That Little Extra Something

It's Christmas cookie season. I didn't get a lot of cookies as gifts in the States, but in Italy with a few friends and students it's become a tradition. As a true cookie connoisseur (one who appreciates lots of butter and sugar) I can't say I'm terribly excited about the cookies I'm given. It's the packaging that interests me. Some come on a shiny, gold, cardboard tray wrapped in cellophane. Others come in tiny, clear bags tied with jute and have a little tag with the ingredients.

One of my favorite packages is from a lady that lives on the island. She has six kids. They're all married (that makes 12) and they all have kids (I think they're up to 29). Yet, year after year she finds time to deliver what I call dry, butterless hearts, stars and braids (an Italian tradition loved by Italians). For me the best part is the little brown bag with a strip of gold tinsel stapled to the top. There's always a note attached (it's usually about Jesus) and it's written in English (just for me) by one of her kids or grandkids.

This year, the day after Christmas, the island cookies made their way to the mountains with us. Upon arrival they were unpacked and put in the fruit bowl. I know that's not the best place for cookies, but seeing that they seemed to lack sugar and butter, I thought it might be just enough to make me eat an apple.

The following day I saw the bag with tinsel just as it was about to be torn apart and thrown in the fire. When I asked why, I was calmy told, "E' solo qualcosa in piu', no?" I stopped the burning of my favorite cookie bag just in time and explained that the packaging was the best part. It's what reminded me of Maria; the stapled tinsel and the part about Jesus.

The rest of the day I found myself quietly repeating the phrase, "E' solo qualcosa in piu'." It literally translates as 'it's just something more', but in English it doesn't have the same ring to it. I asked the almost arsonist for a synonymous sentence and was told "E' qualcosa di superfluo." Perfect. It's just something superfluous. That gets the feeling across.

I find it sad that an obsession with order leaves no room for superfluousness; something I consider an enhancement to an otherwise dull life. There was definitely room in the fruit bowl for a little gold tinsel. We should always have room for superfluous things, and if we don't, we should make room.

We're told that when life gives us lemons we should make lemonade. And I think when it gives us cookies baked with so much love there's no room for sugar, we should enjoy the tinsel.

Parents Say Things

Parents say the darndest things. It's no wonder kids' favorite words are 'why not'. And seeing that I'm not a parent, I've dangerously fallen into the kid group at the risk of gaining enemies and losing friends. More and more often I find myself giving up something I really want just to keep peace between my little friends and my big ones.

Take CocaZero (aka Coke Zero) for example. Other grown-ups drink beer and wine and some even smoke in front of their tots. Those bad habits are allowed because they're off-limits to kids. Parents don't feel guilty partaking and kids don't feel left out. But this grown-up doesn't like beer and wine and sometimes has the need for an ice cold CocaZero. The problem is, my drink of choice isn't illegal for kids. So if I have it, they want it. And that's where I'm stuck. Drinking my Coke doesn't quench my thirst the same way a beer makes a dad say "Ahhh!" Mine includes envious eyes and sad smiles from whom it's been forbidden. That's enough to pour myself a glass of water.

I've spent most of my life eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips simultaneously. It's created a monster. I like two things served at the same time and I decide when to take a bite of one or the other. I like my salad WITH my pasta, my Oreos WITH my ice cream and my french fries WITH my hamburger. But try opening a bag of potato chips with a family when the kids haven't finished their sandwiches yet. I suppose it's easy for most adults to wait. But this monster likes soft things and crunchy things at the same time. The parents tell me to go ahead and open the chips but that the kids can't start crunching until they've finished their mortadella (aka bologna) sandwiches. The kids reluctantly agree. But this (sometimes) softy doesn't have the heart, so I, too, patiently wait for the signal from Mom and Dad.

Don't walk barefoot in the house (the truth is, don't even walk in your socks. You have slippers.) Stay out of the tall, wet grass (but that's where adventures begin). And don't crack the ice in the frozen puddle (but then you'll never hear that splintering crack that only comes from cracking ice in frozen puddles). All we want to know is why not.

Last month I was invited on vacation in Vienna with a family of four. Onlookers would have seen a mom and dad rushing ahead with two kids and Maria (from the Sound of Music) curiously walking hand-in-hand often far behind them. Our evenings ended with chamomile and cookies as the five of us sat huddled around the little table on four chairs and a bunkbed planning the next day. The mom's insistence that the 8-year old drink the hot chamomile brought understandable protests as to why it couldn't be drunk cold. That's when Maria (aka me) took over for Chiara, maturely asking, "Is there actually a valid reason she has to drink the tea hot? Because I'd really like to know if cold things hurt you or if hot things make your digestive tract work better. And if we understood why she had to drink it hot, maybe she'd drink it. Right, Chiara?" I was so shocked by my courage to ask, I don't remember the answer. But I have a feeling it included some hemming and hawing.   

My parents' militant comeback would have been (as always), "Because I said so." That's all it took to make me stop asking why. But if there'd been an explanation maybe I'd have learned something and now I wouldn't be so desperately curious about absolutely everything in life. Perhaps the only thing I'd be left wondering is if I'll ever be invited on another family vacation.

It's 10:10

Most people see their names in lights from time to time. Kids run to souvenier shops looking for bracelets, mini-license plates and mugs made just for them. Some have the same names as presidents, serial killers and movie stars and they find their names in magazines and on the 6 o'clock news. The only time I ever came close was when the bachelorette on the reality tv show, The Bachelorette, was named Tenley. I lived in Paris at the time and the bachelorette was engaged and married (and maybe divorced) before I got home. Fortunately my name didn't catch on and as far as I know, it was never stamped on a water bottle or pencil.
The truth is I do see my name around town, but I think I'm the only one that notices. The standard time to display the hands on an unwound (or battery-less) clock is 10:10. I've read that it's the most pleasing position for one's eyes. I'm sure some marketing genius thought of it. 9:25 isn't as welcoming and 2:05 draws your attention to only one place. 10:10 gives you more options. Your eyes go from left to right and the spaces above and below the hands are wide open for a full view of the clock's face.
Unfortunately, the marketing genius had already died before the Casio watch was invented. When someone read the manual on what time to set a non-working digital clock for publicity purposes they followed suit with the 10:10 meant for clocks with hands.  
When I opened my new running watch on Christmas morning the first thing I saw was two big tens; one green and the other white. I thought the box had been hand-decorated just for me. I'm not the only one who likes to play with markers. Then I saw that the numbers were printed on the box and I assumed it was the Garmin's model number. It wasn't until the next day that I realized it was a photo of the watch set at 10:10.
When I see 10:10 my first thought is not the time. I don't read it as ten after ten.  It looks more like a good score on a test, part of a math equation or the time it takes an average runner to run a mile.  
In any case, I was happy to discover that in the digital world I haven't been forgotten. I don't share my name with a Biblical figure, but now that I've brought things to light, maybe you'll start thinking of me when your clock strikes 10:10. If I'm lucky you'll think of me twice a day. Now that's what I call a real marketing genius.

     


 

Giving the Bird

I flipped off a cat yesterday. It wasn't doing anything wrong; just sitting at the end of my driveway watching me eat lunch. I wasn't in the mood for onlookers. I wasn't in the mood for my seven thousandth bowl of chicken broth with noodles. And I wasn't in the mood for cats.   

Just to clarify. I've never written the words 'flip off', and I've almost never used my middle finger for anything but a joke. But I don't have feelings for felines. Too lazy to get up to yell out the window or 'shoe' it away (running shoes aren't just for running) I slurped my soup, stared at the cat and flipped it off.

It was like a stranger on a busy street intercepting the wave intended for another. The cat looked over its shoulder as if to say, "Is this bird for me?"

It was just what I needed to pull my head from my soup and realize that worrying about my woes wasn't worth it.

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 student 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, the walls might even 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.

Living the inside out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Along Came a Spider

If killing bugs comes easily, I suggest steering clear of a Charlotte's Web reread. I found a copy in Italian at the secondhand store and it's done nothing but wreak havoc on my war against daddy long legs. I'm a little worried that when I finish this post I might even have a hard time killing mosquitos. The same people that ask vegans why they don't eat meat yet wear leather belts (I'm one of those people) are going to ask me why I kill mosquitos and not moths. And when I can't respond (just like the vegans I've asked) I'm afraid it might mean a million more mosquito bites.

None of my houses have screens. And my neighbors' houses don't either. You can't lean your head out for a good chiacchierata (chat) if you have screens. I remember the foreign feeling when I first landed. Now, when I have American visitors, the kids fight to shake the tablecloth directly out the open window. I don't get involved. I know the pleasure will be all mine again once they go home.

The island house is so small it only has four windows and two doors. I'm not sure why only one of the windows has a screen, but it came with the house and I find myself foolishly putting it up and down when I open and close the shutters. It offers no protection. Smart bugs just crawl a few feet to come in the next window.

I have one screen in the mountains, too. I installed it on my bedroom window and it has nothing to do with intruding insects. For some reason I've decided it will protect me from snakes and wolves. The rest of the doors and windows are open all day and closed at night. I suppose the smart snakes and wolves could come in during the day and hide under my bed. My one screen only protects me from the dumb ones.  

As you may have guessed, my houses are buggy. The ones that don't walk or fly through the front door make their way in on the firewood or my running shoes. Lucky bugs. Thanks to Carlotta (that's Charlotte in Italian) they either stay inside undetected or are gently escorted back out.

It takes a lot more time to save insects than to kill them. In my houses they're never flushed, squished or burned. It's hard to catch moths without breaking their velvety wings. And getting centipedes to march their hundred legs in the direction you want isn't easy either. I sweep some bugs into the dustpan and swish others out the door. Once I guided a bee to the window where it landed on its back on the windowsill. I watched it spin like an armless breakdancer trying to flip itself over. It pushed and pushed and spun and spun until it reached the edge of the sill and fell. During the plummet, it found its wings and flew. Had I opted for a crushing step, I would have killed the bee and the metaphor.       

If you find cobwebs in my corners it's not (only) that I'm a terrible housekeeper. I'm just giving my 8-legged arachnid amici time to whip up a message of appreciation for letting them live. I may not deserve humble, radiant or terrific like Wilbur, but every time I set them free I envision Carlotta's web with a simple 'grazie'.



 

Face your imperfection fears

I'm proud to say that I currently have a few young fans that include me (and my brownies and rice krispie treats) in their birthday party plans. We don't go to McDonald's or Jumpy Gyms. It's just a bunch of crazy kids running and screaming through yards and parks. In fact, if it were anything else, I probably wouldn't be invited. Who needs someone to help them roast marshmallows and pin the tail on the donkey when they've got paint ball wars to win?

Last month I was flattered when a little friend asked me to paint faces at her party. Someone (albeit an 8-year old) considered me an artist. For a second or two I enjoyed the idea of my art being on public view until it rained or the cheap face paint faded. Envious onlookers would ask the kids who they were wearing and they'd yell back, "Ten!" But could it really be that easy?  

Maddalena and I decided on a trial run the day before the party. She showed up with make-up crayons, paintbrushes and her mom's phone filled with photos of fantastic faces. One of us thought I could paint a butterfly batting its wings when she blinked. The other remembered that I hadn't applied eye shadow since my senior prom.

It was time to explain the difference between copying and creating. I told Maddy I was willing to paint a piece of her artwork on her face, but internet images were out. As unenthused as she was with my old Crayolas and scrap paper, it wasn't long 'til we had a pink and purple unicorn that looked just like Porky the Pig.

The next day I told the guests they had two choices. One was the birthday girl's unicorn, as a way to honor her and proudly wear 'Maddy' for the day. And the other was a design of their own. Fortunately I'd packed the old Crayolas. By the end of the party we had hearts, lightning bolts, flowers, cats and a tiger that looked like a cat running around. They were far from professional, but I think Mary Poppins would have found them all practically perfect.  

I learned three things about perfectionism when Maddy turned 8.
1. My original refusal to the online designs was because I knew I couldn't reproduce them perfectly.
2. At the pre-party practice, Maddalena offered her face, arms, hands and legs giving me the chance to try, try again. Was it too many attempts at perfection that transformed her unicorn into a pig?
3. Perfectionism shouldn't impede performance. When you only have one chance (or cheek), take it. At first you might succeed because you can't try again.       

 

 

Hugs and Kisses, I think

The fact that the last time I drew a smiley face in a handwritten letter was in 8th grade makes me wonder why I currently use a colon, hyphen and paranthesis to depict one in a text. But, I embarrassingly admit that I'm guilty. :-)

As for stickers, the only ones I remember were on my Barbie camper. I probably grew up stickerless because my parents feared decoupaged furniture. Or perhaps, like tattoos, I feared their permanence. Which one to stick where, why and when was overwhelming for an indecisive girl like me. They were better left unstuck. Needless to say, my childhood lacked rainbows, unicorns and hearts.

Maybe this unadorned adolescence explains my emotional aversion to emojis. I'm inept. The few times I've tried, it seemed more difficult to find a sticker that spoke a thousand words than just using the words. But apparently that's just me. The real sticker-loving kids from the seventies (and 60s, 80s and 90s) are still trying to wordlessly express themselves without weighing the risks of misinterpretation.

I first realized I couldn't read emojis when I thanked a student for his applause. What's the blushing smiley with tiny hands under its chin doing if not applauding? I picture a little girl lightly clapping by her face and whispering, "Yay!" When I asked the sender why I'd deserved the cheer, he was perplexed. His interpretation of the faccina (small face) was 'easy affection.' Nothing like enhancing the enigma with some elementary English. (The truth is, I actually googled 'easy affection' in case it was trendy jargon the English teacher lacked.)  

I decided to make things easier by downloading a page of emoji meanings. I discovered that those tiny little hands represent a hug. Apparently virtual hugs are armless (and harmless). Just as harmless as the rosy-cheeked face blowing a heart that I've received from a number of people who would never consider blowing me a real kiss. As full of hugs and kisses as Italy is, my students sadly seldom cross that line. So I accept the emojis in texts with an LOL, imagining (and hoping for) the live delivery some day.
 
I'm currently working on a collection of photos that I call eMYjis. It includes faces on statues, cloud formations and everyday objects that evoke emotions in me. Unlike Google's emoji users, I'm afraid to 'face' the risk of misintrepation, so the photos won't be in use until I've also published an eMYjis dictionary. In the meantime, I'm happy to keep sending easy-to-read punctuation marks and receiving faint-hearted affection, with a smile.  
 

Life's worhtwhile, if you'll just smile

Today a stranger asked me who makes me smile. The question (chi ti fa sorridere?) was written on a sheet of typing paper and taped to an old marble column in the piazza. Unlike the missing Bic at the bank, a pen was tied to a long string that blew in the wind and invited passersby to respond.

I wondered if it had been a school assignment, but for which class? Art? Philosophy? Literature? Or it could have been a teenage dare. Was the sign maker disguised in the distance hoping to catch their Mr. or Ms. Right secretly adding their name to the list?

If the author's mission was to get a smile, it was accomplished. Merely thinking about who makes you smile, inevitably makes you smile. Most people simply added a name. A few added hearts and stars. But my favorite wrote, "Who makes me smile? YOU. The one who asks me who makes me smile. You are a poet."    

In Chicago it was the 'Hi Guy' that made us smile. His bike, his t-shirt and his rainbow striped beanie all said the same thing -- Hi. He dotted the 'i's with smiley faces (before we had emojis). His only goal as he traveled through town was to make you smile. He said hi to everyone and most everyone said hi back. And usually that was enough to add two more smiley faces to the streets of the Windy City.

Dallas had the "Free Advice Guys". Every Sunday morning for nearly 20 years they set out a couple of chairs on a popular path around the lake and offered advice. I never accepted their services, but their FREE ADVICE sign made me smile. And in turn, maybe that smile was all the advice I really needed.

I was a kid when I learned from the Reader's Digests stacked on the back of the toilet that Laughter is the Best Medicine. I'd like to thank the stranger who left the 'Who Makes You Smile?' sign in the piazza for reminding me that smiling is the second best. If only all of the people whose names were written on that sign knew that they were someone else's happy pill.
 

As American as Torta alla Mela

There are Americans that love Italy and Italians that love America. I don't mind either group. But Italians who insist that everything in Italy is better yet surround themselves with Yankee goods ruffle my American (Indian) feathers.

I've stood through proud demonstrations of my friends' frigoriferi americani (American fridges). They're thrilled with the immensity and usually conclude the tour with, "And it even makes ice!" It's hard not to remind them that they used to boast of their daily trips to the market for fresh vegetables and fruit (for which a giant fridge is unnecessary) and that when we're out for dinner they order their beverages at temperatura ambiente because drinking things cold can cause congestione (something like cramps that can kill you).  And it's especially difficult  to refrain from asking why they aren't worried that their giant fridge could lead to obesity, a perpetual prejudice against an entire population.  

The most important thing outside Italians' kitchens is inside their closets. Italians are known for their style. Train conductors, bus drivers and shopkeepers all provide their services with panache. As a visitor in the 90s I wrote about the population's polished shoes and well-pressed 'everything else'. Unfortunately, current fashion trends reek of Rocky instead of Mr. Rogers. What was once a Fruit of the Loom sweatsuit now costs 500 dollars and has to be ironed.

I have a student that said I couldn't deny that Italian fashion was better than American. She said Milan is the fashion capital of the world and reminded me that Gucci, Fendi and someone else important were all Italian. I agreed that many of the top designers came from Italy and that some of the most famous fashion shows were in Milan. And then I commented on her outfit that started with Stan Smiths (sneakers) and ended with a Carharrt hat. (There was probably a pair of Levi's in between, but I can't remember.) Next I questioned the comfort of her Adirondack chair and the convenience of her Weber grill. I refrained from reminding her that she was also taking (American) English lessons.  

If you're cool in Italy, guess who caters your 30th birthday party. A food truck that serves burgers and fries, not pasta. Your 40th might be the theme of your favorite American series on Netflix. Your 50th? The trend seems to be a 70s party with a lot of signs that say peace and love, not pace and amore. And the party's sure to be Stayin'Alive, Stayin'Alive with a few Rhinestone Cowboys and the YMCA crew.

Italians of all ages love sunglasses. In 1999 Italy's Luxottica bought RayBan, formerly owned by American Bausch & Lombe. That's probably the year the logo over-appeared on both stems and lenses. Maybe that's what has blurred so many Italians' vision. Or perhaps they're not using eye protection mode on their iPhones, (which I needn't remind you are not produced by a company called Mela).  

 

This is Your Brain

Filled with enthusiasm for having risen before the sun, I left home for a walk and some photos.  I'm much more interested in what the world looks like at dawn. By the time the sun shows up, my excitement has usually waned.

I like to let the sun rise behind me while I head toward its special effects in the west. The dark mountains turn violet and the white contrails pink. But that morning it was the east that I found more photoworthy. It wasn't the sunrise itself, but the little world in front of it that came alive on my cell phone screen.

At first click (I'm not sure how one mimics taking a photo on a cell phone) I was still in the field behind the farmer's house. But the more I squinted and framed the shot, the more detached I became from my immediate surroundings. I continued clicking, gone from the real world yet enthusiastically alive in a tiny forest with dead trees still standing and live ones seeming to silently fall. For seven unearthly minutes, I was lost in the enchanted forest I'd created on the screen.  

Once the sun had risen I woke up (for the second time that day). I thought about where I'd just been. When I looked back at the real scene with no cell phone to impair my vision, I saw nothing more than a clump of tall weeds backlit by the sunrise. I saw reality. I compared my surreal experience to life on social media, where we're connected and disconnected at the same time. (And usually for more than 7 minutes.)

In my Alice in Wonderland moment at least I was the creator, living in a fantasy world designed by me. I wasn't a follower and if there's such thing as a copier, I wasn't a copier either. But I had been momentarily absorbed in a different world and felt morbidly alive inside that tiny screen. 

The 1980s frying pan and eggs commercial has already been remade with a non-Teflon pan and fresh eggs. But if the Partnership for a Drug-Free America needs a new campaign they couldn't go wrong with a photo of a person and their cell phone on a bus (escalator,  sofa or chairlift), at a soccer game (restaurant, school concert or museum) or in a car (waiting room, checkout line or field). The same slogan applies. "This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?"