It's Time for BINGO

Is THERE a party with a game that BINGO is its name-o? (It sounds better if you sing it.) I ask because in Italy that party is a New Year's Eve party. I really don't think I found room for it in Michigan between my 9pm dinner and the beach fire, but I've been away so long maybe I've just forgotten.

In any case, while my fellow Americans are joining Dick Clark's replacement in Times Square my fellow Italians (young, old, cool, dorky, educated and uneducated) will be emotionally putting little chips on little cards to win little prizes.

The only year I really liked the game was in 2021 when I taught a 91-year old lady in the mountains how to play her first game. In the beginning she was about as interested as I was. She was grumpy and groaned and found it senseless.  She'd only gone to school until the second grade and I wasn't sure she knew her numbers past 20, so I sat by her and played two cards, saying one was hers.

After her daughter got Bingo and took the first prize, Maria's mood lightened a little. I decided to deliberately miss a number on what we called 'her' card and was happy when a wrinkled finger silently showed up with a light tap. I understood no one was to know she was playing and I kept her secret safe. She didn't win a game that night, but if she had I wonder which of we two'd have yelled BINGO.

Now Maria lives in a nursing home. I went to see her yesterday for her 95th birthday. She's as sharp as ever and fortunately her fingers don't seem any more wrinkled. I imagine they'll play Bingo tonight; what better place than a nursing home to put little chips on little cards to win little prizes. I'm sure Maria's looking forward to it as much as I am. From one grumpy friend who finds it senseless to another, good luck Maria and Happy New Year.

Brief, but comprehensive in expression

I'd love to have known the authors of my 1,258-page Concise Oxford Dictionary. I imagine a group of word-nerds sitting around in whatever you sat around in in 1911 expressing themselves in as few words as possible; like their definition of concise: brief, but comprehensive in expression. You can't get 'conciser' than that.

I discovered my love for this book after a week in the mountains with no internet. And I also discovered that I have a lot of apologies to make to the students I've laughed at for what I thought were made-up words.

What would you think if you heard someone say disremember? I'd have thought it was a cute and  clever way to get their point across had they disremembered the word forget. Instead, it's a header (a word I've apparently invented because I've just looked it up and it's not there. Just how does one find the name for the words at the top of each page in a dictionary when there's no internet?).

I'd set a goal this year to publish 36 posts, but on the eve of New Year's Eve I 'unsadly' accepted my failure. It's the fault of my new favorite book that distracted me until New Year's Eve morning. If I fall asleep tonight before the ball falls will they believe me when I say I was up til dawn reading the dictionary? It sounds as believable as those folks on the train pretending to enjoy books instead of their phones. Just what will they think of the lady on the vaporetto reading her 3 lb. wordbook (my favorite new word for dictionary)?

 

Living the Tourist Attraction

With no TV and a lousy (or no) internet connection, watching a film at my house means setting up the laptop with two tiny speakers and watching a DVD from the library. Last night's pick about a German girl moving in with her Italian father-in-law in Sardenia was an interesting insight into just how much my life has changed in the past 13 years.

Greta entered the fairytale taking pictures of the three-wagon train as it pulled away and left her miles from everything she knew. She loved the woodburning stove where water boiled in a big pot and the ladel and spatula hung on the open stove top. She took a shower outside, shushed the boys if they spoke while the church bells were ringing and lay in a hammock eating kiwi she picked from the overhead canopy. She was in love with the shepherd and sheep, surprised by how easily the sickle cut the grass and happy to hang her laundry on the clothesline in the Sardenian sunshine. This land was so sweet and strange she decided to turn her new life and home into a destination for tourists.

When I first came to Italy I loved the same things Greta loved. The difference is that for her they were a tourist attraction and for me, a daily distraction. I heat my houses with wood on the same stove I saw in the film. And there's still a thrill to cooking dinner with no gas or electricity. I, too, love shepherds and traffic jams caused by sheep, especially when there are a few donkeys thrown in for good measure.

But some of these hundred-year old habits aren't as quaint as they seem. Laundry on the clothesline is only cute 'til it rains and you can't wear your favorite shirt out for pizza. Forgetting to light the fire in the hot water heater means the dishes and your hair will have to to be washed later. Weekend houses with fireplaces can't be heated with an app on your phone and and there's no Campbell's soup to warm your soul when you get there.

Some days it's hard to remember that all good things come to those who wait. My only choice is to grab my granny square afghan, set up my laptap and watch a 20-year old movie suggested by the local librarian. And if the movie's no good, I can dream about the next time my American friends come to experience my daily life which still seems to them like a tourist attraction.
 
 

When Michael is Mikey

As an English teacher for refugees in Chicago I was aware that sometimes young kids became the spokesperson for the family, but it never had a direct impact on my job. Then came Michael, a 7-year old genius from China that I met last year in Italy.

The initial communication was with his dad in Italian (if you can call an American woman and a Chinese man speaking Italian 'communication'). But after the first English lesson with Michael I realized that the important stuff went through him...in astonishingly good English.

Basketball schedules, dentist's appointments and school holidays that have an impact on our 90-minute lessons twice a week are all confirmed or cancelled by him. Like a real businessman, he usually starts and finishes our meetings with the calendar check. Every time it happens I'm reminded that a decent part of my weekly income is in the hands of a 7-year old.

I tried to give him a nickname, but he prefers Michael. ("He likes it. Hey Michael.")
I tried to play games, but he prefers spelling tests.
I tried to go outside, but he prefers inside.
I tried to do art projects, but he prefers books.

Some of his books have exercises to do with classmates. When we get to those he sadly says, "But it's just me and you, we can't do this." At the last lesson before Christmas I said we could try and we turned the umbrella, the lion stuffed animal, the rice, the microwave and a lot of other household items into classmates for which I had to invent different voices. He played Michael and only Michael which didn't really seem fair, but seeing that he's the boss, I did the best impersonation of an eraser that I could.  

That was the first day I saw a little boy lost in his imagination. He responded to questions as though he really was talking to the roll of toilet paper that lives on the kitchen table ready to wipe his nose when it drips. I invented all the voices I could think of to keep him in this wonderful world as long as possible and was willing to hurt my throat along the way.

When I became the clock I realized I was going to be late for the adult education class I taught after him, so in my best tic-toc voice I told him we had to get back to our table and chairs (even though we'd never really left) because it was time for me to go. As soon as we became Ten and Michael again he referred to the event in the past tense like we really were on a great adventure some place other than his kitchen. He remembered which voices scared him and which ones he liked and he looked around the room and referred to his classmates.

That was the most satisfying lesson I've had with my little Chinese friend because it seemed like "He liked it, Hey Mikey."  I can only hope Santa left him a little magic and wonder so we can start the new year in a world where English workbooks are left in classrooms.  

  

No Brown Paper Packages Tied Up with Strings

Dear Mr. Trump,

This year, in an effort to save time and money, most of my handmade Christmas cards and gifts were delivered in person on my trip to Chicago in September. Naturally there were still some lose threads (no pun intended) and upon my return, the annual trip to the Italian post office was inevitable.

The first package contained the final 20 addressed and USAForever-stamped Christmas cards. The plan was to send the package to a friend in Chicago who would then drop them individually in a blue mailbox on the nearest corner. The parcel couldn't be sent under the headings pasta, Parmegiano or porcini (typical things sent from Italy), so we settled on 'documents', which seemed closer to the truth than anything else. Unfortunately, four days later it was returned to sender (yours truly) with a note explaining that they considered it merchandise and an apology that the 18 euros to send it was non-refundable.

So, I carefully removed the Forever stamps, replaced them with expensive Italian ones and dropped them in our bright red mailboxes. In the end I spent 83 euros for 20 cards that won't get there until well-after Presidents' Day, which I'm worried might be renamed Trump Day by the time they arrive.

I also had some small packages containing handknit headbands to mail. Under the Biden Administration the postlady and I declared handmade things with a value of zero; another way to keep postage prices down and delivery speed up. With yarn from a secondhand store and free labor from me, to anyone but my friends (and sometimes I even question that) they really had zero value.  

To keep the line moving, the postlady said she'd figure things out later and send me a message when the packages were on the truck. Unfortunately the headbands didn't make it. When she wrote that the cost was 40 euros each to send something I wasn't even sure my friends would use, I said no thank you. For the first year ever, thanks to you Mr. President, those friends were giftless and I can only imagine, heartbroken.

Through the years I'd learned to keep my gifts flat, light and unbreakable to ensure stress-free delivery, but this year your tariffs have prohibited even the simplest of surprises. It looks like next year the least expensive option will be an autumn flight home with EVERYTHING finished and I'll save my delightful trip to the Italian post office for my European friends. I pray that by this time next year there won't be a tariff on ex-pats going home for Christmas.      

Hopefully when you leave office we can make Christmas great again with things like handmade cards and headbands. Until then, I'm blaming the disruption of this simple holiday tradition on you. I imagine you feel as guilty as you did tearing down the East Wing.

Happy New Year, Donald.

An American in Italy

Let's Not Do Lunch

I can't say that all Italians are obsessed with lunch, afterall, I know one that eats a banana every day and another that's happy with crackers, cheese and a little nap on his office floor. As for the rest, they're obsessed with lunch.

Workmen that can't make it home for Mom or Grandma's pasta pay more than an hour's wage for a proper meal at a restuarant. Kids that work at summer camp would rather ride their bikes home in the hot sun than eat a sandwich in a cool park. And on a road trip where I can drive (a stick shift), eat, drink and even swallow, my passengers prefer a picnic pause.

Last week I was trying to coordinate a visit with a friend. She was being vague about her arrival time so I pressed her for details to which she curtly replied, "Well it's obvious I'll either be coming before 12.00 or after 14.30 because that's your time to enjoy lunch."  It's hard to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and potato chips stretch that long. I could fly to Paris in the two and half hours she thinks I should be enjoying my lunch.

I'm sure it looks to you like LA DOLCE VITA when you see it in an Italian film and I, too, love a nice, long lunch with a friend in the piazza from time to time. But it's the daily cooking, eating, digesting, drinking coffee, and taking a little rest that I can live without. Seeing that it's cultural and I'm in Rome (or pretty darn close) I sometimes do (but most times don't) as the Romans do...I just shut up and eat (no matter how long it takes).
 

'Eppi Nu Ir' from Norman Rockwell in Italy

I hadn't thought about the Saturday Evening Post or Norman Rockwell for years. In fact, I've been away so long, I'm not even sure those two names go together. When I first started this post I wrote Norman Rockefeller, but after several rereads it didn't sound right.

Writing from my house in the mountains (where it takes a 2.5-mile run to reach an internet connection) I try to stick to subjects I'm sure of, but seeing that it's Christmastime and this piece is timely, right or wrong, I'm writing.

For my Italian audience, Rockwell was an artist who painted classic all-American scenes that were printed on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post (a weekly magazine), among which the most popular (I think) were depictions of Christmas.

I've never attempted to recreate a real Norman Rockwell Christmas, but for advice I need look no further than my friend Sylvia and her small Italian family in a tiny town near Lake Trasimeno. Happy with all of the musical Gifs and idyllic Christmas images that arrived in my electronic mailbox this year, none sent sentimental shivers like hers.  

The first was an unpolished video of 9 people singing an unbeatable rendition of an Italian-accented Feliz Navidad. The camera was set on the piano and caught only half of the pianist's face with the helter-skelter group in matching red shirts clustered behind the sofa. There was a beautifully chubby arm between the piano and the sofa and I knew it was the 95-year old nonna (grandma) because that's the place I remembered her chair on my summer visit.

The next day I received a photo of the whole family making pasta at a long table with a green and white checked tablecloth and benches instead of chairs; Nonna at the front of the table in charge of lining up the perfect tortellini like tiny, plump soldiers on a baking tray. There was no video included, but I'm sure their laughter boomed like cannons before and after the photo shoot.

And then on Christmas Day, two nearly identical videos arrived. The first was Nonna with ever-so-slightly disheveled hair being prompted by the videographer to wish me (I like to think it was just for me) a Happy Christmas. The end showed my friend's husband holding a cue card that said, "Eppi Crismas"; the most efficient way to remind an Italian how to pronounce Happy Christmas.

The second video was almost exactly the same (except Nonna had a few more hairs in place), once again perfectly pronouncing "Eppi Crismas" from a cue card held by her grandson; very minor changes that showed the importance of perfection in her 'Crismas' wish.

Thanks to the whole family for the best gift of the year. There's no doubt Norman would be very proud. The kids may have taught Nonna the pronunciation of Happy Christmas, but by the look of things, she's been teaching them its meaning for years.  
  

Great Minds Think Alike

Don't tell me to stop being so hard on myself and to give myself credit for all that I've done. It may work for some, but not for me. If you'd said it to Benjamin Franklin he might have only flown his kite on sunny days. And if Beethoven had listened, he may have stopped with Symphony no.3. Greatness requires time and patience, not just a pat on the back for a few accomplishments. And seeing that I'm lucky enough to have both time and patience, I'm not ready to accept the pat for a job not-so-well-done.  

The Great Pyramids wouldn't have been so great if they'd stopped with the first tier/tear. Instead, after the peak of number one, they hungered for number two and kept building. I don't think The Greats thought about resting. Alexander wasn't lying in his hammock every weekend. The Great Composers and Great Philosophers weren't recognized for their one-hit wonders and told they deserved a break. And The Great Gatsby may not have accomplished a lot, but his house was full of music and cheer and was hardly a peaceful refuge like others I know.

My idea of greatness isn't Charlie Brown's Great Pumpkin whose only job was to sit in a sunny field all day and grow. But I have a feeling those that think I'm too hard on myself would consider growth something great. And albeit important, it's not my definition of greatness.

Hats off to those who live their quotidian lives with satisfaction. At night you lie your heads to rest and sleep, while I, who may have done what you think worthy of rest, toss with the disappointment of today and turn with the conviction that maybe tomorrow I'll win the Great War with myself.

Truth Be Told

It's been a long time since I asked someone if I looked fat in my jeans. I can't explain why (or how) I've stopped asking, but it definitely makes life a little easier. Maybe it's just that I've finally realized no one answers those questions honestly anyway; no one except me, that is.

I was recently reprimanded for telling a friend I didn't think her dog was cute. She asked and I told her the truth. I'm quite sure I'm not the only one who thinks her dog isn't cute, but I'm probably the only one who told her. (Don't forget, she asked.) Personally, I don't think she should have been offended, but maybe I have to pay more attention to my audience; what offends one, makes another feel more confident with their choice. For example, if when someone tells me they think my shoes are strange, it makes me like them even more (both the shoes and the person).    

Last week I was shopping with a friend at my favorite Italian paper shop. She asked me to make her some stationery; a request I never refuse. It doesn't take much of a huge sheet to make a pack of notecards, but you can't buy just half. When asked if I'd liked her selections I said no and this time my honesty paid off.  I'd misunderstood that the leftover paper was a gift for me. Had I lied, I would have wound up with a bunch of dainty, daisy designs that left me unenthused.  

This afternoon a student and his wife stopped for Christmas tea. Having not seen the house before, I showed Valentina my mosaic stairs on the way to the bathroom. I'm not sure if her 'wow' was positive or negative, but what came next was clear. She succinctly said she never would have painted the house pink. Instead of being offended I was tickled to think I'd just found a new friend that doesn't say everything through rose-colored glasses.
 
You can bet your britches the next time we go out for pizza I'll be wearing my good butt jeans.

P.S. I have no answer for the attentive readers that are asking themselves why the author would dislike dainty daisies yet paint her house pink.   

I Like Your Smile

I know a lovely lady that always finds help when she winds up in unfortunate situations. She used to say she had friends she didn't even know. Before social media, that phrase was special. Now it's the norm and being liked has a whole new meaning.

In Italy to find out what's up with their friends (a.k.a. send messages) most people use WhatsApp, unaware of the play on words. In addition to messaging you can post photos to which friends can 'say' they like by clicking on the green floating heart icon. Sometimes I post photos and sometimes I get green hearts. I'm embarrassed to admit that they really do tickle me pink (and green, for my preppy readers). I thrive on external recognition and I think most people who say they don't are lying.

My other link to being liked is my sports watch; nothing's better than a compliment from Mr. Garmin. When he tells me my VO2 max is superior, I feel capable of anything. His other comments include Poor, Fair, Good and Excellent but I passed to Superior early on in our relationship. I'm somewhat certain there's an error because I spend a lot more time eating pizza and french fries than running. It seems impossible that my heart, lungs and muscles efficiently store and use oxygen (that's what V02 max means) at a superior level. Maybe I've entered my data incorrectly and he thinks I'm 90. In any case at the end of a run when I find myself at the far end of Garmin's rainbow graphic, my heart skips a beat.

I'm sure some would beg to differ, but I consider myself somewhat stable. If flying over the rainbow and floating green hearts have a positive effect on me (or negative, if they don't show up from the right people) I wonder how they effect kids that are overweight, underloved and dumb as well as their counterparts, the pretty, popular and smart. I think it only makes the rich feel richer and the poor feel poorer.

The fact that these icons can momentarily mess with the mood of an aware adult, makes me feel very sorry for the teenagers (and kids) hiding in their rooms waiting to be liked. There's no need for an unfortunate situation to put you in contact with the friends you don't even know. Just go outside, lift your head and smile. It's a lot more effective than a smiley face.


 

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 gone out for a lot of pizza since that discussion, but never with her.

Sometimes I make the first move and test a new acquaintance's English skills. It's  easier to break the ice  and make new friends in my mother tongue. When I meet someone 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 wasn't easy 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 cellphoneless; meaning no selfies made it to the internet. 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.