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.