August in Italy is not April in Paris

I don't like crowds. I can't say that I've never liked crowds or I wouldn't have gotten so mad at my dad for refusing to take us to the fireworks when I was a kid.  But at some point between the 1976 Fourth of July parade in Ada, Michigan, overflowing with bikes decorated with red, white and blue crepe paper, ribbons and flags and 2014 Ferragosto in Italy, overflowing with traffic, crowded beaches and red, white and green flags, I've changed. 

Ferragosto is a national holiday in Italy.  It's the fifteenth of August and it used to be the official kickoff of summer vacations.  Now the first of August seems to be the official kickoff and the thirty-first, the end.  It's the month Italians go on vacation.

August in Italy is a far cry from April in Paris unless you're on the seaside or in the mountains.  As for the rest of Italy, it's empty.  And like I said, I don't like crowds, so I stick to the empty part.  For most people it doesn't matter that everything is closed, because they're all at the sea where  everything is open.  It's those of us left behind that notice. You have to prepare yourself that in August, wherever you go to buy your running shoes, eat your pizza, get your haircut or pick up your flowers might be closed.

I spent the month saying to myself, "I wonder if it'll be open," and upon discovery of its closure, "c'est la vie."  I know that's French, but I said it anyway.  You don't know a place is closed until you get there and find the cute little sign taped to the door that says, "Chiuso per Ferie", closed for vacation.  They always include the dates so at least you know how long you'll have to go without their services, which is a little more polite than the Dairy Queen ice cream shop in Indiana.  They used to change the giant sign by the road so you could see it driving by.  But they simply wrote, "Closed for 6 weeks."  You didn't know when they'd closed, so you didn't know when they'd reopen.  You just had to wait it out.   If the plastic letters started falling from their slots and the sign said, "lose for 6" or "Close for eeks" you knew your next vanilla cone dipped in chocolate wasn't too far off. 

Then comes September.  The most popular question in Italy the first week?  "How were your holidays?"  It's assumed that everyone had some kind of vacation in August.  Saying that you didn't go anywhere and continued working is worse than saying that you stayed home alone on Thanksgiving and ate peanut butter and jelly.  Poverina, poor girl. (I was going to say macaroni and cheese but that made things sound a little too good.)

By the second week things start to get back to normal.  Tans have started to fade and coffee-vending-machine-talk (water cooler talk) goes back to politics instead of fabulous beach resorts and how this year they were in row 2 instead of row 17.  I had to ask what that meant, too.  Most beaches are run by restaurants and bars and campgrounds.  There are rows and rows and rows of chairs and umbrellas.  You have to rent your place.  The closer you are to the water, the more you pay. Fortunately, you can book it well in advance.  Imagine reserving your place at the beach!  I talked to a 72-year old woman in February that was complaining that she couldn't go to Paris for the weekend because she'd just paid 700 euro to rent her chair and umbrella for the coming summer. 

There's one thing I'm sure of.  I'm lucky I didn't grow up in Italy.  I would've missed out on the whole month of August instead of just the Fourth of July.

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My. Gates and Shutters and Curtains, Mamma Mia.

14 kilometers, 4 gateless houses.  It's a miracle around here, so I've decided to tell you about it. 

Until today, I would've written "every house in northern Italy has a gate" but now I have to say "almost every house in northern Italy has a gate."  It's one after another after another.  There are gates in the countryside.  There are gates in the suburbs.   There are gates in the mountains.  And when the door of a house isn't right on the edge of the cobblestone street in a medieval city, there are also gates in the cities.  

I'd started thinking of northern Italy as one giant gated-community.  And then I realized it's actually worse.  A gated-community still has a sense of community.  It's a small group of people with the same fears locked in one place together.  At least they're still together.   But around here, everyone locks everyone else out.  Togetherness doesn't exist.  Seeing a lady with her bike basket filled with vegetables and fresh flowers that has stopped to talk to her neighbor over the gate isn't as charming as it used to be.  Now I only see the gate.

And it doesn't stop with gates.  Houses are also equipped with shutters which are closed and locked every time you leave the house and often at a certain hour every evening even when you're in the house. (A student shared the story of her mother returning home on a beautiful spring day complaining that she'd wished she could have stayed out in the piazza just a bit longer.  When asked why she hadn't stayed out, the mom replied, "Because it's 5:00 and that's when I have to close the shutters.")  There's no reason that the shutters MUST be closed at 5:00pm.  That's just the time this mom likes to get the house closed up.  No need to enjoy a lovely spring evening when there are shutters to be closed. 

And inside the locked shutters, of course, are the locked windows.  Fortunately Italians aren't completely mad, and in the summer the windows are often left open.  But are they wide open to let in light and catch a glimpse of the great outdoors?  Heavens no.  After the gates and shutters and windows come the curtains.  If I'm lucky enough to pass the first three levels of security and make it inside a house (after asking for "permesso" even with my host at the door inviting me in......the strangest custom of all, really.  It needs explaining.  You don't enter without permission.  It makes sense if someone's in the backyard or deep in the house and doesn't know you're there. You shout out a little, "Hello???  Can I come in?"  But here, the host is standing on the stoop greeting me as I get off my bike.  We've exchanged "hellos" and "che bellos" and while standing on the threshold I still have to say, "Can I come in?")

Anyway, once I make it in, I'm usually ready to leave again as soon as possible.  A most fabulous, sunny, breezy, blue I'm-happy-to-be-alive-kind of day turns into a dark, gloomy I-have-the-flu-and-I-have-to-stay-inside-kind of day.  The curtains are closed. 

Why?  I ask.  To keep people from seeing inside.  I agree. I don't really want people to see me curling my eyelashes in the bathroom or changing my clothes a thousand times in the bedroom.  But I have no problem if they see me eating dinner or washing the dishes or reading a book.   Those aren't the types of activites that I feel the need to hide. 

One friend said that his elderly neighbors sit outside and just watch the world go by.  He thinks it looks like they have nothing better to do.  They probably don't.  So why not sit outside, breathe the fresh country air and watch the world go by?  Instead, this guy stays inside and closes his curtains because he doesn't want them to see him on his sofa watching TV.  What's worse?  Old people on the sidewalk living a little and saying hi to the neighbors, or a 40-year-old guy in a dark house making friends with his TV?  And when I asked his wife if she cared if they saw her doing the dishes, she said that wasn't the problem.  She thinks that if they see her at the window they won't know she's washing dishes but will just think she's looking out at them like a nosy neighbor.

Another response to the question of closed curtains?  A 45-year-old woman said, "I don't know.  I've never really thought about it.  My grandma always had the curtains closed.  My mom always had the curtains closed.  So now I always have the curtains closed."  She was at least intrigued by the idea that she'd never really thought about it.   Whether or not she's since opened her curtains, I may never know.  In an effort to gather information on these unusual Italian behaviors from a broader pool, I'm expanding my research beyond my  students and small circle of friends.  This woman was the friend of a student's mom.  I feel a little embarrassed asking this student if her mom's friend has opened her curtains yet.

Back to the 4 gateless houses.  They were all in the same little area.  An area where there's nothing but a light brown  dusty road underfoot and ahead, 9-foot-high-by-the-4th-of-July deep green cornstalks on each side, a blue sky above and a few Italian farmhouses with no gates.  It seems to me these folks might have good reason to fear lions and tigers and bears out there in the middle of nowhere, yet their houses are gateless. 

My first thought was that the people in these houses were just the kind of Italians I'd been looking for.  Open Italians.   Italians that are willing to answer the real door instead of respond to the buzzer at the gate at the end of the driveway.  Italians that are unafraid of Jehovah's Witnesses and Moroccan guys on bikes selling brooms and mops.  I thought I'd found a new gateless community that might be willing to share ideas and feelings instead of just vegetables.  Then I told a friend about my discovery and she laughed and replied, "They're probably not Italian."

Wouldn't you like to be a dreamer, too?

 "At the tone please record your message.  When you've finished recording you may hang up or press one for more options."
 
I cried when I heard it.
 
There's no melody.  There's no jingle.  There's nothing.  But I still teared up.  It's normal to be moved by music.  There are prom songs, first-boyfriend songs, convertible songs, ski lodge songs, cheerleading songs, physical therapy songs, diving resort songs and first year of M-TV songs.  There's nothing strange about hearing an old tune that stirs up a memory.  That's what music is all about.  And sometimes it makes you cry. 

But crying at the sound of the computer voice lady on the voicemail of so many American cell phones didn't really seem normal.  For me it was like the voice of an old friend that I hadn't heard since I moved to Italy.  It really felt like home.  Then I started thinking of all of the other things that might have the same effect on me and since I was feeling a bit melancholy I decided to spend the morning with You Tube and a box of Kleenex.

First I checked on the Culligan Man, but he was busy with the carpet guys at 588-2300.  Then I decided to look for Mr. Whipple, and as usual he was busy telling the ladies not to squeeze the Charmin.  The only person I found available was Barbara.  She was still up.  She was cleaning her oven. 

Even though I was taking this walk down memory lane early on a Monday morning instead of at 7:00pm Sunday night, I decided to search for Walt Disney.  Hearing the theme song wasn't quite the same without a toasted tuna fish sandwich on a TV tray and a head full of wet ringlets.  At that time my hair was curly enough to curl itself with a little help from my mom.  She'd take a wet chunk and brush out all the snarls.  Then she'd wrap the strand around her finger like thread around a spool.  When she pulled her finger out, the hair stayed in a tight little ball.  I had to sit kind of still until the balls started to dry and fell on their own, forming thirteen perfect ringlets. 

Anyway, even without the tuna fish sandwich and ringlets, I was moved by the magic of Disney.   I closed my eyes and listened to the music.  I could see the little fairy with her wand making the fireworks go off behind the castle.  If she wasn't a fairy and she didn't actually create the fireworks, don't tell me.  That's the way I want to remember it.    I think the only words to that song that I ever really knew were "When you wish upon a star"  and then I just hummed the rest.  But the whole song goes like this:

When you wish upon a star
makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
will come to you
Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true

The thought of believing these lyrics made me smile and I giggled like the Pillsbury Doughboy when he gets poked in the stomach. Woo Hoo :-) So, all I have to do is wish upon a star and my dreams will come true!  I'd started to think dreaming was a bunch of b-o-l-o-g-n-a.  Maybe it's because I've surrounded myself with a group of Italians that aren't dreamers.  Did they stop dreaming because they've decided they just have to settle for mediocrity?  Or is what I continue to call "mediocrity" really such a nice place to be that there's no need to dream of the next best thing?  I still don't have the answer to that one.  At the moment I've got to try my hardest to be more like Mikey.  He's the only one that had the courage to taste LIFE and as soon as he dug in....he liked it, hey Mikey! 

I'll probably be out looking for stars tonight anyway.  As Sarah Ban Breathnach says, "the world needs dreamers and the world needs doers.  But above all the world needs dreamers who do."  Wouldn't you like to be a dreamer, too?





(Sorry.  If you're not at least a 40-year old American, this post will make no sense.  I hope you'll stayed tuned for the next one.  Tell 'em Charlie sent you.  Doors closing.....)
 

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."