Peace Be With Me

I'm tired of living in this unfortunate place called No Man's Lang. That's not a typo. In addition to lang being a word few know the meaning of in America's favorite New Year's  song, it's also the abbreviation of language when followed by a period.  

In No Man's Lang. neither my English (mother tongue) nor my Italian (second language) serve me well. According to me, residents of No Man's Lang. are unable to fully and freely express themselves in their current digs. With last week's American visitors I noticed that I didn't have to try at all. Communicating and understanding joy, pain and anger was effortless. In fact, the sensation of complete calm and comprehension reminded me my 'not so new' home away from home has left me feeling anywhere but at home.

With Italians, describing anything deeper than last night's thin, easily digestible pizza crust leaves the real me somewhat speechless. My Italian isn't good enough to speak off the cuff, so deeper thoughts are stifled. And if there's a chance to open up in English, my very-good-but-still-non-native-listeners can't digest what comes from my gut, so thoughts are swallowed. Depending on my audience, I either can't speak Italian well or I'm not allowed to speak English well, leaving my normal expressive self in silence in the heart of No Man's Lang.

I'm a word nerd. I love puns and Scrabble and red pens. I used to underline passages in great books to share with other nerds, but now I savor them for myself. I seldom have witty comebacks on the running path or at the weekly market. There's no bragging about exceptional Wordle wins or discovering new authors at the bookstore. In Italy my Christmas cards are pretty, but the messages mean nothing. I've learned that soap boxes have little room for non-native speakers and Melania's speech to the United States Marine CORPSE is proof.

It looks like the only solution is to live in limbo in No Man's Lang. Peace be with me while I wait for the arrival of my next American visitors. Until then, here's to auld lang syne. 

There's a Time and a Place

I don't know how old I was when I discovered lip-syncing. If they didn't do it on The Lawrence Welk Show or The Partridge Family I probably wasn't aware of it until some Super Bowl halftime show in the 80s. I imagine someone explained it in a way that made it seem like the latest technical advancement and necessary for acoustic perfection or something like that. But I'm sure at that age (and this age) I responded that it was stupid.

I can't say that I've ever been to a real concert; I mean the kind with thousands of people looking at a tiny singer on a giant smoking stage or looking at the tiny pores of a giant singer on a Jumbotron. The closest I've come to an arena full of people was at the opera in Verona. The place has 2000-year old stone seats and was built when arenas were used to watch real gladiators (not the ones on your big-screen tv). The lions didn't lip-sync in their day and I'd like to think Figaro wasn't lip-syncing in the show I saw ten years ago, but I may be mistaken.

There's one place I definitely wasn't fooled; a summer sagra (town festival) last year. Sagras on the island are spectacular; hot, starry nights in the lagoon, strands of little lights strung between the pink and green Venetian light posts, young kids running around without their parents, sweaty volunteers serving fried fish, and live island music written and performed by real islanders for other real islanders (and one American). I don't know the name of the band, but I know some of the members. I call them Five Old Guys from the Island. It's perfect convertible music and I've learned all the songs by heart in the local dialect.

This year at the sagra I noticed something strange. The singers weren't sweating enough to be hitting such high notes and they sounded exactly like they were riding with me in the convertible. The spectators were participating; singing and dancing like always. But the band wasn't. They were lip-syncing.  

Take other artists. Cary Grant didn't send Hugh Grant to the stage to fill his shoes. We aged and he aged with us. Painters don't start making photo copies of their masterpieces; their strokes just change. Some day beautiful ballerinas stop getting leading roles, but if they make a few lower leaps at a higher age, they still deserve kudos. So why do singers stop singing on stage?

If I spent a night lip-syncing I'd sadly go to bed thinking, "Wow. I used to be really good." I'm speaking from experience. Conversations with new people often turn to the past; I talk about things I was proud of. I used to run marathons. I used to travel alone to exotic countries. I used to look good playing volleyball in my bikini. But the applause for the way I was brings a sadness for the way I am. My past performances can't be lip-synced so they have to be tweaked. And if they can't be tweaked they should be remembered, but set aside to make room for new things to be proud of. Don't forget, no one really cares what Grandma Moses did in her forties.   
 

P.S. Keep Writing

Several Christmases ago I gave friends stationery hoping to hold on to the tradition of handwritten notes. I was pleased when three of the many recipients requested more, but three of many isn't enough for a revival.
 
For me, part of the peaceful days after Christmas includes a sharp Sharpie, pretty paper and a few words of gratitude for the great gifts. But for most, saying thanks at the presentation of the present is enough. It's not that 'have you written Grandma a thank you note yet?' is ringing in my ears, because I think I was usually quick to do it. It's just that I appreciate gifts, I'm happy to find letters in the mailbox (aren't you?) and I consider a stack of freshly stamped envelopes a piece of art.

I've just finished a ten-day tour with some old and new American friends. At the end I was given a gift and told not to open it until comfortably settled on the train. Goodbyes were said and tears were shed in a mysteriously dark bar in Venice where Sartre and Beauvoir sometimes met to linger on life. As much as I'd loved to have lingered, it was time for my wet walk to the station through the rain and teardropped sparkling streets of my favorite city.
 
Soaked with sweet memories, I'd forgotten about my gift until I was almost home. I had enough time to open it, but not enough to acknowledge it. I thought of sending a quick thanks with a smile, knowing I'd follow up with a heartfelt, handwritten card later, but I was afraid they'd spend three weeks thinking I wasn't really happy with the gift only to discover my true appreciation when the Pony Express had finally arrived with the mail. But seeing that an immediate response is now possible, sending nothing didn't seem right either. Make a call? Then the romance of the written word really is reduced to nothing.

I took a poll on this antiquated art and there was almost unanimous agreement. A thank you text is sufficient. And a thank you text followed by a handwritten note is redundant. Admittingly recognizing the redundancy, I'm still unwilling to contribute to the death of handwritten sentiments. I'm not ready for a world where gratitude is given and received in the blink of an eye.

Technology is about to ruin yet another simple pleasure. My 'anything but junk' drawer is filled with everything the rest of the world keeps on their phones. The brochure from a hat shop in Rome, the address of some campers in Michigan and tattered envelopes, stamped and postmarked with handwritten notes inside. Rediscovering these random things in writing takes me back to those people, places and things. When I find them in my search for safety pins I can laugh out loud (not LOL) and kiss them and hold them to my heart if I want; all things that would seem silly to do with your phone in line at the grocery store.

 

Letter writing on the part of a busy man or woman is the quintessence of generosity.  Agnes Repplier