I'm not lovin' it

I'd been yearning for a milkshake for a few years, but kept putting it off. What nut puts off a milkshake? Living in the land of gelato, milkshakes are called frappe and I didn't yearn for a frappe, I yearned for a milkshake. I came close in London, but couldn't quickly convert the pounds to euros and didn't want a million dollar milkshake. Then there was the fake Big Boy in Lido. I considered spending the six euros (three times the price of an ice cream cone) but thought a fake Big Boy might also mean a fake milkshake.

Last week after my booster shot I decided I deserved one. But I got to the drive-thru speaker, panicked, and ordered my usual Perugina Baci McFlurry. (If only they could tape the Love Note to the bottom of the McFlurry cup. For more info on Perugina Baci Love Notes, google it. If I were getting paid for the advertising I'd figure out how to attach the link.)

Yesterday I wasn't in London or Lido and I hadn't overcome any traumas like the vaccine, but between the English lessons with the 61-year old designer talking about art and architecture and the 16-year old girl talking about boys, I had an extra hour. The sun was out, the top was down (it's down even when the sun's not out) and it was time.

I went to McDonald. (It's not a typo, that's what Italians call it. When they say, "Yesterday I go to McDonald" I'm more apt to correct the pronunciation of McDonald than the incorrect verb tense.) This time there was no deciding between a McFlurry and a milkshake, I was committed at all costs. The only decision was the size. In America I always ordered a large and even though I'd already had enough at the halfway point, I kept drinking and ordered a large the next time, too.

As I approached the drive-thru speaker I practiced the pronunciation of frappe. It seemed as ridiculous to order a frappe at McDonald as it does to order a grande latte at our other favorite American chain.

Drive-thru menus were never that easy to follow and with all the combos and limited time specials it's become impossible. I madly searched for frappe, but couldn't find it. Then, in the nick of time, I found a milkshake for one euro. (It reminded me of their 6-cent cones in Russia in 2003.)  A milkshake (instead of a frappe) with no sizes and just one price? I thought it must have been the kids' menu, but the speaker squawked "Benvenuto a McDonald" (Welcome to McDonald's) and I had to order. With no sizes or prices to choose from I simply said, "A long-awaited vanilla milkshake, please." (I didn't really say the long-awaited part, but had I known the word in Italian, I would have.)

At the second window, I paid my euro, collected my tiny cup and started drinking. And even though it wasn't large like the old days, I'd still had enough at the halfway point. It wasn't because I wasn't lovin' it, but because I couldn't stand what seemed like a wooden straw (referred to as an evolved paper straw). It was like paying a euro to scratch a chalkboard.  

Several months ago, to avoid the awful wooden spoon (referred to as fibre-based wooden cutlery) that comes with McFlurries, I decided to keep a metal one in my glove compartment. Now it's time to add a plastic 'silly straw', too. Not only will I welcome the good old-fashioned taste of plastic instead of wood, but the time it takes to pass through the extra inches of straw will make the tiny milkshake last longer.

Flexibility is not my forte, but if I start with some silly twists and turns maybe before long I'll be rolling with the (eco-friendly) changes.





 

The Gist for You AND Me. Crying at the Dentist

I normally don't have a problem with the dentist. Every other thing that has to do with checking or fixing something on my body is more than likely going to be faced with tears. But with the dentist, other than the quick tongue flip, I'm usually quite calm; until this morning when I slid into the baby blue vinyl chair, took my mask off and started to cry. There was no sobbing or sniffling, just a few tears rolling down my cheeks into my ears and out of my ears and down the back of my neck. Then as quickly as they started, they stopped. They had nothing to do with the trip to the dentist, but were merely an accumulation of some sad news throughout the week, disappointment in myself for not having been more productive and my looming booster shot in the afternoon.   

When I got home I sent the dentist a simple message that said, "I'm sorry I cried." She answered almost immediately. "Ma figurati.....sei una person sensibile Tenley.....e questa non e' una colpa ma un valore." (Don't be silly....you're a sensitive person Tenley....and this is not a fault, but a virtue.) Then I cried again. And thanks to her kind message the doctor at the vaccination site was spared a grown woman in tears and instead inoculated a courageous (sensitive) one. 

The Gist for You AND Me

It's time for a new series called "The Gist for You AND Me".
Easy to write. Easy to read. And hopefully easy to get the gist.

It's an extension of my tiny 365 book where I write the happiest moment of (almost) every day. The task alone makes me look at my days differently. I note the little things that undoubtedly went unnoticed before the book. When something happens early in the day I smile and wonder if it will make the 365. And a few hours later I find myself smiling again and wondering if the first happy moment will be replaced by the second.

Last year's 365 wasn't filled with trips around the world, fancy new furniture or cool new shoes (except for that one pair).  It was filled with pizzas in the park, (real) chats in the lagoon and stress-free days in my courtyard working on my this-is-no-place-for-perfectionism Gaudi wall.

Some nights when it's time to pick the happiest moment it seems like there are none. My choice is to leave the page blank or write about the herd of cows running through the field to greet me as I ran by. These little things don't mean I have to stop dreaming about the big stuff, but if I leave too many pages blank there won't be enough to string together to see what really makes my world go round.      

If this series begins and ends with this post, I'll accept it. The important thing is I'm giving a new idea a try instead of giving up. If nothing else, that's worth writing in my 365 when I go to bed tonight.  

The Gist for You AND Me has two goals. First, to help you start discovering little things to smile about. And second, to encourage you to give someone else something to smile about. Both lead to living your days 'gist' a little differently.
 

Slow. Down.

My Aunt Bea used to tell me to slow down. She slowly said those two words as I was going out the door. Slow. Down. The fact that I stopped sleeping at her house before I turned 18 means this habit of doing everything in a rush has apparently been a part of me since I was a teenager.

There used to be a time I spent a minute or two applying my Maybelline Great Lash mascara. Seeing that the apparently excessive minute-or-two-application has been reduced to 22 seconds is proof that what was once a bad habit is now a handicap. My one-minute lashes were never long and luscious, but my 22-second ones are always lumpy.

The daily race starts with my morning tea. I don't really even like tea, but I love my tiny red teapot. I have three pots. Small, medium and large. They look cute on my kitchen shelf and I don't like to have stuff on my shelves that I don't use so I've started drinking tea. And although "Tea for Two" has a nice ring to it, "Tea for Me" suits me better, so the tiny teapot gets the most use. In the past I thought it was defective. After years of mornings of spilling hot water on the table, floor and countertop (and sometimes in the silverware drawer that I didn't have time to close) I decided to slow down to find the defect. The slow, investigative pour was the answer. No leaks. No drips. Just a nice clean pour from my favorite pot to my favorite mug. It's a quotidian pleasure that's much more pleasurable done slowly.

English lessons in the center (which my students call downtown) mean running from one square (which I call a piazza) to another. If the cobblestone streets offer a shortcut, I take it. It's the big yard (which my students call a garden) behind the old villa (which we both call a villa) that presents a problem. It has intersecting sidewalks that get you from one side to the other, but they're laid out in a square grid. Dear City Planner, what about those of us that don't have an extra minute to stay on the sidewalks? I'm not sure what's worse....an old lady running left and right and left and right to get to the other side or an old lady, head down, with an extra brisk gait cutting diagonally through the untrodden grass.

Pizza is better eaten more slowly, hot chocolate is better drunk more slowly and books are better read more slowly. If I'm aware of all of this, why can't I just slow down?

I'm hopeful things will change when I buy my next toothbrush. Last week the hygienist suggested I switch from soft to medium, with one glitch... I have to warm the bristles under hot water before each use. I laughed and said, "Do you think I have time to wait for the water to get hot before I brush my teeth?" (I probably said it as I was sitting up to spit. I consider it an abs workout and the dentist knows I don't have time for the power chair to raise and lower me.)

I have no planes to catch, no kids to feed and no timeclocks to punch, so what's the hurry? Rushing only robs your spontaneity. I wanted to leave for the mountains yesterday at 11am. I had no real reason for that hour, I just picked it. Then I got an invitation to take a walk and instead of apologizing and running out the door, I accepted and set myself a new departure time.  

Before leaving I had to deliver the last few holiday gifts in my borghetto. (Fortunately) I bumped into neighbors and enjoyed a sunny chat. Another new departure time.

It was 3:30pm when I finally put the top down and set off to deliver the final gifts on my way out of town. By that time it was too late for a sunny drive and too early for a sunset, but I was determined to leave. The first stop was the hair salon where the owner asked if I had come for a haircut. Nope, just dropping off a gift, but why not get a haircut, too?

All of the unplanned extras that I'd given myself time to enjoy meant the convertible ride to the mountains was at the perfect hour to see every tiny town along the way lit up with their own dorky (lovely) Christmas lights. So I slowed down, smiled and thought of Aunt Bea.

Every now and then you should put on your flashers....don't wait til it's an emergency. Slowing down doesn't mean your life is in neutral or you're going to stall. It means you've learned to enjoy the spectacle of everyday life.   

Go ahead. Make my day.

I spent my college summers working on the Pirate Ride at an amusement park in Sandusky, Ohio.  Keeping the line in order, loading and unloading passengers and catching bad kids that got out of their boats were my official responsibilities. My unofficial responibility, which I took much more seriously, was flirting with the park guests.

We could have come up with a code word or hand signal to notify our colleagues that a fox (that's what we called cute boys in the 80s) had just entered the confines of the Pirate Ride, but I thought it would be more fun to involve the foxes. In my opinion, they deserved to know. So I invented a game called Bingo.

I supplied the girls on my crew with red Bingo chips. When one of us saw a boy we thought was cute we'd give him a chip and ask him to deliver it to the girl at the front of the ride. At that point they were innocent messengers. They usually tried to give the chip to the girl in the middle of the line (because cute boys aren't always so good at following directions). It worked per plan, because then the girl in the middle was also aware that he'd been chosen. She smiled, refused the chip and said it was meant for the girl at the front.

When the chip reached its final destination my colleague shouted "Bingo" and informed the unwitting guest that the girl who'd given him the chip had selected him as one of the cutest riders of the day. Game over. Some kept the chip, some turned it in and some came back hours later for another trip on the Pirate Ride.

I'd given a million compliments before the summer of '84 and I've given a million since and I've never read a book or an article about how or why you should do it (there are plenty). I don't stop at complimenting a stranger's shoes (which gets quite a reaction in Italy, because complimenting strangers is strange). I compliment people's flower gardens, people's strength riding up a mountain and people's kids. If I see that work has gone into something, I want them to know it's been noticed.  

I remember when a friend told me that a friend of their friend saw me playing beach volleyball and that I was in great shape. I've never had a great body, because that involves the more feminine things that I lack, but being in great shape was as close as I could get and it probably meant more to hear it from a friend of a friend of a friend... than a friend.

I remember when I was a bike messenger and a man in an elevator said I looked like a Kennedy. I took it as a compliment and then googled the Kennedys for a family photo. I don't find the women attractive, but I suppose my khaki shorts, white polo shirt and wavy hair could have won me a place in the family photo and I would have enjoyed the company.

I remember running past two ladies that were out for a walk and they shouted, "You look like a real athlete. Have a nice day!" I'm sure it made me run an extra mile.

None of those people would have imagined that years later I'd be writing about them, but their compliments keep on giving. I'd like to think that one of my Bingo chips is floating around in some guy's junk drawer and when he bumps into it he thinks of the Pirate Ride girls in Sandusky. 

As kids we were told if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. Good advice. But I think future generations should be told if you can say something nice, say it.      

It's Cool. Period.

I drove a Mazda Miata in Chicago. The fact that it was a Miata didn't matter. The fact that it was a convertible, did.

I considered every other two-seater convertible the same as mine. I'd see a nice color and say that I should've gotten one like that only to be reminded that BMWs came in that color, not Miatas. Why didn't mine have a bigger rack, like that one? Because that one was a Mercedes. And when I passed a car and said I'd never noticed how cool my rims were, I was told that the rims on a Porsche were cool, but I wasn't driving a Porsche.

When I left Chicago for Italy I left my Miata (and Mercedes and BMW and Porsche) behind. No Italian driver's license meant no car. Seven years later, back in the market for both, I searched for a Miata, not for its name but for its reliability. Then I learned that a neopatentato (someone who just got their license, whom I affectionately call a 'baby driver') has certain requirements their first year on the road. The government requirement is a car with low horse power. My requirements were topless and two seats (because they aren't available with only one). Benvenuto Opel Tigre.

My car and I get very little attention. There's nothing cool about the car and the driver has crazy, grey hair. The few looks I get come from either scarf-clad Italians that assume the top must be broken when it's down in January and or from kids that are young enough to be unimpressed by brands. (In Italy that means younger than 7.) They always look twice when I pass and some even shout, "Che figo!" (How cool!).

The other day when I showed up at my friend's for lunch the neighborhood kids stopped their pick-up soccer game in the street and followed me until I parked.  To them my car was the coolest thing they'd ever seen. They were thrilled to see the electric top go up and down (I preferred my Miata's manual rag top) and they searched for the backseat. They're too young to know the difference between a Mercedes and a Miata. For them it was a car with two seats and no roof.

That night I told their dad how nice it was to see the kids with no interest in the make of my car. I was happy to say that at least kids see things the way I do. Then came the million dollar question. "Don't you think it might be the other way around? The kids don't see things through your eyes. You see things through theirs."

You should try it. Not only is it more fun, it's also a lot less expensive.  

The Death of an Italian Island

August 2018 was the end of my third summer living on an island in Italy. I was still excited about the new life I'd found and wrote a piece with snippets of what had first attracted me. I kept its name a secret, but planned on sharing more details over time.

The two and a half-hour trip which includes a (convertible) drive, two walks and a boat ride never seemed too long. The final stop is the cemetery. In Chicago, living near a hospital depressed me. And now my bus stop (albeit a boat) is called cimitero (cemetery) and I get off smiling.

When I first wrote about the island my intention wasn't to share 'one of the last hidden gems' or invite readers to 'step back in time 100 years'. That's what guidebooks and travel videos do. I wrote to remind readers of an oft-forgotten life....evening chats in the lagoon for lack of air conditioning, doors with dangling keys in the locks, a sea of rusty bikes in front of the grocery store, old washing machines turned into grills for the fresh catch of the day, and the cheese truck, fruit and veggie truck, fish truck and ice cream truck parked in different places on different days. Daily life brings the islanders together.

The summer I wrote that piece there were a few more tourists than usual. When I complained, some of the residents grumpily agreed while others welcomed the fresh faces and exposure to the outside world.

Post Labor Day always drew a handful of visitors, mostly tolerable, vacationing retirees. But that September the ferryboat never stopped bringing families, couples and groups of 30-somethings, 40-somethings and 50-somethings. I thought I'd get back to writing about the island when the kids got back to school and life got back to normal. But since that summer, the island has never gotten back to normal.

In November of 2019 things got worse. "One of the last hidden gems" was flooded----twice. First by acqua alta (high water) which made the evening news. And then by tourists who'd discovered the island on the evening news, waited for the high water to recede and then reflooded it with bikes, shiny boats and cool sunglasses.

In 2020, the pandemic forced the whole world to stick closer to home and Italians began their search for something new in the land of La Bella Vita. People with expensive cars and fancy watches started baking bread and talking to their neighbors.  And what better place than a forgotten island to discover and appreciate a life where time stands still?

It's true that I was once a tourist on the island. But only once. Because on my second visit I became a house shopper. And not long after, a homeowner. Then I became "La Foresta" (dialect for a person from the outside), "L'americaaaaaana" (said with a smile) and "Ten" (which makes me feel at home). It didn't take long to lose my tourist status. The islanders don't give tourists pet names and tourists don't remember the islanders' birthdays or deliver handmade Christmas cards.

Sadly, in the past few years my behavior has changed. I've become a person I would never like. It's impolite to look away when a tourist smiles. It's rude to say I don't have time to help with directions. It's immature to say that I hate tourists. I don't like being impolite, rude and immature but I also don't like being invaded. People don't understand why it bothers me so much and I could never really explain it. But after two years of rental bikes, sunset-selfies and long lines at the gelateria I might finally have an explanation that works.

Try this. You love your living room. You love how you feel in it. The colors are right. The layout of the room is right. Everything feels good. Maybe sometimes you don't fold the afghan on the back of the sofa or your kids' toys aren't put away and you feel a little unsettled so you straighten things up. Then you look around, light a candle (it's really time you start lighting your candles!) and feel good again. You like being there because you like how it makes you feel. It makes you feel good.

Now imagine that the wall you'd painstakingly painted Sea Breeze has suddenly been painted  Bittersweet Shimmer. And the pastels you had done of the kids at the county fair (does anyone do that anymore?) have been replaced by a wall sized poster of Times Square.  These things can't be folded up and put away like the afghan and toys. This is your new space and you have to live with it.

You start complaining that it's changed. It's not how it was when you fell in love with it. Your friends hope to help by reminding you that it's actually the same place.  You can still do everything in your living room that you used to do. It offers what it's always offered....great light and a beautiful view from the big window, comfortable furniture, and lots of memories.   

It's true. The living room is still the same place, but Bittersweet Shimmer doesn't make you feel the same as Sea Breeze. And you prefer the calm of the kids pastel faces looking down at you, not the chaos of Times Square.   

That explains how I feel on the island. It's the same place, but the sea breeze has a different feel and arriving at the cimitero comes with a bittersweet shimmer.