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.