts of terrorism in Europe, Italy was Level Two (just like Bolivia had been). In October 2019 I was living in a country that in the past I would have  put on hold as a travel destination.

While writing this piece, I've been checking the site on my phone to verify minor details. Although the screen is small, I still squint my eyes and read between my fingertips to avoid unnecessary coronavirus news. It doesn't take much to see all red.  And I don't have to read anything to know that we are all in this Level Four (Do Not Travel) together.

I have a feeling Italy will be on that list longer than the rest of the world.  And even as the Level goes from Four to One, I think visitors will keep more than just a social distance from us.  It looks like Uzbekistan will have to wait. Italy is calling. Seeing the innards of Venice without climbing and crawling through tourists might just be the next Great Wonder of the World.

A Trailblazer Searching for Happy Trails

These are the trails I like to blaze.

Cambridge Dictionary defines a trailblazer as "the first person to do something or go somewhere who shows that it is also possible for other people."  I'm not the first person to experience life in a country devastated by the coronavirus. The people in Wuhan hold that unenviable title.  But as an expat in Italy, I have found myself in an unusual trailblazing situation.

When I started sending updates to American onlookers, I considered them anecdotes on La Nuova Bella Vita in Italia. Friends answered with disbelief, compassion and encouragement. Unfortunately,  the coronavirus has made its way to the States, and those anecdotes have become instructions. Now when American friends write to me I can't answer with disbelief, but only with empathy and encouragement.     

Living with the coronavirus for nearly a month most Italians (and this American) have locked down and calmed down. We're learning  to digest the truth, live with the reality and cope (or hope). The only thing to do is wear gloves and masks, send funny videos and wait.

The difference in an expat's life, is that we live in two worlds.  In the beginning I only worried about my elderly neighbors on the island, people that still have to go to work and European friends following in Italy's footsteps. But when the virus hit the US, my emotions started working overtime.

My morning messages remind me that I still live in Italy. I get important updates on new lockdown rules, check in on friends and plan the day's activities (just for laughs). Then there's a little downtime.  Around 1pm my phone starts buzzing with activity from America. Early-rising friends, late-rising friends, and friends in 4 time zones (fortunately I don't know anyone in Hawaii or Alaska) keep me busy for the next several hours.

My American friends are much more informed on Italy's situation than I am. One attached an article and knew enough to write "A heartwarming story" in the subject line or his efforts would have gone unread. When I told my neighbors about the 101-year old man that survived the coronavirus and was released from the hospital it was news to them.  Knowing that I avoid all media they asked how I'd heard the story and I proudly answered, "It came from America."

The unnamed man lives Rimini, Italy. He was born during the Spanish Flu pandemic in 1919. That's what I call a real trailblazer. He's the first person to do something who shows that it is also possible for other people. Thanks for giving us hope, Signor Unnamed Man. Happy trails to you.



    

Seize the Day Before the Coronavirus Goes Away

I live in a little borgo (borghetto) in the Italian countryside. It's a clump of houses set in the middle of cornfields, olive groves, vineyards and woods. Across the road from my tiny house there's what I jokingly call a housing complex. It's a big piece of land with a fence around it and inside are four single-family homes. The grandpa and grandma live alone in one and their three kids live with their families in the others.

My favorite neighbors are Emma (9) and Bianca (6). Yesterday they were running around the complex in their red rubber boots searching for tiny wildflowers to make a tiny bouquet for their mom. It would have been fun to help them pick, but it's off-limits due to the coronavirus lockdown. They know they have to keep their distance from other people, but wanted to talk anyway.  They stayed on their side of the fence and I, certain there'd be no traffic, sat down in the middle of the road on my side.

Emma and Bianca's only comments about the pandemic were that they couldn't wait for the coronavirus (pronounced corona vee-roose) to go away so they could pass that silly gate at the end of their driveway. That's all. There was no need to plug my ears or interrupt the gory details because the coronavirus conversation stopped there.

They told me they had homemade pizza the night before because their mom said that right now they couldn't get carry out.  I had frozen pizza (I have no yeast) for the same reason.  They said they couldn't get to sleep because they had watched a scary cartoon (not the scary news) but in the morning their fear had passed (instead of grown). I watched an old DVD of Dead Poet's Society (L'attimo Fuggente, which is the Italian translation of the Latin term Carpe Diem, which in English means Seize the Day).

Emma told me about last night's cartoon and Bianca included the important details like when the giraffe farts (my mom wouldn't let me say that word). When the story was over, I asked Bianca about the hole in her pants.  She said it happened climbing a tree, but Emma insisted it was when she fell off her bike trying to ride no-handed. They asked me how to say bici (bike), mazzolino (bouquet) and albero (tree) in English and just to confuse them I asked how to say pizza (pizza) and spaghetti (spaghetti) in Italian.

Important conversations like these have been lacking in Italy for more than a month. Everyone wants to keep themselves free from the coronavirus, but I'm one of the few trying to keep myself free from the coronavirus news.  Friends update me on the important stuff, but if there is news I can live without, I prefer to live without it. It's the only way to keep living.

When the girls were called in for lunch I sat in the road for a few more minutes thinking that we are the only three kids in the borghetto doing our best to live without the virus.  Just like Emma and Bianca, I'm waiting for the day that they can pass that silly gate. I'm waiting for the the day it will be unsafe to sit in the middle of the road and the day we can all get back to dangerous stuff like riding no-handed and climbing trees. But until the coronavirus goes away, our only option is to seize the day. And hopefully we've all learned that's what we should have been doing all along. 

A Smiling Rainbow in Italy

Italians and rainbows are doing what they can to boost morale during the Coronavirus pandemic. And there's an americana trying to do her part, too. (see http://10leaves.blogspot.com/2020/03/somewhere-over-rainbowtheres-italy.html). I wasn't confident about my construction skills on an oversized project, but nine days later the 15-foot rainbow that spans my driveway is still blowing in the wind. Had I thought on installation day that there would also be a dismantling day, production may have never begun.

Last week's rainbow from a new perspective.

I know I had this thought after 9/11 when I bought my tiny flag pin from a box of fifty cent items at an antique store.  People had their flags out and anchormen had their flags on and I wanted to join them.  But at that time I also remember wondering how and when someone would decide to stop displaying it. Do you just wake up one day and think, "Ok, it's been long enough"?  I can't remember if the fear of deciding when enough was enough actually kept me from wearing the pin.

Fortunately, I've never known anyone who's died in a fatal traffic accident, but I have the same thought every time I pass a roadside memorial.  Some day someone just stops bringing flowers.

I'm glad I didn't let these thoughts get in my way on rainbow-making day.  I'm happy to see it from my window as I write and to pass under it when I get home from a walk. It's not the same every day.  Different hours and different weather have an effect on my rainbow, just like they have an effect on you and me. 

The first week I sent photos of my installation to friends even though I never liked them (the photos, not the friends). My objective was to show its size and placement, but the photos had too much background noise. Nine days later I found a new perspective and saw that its colors were brighter, its details were clearer and it was smiling.

The coronavirus has forced all of us to look at life from a different perspective.  Hopefully in time yours will be brighter, clearer and filled with smiles.
    

Making Friends During the Coronavirus Pandemic

Walking in Italy during the Coronavirus is a solo sport.  That part doesn't bother me because I've never needed company to "keep me going".  A little company to "get me going" is always helpful.  Heading out on a winter morning with my flashlight is a lot easier if I know someone is expecting me.

In Chicago one of my favorite parts of running was meeting new people. I haven't had the same luck in Italy because  Chicago's busy lakefront path has become a two-rut lane in a field.  And when the Corona Running Rules arrived, my two-rut lane became a strip of grass along a canal between cornfields 200 meters from home. My new track and field is just a hop, skip and jump over my neighbor's fence. The Proprieta' Privata signs were just what I needed to feel safe from close (corona) encounters.

There's an uninhabited house on the property, but the garage is still used to store machines and equipment for the family business. Though I thought the grounds were all mine, I still left home with my red bandana round my neck ready to cover my mouth in case of contact. Until yesterday my only friends were a duck and a crane, so I was startled to come upon human life.
 
Having climbed the fence, photographed the Private Property signs and made friends with the duck and crane, I thought the least I could do was introduce myself to the intruder. I approached and he approached.  I stopped and he didn't. I took a few steps back and said that Mauro had given me permission to be there.  He responded and I understood nothing, which isn't unusual for me.

For example, last year after having passed the same couple on the two-rut lane for more than a month they finally smiled and said, "Vai a cagare." (vah-ee ah cah-GAH-ray) It's an Italian phrase I'd rather not translate which is never said with a smile. Five miles later I figured out they'd asked, "Fai anche gare?" (fah-ee ahn-kay GAH-ray) which means, "Do you run races, too?"

So, the fact that I didn't understand what my new friend was saying was no surprise.  The puzzling thing was that he didn't understand me either.  There we stood, six times the necessary safety distance, unwilling to get close enough to clear things up. After a few shoulder shrugs and smiles we waved goodbye.

I decided to call my neighbor in case my new friend had decided to report me. That's when I found out he was deaf. And the reason we couldn't communicate is because he reads lips and we couldn't get close enough to understand each other. Imagine what it would be like to be deaf during this pandemic. You can't heed a danger warning because you can't hear the warning.  If someone wants to get your attention, they can't get close enough to tap you on the shoulder. Lip reading, your method of communication, is suddenly hidden behind a mask.  Missing a phrase or two in the neighborhood dialect doesn't seem like such a big deal anymore.

Fortunately I saw my new friend again today.  We both showed up at the same time in the same place and the morning started with a long distance wave.  I thought about trying to reintroduce myself with the sign language alphabet I'd learned in fifth grade, but I realized he probably didn't have time for that, so I kept walking.  The twelfth time I passed the garage I had a good idea. I still had a few laps to learn a word or two from the internet, not with the alphabet, but with whole words. I decided on 'finish' and 'have a nice day'. They were both quite easy and over-sized, so I thought he could read them from the other side of the canal.  I vowed to keep passing until he looked up, with hopes that I wouldn't have to do 10 more miles. 

I kept practicing my moves. I felt nervous every time I neared the garage thinking I'd be on stage any minute and forget my signs. I took off my gloves and scarf so my words would be clear on my black jacket.  When he looked up I placed my open hands in front of my chest palm sides down and then turned my wrists to make my palms face him.  I don't know how to conjugate verbs in sign language, so I hoped he'd understood that I was trying to say that I had finished.  Then I moved on to 'have a nice day.' That one's a little more complicated, but I like the moves.  He smiled and waved and I proudly put my gloves on and headed home.

My neighbor called later to tell me that his brother doesn't speak sign language, so my performance was just that....a performance.  Maybe tomorrow I'll get close enough so he can read my lips. In Italy they say one meter is a safe distance to avoid spreading the Coronavirus, but I think that's pushing it. I'll knock off two from my six which leaves me a comfortable four (13 feet). The only problem is lipreading.org says that lip reading is a lot easier when it's done in the lip reader's first language. His first language is Italian dialect, so that's out.  I'm afraid tomorrow we'll have to go back to the friendly smile. Fortunately it's universal.  In the end, it's the kind gestures that count.       


         

Life Imitates Art at La Biennale di Venezia

I'm thinking of writing a letter to the organizers of La Biennale di Venezia to ask them to be a bit more careful when they select the title of the 2021 event. This international art exhibition is held in Venice every year and the shows alternate between Biennale Arte and Biennale Architettura.  Art and architecture lovers from around the world are usually invited to visit the exhibition from May to November, but due to the coronavirus, this year's kickoff will be three months later and the event three months shorter.

Window to the World. Step up to the window for a more intimate view of the beach forest.

 Unlike several friends, I actually enjoy the Biennale.  I don't understand much about modern art and I'm not sure anyone else does, but I'm not willing to give up. 

I'm sad to say that I don't remember the name or country of one of my favorite installations.  Come with me into this huge, empty warehouse. (Be patient, read slowly and follow along.) It's square with black walls and has high ceilings.  Concentrate. Three feet in from the four walls they've installed a chain link fence. And three feet from the ceiling they've topped that chain link fence with a chain link ceiling. Now we have a giant black room, with a giant chain link fence room inside it.  The chain link fence room has a small opening and you can enter.  Go in. You're still in the same big, black room where you can see its walls and ceiling, but being just one step inside the chain link fence room, you're suddenly in a different place. I kept going in and out and I kept feeling the difference.  

I didn't have to read an explanation of the chain link fence installation to feel it.  And maybe I didn't feel what I was supposed to feel, but I felt something.  And that's why I go back to the Biennale year after year.  I like to feel something.

Le Boe. (The Buoys) All materials donated by the Adriatic.

I've attached photos of a few of my own creations.  They may not be worthy of a place at the Biennale, but more than one person has felt something, and in the end isn't that what art is all about?

In 2019 Biennale Arte was titled May You Live In Interesting Times. At the end of 2019 the entire city of Venice and my nearby island flooded.  And two months later the coronavirus arrived.  Are those considered interesting times?

The title of Biennale Architettura 2020 is How Will We Live Together? These days in Italy we're doing everything we can to live apart. So if the coronavirus ever goes away, the question could very well be "how do we live together?" 

Look through the window from the forest and there's nothing  but sea.

In the Decay of Lying Oscar Wilde wrote, "Life imitates art."  If the curators of the Biennale support this thought, they should have been more careful naming their shows.  I'd like to submit an idea for the title of Biennale Arte 2021.  How 'bout It's a Wonderful Life?  What could go wrong with that?