Elegantly Unrefined

August in Italy means cellphones overflow with photos of beaches, mountains, an occasional medieval town and then more beaches and mountains. That's why the other day I was happy when a friend sent me a shot of a ramshackle staircase. It started out narrow, widened in the middle and narrowed again near the top before a sharp, left turn. The stairs were a mix of well-worn stone and what might have been unevenly poured concrete painted black or dark sheet metal folded and molded to cover the crumbling steps. The brick walls on the way up looked ready for tuckpointing. A week earlier they had probably been covered with perfectly scruffy, flowering weeds.

I received the photo with a few others that went unnoticed, but this one deserved a response.  "Che belle scale," I wrote (what beautiful stairs), to which she replied, "Sapevo che ti sarebbero piaciute. Ami le cose un po' storte e non rifinite perche' le senti piu' vere e con una loro indentita'." (I knew you would like them. You love things that are a little crooked and unrefined because you feel they are more real and have their own identity.)

Her message wasn't sent to flatter me, but it did. I'm not against elegance and order, but I find the beauty that comes with age (unless it's my own) more impressive. Dilapidated stairs aren't something we've discussed, but a quick walk around my house is all it takes to learn that the dog-eared pages in an Architectural Digest (if I read it) would be those dedicated to crooked and unrefined.

What flattered me about the message was her comprehension. When I finally get a chance to talk (outside of English lessons), I'm excited to share thoughts and ideas, but often left wondering if I've been understood. My friend's perfect interpretation of my feelings demonstrates an attentive and interested listener...one of the biggest compliments you can give someone. In addition, her message is a friendly reminder that the beauty that comes with age (even my own) is real and a necessary part of our identity.

Living the inside out

Seeing that I'm a bad decision-maker when it comes to long-term commitments, I decided to go without kitchen cabinets and drawers. It's safe to say my baby blues would tire of baby blue countertops long before the expiration of the Baker's Chocolate Squares hidden on the bottom shelf in the back.

Instead of cabinets, I've filled open shelves with a colorful array of mercatino merce (secondhand store stuff). In fact, my kitchens resemble a well-organized Goodwill until you get to the bowls. In shops they're stacked for safety. The big one on the bottom hides and holds the rest like a cheap set of Russian nesting dolls. The days I really feel like shopping I remove them one by one to search for decorative designs and buried treasures.

I've been told I live a bit more recklessly at home. I stack my bowls from smallest to largest which means sometimes things get a little shaky. When my knight in shining armour came to save the day, I explained that it doesn't make sense to hide the beauty on the inside just to keep things safe.  Instead of the protection and stability of the big bowl at the bottom, my risky stacking gives each bowl's border the light of every day.  

I know letting them wobble is a bit wanton, but it's the only way to enjoy their true colors. At least they have a moment in the spotlight to show their differences. And if they're destined to come crashing down, I'll give them a second chance to shine in my mosaics where broken bits are brought back to life.

Even if you can't beat 'em, please don't join 'em

If every day in Italy were like today I'd have no more friends or students. I usually silently smile through the conversations about checking for fevers, getting hit by air or the digestibility (or lack thereof) of last night's pizza. These topics are a standard part of most Italian encounters and fortunately I've found the strength to stop fighting.  

But today, at the end of six hours of incessant bombardment with all things Italian, my silent smile became praying hands with a slight downward chopping movement. It's a popular Italian gesture that means, "Oh, please! Come on! Be serious!"

Today's battle began with an old classic. I arrived at a student's house for a lesson and found tea and money arranged neatly on the dining room table; a sign that the teacher would only be looking out the window at the sunshine on the terrace instead of enjoying the light, dangerous breeze. As I hesitated to sit inside, my student expressed her reluctance to venture out, uncertain of the nonwailing wind. I asked if we could give it a try and promised (with motionless praying hands) that if it got too risky, we could go back in. She agreed and said that in any case she'd keep her scarf handy.

Lessons often involve talking about one's dirty laundry, and today it included her loads of whites, blacks, blues and colors. My simple division is whites and darks. And I have no problem mixing them a bit if they've been washed enough times to stop bleeding. However, today I learned that black underpants are never safe with blue jeans (even your good butt jeans that you've had since Clinton was president when you still had a good butt) because the chemicals from the denim dye could harm your privates. This time my smile almost laughed as I rested my chin on my praying hands and refrained from asking if she was kidding.

Next came the chemist. He's filled with emotion about a lot of sciency stuff that I seldom understand, but I go on smiling and correcting his grammar. Apparently he thinks I'm listening, because he often refers to things he's taught me in previous lessons. Today we strayed from lab talk to his 9-year old daughter that hates going to the pool because the after-pool process takes too long. The problem is that she 'has to' dry her hair.

Already feisty from nearly missing the beautiful breeze and frustrated with my new found fear of toxic undies, I decided to ask why she 'had to' dry her hair. The standard answer is that if you go out with wet hair you're sure to catch a cough and cold and\or get a catastrophic case of cervicale. But I wanted my chemist to elaborate. Sure enough. "Dust collects more quickly on wet surfaces. Your hair has a big surface area. For example, if you look at the surface area of a stone, it doesn't look like much. But when you smash it, there's a lot more than before. So think about your hair. It's not just the part you see on your head. But as you move your head more wet strands are exposed and more dust is collected. And with everything going on in the environment these days, it's better to dry your hair." 

With praying hands at my chest I started chopping and reminded him that he knew a blow dryerless woman that skis, goes to bed and drives her convertible with wet hair. And when that woman had her passport photo taken, the photographer gave her a photoshop haircut because there was too much surface area to fit in the required dimensions. Most importantly, she's more than 9-and-counting and still alive.

Luckily, that was the last lesson of the day. Tomorrow I'll fold my praying hands in my lap and focus more on English grammar than the dangers of la dolce vita in Italia.
 

Along Came a Spider

If killing bugs comes easily, I suggest steering clear of a Charlotte's Web reread. I found a copy in Italian at the secondhand store and it's done nothing but wreak havoc on my war against daddy long legs. I'm a little worried that when I finish this post I might even have a hard time killing mosquitos. The same people that ask vegans why they don't eat meat yet wear leather belts (I'm one of those people) are going to ask me why I kill mosquitos and not moths. And when I can't respond (just like the vegans I've asked) I'm afraid it might mean a million more mosquito bites.

None of my houses have screens. And my neighbors' houses don't either. You can't lean your head out for a good chiacchierata (chat) if you have screens. I remember the foreign feeling when I first landed. Now, when I have American visitors, the kids fight to shake the tablecloth directly out the open window. I don't get involved. I know the pleasure will be all mine again once they go home.

The island house is so small it only has four windows and two doors. I'm not sure why only one of the windows has a screen, but it came with the house and I find myself foolishly putting it up and down when I open and close the shutters. It offers no protection. Smart bugs just crawl a few feet to come in the next window.

I have one screen in the mountains, too. I installed it on my bedroom window and it has nothing to do with intruding insects. For some reason I've decided it will protect me from snakes and wolves. The rest of the doors and windows are open all day and closed at night. I suppose the smart snakes and wolves could come in during the day and hide under my bed. My one screen only protects me from the dumb ones.  

As you may have guessed, my houses are buggy. The ones that don't walk or fly through the front door make their way in on the firewood or my running shoes. Lucky bugs. Thanks to Carlotta (that's Charlotte in Italian) they either stay inside undetected or are gently escorted back out.

It takes a lot more time to save insects than to kill them. In my houses they're never flushed, squished or burned. It's hard to catch moths without breaking their velvety wings. And getting centipedes to march their hundred legs in the direction you want isn't easy either. I sweep some bugs into the dustpan and swish others out the door. Once I guided a bee to the window where it landed on its back on the windowsill. I watched it spin like an armless breakdancer trying to flip itself over. It pushed and pushed and spun and spun until it reached the edge of the sill and fell. During the plummet, it found its wings and flew. Had I opted for a crushing step, I would have killed the bee and the metaphor.       

If you find cobwebs in my corners it's not (only) that I'm a terrible housekeeper. I'm just giving my 8-legged arachnid amici time to whip up a message of appreciation for letting them live. I may not deserve humble, radiant or terrific like Wilbur, but every time I set them free I envision Carlotta's web with a simple 'grazie'.



 

Face your imperfection fears

I'm proud to say that I currently have a few young fans that include me (and my brownies and rice krispie treats) in their birthday party plans. We don't go to McDonald's or Jumpy Gyms. It's just a bunch of crazy kids running and screaming through yards and parks. In fact, if it were anything else, I probably wouldn't be invited. Who needs someone to help them roast marshmallows and pin the tail on the donkey when they've got paint ball wars to win?

Last month I was flattered when a little friend asked me to paint faces at her party. Someone (albeit an 8-year old) considered me an artist. For a second or two I enjoyed the idea of my art being on public view until it rained or the cheap face paint faded. Envious onlookers would ask the kids who they were wearing and they'd yell back, "Ten!" But could it really be that easy?  

Maddalena and I decided on a trial run the day before the party. She showed up with make-up crayons, paintbrushes and her mom's phone filled with photos of fantastic faces. One of us thought I could paint a butterfly batting its wings when she blinked. The other remembered that I hadn't applied eye shadow since my senior prom.

It was time to explain the difference between copying and creating. I told Maddy I was willing to paint a piece of her artwork on her face, but internet images were out. As unenthused as she was with my old Crayolas and scrap paper, it wasn't long 'til we had a pink and purple unicorn that looked just like Porky the Pig.

The next day I told the guests they had two choices. One was the birthday girl's unicorn, as a way to honor her and proudly wear 'Maddy' for the day. And the other was a design of their own. Fortunately I'd packed the old Crayolas. By the end of the party we had hearts, lightning bolts, flowers, cats and a tiger that looked like a cat running around. They were far from professional, but I think Mary Poppins would have found them all practically perfect.  

I learned three things about perfectionism when Maddy turned 8.
1. My original refusal to the online designs was because I knew I couldn't reproduce them perfectly.
2. At the pre-party practice, Maddalena offered her face, arms, hands and legs giving me the chance to try, try again. Was it too many attempts at perfection that transformed her unicorn into a pig?
3. Perfectionism shouldn't impede performance. When you only have one chance (or cheek), take it. At first you might succeed because you can't try again.       

 

 

Hugs and Kisses, I think

The fact that the last time I drew a smiley face in a handwritten letter was in 8th grade makes me wonder why I currently use a colon, hyphen and paranthesis to depict one in a text. But, I embarrassingly admit that I'm guilty. :-)

As for stickers, the only ones I remember were on my Barbie camper. I probably grew up stickerless because my parents feared decoupaged furniture. Or perhaps, like tattoos, I feared their permanence. Which one to stick where, why and when was overwhelming for an indecisive girl like me. They were better left unstuck. Needless to say, my childhood lacked rainbows, unicorns and hearts.

Maybe this unadorned adolescence explains my emotional aversion to emojis. I'm inept. The few times I've tried, it seemed more difficult to find a sticker that spoke a thousand words than just using the words. But apparently that's just me. The real sticker-loving kids from the seventies (and 60s, 80s and 90s) are still trying to wordlessly express themselves without weighing the risks of misinterpretation.

I first realized I couldn't read emojis when I thanked a student for his applause. What's the blushing smiley with tiny hands under its chin doing if not applauding? I picture a little girl lightly clapping by her face and whispering, "Yay!" When I asked the sender why I'd deserved the cheer, he was perplexed. His interpretation of the faccina (small face) was 'easy affection.' Nothing like enhancing the enigma with some elementary English. (The truth is, I actually googled 'easy affection' in case it was trendy jargon the English teacher lacked.)  

I decided to make things easier by downloading a page of emoji meanings. I discovered that those tiny little hands represent a hug. Apparently virtual hugs are armless (and harmless). Just as harmless as the rosy-cheeked face blowing a heart that I've received from a number of people who would never consider blowing me a real kiss. As full of hugs and kisses as Italy is, my students sadly seldom cross that line. So I accept the emojis in texts with an LOL, imagining (and hoping for) the live delivery some day.
 
I'm currently working on a collection of photos that I call eMYjis. It includes faces on statues, cloud formations and everyday objects that evoke emotions in me. Unlike Google's emoji users, I'm afraid to 'face' the risk of misintrepation, so the photos won't be in use until I've also published an eMYjis dictionary. In the meantime, I'm happy to keep sending easy-to-read punctuation marks and receiving faint-hearted affection, with a smile.  
 

Life's worhtwhile, if you'll just smile

Today a stranger asked me who makes me smile. The question (chi ti fa sorridere?) was written on a sheet of typing paper and taped to an old marble column in the piazza. Unlike the missing Bic at the bank, a pen was tied to a long string that blew in the wind and invited passersby to respond.

I wondered if it had been a school assignment, but for which class? Art? Philosophy? Literature? Or it could have been a teenage dare. Was the sign maker disguised in the distance hoping to catch their Mr. or Ms. Right secretly adding their name to the list?

If the author's mission was to get a smile, it was accomplished. Merely thinking about who makes you smile, inevitably makes you smile. Most people simply added a name. A few added hearts and stars. But my favorite wrote, "Who makes me smile? YOU. The one who asks me who makes me smile. You are a poet."    

In Chicago it was the 'Hi Guy' that made us smile. His bike, his t-shirt and his rainbow striped beanie all said the same thing -- Hi. He dotted the 'i's with smiley faces (before we had emojis). His only goal as he traveled through town was to make you smile. He said hi to everyone and most everyone said hi back. And usually that was enough to add two more smiley faces to the streets of the Windy City.

Dallas had the "Free Advice Guys". Every Sunday morning for nearly 20 years they set out a couple of chairs on a popular path around the lake and offered advice. I never accepted their services, but their FREE ADVICE sign made me smile. And in turn, maybe that smile was all the advice I really needed.

I was a kid when I learned from the Reader's Digests stacked on the back of the toilet that Laughter is the Best Medicine. I'd like to thank the stranger who left the 'Who Makes You Smile?' sign in the piazza for reminding me that smiling is the second best. If only all of the people whose names were written on that sign knew that they were someone else's happy pill.