One might think that a hypochondriac like me would feel better in Italy because all of the ailments are already named. They have real Italian names because they are real Italian ailments. Italians don't make stuff up or wonder what might be wrong with them. They know what's wrong. They've named it. And even if there's nothing they can do about it, at least they know what the problem is. They can probably also tell you (with a bit of regret for having been so careless) exactly where and when they were struck by the condition.
I'm well aware of how often I put myself in danger, yet I continue doing so. Instead of heeding the Italians' kind warnings, I laugh. But I'm always the only one laughing. Well, I was always the only one laughing until I went to a dinner party with one of my students, his girlfriend, and her British English teacher. Then the Brit and I were the only two laughing. After that dinner, I did some research and found that plenty of other non-Italians also find these strange ailments humorous. Other expats are taking the same risks we're taking and chuckling at the advice of their Italian friends.
I don't know much about the latest trends in fashion, but I do know that accessories come and go. Things are in style for awhile, maybe even for quite awhile, but they almost always go out of style at some point and then return in a decade or two. So, how do you explain Italians and their scarves? It seems to me that scarves have never gone out of style in Italy. And now I think I know why. Scarves are used to protect you from the dreadful colpo d'aria.
The first thing the Brit and I had in common was that we'd never been struck by the 'hit of air'. You can be hit by air in any number of places. By that I mean any number of places on your body. Eyes, ears, necks, backs and stomachs are just a few of the zones that need protection. Most Italians that I know are afraid of being hit by cold air. Being struck by a colpo d'aria is sure to make them sick. Maybe even sick enough to stay home from work for a few days. The rest of us would just say we had a cold. And it usually wouldn't stop us from going to work.
To arm myself for the next person that was going to warn me of the colpo d'aria, I decided to learn about colds. In case you don't know (like my fellow Italian friends), colds come from a virus, not from a blast of cold air. So, if you feel a cool breeze on your neck while you're hearing things over the grapevine (literally) from your neighbor with the nasty cough, there's no need to run in for your scarf. If they pass you the virus, you're going to get the cold with or without your scarf. And if they aren't coughing and you still get sick, it's not your fault for being inappropriately dressed. You probably just lingered too long in the cafe drinking your macchiato and talking to the lady with the runny nose.
Like many other curly-haired non-Italians, I often leave the house with a wet head. I did it in below zero (fahrenheit) days in Chicago and I do it on chilly, winter days here. The number of times I've gone out with wet hair in Italy and the number of times I've been told that I'm going to get cervicale are the same. And it's a high number. I should also mention that you increase the risk of cervicale by going to bed with wet hair. Yet another bad habit of we women blessed with curls.
Cervicale is what I would call a sore neck or a little bit of tension in my shoulders, and I'm quite sure I've never gotten a sore neck from having wet hair. But in Italy, it's not just a little pain (in the neck). It has a name and you should try to avoid getting it. My cure? I just rub my neck during dinner for ten minutes and it usually goes away. It's never really seemed like something to worry about. Keep in mind, you're hearing this from someone who worries about almost everything. How do Italians cure it? That's a good question. I've never gotten that far on the issue. In an effort to be polite (by that I mean to keep from laughing), as soon as I hear that someone is suffering from it I say that I hope it doesn't last too long and I try to change the subject.
And how about going out with wet hair on my bike? That's like a giant hit of air and cervicale at the same time. Imagine the shock I caused when I left the pool this summer without drying off. The parts of my sundress that weren't soaked by my wet bikini were drenched by my dripping locks. And was I really going to get on my bike and ride home like that? Yes. It was 95 degrees. I wasn't afraid. And much to the surprise of those who knew that I took this risk, I had a healthy summer.
Yesterday I went to return the tray that Gemma had delivered her fresh gnocchi on the day before. I complained to her that I'd slept all morning and I was upset that I'd wasted my time. She suspected I was suffering from pressione bassa and asked if I'd checked it. No, I hadn't checked my blood pressure. Isn't blood pressure something old people check to monitor their medicine? And younger people, too, I guess, when their doctors tell them that they're overweight or eat too much salt. But all Italians seem to have a blood pressure checker at home and they know how to use it no matter how old they are. If they're not feeling their best, without missing a beat, they check it. Don't "I can't come to my lesson today, my blood pressure is low" or "I wanted to do the shopping today but I couldn't because my blood pressure was low" or "I had to skip my walk today because my blood pressure was a bit low" all just mean "I don't want to come to my lesson, do the shopping or get my exercise because I'm a little tired?"
Back to my morning in bed. When Gemma's 30-year old son heard me, he came out and said that I was probably suffering from the cambio di stagione. Fortunately, I'd already read about this one. It's October. We're transitioning from summer to winter. That's a change of season, hence the 'change of season disease.' It seems that if you're tired in the dead of winter or in the middle of summer, you're just plain tired. But if you happen to feel a bit sluggish in the spring or fall when the seasons are changing, you've got a real Italian ailment and you need rest.
I wish these were just old wives' tales that the younger generations weren't falling for, but they're not. When I laugh about it with my Italian peers and even with my students 20 years younger than me, they're not laughing. I learned the same phrase from two students on the same day. When I said that I swim right after I eat I was warned, "Stai scherzando con fuoco!" (You're joking with fire!) Can you imagine a handsome, 30-year old Italian guy having serious concern for my health because I didn't wait two hours after eating my pizza to jump in the pool?
And apparently I was also joking with fire when after a workout at the gym I used to opt-out of the germ-infested locker room for a sweaty walk home to take a shower at my own house. The warning came from a student who won't send her niece home after a full day of sweaty playing without first giving her a bath. And if there's no time, she at least blow dries the damp neck and hair of the little princepessa. I've even heard that some moms take blow dryers to birthday parties just in case the kids have had a little too much fun running around. Maybe it could be a new parting party game...."Come get your colpo d'aria calda (hit of hot air) and goody bag before heading home."
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Don't Let Your Life Stink
If you wear your slippers too often they get stinky.
Then life can start to stink a little, too.
So kick your shoes off,
but don't put your slippers on right away.
Put on your dancing shoes instead. That's living.
Try your rubber boots for a walk in the rain. That's refreshing.
Or your running shoes.....that's fun.
Squeeze into your stilettos. That's sexy.
Slip into your sandals. That's a breath of fresh air.
Wear your toe socks. That's silly.
Put on your beautifully beat-up boots. That's nostalgic.
Or your hiking shoes.....that's adventure.
Wear your flipflops to the beach or go to the garden in your gardening clogs.
But don't spend too much time in your slippers or they'll start to stink.
Wear them when you really need a break. That's relaxing.
And go barefoot sometimes, too. That's freedom.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Fashionine, It Rhymes with Asinine
One of my English lessons usually includes a Saturday morning walk through the market in Bassano del Grappa with a lovely, 36-year old Italian girl. We eventually end up at a cafe with cappuccinos, notebooks and dictionaries, but we usually start with a little shopping. (Okay, I'm lying about the cappuccinos, but it makes it sound better than water. Even acqua naturale doesn't have the same ring to it as cappuccino!)
At the market one day last summer she said she was looking for summer boots. It sounded like an English mistake to me, so I stopped to correct her. But instead, it was her turn to give me a lesson in fashion. She quickly pointed out all of the women walking around in boots; low-calf suede boots, referred to by those in the know as summer boots. Could their frilly floral dresses keep them cool enough on the top to offset sweaty feet in suede boots on the bottom? I don't think it would work for me. I can barely (and rarely) keep my sandals on in the car. Resting my bare feet on the dashboard is a special summertime treat. Summer boots? Out of the question. So I decided to teach her one of my favorite made-up words, fashionine, which rhymes with asinine. That's the day I put summer boots on my fashionine list.
Each year with the arrival of spring I can't wait to kick off my boots (Winter boots, that is.) I just get sick of wearing them everyday. I know I wouldn't look forward to packing away my boots only to unpack my other boots. Do these women really feel excited about donning boots in the summer or do they just have fashionitis? (Another made-up word, I think.)
In an attempt to keep from alienating some of my dearest friends, I've decided against divulging the rest of the items on my fashionine list. Instead I'll talk about an item that I fell for. Skinny jeans, which in my opinion aren't skinny jeans. They're fat jeans.
In the eighties I don't know if the fashion world used the term skinny jeans, but I know some of us did. My skinny jeans were the jeans that I could only wear when I was skinny. It didn't matter if they were straight leg, boot cut or bell bottoms. The important thing was that I'd found a day that I was skinny enough to wear them. I'd call a friend and excitedly say, "Guess what? My skinny jeans fit!" Then we'd usually celebrate by going out for pizza.
Now my skinny jeans (the ones that say skinny jeans on the tag when you buy them) are the ones that I call my fat jeans. They usually have some small percentage of stretch fabric so you can squeeze in even when you're pudgy. Not like good old 100% cotton denim that didn't budge an inch. And what else? They're so low-waisted that you can have an awfully bloated belly for a week or be just plain fat for a couple of months and you don't miss a day in your skinny jeans. You zip and button them up UNDER the problem. It's as easy as pie to close them down there. What a brilliant idea, even if it is a little fashionine.
My skinny jeans have gotten a lot of use since I've been living in Italy. Going out for pizza happens more often than it used to. Pizza is for Boring Mondays and I've Got to Get out of this House Tuesdays and Let's Just Eat it in the Car Fridays and Everyone Eats Pizza Sundays. But now, instead of being the one to call friends to go out to celebrate because my skinny jeans fit, they're the ones calling me to go out to celebrate one of the aforementioned special days of the week. I always accept the invitations and tell them that as soon as I put on my skinny jeans and winter sandals, I'll be there.
Be not afraid of being called un-fashionable. --Adolf Loos
At the market one day last summer she said she was looking for summer boots. It sounded like an English mistake to me, so I stopped to correct her. But instead, it was her turn to give me a lesson in fashion. She quickly pointed out all of the women walking around in boots; low-calf suede boots, referred to by those in the know as summer boots. Could their frilly floral dresses keep them cool enough on the top to offset sweaty feet in suede boots on the bottom? I don't think it would work for me. I can barely (and rarely) keep my sandals on in the car. Resting my bare feet on the dashboard is a special summertime treat. Summer boots? Out of the question. So I decided to teach her one of my favorite made-up words, fashionine, which rhymes with asinine. That's the day I put summer boots on my fashionine list.
Each year with the arrival of spring I can't wait to kick off my boots (Winter boots, that is.) I just get sick of wearing them everyday. I know I wouldn't look forward to packing away my boots only to unpack my other boots. Do these women really feel excited about donning boots in the summer or do they just have fashionitis? (Another made-up word, I think.)
In an attempt to keep from alienating some of my dearest friends, I've decided against divulging the rest of the items on my fashionine list. Instead I'll talk about an item that I fell for. Skinny jeans, which in my opinion aren't skinny jeans. They're fat jeans.
In the eighties I don't know if the fashion world used the term skinny jeans, but I know some of us did. My skinny jeans were the jeans that I could only wear when I was skinny. It didn't matter if they were straight leg, boot cut or bell bottoms. The important thing was that I'd found a day that I was skinny enough to wear them. I'd call a friend and excitedly say, "Guess what? My skinny jeans fit!" Then we'd usually celebrate by going out for pizza.
Now my skinny jeans (the ones that say skinny jeans on the tag when you buy them) are the ones that I call my fat jeans. They usually have some small percentage of stretch fabric so you can squeeze in even when you're pudgy. Not like good old 100% cotton denim that didn't budge an inch. And what else? They're so low-waisted that you can have an awfully bloated belly for a week or be just plain fat for a couple of months and you don't miss a day in your skinny jeans. You zip and button them up UNDER the problem. It's as easy as pie to close them down there. What a brilliant idea, even if it is a little fashionine.
My skinny jeans have gotten a lot of use since I've been living in Italy. Going out for pizza happens more often than it used to. Pizza is for Boring Mondays and I've Got to Get out of this House Tuesdays and Let's Just Eat it in the Car Fridays and Everyone Eats Pizza Sundays. But now, instead of being the one to call friends to go out to celebrate because my skinny jeans fit, they're the ones calling me to go out to celebrate one of the aforementioned special days of the week. I always accept the invitations and tell them that as soon as I put on my skinny jeans and winter sandals, I'll be there.
Be not afraid of being called un-fashionable. --Adolf Loos
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Face Your Fears (with one eye closed if you have to)
I used to be afraid of a one-eyed dog. I loved running towards the mountains until the day I bumped into him. But he took the fun out of it. I'd think about taking off on my favorite run and then I'd remember that he might be there waiting to greet me, or eat me, and I'd decide to run in the other direction.
Then one day I took a walk with Gemma, my 73-year old neighbor. She still had her cane, but I'd given up my crutches months earlier. She likes to head towards the mountains, too, and since she doesn't get out for walks very often anymore, I thought we should go wherever she wanted to go.
I decided not to mention the dog. We just started walking. He wasn't there every time that I passed, so I thought maybe we'd be lucky. And besides, I had Gemma by my side. She kills chickens with her bare hands. She hangs rabbits in trees and skins them (after she's killed them with her bare hands). So, I was pretty sure she wouldn't be afraid of a tiny little dog with one eye.
Our walks were filled with lessons. They weren't English lessons. They were cooking lessons and gardening lessons and life lessons. On this walk she was telling me that she'd collected almost enough lumache to make dinner for two. She thought we might see some while we were walking and she asked me to pick them up along the way. Not like 'pick up some bread at the panificio' or 'pick up some salami at the marcelleria'. She wanted me to 'pick up some slimy snails along the road' and carry them in my bare hands for the rest of the walk. Sure Gemma, I thought. If I see any, I'll pick them up.
She was in the middle of explaining the best place to find them when I saw One Eye. He was in the same place as always, acting like the king of the road. As we approached, he started barking and coming towards us. I asked Gemma if she wanted to turn around and she looked at me like I was crazy. She asked me if I knew this dog. I said that I knew he was often right here and that he kept me from running towards the mountains. That's when she told me that he wasn't always in the same place. For years he's been going to the cafe every morning for a croissant. And the cafe was in the other direction. That meant I had to be afraid no matter what direction I ran. One Eye could show up anywhere at anytime.
For Gemma, it was either facing One Eye, or going home. So, we faced him. And really, that's all it took. Just facing him was enough to make him a little less scary. He kept looking at us with his one eye, but he stopped coming towards us. And when Gemma raised her cane, he took a few steps backward, and let us pass. He growled a lot and I was a little nervous, but we kept on doing just what we wanted to do without letting a little fear ruin our day.
For some reason, as the weeks passed, I started to forget about One Eye. I just stopped worrying about him. I suppose I'd invented something else to worry about like "Are these really mosquito bites or do I have some deadly skin disease?" That's all it takes for me. As soon as I distract myself with a new fear, I forget about the old one. And then if the old one creeps back in a little bit, you can be sure the deadly disease is just mosquito bites again.
It wasn't too long before I bumped into One Eye. I wasn't ready to see him without Gemma by my side, but it happened. I panicked. I stopped running. I just stood there for a minute trying to decide what to do. I didn't want to turn around. I wasn't ready to go home. I decided it was time to face him. So, I picked up a stick (pretending to be Gemma with her cane), looked him straight in his only eye, and kept walking towards him. And he backed up. All I had to do was look at him, raise my stick (which I later realized was a limp twig and would have been useless as a weapon) and keep on walking.
It was that easy. He didn't eat me like I was sure he was going to. And I didn't have to crawl to a nearby house and ask them to call an ambulance to take me to the emergency room. And I didn't have my leg amputated . In fact, I didn't even have the big scar that was going to keep me from wearing mini-skirts the rest of my life. And fortunately, I didn't get rabies, either. The only thing that happened is that I kept running. I kept doing just what I wanted to do. I didn't let my fear of a one-eyed, croissant-eating dog take me off course.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Eat, Pray (that you're not getting too fat), Eat Again
Are Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth still around? I think so, but maybe they've gone through some changes. Mrs. Butterworth probably goes by Ms. Butterworth now. When we started worrying about being politically correct, I think they had makeovers. And I suppose Betty Crocker did, too.
Fortunately Italians still think their fat grandmas are good cooks. And they're proud enough to name a line of plastic containers after them. It's called "Nonna Rina" (Grandma Rina) and it's got a little image of a chubby old lady. I've never paid much attention to tupperware in the past, but with my broken knee I had plenty of time to study just about everything that crossed my path.
Nonna Rina came with Gemma everyday. Gemma is my 73-year old neighbor. When she heard that I was home alone and couldn't walk, she started bringing me food. Most people I know would probably think it was worth having a broken knee for awhile to get a meal made and delivered by an Italian grandma. And once we got things clear about my ridiculous eating habits, it was a treat for me, too. She brought pasta al ragu (with parmesan on top), mashed potatoes (with parmesan mixed in), pasta pomodoro (with a baggie full of parmesan to add at my leisure), mushroom risotto (it's really good if you pick out all of the mushrooms), vegetable soup with fresh vegetables from her garden topped with homemade croutons (if the vegetables are pureed I don't know what I'm eating so I can stomach it. And the homemade croutons? They sound fancy until you remember it's just old bread the cook didn't want to throw away) and the unforgettable cheese-filled tortellini with 4-cheese sauce (topped with a little more parmesan, of course).
So, that's how I got to know Nonna Rina and Gemma. (And it's also how I got a little chubby). Gemma made her way into my heart through my stomach. I never thought I'd say that unless I was talking about the owner of a pizzeria or an ice cream parlor. But now we're girlfriends. We're teaching each other about life in a small town in Italy and life in a big town in America. While Gemma was walking to the neighborhood well to get water to cook and take a bath and do the laundry I was making Spam sandwiches in a microwave.
I had a lot of visits from my new friends. The cast was on for 38 days and then I had crutches for another month when I still couldn't put any weight on my leg. So, once I could kind of walk with the crutches I had to convince her to stop bringing me food. Instead of delivering lunch I told her she had to come take me for a walk. We were quite a sight. I had my crutches and she had her cane. The first few weeks we did LESS than a mile in MORE than an hour. After awhile, I eliminated one crutch. Then we had to switch sides so our limps and crutches complemented one another. Before long, with the insistence of her husband, I got rid of the other crutch, too.
Now I can go for a two-hour crutch-free walk everyday by myself. Then I go home and take a shower, get dressed for Gemma (she likes my hats and scarves) and head back out to take her for her walk. Her husband tells us (everyday) to be careful and not get a speeding ticket. Then she hits him with her cane (everyday) and we head out.
Last week we celebrated her birthday. First we went to a nearby hilltown to take a walk. It wasn't easy for either of us. I'm still not very secure going up and down hills and canes weren't made for cobblestones. We window shopped and then we stopped for coffee.
I don't drink coffee and I'd already had tea in the morning so hot chocolate (or as I like to call it, hot mud) was my only option. I remember my first Italian hot chocolate in 1997. And I remember years later having to explain to an Australian girl in an Italian cafe in Moscow that the waiter hadn't made a mistake and brought her a cup of hot fudge, but that it was, in fact, Italian hot chocolate. You can eat it with a spoon.
It's not easy to finish a small cup of mud on its own and it's absolutely impossible to finish it if you're obliged to eat the unexpectedly delivered piece of birthday meringhe on the side. That's like having a cup of brown sugar with a side of sugar cubes. But, in honor of Gemma's birthday, I finished almost everything. I'm sure Aunt Jemima, Mrs. Butterworth and Betty would have been proud. And Nonna Rina, too.
Fortunately Italians still think their fat grandmas are good cooks. And they're proud enough to name a line of plastic containers after them. It's called "Nonna Rina" (Grandma Rina) and it's got a little image of a chubby old lady. I've never paid much attention to tupperware in the past, but with my broken knee I had plenty of time to study just about everything that crossed my path.
Nonna Rina came with Gemma everyday. Gemma is my 73-year old neighbor. When she heard that I was home alone and couldn't walk, she started bringing me food. Most people I know would probably think it was worth having a broken knee for awhile to get a meal made and delivered by an Italian grandma. And once we got things clear about my ridiculous eating habits, it was a treat for me, too. She brought pasta al ragu (with parmesan on top), mashed potatoes (with parmesan mixed in), pasta pomodoro (with a baggie full of parmesan to add at my leisure), mushroom risotto (it's really good if you pick out all of the mushrooms), vegetable soup with fresh vegetables from her garden topped with homemade croutons (if the vegetables are pureed I don't know what I'm eating so I can stomach it. And the homemade croutons? They sound fancy until you remember it's just old bread the cook didn't want to throw away) and the unforgettable cheese-filled tortellini with 4-cheese sauce (topped with a little more parmesan, of course).
So, that's how I got to know Nonna Rina and Gemma. (And it's also how I got a little chubby). Gemma made her way into my heart through my stomach. I never thought I'd say that unless I was talking about the owner of a pizzeria or an ice cream parlor. But now we're girlfriends. We're teaching each other about life in a small town in Italy and life in a big town in America. While Gemma was walking to the neighborhood well to get water to cook and take a bath and do the laundry I was making Spam sandwiches in a microwave.
I had a lot of visits from my new friends. The cast was on for 38 days and then I had crutches for another month when I still couldn't put any weight on my leg. So, once I could kind of walk with the crutches I had to convince her to stop bringing me food. Instead of delivering lunch I told her she had to come take me for a walk. We were quite a sight. I had my crutches and she had her cane. The first few weeks we did LESS than a mile in MORE than an hour. After awhile, I eliminated one crutch. Then we had to switch sides so our limps and crutches complemented one another. Before long, with the insistence of her husband, I got rid of the other crutch, too.
Now I can go for a two-hour crutch-free walk everyday by myself. Then I go home and take a shower, get dressed for Gemma (she likes my hats and scarves) and head back out to take her for her walk. Her husband tells us (everyday) to be careful and not get a speeding ticket. Then she hits him with her cane (everyday) and we head out.
Last week we celebrated her birthday. First we went to a nearby hilltown to take a walk. It wasn't easy for either of us. I'm still not very secure going up and down hills and canes weren't made for cobblestones. We window shopped and then we stopped for coffee.
I don't drink coffee and I'd already had tea in the morning so hot chocolate (or as I like to call it, hot mud) was my only option. I remember my first Italian hot chocolate in 1997. And I remember years later having to explain to an Australian girl in an Italian cafe in Moscow that the waiter hadn't made a mistake and brought her a cup of hot fudge, but that it was, in fact, Italian hot chocolate. You can eat it with a spoon.
It's not easy to finish a small cup of mud on its own and it's absolutely impossible to finish it if you're obliged to eat the unexpectedly delivered piece of birthday meringhe on the side. That's like having a cup of brown sugar with a side of sugar cubes. But, in honor of Gemma's birthday, I finished almost everything. I'm sure Aunt Jemima, Mrs. Butterworth and Betty would have been proud. And Nonna Rina, too.
Friday, October 19, 2012
You've Gotta Try Sometimes
Am I really living in Europe? The land where so many of us think things are better than they are in the States? The land of high fashion, fancy cars, expensive perfume, fabulous cheese, exquisite wine, leather that melts in your hands, chocolate that makes you melt, incredible (unbeatable, amazing, fabulous, perfect, wonderful, I've got to have every pair of) shoes? If all of this is true, I have to wonder why it's so hard to find a Diet Coke in a pizzeria.
I can understand why it wasn't available in Bolivia, Ethiopia and Mali. I accepted it and drank regular Coke. But this is Italy. Wouldn't you think a restaurant in Italy would have Diet Coke? I thought this might be the 'last straw' and I'd finally quit drinking it, but that hasn't happened yet.
My favorite pizza place, I'm embarrassed to admit, is called Punky Reggae Pub. I found it one morning while I was running. My friends had never been there. It's one of the few pizzerias I've found with any character. And I suppose it's probably not Italian character, but it's character nonetheless. Half of the floor is Mexican terracotta tiles. Maybe they're not Mexican (although the owner's favorite city in the world is Mexico City, so who knows?). The other half of the floor is beat up old wood. The tables and chairs are perfectly unmatched. For some reason the sparkly plastic snowflakes hanging from the light fixtures don't bother me. They make me think that I'm really going to like this place in the wintertime.
One wall is covered with snapshots. They're unframed and glued to the wall in one giant collage. Some are in color and some are in black and white. They're pictures of signs and fire hydrants and close-ups of toes and spice jars and coffee cups and bubbles. They're nothing extraordinary, but for some reason I can't stop looking at them and every Friday night I find one that I didn't see the week before.
At first my Friday night trips to the Punky Reggae Pub were an obligation. Soon after, I realized it was my favorite place. The obligation was that I had to consume my share of Diet Coke. It started as a joke. I told my friends that I'd brought a can of Diet Coke with me in my bag. I said I was going to order a regular Coke so that I'd still be paying for something, but then I was going to drink my Diet Coke and take the regular Coke home for someone else. It didn't seem that crazy to me, but they found it quite embarrassing.
Then I decided to tease them a little more. I told them I was going to ask the owner if he'd buy Diet Coke for me if I promised I'd come back often enough to drink it all. They didn't think I'd ask, but I did. And they certainly didn't think the he'd say yes, but he did.
The next Friday night I ordered a Diet Coke and he brought me a Coke Zero. In an effort to continue practicing my new found ability to go with the flow (as long as the flow is kind of going in the right (or should I say MY) direction), I decided NOT to ask why it was Coke Zero instead of Diet Coke. It's not 'The Real Thing' anyway, so what's the difference? I like the can better, too. Diet Coke cans currently have a caricature of a skinny girl, which only reminds me of something that I'm not. Coke Zero, instead, is a stylish black can with a red, green and white design. Instead of the Italian flag, all things red, green and white still make me think first of Christmas. The cans complement the snowflakes.
So, like The Rolling Stones say,"You can't always get what you want." (You're right, I had to check to see if it was really The Rolling Stones.) And I'm not sure what else they say, but it has always sounded to me like "but if you blah blah blah, you get what you need" and the words I've always sung are, "but if you try sometimes, you get what you need." If those aren't the lyrics, I think they should be. We should all try sometimes. But if at first we don't succeed, maybe we don't ALWAYS have to try, try again. My failure to get what I asked for opened the door to something new.
I can understand why it wasn't available in Bolivia, Ethiopia and Mali. I accepted it and drank regular Coke. But this is Italy. Wouldn't you think a restaurant in Italy would have Diet Coke? I thought this might be the 'last straw' and I'd finally quit drinking it, but that hasn't happened yet.
My favorite pizza place, I'm embarrassed to admit, is called Punky Reggae Pub. I found it one morning while I was running. My friends had never been there. It's one of the few pizzerias I've found with any character. And I suppose it's probably not Italian character, but it's character nonetheless. Half of the floor is Mexican terracotta tiles. Maybe they're not Mexican (although the owner's favorite city in the world is Mexico City, so who knows?). The other half of the floor is beat up old wood. The tables and chairs are perfectly unmatched. For some reason the sparkly plastic snowflakes hanging from the light fixtures don't bother me. They make me think that I'm really going to like this place in the wintertime.
One wall is covered with snapshots. They're unframed and glued to the wall in one giant collage. Some are in color and some are in black and white. They're pictures of signs and fire hydrants and close-ups of toes and spice jars and coffee cups and bubbles. They're nothing extraordinary, but for some reason I can't stop looking at them and every Friday night I find one that I didn't see the week before.
At first my Friday night trips to the Punky Reggae Pub were an obligation. Soon after, I realized it was my favorite place. The obligation was that I had to consume my share of Diet Coke. It started as a joke. I told my friends that I'd brought a can of Diet Coke with me in my bag. I said I was going to order a regular Coke so that I'd still be paying for something, but then I was going to drink my Diet Coke and take the regular Coke home for someone else. It didn't seem that crazy to me, but they found it quite embarrassing.
Then I decided to tease them a little more. I told them I was going to ask the owner if he'd buy Diet Coke for me if I promised I'd come back often enough to drink it all. They didn't think I'd ask, but I did. And they certainly didn't think the he'd say yes, but he did.
The next Friday night I ordered a Diet Coke and he brought me a Coke Zero. In an effort to continue practicing my new found ability to go with the flow (as long as the flow is kind of going in the right (or should I say MY) direction), I decided NOT to ask why it was Coke Zero instead of Diet Coke. It's not 'The Real Thing' anyway, so what's the difference? I like the can better, too. Diet Coke cans currently have a caricature of a skinny girl, which only reminds me of something that I'm not. Coke Zero, instead, is a stylish black can with a red, green and white design. Instead of the Italian flag, all things red, green and white still make me think first of Christmas. The cans complement the snowflakes.
So, like The Rolling Stones say,"You can't always get what you want." (You're right, I had to check to see if it was really The Rolling Stones.) And I'm not sure what else they say, but it has always sounded to me like "but if you blah blah blah, you get what you need" and the words I've always sung are, "but if you try sometimes, you get what you need." If those aren't the lyrics, I think they should be. We should all try sometimes. But if at first we don't succeed, maybe we don't ALWAYS have to try, try again. My failure to get what I asked for opened the door to something new.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Bridging the Gap
It seems like I always had a million excuses NOT to write the blog, but I didn't think I'd get to the point where I'd find an excuse TO write it. Having a broken knee and a cast that goes from your crotch (is groin a better word?) to your ankle seems like a pretty good reason to start up again. And a prognosis of 29 more days (I've already survived 8) means you can check back in every now and then because I'll probably have a few more things to say.
The accident was scary enough to make me wet my pants. My first thought was that there was blood gushing from between my legs. My stomach and everything felt okay, but I was sure I must have been hit hard enough to cause internal bleeding (but if it was coming out between my legs then it wouldn't really be internal, would it?). Then somehow I calmed down enough to figure out that I'd wet my pants. The good news is, at least it didn't scare the crap out of me. (I suppose that might be better left out, but it made me laugh.)
Here's what happened. I was riding my bike home from an English lesson. I had just crossed the pedestrian only (and bikes, I think) old wooden bridge in Bassano. It's one of my favorite things to do. The pavement of the bridge is cobblestone and marble. The stones are so big and round that it's not easy to walk on them, especially for the beautiful Italian ladies in their beautiful Italian high heels. So, in addition to the cobblestones, they laid nice strips of marble to make the bridge a bit more user-friendly for the Bassanese and the American English teacher on her bike.
When I got to the other side of the bridge the street was crowded. It's a place that's always crowded. It's a meeting point for locals, a photo stop for tourists and the perfect place to stand in the road and have an apertif. It really feels like you're in the middle of a little piazza instead of in an intersection where an occasional car passes through. Unfortunately, I found myself there at the same time as the occasional car. I saw it coming in my direction and I was sure the driver also saw me. It only took a second, and a thud, to realize she didn't see me. That's when I wet my pants.
I untangled myself from my bike and stood up. It was like trying to stand up after a fall on the rope-tow when I was learning how to ski. You don't really know where to put your hands to push yourself up and your legs don't really work because they're attached to your skis. In this case I couldn't put my hands anywhere because I was covered in bike and it seemed like my legs (at least one anyway) didn't really work. You get the idea. All I knew was that I wanted to be up because I thought that if I was up, I wasn't dead.
I looked around and realized I was definitely the center of attention. Not in the way I like to be when I'm riding through a piazza in a mini-skirt licking a gelato. Everyone was staring, but no one was helping. (Then last week when I'd come upon a car accident-- before I closed my eyes and plugged my ears like I do if I think we're about to hit a squirrel--I learned that Italians don't get too close to accidents. I had my eyes opened long enough to see panicked people out of their cars, but no one near the body on the side of the road. According to my friends, which I realize is one very small slice of the way Italians think, no one gets involved for fear of being sued later.) So now I understand why no one was rushing to collect my personal items that had flown from my unbuckled leather bag in my wicker bike basket. The bungee to hold the bag in the basket doesn't really work if the bag isn't closed. The intersection was full of my stuff.
I saw my iPod in it's little felted bag that I bought at the Amnesty International shop in Paris and one of the tubes of my minty lipstuff that I got for Christmas last year and batteries that had blown out of my smashed bike light and a little piece of metal that I actually thought was a piece of the car that I'd broken with my leg and wanted to keep (only to realize later that it was part of my bike). I finally asked someone to collect my stuff and then someone finally asked me if I was okay.
Yes. I was okay. At the moment, I'd decided I was even okay enough to walk back across the bridge to make it easier for my friend to pick me up on the less congested side of town. Wasn't that nice of me? It was a beautiful night for a little walk with a broken knee. I appreciated the marble paths on the bridge even more. I remember looking dreamily
at a faded old building on the river, that I've looked at a hundred times, taken a hundred photos of and only recently found out that one of my students owns it. On the third floor there's a tiny little apartment with a tiny little balcony looking out at the river, the bridge and the 1000 year old town of Bassano. And there's a tiny little chance that I can rent it in January. For a minute I'd forgotten that I'd wet my pants, scuffed up my all-time favorite German shoes, destroyed my bike and was about to embark on the adventure of a journey through the Italian medical system. That's the magic of Italy. It's easy to forget about real life for awhile. But only for awhile.
The accident was scary enough to make me wet my pants. My first thought was that there was blood gushing from between my legs. My stomach and everything felt okay, but I was sure I must have been hit hard enough to cause internal bleeding (but if it was coming out between my legs then it wouldn't really be internal, would it?). Then somehow I calmed down enough to figure out that I'd wet my pants. The good news is, at least it didn't scare the crap out of me. (I suppose that might be better left out, but it made me laugh.)
Here's what happened. I was riding my bike home from an English lesson. I had just crossed the pedestrian only (and bikes, I think) old wooden bridge in Bassano. It's one of my favorite things to do. The pavement of the bridge is cobblestone and marble. The stones are so big and round that it's not easy to walk on them, especially for the beautiful Italian ladies in their beautiful Italian high heels. So, in addition to the cobblestones, they laid nice strips of marble to make the bridge a bit more user-friendly for the Bassanese and the American English teacher on her bike.
When I got to the other side of the bridge the street was crowded. It's a place that's always crowded. It's a meeting point for locals, a photo stop for tourists and the perfect place to stand in the road and have an apertif. It really feels like you're in the middle of a little piazza instead of in an intersection where an occasional car passes through. Unfortunately, I found myself there at the same time as the occasional car. I saw it coming in my direction and I was sure the driver also saw me. It only took a second, and a thud, to realize she didn't see me. That's when I wet my pants.
I untangled myself from my bike and stood up. It was like trying to stand up after a fall on the rope-tow when I was learning how to ski. You don't really know where to put your hands to push yourself up and your legs don't really work because they're attached to your skis. In this case I couldn't put my hands anywhere because I was covered in bike and it seemed like my legs (at least one anyway) didn't really work. You get the idea. All I knew was that I wanted to be up because I thought that if I was up, I wasn't dead.
I looked around and realized I was definitely the center of attention. Not in the way I like to be when I'm riding through a piazza in a mini-skirt licking a gelato. Everyone was staring, but no one was helping. (Then last week when I'd come upon a car accident-- before I closed my eyes and plugged my ears like I do if I think we're about to hit a squirrel--I learned that Italians don't get too close to accidents. I had my eyes opened long enough to see panicked people out of their cars, but no one near the body on the side of the road. According to my friends, which I realize is one very small slice of the way Italians think, no one gets involved for fear of being sued later.) So now I understand why no one was rushing to collect my personal items that had flown from my unbuckled leather bag in my wicker bike basket. The bungee to hold the bag in the basket doesn't really work if the bag isn't closed. The intersection was full of my stuff.
I saw my iPod in it's little felted bag that I bought at the Amnesty International shop in Paris and one of the tubes of my minty lipstuff that I got for Christmas last year and batteries that had blown out of my smashed bike light and a little piece of metal that I actually thought was a piece of the car that I'd broken with my leg and wanted to keep (only to realize later that it was part of my bike). I finally asked someone to collect my stuff and then someone finally asked me if I was okay.
Yes. I was okay. At the moment, I'd decided I was even okay enough to walk back across the bridge to make it easier for my friend to pick me up on the less congested side of town. Wasn't that nice of me? It was a beautiful night for a little walk with a broken knee. I appreciated the marble paths on the bridge even more. I remember looking dreamily
at a faded old building on the river, that I've looked at a hundred times, taken a hundred photos of and only recently found out that one of my students owns it. On the third floor there's a tiny little apartment with a tiny little balcony looking out at the river, the bridge and the 1000 year old town of Bassano. And there's a tiny little chance that I can rent it in January. For a minute I'd forgotten that I'd wet my pants, scuffed up my all-time favorite German shoes, destroyed my bike and was about to embark on the adventure of a journey through the Italian medical system. That's the magic of Italy. It's easy to forget about real life for awhile. But only for awhile.
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