To Speak, or Not to Speak

I've spent most of my life almost certain that my friendships were based soley on mutual appreciation. People liked me because of who I was; I had nothing else to offer. I didn't pay for dinner, I was never arm candy and I only had one friend in a high place. There was the occasional opportunity for a convertible ride, but that didn't spark a lot of interest for those over 12.

Unfortunately, I've recently started losing my confidence. I'm still not arm candy, I don't go out for dinner and my only friend in a high place is the one who climbs mountains. But living in Italy I have one thing to offer that most people don't; I speak English.

Instead of an invitation to dinner with students making me feel like the teacher just got a bushel of shiny, red apples, I find myself questioning the sincerity. When the oozing about how much they love the class and if only they had more than one opportunity a week to speak English is followed by an invitation to dinner, I'm skeptical. Maybe the dots weren't meant to be connected; but the years in the backseat of the car as a kid trying to figure out how conversations changed from one to the next has become an obsession.

Years ago I was telling a student (mistakenly defined as a friend) that I'd been out with students the night before. She said that she, too, would like to have pizza with me and asked if I spoke English when I was out with students. I told her not when it wasn't a lesson (even though sometimes I do). I've eaten a lot of pizza since that discussion, but never with her.

Sometimes I choose to test a new acquaintance's English skills. It's kind of like an ice breaker. I feel more like myself making new friends in my mother tongue. When I meet an Italian that speaks English well, it feels like a gift. But now, before opening it, I check to make sure that under the shiny, gold bow there are no hidden strings attached.    

Be Yourself

Several years ago a student asked if I knew what the Burning Man Festival was. It was hard to admit to a hip, young Italian guy that I'd never heard of an event in the desert where a small city appears and disappears in 9 days leaving no trace of its existence. Information at that time was hard to come by because in addition to being topless, moneyless and showerless, the attendees were also cell phoneless; meaning it was about as easy to find on the internet as my island used to be. But the little I did discover led me to the conclusion that although it's a place where almost anything goes, I wouldn't be going.

It wasn't until meeting a hip, old(er) American guy last month that I was asked about the Burning Man again. And though I was wearing a turtleneck sweater and sipping tea in Venice he didn't ask if I knew WHAT the Festival was, he asked if I'd ever been; because if not, he was sure it was the perfect place for me.  

This time there was no need to Google. I learned all about the Burning Man from an 85-year-old man that decided to go by himself last year. The reason he thought it was my style wasn't for the drinking, drugs and various forms of nudity, it was because he thought I'd love camping in the desert, pedalling through the sandy streets to admire amazing art and bartering instead of buying. Hearing that it wasn't 'all hell breaks loose' and hallucinations my interest was aroused until the final pitch, "It's a place you can totally be yourself."  

That's when my waxing interest waned. If there's one place I don't want to be it's with a bunch of people that are only themselves 9 days a year. Where are these free spirits when I really need them? If they'd come out to play every day, I wouldn't be the only weirdo driving with the top down in January, mixing plaid and stripes and eating pizza in the car with cloth napkins and candles.

In any case, I appreciate my peculiarity being appreciated by Ron, a Burning (with desire to live) Man. I can only hope that our brief exchange in Italy might remind him to be himself the other 356 days a year, too.