Can I kiss you?

I thought the season of asking for kisses in Italy had passed, but apparently it hasn't.  During the holidays the question is disguised, making it a bit easier to get away with.   

The first time I heard, "Posso darti auguri?" (can I give you my best wishes?)  I was confused.  It was in the beginning of December when I was asked by a friend of a friend and I said, "Why couldn't you?"  It seemed strange that he thought he needed permission to say Merry Christmas.  The next thing I knew he was getting up from his desk and coming towards me.  Then he said "Auguri" and gave me the double kiss (which I've finally learned starts on the left, referring to an earlier post, A Kiss is Not Just a Kiss).  And that was that.  I'd learned what "Posso darti auguri?" meant.  It's not asking for permission to give best wishes.  It's asking for permission to give kisses.   From then on I was prepared for the holiday season. 

But what I've never been prepared for is off-season. (As in, not during the holidays and not masked with, "Can I give you auguri?")  In off-season, I can count on two hands the number of times I've been asked for a kiss by a stranger.  I know the 'count on hands' expression is usually used to indicate how seldom something happens.  And we usually only refer to one hand.  As in, "I can count on one hand how many times you've offered to wash the dishes."  But in this case, I'm astounded that the number of times I've been asked to be given a kiss by a stranger is actually high enough to count on TWO hands.   

Why would a person that I don't know think I'd want a kiss from them and why would they want to kiss me?  In all of my travels over the past twenty years, which I think it's safe to say covers a lot of territory,  the only place I've been asked for a kiss by a complete stranger is in Italy.  What makes a chubby, more-than-middle-aged man in the park think that after interrupting my attempt at a little acquarello I would to want to kiss him?

And why would an encroaching-on-elderly man on the running path that has taken a walk every day since his open-heart surgery think he could kiss me?  I'd actually talked to him long enough the previous day (45 seconds) to hear about the surgery.  I suppose that justifies his asking for the sweaty kiss the next day.  We were already good friends.  Or maybe he had to reset his pacemaker and he thought a kiss would do the trick.

Then there was the attempt at dusk last week on my way home from a run in the rain. I was on the regular road instead of the trail and I saw a man checking his mailbox.  Actually, I was kind of surprised to see such an almost-ancient man out in the rain.  As I was passing, he asked if I was afraid to be out in the dark.  I stopped and said, "No, should I be?"  I thought there might be something about the neighborhood that I still had to learn.  But the only thing I learned is that there's yet another hopeful heartbreaker living down the street.  It went like this. 

Instead of responding to my "No, should I be?" he simply said, "You have such a pretty face.  Can I give you a kiss?"  And even though he was probably 85-years old, I gave him a gentle shove on his shoulder  (which luckily didn't make him topple) and sweetly said, "Are you out of your mind?" which I suppose at his age he actually could have been. 

I won't continue with the examples.  That's pretty much how it goes.  And don't forget, there are enough of these love affairs to count on two hands.  I've decided that the next time it happens instead of just accepting the fact that I'm in Italy and saying, "That's aMORe!" I'm going to pretend I'm in Canada and say, "That's ENOUGH, eh?"




A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out all the years.  --Rupert Brooke
Ok.  That explains everything.
   

Don't Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

I take a walk around my neighborhood every night between 1:30 and 3:00a.m.  I do it so I can hear the dogs bark.  And bark and bark and bark and bark.  It's not that I love the sound of barking dogs.  In fact, during the day, I hate it.  But at night, I find a little peace in it.  I guess you might call it peaceful revenge. 

I live in a neighborhood filled with dogs.  I can't ride my bike or run anywhere without being gruffly interrupted by a mad dog.  In the second house on the left there are four.  The next house has two. Then the next three houses each have one.  And that's when I head out towards the trail.  In the direction of the mountains the first house on the left has six.  Then it's quiet for three minutes until I'm greeted by four more.  This is just in the first 600 yards (as in unit of measure, not dog confines).  It only gets worse as I get more miles into my rhythm and reverie.   If I have to look on the bright side, at least I'm usually being barked at and chased on the other side of a hedge or fence, but it's still a bit alarming.

I've been asking myself day after day if the barking bothers the dog owners or if they even hear it.  I wonder if they're embarrassed that their pets are such a nuisance.  I'm pretty sure the answers to these questions are no or I would have seen at least one shy smile as if to say they understood that it happened everyday and they were sorry for the disturbance.  It's when I continued looking for these shy smiles and not finding any that I finally decided to make their dogs bark at night.  And thus began my much-later-than-evening strolls.

In the still hours of the night when I'm sure the farmers are deep asleep, their barking dogs make me (not so shyly) smile.   I stop to enjoy them.  If I keep walking, the pleasure is fleeting because the barking stops as soon as I've passed.  So I've found a couple of good places to rest, lean on a tree and pretend I'm that black cut-out silhouette guy smoking a pipe.  I bend my leg just like he does and I  listen to them bark.  And listen and listen and listen and listen. 

I like to imagine what's going on inside.  By that hour I'm hoping that the house is really cold
because the fire lit before bed has probably gone out.  Farmers go to bed early.  There's nothing to do around here when it's dark.  So, I picture them lying there for a bit, listening to the dogs and assuming that there's no danger and the barking will stop.  But as long as I keep my pose, the dogs keep barking.  So then I imagine them rolling over and putting their handmade quilts over their heads so they don't hear it anymore.  But the barking continues.  Eventually, they have no choice.  They don their icy slippers that have been chilling on the cold tile floor for the past several hours and go to the window.  This is the part I really like.  I don't have to take cover until they're totally out of bed.  My warning comes from the clank of the inside window.  They have to open that before they can get to the outside shutters.  This means that for a few seconds at 2 a.m. or so, they're getting a nice blast of cold air up their pajama sleeves.   That's when I smile, think "just what the doctor ordered!" and move on to the next patient.  

As hard as I've searched I haven't found anything that says, "Revenge is the best medicine."  In fact,  I'm sure it's no surprise that most of what I've found is a bit more like, "An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind," by Gandhi . Or  "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves," by Confucius.
 
But I did run across this, by Anne Frank. "I won't bore you anymore on the subject...all my plans of revenge...must be abandoned in order to keep the peace.  Oh I'm becoming so sensible."  And then I smiled because SENSIBILE in Italian and SENSIBLE in French and Spanish are all defined as 'sensitive' in English, which means 'having or displaying a quick and delicate appreciation of others' feelings.'  

Thanks to Anne (not Gandhi or Confucius) I've given up on this whole revenge thing.  It was just one of those daydreams I have when I'm running anyway.  It's not that I like the idea of becoming sensible (in English) because it seems a bit boring and lacks a certain.......je ne sais quoi.  Sensible people don't take walks in the rain without their umbrellas.  They don't buy knee-high boots with 37 eyelets and hooks that have to be re-laced every time they wear them when the same boots are available with a hidden zipper.  And they probably don't put sugar on their low-fat, diet cottage cheese.

So, rather than worrying that I'm becoming sensible in English, I tell myself that I'm becoming SENSIBILE or SENSIBLE in one of the other languages and console myself with my kindness.


 
"Revenge is like biting a dog because the dog bit you."  --Austin O'Malley
I thought I'd include that one just for laughs because it's really laughter that's the best medicine.

Look on the Bright Side

I lost five euros a couple of weeks ago.  That's looking on the bright side, which is something I don't always do. I actually lost half of a ten euro banknote, which means I really lost ten euros, I know. But I felt a little better thinking that I'd only lost five.  In fact, if I'd lost the whole thing, I might not have even noticed.  It was the discovery of the perfectly torn half that is trying to teach me a lesson.

I'd spent the morning with students in Bassano del Grappa.  I'd met one in the cafe by the train station.  After the lesson we walked through the Saturday morning market to my favorite florist to buy flowers.  This was the meeting point for the next student.  We shopped a bit and then ended up in another cafe.  And when I'd finished with her I went to a beautiful old office just off the piazza in the center of town for the final lesson of the day.  It's hard to believe this is my job.

It wasn't until later that afternoon that I discovered the half banknote. Quite certain that I was the one at fault, I texted my students anyway to see if one of them was still holding the other half.  As I expected, the missing piece was missing.  I was reminded once again that my method of money collecting really isn't such a good one.  It happens every time the students pay me. I always feel a little embarrassed and I want to get the exchange over quickly.  Instead of opening my bag and getting out my wallet and neatly folding the money and placing it in the proper section (all of which takes time), I just shove it my pocket and keep talking as though they haven't just paid me.  But, cramming crumpled bills into the depths of my skinny jeans' pockets only means pulling them out again in the same disheveled manner which leads to dropped money, torn money and occasionally even laundered money.

 

The following week I went to Bassano for my usual Saturday morning routine.  First the coffee and lesson at the train station and then the little walk to the florist.   I'd actually (almost) forgotten about having lost ten euros, but was pleasantly reminded by the florist.  He saw me coming, winked, and presented me with the missing half.  Fortunately, I hadn't thrown away my five euros because suddenly, I had ten again.

Deciding to tuck the torn bill in a little pocket in my wallet as a reminder of how not to handle my money in the future had paid off.  And I'm sure deciding to look on the bright side a little more often would pay off, too.

No one has ever injured his eyesight by looking on the bright side of things.  --unknown

Living with a Bunch of Old Wives

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."
  

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.

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

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.