There are good times to leave the island and bad times. Four years ago it didn't matter when you left. The ferryboat was filled with locals going to the mainland....fishermen turning in official documents on their catch of the day, teens going shopping and families and friends taking the evening passeggiata. But that was four years ago. Recently, the island has been discovered and Sunday evening is the best time to avoid the ferryboat, not only for the fear of tourists, but this week, also the fear of the coronavirus.
On Sunday, February 23 I decided to take the 7:45a.m. boat. I worried about the possibility of no more boats leaving the island like the videos I'd seen of people trying to escape Wuhan, where they were blocked and trapped inside. Fortunately, my boat showed up and I was allowed on.......along with a young soccer team, their coaches and families.
I was surprised to see the team because I heard the day before that all sporting events in northern Italy had been cancelled. Then I laughed at myself and thought, "Silly me. They must have just meant the big teams and real sporting events, not the 12 year-olds from the island."
In the past I passed through the cabin and sat outside on the back of the boat. But thanks to tourism, those seats are usually taken now, so I stand toward the front part where people leave their bikes. I've never liked being inside the cabin.....even before the coronavirus. And on Sunday, it was out of the question. Unfortunately, a couple of the coaches joined me alfresco, but I turned my back to them, pulled up my collar and prepared for the chilly 20-minute ride.
Shortly into the trip the coaches tapped on the door of the captain's cabin and the boat slowed down. There's another island between mine and the mainland where, in the winter, the boat only stops on special request. The special request? They just found out the game had been cancelled and they wanted to get off to catch the next ferryboat back home. I tightened the scarf around my mouth (my temporary face mask) and watched the exodus in silence.
Tuesday, February 25, 2020
Monday, February 24, 2020
First real day of the coronavirus in Italy
"Worldometers" takes on a whole new meaning when it's talking about your world. Wikipedia defines it as "Live world statistics on population, government and economics, society and media, environment, food, water, energy and health." Is it a viable source of information? Seeing that I'm living under a rock in northern Italy, I don't really know. It looks official to me.
So as I began my morning walk on the island, I checked the live statistics of the coronavirus in Italy. At 10am on Saturday, the 22nd of February there were 22 cases. At the same time the day before, there had been only 4. I kept walking.
Weeks earlier with news of the virus in China I always felt thankful for my island. I thought that if it ever really made it to Italy, I'd just live on the island until it passed. My house in the country gives me the same peace of mind, but I prefer island life. It's the same after acts of terrorism in large European cities. I feel the panic and pain and anxiety of the people living in those cities.....so many that I've seen myself, but I live far off the beaten path and don't worry much about terrorism (unless I have guests who require the obligatory tour of Venice).
During my walk I couldn't help but continue to check the worldometer and was shocked to see that the number was rising. At that time, the US had 35 cases and Italy was still below that. But as I approached home after a one-hour walk, we had hit 39. More cases in tiny little Italy than all of the United States.
It's impossible to take a walk on the island without lots of little chats with islanders like 88-year old Vincenzo on his third walk of the morning and the two ladies that met out on the lagoon wall so one could show the other her new fuscia permanent. It was nice to be distracted for a few minutes.
When I arrived at my street I saw the ambulance boat parked at the dock. All of my neighbors were out by the lagoon whispering and looking down my calle (that's what you call a street in Venice). I stopped, a little wobbly, to sit on the wall alone. I'm not one for ambulances---even if they're boats. A neighbor came over and explained what was happening. The family that lived next door to me was being tested for the coronavirus.
I waited with the others. When I saw them leaving my calle I looked away. But not before seeing the medical team in their lime green suits with gloves and glasses and masks carrying a plastic garbage can back to their boat. I really didn't even look, but the quick glimpse is an image that won't fade.
My house is attached to theirs. The walls are thin. It was impossible not to hear a fear tears next door as I hung the laundry from my second floor window. By the end of the day I'd had all of the news. My neighbor's brother was in the hospital for the virus. He doesn't live on the island. But this family had had contact with the patient's family. And that was enough to require the mandatory test. They were put under home quarantine until the test results come back.
I stayed in the house for the rest of the day. I'd bought tickets to a party for Carnevale on the island that night. I didn't go. I never looked at Worldometers again. There was no need to check the charts to see how much my anxiety level was rising.
So as I began my morning walk on the island, I checked the live statistics of the coronavirus in Italy. At 10am on Saturday, the 22nd of February there were 22 cases. At the same time the day before, there had been only 4. I kept walking.
Weeks earlier with news of the virus in China I always felt thankful for my island. I thought that if it ever really made it to Italy, I'd just live on the island until it passed. My house in the country gives me the same peace of mind, but I prefer island life. It's the same after acts of terrorism in large European cities. I feel the panic and pain and anxiety of the people living in those cities.....so many that I've seen myself, but I live far off the beaten path and don't worry much about terrorism (unless I have guests who require the obligatory tour of Venice).
During my walk I couldn't help but continue to check the worldometer and was shocked to see that the number was rising. At that time, the US had 35 cases and Italy was still below that. But as I approached home after a one-hour walk, we had hit 39. More cases in tiny little Italy than all of the United States.
It's impossible to take a walk on the island without lots of little chats with islanders like 88-year old Vincenzo on his third walk of the morning and the two ladies that met out on the lagoon wall so one could show the other her new fuscia permanent. It was nice to be distracted for a few minutes.
When I arrived at my street I saw the ambulance boat parked at the dock. All of my neighbors were out by the lagoon whispering and looking down my calle (that's what you call a street in Venice). I stopped, a little wobbly, to sit on the wall alone. I'm not one for ambulances---even if they're boats. A neighbor came over and explained what was happening. The family that lived next door to me was being tested for the coronavirus.
I waited with the others. When I saw them leaving my calle I looked away. But not before seeing the medical team in their lime green suits with gloves and glasses and masks carrying a plastic garbage can back to their boat. I really didn't even look, but the quick glimpse is an image that won't fade.
My house is attached to theirs. The walls are thin. It was impossible not to hear a fear tears next door as I hung the laundry from my second floor window. By the end of the day I'd had all of the news. My neighbor's brother was in the hospital for the virus. He doesn't live on the island. But this family had had contact with the patient's family. And that was enough to require the mandatory test. They were put under home quarantine until the test results come back.
I stayed in the house for the rest of the day. I'd bought tickets to a party for Carnevale on the island that night. I didn't go. I never looked at Worldometers again. There was no need to check the charts to see how much my anxiety level was rising.
Pizza, gelato and the coronavirus in northern Italy
I'd spent the past 1425 days googling Trump. I didn't have an app for a specific newspaper or any particular site, I just typed "Trump" in the google bar and read whatever came up. As the only American in a small town in Italy, asking me about Trump was simply irresistible for the townsfolk, so I always felt I should be somewhat prepared. In the first couple of years their comments had been about Al Capone (pronounced Cah-POH-nay), but Trump quickly took his place.
In January, Trump said something about the Chinese Coronavirus and the next day instead of typing "Trump" in the google bar I typed "Chinese Coronavirus". I read about the hospitals being built in a week and saw videos of ghost towns taken by drones. I watched the number of cases and deaths increase and I saw photos of empty grocery stores. I never thought about Trump again.
The Chinese Coronavirus was my new obsession. With it I also learned more about SARS (which I was apparently and embarrassingly too naive to worry about 17 years ago, and not because I was googling George W. Bush), the internet censorship in China and a website called Worldometers which had begun tracking the number of coronavirus cases by country. That's when I realized it was no longer necessary to type "Chinese" before "coronavirus". There were a lot of countries on the list, but fortunately, for several weeks, Italy was near the bottom.
People talked about how incredible it was that China had built those hospitals so quickly. In Italy it takes years to do anything. And even if things get approved, it takes years more to actually see a building. People said that if the virus ever really spread in Italy, we would be doomed. Jokes flew freely because Italy's initial few cases and the cases in France and Germany had stopped increasing.
On Friday afternoon, the 21st of February, we had four cases. With my usual obsessive check before bed I know the number was higher, but I can't remember how much higher. That night, it still wasn't alarming enough to count sheep.
In January, Trump said something about the Chinese Coronavirus and the next day instead of typing "Trump" in the google bar I typed "Chinese Coronavirus". I read about the hospitals being built in a week and saw videos of ghost towns taken by drones. I watched the number of cases and deaths increase and I saw photos of empty grocery stores. I never thought about Trump again.
The Chinese Coronavirus was my new obsession. With it I also learned more about SARS (which I was apparently and embarrassingly too naive to worry about 17 years ago, and not because I was googling George W. Bush), the internet censorship in China and a website called Worldometers which had begun tracking the number of coronavirus cases by country. That's when I realized it was no longer necessary to type "Chinese" before "coronavirus". There were a lot of countries on the list, but fortunately, for several weeks, Italy was near the bottom.
People talked about how incredible it was that China had built those hospitals so quickly. In Italy it takes years to do anything. And even if things get approved, it takes years more to actually see a building. People said that if the virus ever really spread in Italy, we would be doomed. Jokes flew freely because Italy's initial few cases and the cases in France and Germany had stopped increasing.
On Friday afternoon, the 21st of February, we had four cases. With my usual obsessive check before bed I know the number was higher, but I can't remember how much higher. That night, it still wasn't alarming enough to count sheep.
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
The Way Things Were (Preparing for Super "Bawl" Weekend, 15)
It doesn't take much to remind me that I no longer live in the States.
Reminder number 1. Last weekend's homemade nachos went like this. Chips, borlotti beans that I put in the blender to make them mushy like refried beans, Asiago cheese (that comes from Asiago, a touristy mountain town an hour from my house), Greek yogurt that looks just like sour cream, and what are nachos without some good ol' spicy ketchup?
Reminder number 2. Italians eat nachos with a fork.
Reminder number 3. The nacho fest brought to mind the Super Bowl. "Hey!" I hollered, "Is this Super Bowl Sunday?" Hold on to your nachos for the reply..... "What's Super Bowl Sunday?"
It's not that I'm a big fan or anything, but it sure would be nice to laugh (or bawl) at the commercials with someone. I don't suppose the reruns on Monday morning will have Italian subtitles, will they?
The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day. (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.) Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago. I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'.
Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing. It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world. Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.
My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo, giving the readers the choice of better...or just different. With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there. In the end maybe they really are just "differences."
Reminder number 1. Last weekend's homemade nachos went like this. Chips, borlotti beans that I put in the blender to make them mushy like refried beans, Asiago cheese (that comes from Asiago, a touristy mountain town an hour from my house), Greek yogurt that looks just like sour cream, and what are nachos without some good ol' spicy ketchup?
Reminder number 2. Italians eat nachos with a fork.
Reminder number 3. The nacho fest brought to mind the Super Bowl. "Hey!" I hollered, "Is this Super Bowl Sunday?" Hold on to your nachos for the reply..... "What's Super Bowl Sunday?"
It's not that I'm a big fan or anything, but it sure would be nice to laugh (or bawl) at the commercials with someone. I don't suppose the reruns on Monday morning will have Italian subtitles, will they?
The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day. (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.) Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago. I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'.
Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing. It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world. Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.
My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo, giving the readers the choice of better...or just different. With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there. In the end maybe they really are just "differences."
Thursday, October 11, 2018
If you don't have anything nice to say...
There's nothing like a new haircut. New outfits can be changed. New lipstick can be removed. And new kilos can be lost (with a few extra miles). But new haircuts are here to stay for a while and I think they should be handled with care. I had nearly four inches cut two days ago. My hair hasn't been this short for at least 20 years.
Day one. I left the beauty parlour with soaking wet hair at 3pm. I suppose no one says beauty parlour anymore, but the salon sounds too fancy for me and the hair place would only reinforce my limited vocabulary. Anyway, the beauty parlour makes me think of Gert. She had one at the intersection of two country roads in my home town. It had a hairspray smell, bright green walls and bad lighting. I went to school with Gert's grandson and somehow that made me feel like more than just a customer's kid. She let me go in the private staircase that led to her house and I think she gave my mom coffee in a real mug. Maybe the walls were orange and the lighting might have been bright, I'm not sure. But I really do think there were stairs that led somewhere that made me feel special.
Day one. Take two. I left the beauty parlour with soaking wet hair at 3pm. I was surprised when the beautician (That's the lady that works in the beauty parlour. Stylists work in salons.) told me to return to the sink after the cut. She said that she'd combed it so much she had to wet it again so I could make my 'bus stop curls'. She'd remembered that the time I waste waiting for the bus is just enough to wrap chunks of wet hair around my finger to form a few ringlets. But she'd forgotten that I'd ridden my bike to the beauty parlour and I'd be smashing on my helmet and heading home with squashed bangs and dripping locks, so the bus stop curls wouldn't last long.
No one in Italy leaves the salon with wet hair. Italians are afraid of the colpo d'aria (http://10leaves.blogspot.com/2013/10/living-with-a-bunch-of-old-wives.html ) and of being seen around town in any form but the finest. For example, I have a friend that gets up early and puts on a sweatsuit. An hour later she gets dressed to drop her kid off at school. Period. Just to drop her at the curb. She goes home and puts the sweatsuit back on. And she gets dressed again after lunch to pick the kid up. (That's not exactly like clean underwear in case you have a car accident.) So if you have to be properly dressed just to be in your car, you can imagine the pomp and circumstance when you leave the beauty parlour. Most women plan coffee and dinner dates on haircut day. They leave feeling even more coiffed than usual and they're ready to see and be seen (even more than usual).
My haircut day consisted of painting the back of the house blue (adding some unintentional highlights to my new do), raking the yard and taking five wheelbarrows (I'm sure I'm not the only one who always thought that word was "wheel barrel".) of clippings (backwards foreshadowing?) to the field behind my neighbor's house. There wasn't a lot of seeing or being seen and not even an opportunity to catch a glimpse of my new look in the reflection of boutique windows or the mirrored-wall behind my favorite barrista. That being said, there were no comments on day one.
Day two. I had a couple of early morning lessons at home with men my age. For the first, I put in a tiny ponytail seconds before he came to the door because I was afraid it was too poofy. Seeing that the day before he'd left saying that he loved me (in the way one says they love gelato and pizza) I didn't want to risk losing him by drastically changing my librarian look.
The second guy hadn't had a lesson for a year. I found the courage to take the ponytail out. I took his lack of comment as the fact that he probably didn't even remember how it used to be.
Then I had some afternoon lessons in town which means I had the time for bus stop curls. The first student said she loved the cut. That's one. The next said nothing (a man my age). And the last actually asked if I'd cut my hair. Her hair is past her waist (that's a little more believable now that high-waisted pants are in) and she's the type that would notice a haircut.
That's where the trouble started. She asked and I answered. And the seconds of silence that followed my answer were so awkward that I quickly changed the subject to put HER at ease for having made ME feel uncomfortable.
It's put a new twist on "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." I used to think that meant that I shouldn't say nasty things. But now I take it literally. If you don't have anything nice to say, (really).....don't say anything at all. And an addition should be, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't ask a question", because that leads to the next problem---"Silence speaks louder than words." The kind of silence I got from the other students was just silence. But the kind of silence I got after I answered her question ("Yes, I got a haircut.") spoke a thousand words.
It's important to watch what you say. But don't forget to watch what you don't say.
Day one. I left the beauty parlour with soaking wet hair at 3pm. I suppose no one says beauty parlour anymore, but the salon sounds too fancy for me and the hair place would only reinforce my limited vocabulary. Anyway, the beauty parlour makes me think of Gert. She had one at the intersection of two country roads in my home town. It had a hairspray smell, bright green walls and bad lighting. I went to school with Gert's grandson and somehow that made me feel like more than just a customer's kid. She let me go in the private staircase that led to her house and I think she gave my mom coffee in a real mug. Maybe the walls were orange and the lighting might have been bright, I'm not sure. But I really do think there were stairs that led somewhere that made me feel special.
Day one. Take two. I left the beauty parlour with soaking wet hair at 3pm. I was surprised when the beautician (That's the lady that works in the beauty parlour. Stylists work in salons.) told me to return to the sink after the cut. She said that she'd combed it so much she had to wet it again so I could make my 'bus stop curls'. She'd remembered that the time I waste waiting for the bus is just enough to wrap chunks of wet hair around my finger to form a few ringlets. But she'd forgotten that I'd ridden my bike to the beauty parlour and I'd be smashing on my helmet and heading home with squashed bangs and dripping locks, so the bus stop curls wouldn't last long.
No one in Italy leaves the salon with wet hair. Italians are afraid of the colpo d'aria (http://10leaves.blogspot.com/2013/10/living-with-a-bunch-of-old-wives.html ) and of being seen around town in any form but the finest. For example, I have a friend that gets up early and puts on a sweatsuit. An hour later she gets dressed to drop her kid off at school. Period. Just to drop her at the curb. She goes home and puts the sweatsuit back on. And she gets dressed again after lunch to pick the kid up. (That's not exactly like clean underwear in case you have a car accident.) So if you have to be properly dressed just to be in your car, you can imagine the pomp and circumstance when you leave the beauty parlour. Most women plan coffee and dinner dates on haircut day. They leave feeling even more coiffed than usual and they're ready to see and be seen (even more than usual).
My haircut day consisted of painting the back of the house blue (adding some unintentional highlights to my new do), raking the yard and taking five wheelbarrows (I'm sure I'm not the only one who always thought that word was "wheel barrel".) of clippings (backwards foreshadowing?) to the field behind my neighbor's house. There wasn't a lot of seeing or being seen and not even an opportunity to catch a glimpse of my new look in the reflection of boutique windows or the mirrored-wall behind my favorite barrista. That being said, there were no comments on day one.
Day two. I had a couple of early morning lessons at home with men my age. For the first, I put in a tiny ponytail seconds before he came to the door because I was afraid it was too poofy. Seeing that the day before he'd left saying that he loved me (in the way one says they love gelato and pizza) I didn't want to risk losing him by drastically changing my librarian look.
The second guy hadn't had a lesson for a year. I found the courage to take the ponytail out. I took his lack of comment as the fact that he probably didn't even remember how it used to be.
Then I had some afternoon lessons in town which means I had the time for bus stop curls. The first student said she loved the cut. That's one. The next said nothing (a man my age). And the last actually asked if I'd cut my hair. Her hair is past her waist (that's a little more believable now that high-waisted pants are in) and she's the type that would notice a haircut.
That's where the trouble started. She asked and I answered. And the seconds of silence that followed my answer were so awkward that I quickly changed the subject to put HER at ease for having made ME feel uncomfortable.
It's put a new twist on "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." I used to think that meant that I shouldn't say nasty things. But now I take it literally. If you don't have anything nice to say, (really).....don't say anything at all. And an addition should be, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't ask a question", because that leads to the next problem---"Silence speaks louder than words." The kind of silence I got from the other students was just silence. But the kind of silence I got after I answered her question ("Yes, I got a haircut.") spoke a thousand words.
It's important to watch what you say. But don't forget to watch what you don't say.
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Just sit right back.
I could call her La Casa Gialla. But the place is filled with yellow houses (and blue and green and red and orange).
I like the name The Turquoise Window, but my windows aren't tourquoise anymore. I had to paint them black due to a building code that I'm trying to crack.
Fisherman's Island would work because that's what she is. But I have wonderful memories from another Fisherman's Island in Michigan.
High Water Isle is out because they've resolved the problem of acqua alta. The pieces of wood they attached to the bottom of the doorway to keep the rising water out were in my attic. I've turned them into kitchen shelves.
I almost went with The Moon Also Rises because where else can you see the sunrise, sunset, moonrise and moonset all in one day? Well, I guess you can see that on any small island. I just never thought I'd live on one. Anyway, I googled it and there's already a book with that title.
I considered La Bella Vita Island, Paradise Island and Sunset Lagoon but they're a bit cliche'.
Hut Island is okay because her beach is covered with rustic huts. It just doesn't have a very nice ring to it. But it does remind me of what some American visitors said last month. They called it Gilligan's Island. And maybe they're right. No phone, no light, no motor car, not a single luxury. Like Robinson Crusoe, it's primitive as can be.
The only phones that work are the landlines. Primitive. If I want to use my cell phone I have to go outside. And the truth is, there are lights (even lampposts like in Venice with the green posts and soft pink lanterns). And some people do have cars but there are a lot more bikes.
As for luxuries......just because I go to the beach in the winter to collect wood for my woodburning stove doesn't mean everyone else does. Most people have real heat. And we do have a grocery store with four aisles, but I prefer the one that holds a maximum of 10 people (including the deli guy, butcher, cashier, bagger and stockboy which is usually all the same person). The fruit lady comes with the fruit truck a couple of times a week and there's a cheese truck. And if you don't feel like going to the sea to catch mussels or clams you can always find a fisherman selling fresh fish from his boat in the lagoon. That's luxury.
I think you get the picture. That's precisely why I don't want to tell you her your name. It's best to keep her a secret for as long as we can. So for now, just sit right back and you'll hear a tale.
Monday, August 27, 2018
Away with Words
When I moved to Italy I promised myself that I'd only buy books written in Italian. And since I usually only buy books at the secondhand shop, you can bet they're all in Italian. Almost all. Until the day I hit the jackpot. It seems the other English speaker in town either died or decided she needed more room on her bookshelf because I found 17 books in English and I bought all of them.
Having broken my promise about only buying Italian books I was tough on myself and left them unread for nearly a year. But when I decided to spend most of August on the beach I found one of the books irrestible. On the cover in small print was praise from the Chicago Tribune, "Riveting.....the perfect summer-by-the-lake read." Summer-by-the-lake or August-on-the-Adriatic. It's the same difference.
It's not like I haven't read anything in English in the past 6 years. My emails and most of what I read on the internet are in English. But the beach book was filled with things I hadn't thought about in ages. The fake news about Mr. Trump doesn't use these words and phrases and I don't use them with my students either.
They may seem like everyday terms to you, but for some reason they made me chuckle. (And that's just the kind of word I'm talking about.)
-lug everything back.
-the queen of cream cheese.
-shuck the corn.
-Join the club!
-If you want to go on the boat you'd better smarten up. (Straighten up rings a bell with me.)
-Hi-C, Pop-Tarts, Easy Mac and Tretorns.
-nestled sets of measuring spoons.
-"Don't be such a spaz!"
-purple lint and dryer sheets.
-a clunker of a van.
-Hallmark cards.
-muzak coming from above.
-the milk in the fridge was iffy.
-the sprawling stripmall ugliness of Wal-Mart and Rite-Aid.
-coleslaw.
-Putt-Putt.
-after school reruns.
-he yanked it away.
-he cracked his window for some fresh air.
-A: "I'm going to the bathroom."
B: "Hope everything comes out all right."
-making his voice crazy like the commercials for the monster-truck show
-Cheetos, Fritos and dusty cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli
Rereading the list makes me wonder if they're not just words from a different country, but words from a different era. Would a car in Chicago have been a clunker or just an old, beat-up car? And in the nineties I think I would've opened a window, not cracked it. Maybe this book was written in a Michigan dialect. The dialect of my childhood. The dialect of a contadino. And maybe that's why I found it so riveting.
Having broken my promise about only buying Italian books I was tough on myself and left them unread for nearly a year. But when I decided to spend most of August on the beach I found one of the books irrestible. On the cover in small print was praise from the Chicago Tribune, "Riveting.....the perfect summer-by-the-lake read." Summer-by-the-lake or August-on-the-Adriatic. It's the same difference.
It's not like I haven't read anything in English in the past 6 years. My emails and most of what I read on the internet are in English. But the beach book was filled with things I hadn't thought about in ages. The fake news about Mr. Trump doesn't use these words and phrases and I don't use them with my students either.
They may seem like everyday terms to you, but for some reason they made me chuckle. (And that's just the kind of word I'm talking about.)
-lug everything back.
-the queen of cream cheese.
-shuck the corn.
-Join the club!
-If you want to go on the boat you'd better smarten up. (Straighten up rings a bell with me.)
-Hi-C, Pop-Tarts, Easy Mac and Tretorns.
-nestled sets of measuring spoons.
-"Don't be such a spaz!"
-purple lint and dryer sheets.
-a clunker of a van.
-Hallmark cards.
-muzak coming from above.
-the milk in the fridge was iffy.
-the sprawling stripmall ugliness of Wal-Mart and Rite-Aid.
-coleslaw.
-Putt-Putt.
-after school reruns.
-he yanked it away.
-he cracked his window for some fresh air.
-A: "I'm going to the bathroom."
B: "Hope everything comes out all right."
-making his voice crazy like the commercials for the monster-truck show
-Cheetos, Fritos and dusty cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli
Rereading the list makes me wonder if they're not just words from a different country, but words from a different era. Would a car in Chicago have been a clunker or just an old, beat-up car? And in the nineties I think I would've opened a window, not cracked it. Maybe this book was written in a Michigan dialect. The dialect of my childhood. The dialect of a contadino. And maybe that's why I found it so riveting.
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