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.

As-is

My father-in-law used to say he'd rather see a chubby girl in a bikini than a skinny girl in a beach sarong. He thought a half-nude fatty filled with confidence (and hotdogs) was more attractive than a skinny little thing that thinks she's fat. It was easy to agree at the time because I was a half-nude skinny little thing with no sarong.

My body was (is) far from perfect. I lacked (lack) long legs, big boobs and a nice booty, but I worked with what I had and accepted what I didn't. (Take note, the second part of that sentence is only in past tense.)

The day Bob referred to my legs as cannons was a real blow; a small torso atop two unshapely tubes. But the day after, I found the compliment. I may not have had buns of steel, but at least to one, I had legs of iron.

25 years later when I see a smiling, chubby girl on the beach I think of Bob. And I also think of him when I shamefully grab my cover up. In the past I hoped for beautiful beach days to strut my stuff (even though I lacked stuff). Now I hope for clouds and a breeze to justify the wrap and hide my pockmarked cannons.
 
It would be much easier if I believed the fact that women gain weight with age, metabolism slows, things shift and menopause wreaks havoc on everything, but I still insist on disbelieving. And I know I'm not the only disbeliever or there wouldn't be so many websites, therapists, talk show hosts and former First Ladies trying to convince us to embrace our age and girth.

I wasn't given a middle name at birth. With a funny first name and a laborious last name my parents were wise to leave out the middle one. As a kid I filled in the blank with Jean or Anne or Louise; whatever struck my fancy. But in the past few years I've been calling myself "Tenley As-was Ysseldyke". It's a bit depressing because she doesn't exist anymore.

Every time I change my clothes, take a long run or catch a glimpse of my reflection I search for Tenley As-was but she's never there. I'm not dumb enough to look for her on the back of the milk carton, but I still look for her everywhere else and her absence is terrifying. I think it's time to befriend Tenley As-is.

Middle names accentuate accusations and underline anger. "Tenley, finish that pizza before you start dessert" isn't quite as effective as, "Tenley As-is Ysseldyke, you're not leaving that table until you eat all that ice cream." And if it really were my middle name and I accepted myself As-is instead of as Jean or Louise or Anne maybe I wouldn't feel guilty about cleaning my plate (a.k.a. pizza box and gelato cup).

I'm ready to start practicing my new signature. Give me a form with a box for a middle initial and instead of leaving it blank I'll put an 'A'. For the first time I'll order a monogrammed L.L.Bean beachbag with three initials. This summer if a friend at the beach invites me over for a nutella sandwich with her kids I'll think of Bob. I'll leave my sarong in the bag and head over with a confident, pudgy smile.
 

No Diapers. No Deadlines.

If I were actually a writer I'd call what I'm having writer's block. It's a real thing, sounds like a valid excuse and is known to pass.

"Why haven't you written anything lately?" my imaginery fans would ask.  
"Don't worry, it's just a little writer's block," I'd coolly reply.

But since I'm not a real writer and I don't have real fans, I can't really call it writer's block. So I'll try to tell you in three hundred words or less what's actually happening. Let's consider it a warmup exercise.

Everything appears to be in my favor.  There's no lack of motivation, ideas or time. I really want to write, I have a lot of dumb things to say and I have more time than anyone I know. But after months of being blocked, I've realized there are two things missing: diapers and deadlines.

There's plenty of advice online about balancing diapers and deadlines; living between diapers and deadlines; and diapers, date nights and deadlines. The general idea is that life without them is a walk in the park (or in my case a run in the vineyard), but I think it's refutable.

The lack of diapers in my life means there are also no play dates, homework, car pools, birthday parties, family meals, oversized washing machines, Little League games or dance recitals. I know most of you think that with excess time you'd read and play your piano and sew and organize and paint and write. (I know you wouldn't really do what I think I should be doing, but you think you'd do what you've always wanted to do.) Don't be so sure. According to Nietzsche "the mother of excess is not joy, but joylessness."

As for deadlines, I'm on par with Santa Claus. We both have a lot to do in December. The difference is that Santa has to be ready by the 25th, but over time I've extended the deadline. Sending Happy New Year wishes instead of Merry Christmases gives me an extra week. And living in Italy means the holidays include the Epiphany, which brings me to January 6. When you throw in the Italian postal service I'm officially covered til April.

But what does Santa Claus do in his downtime? Does he paint the sleigh in May? Does he train the reindeer to fly in July? If he's anything like me he finds it hard to get motivated when the next big day is so far off. With no deadlines there's always tomorrow, next week or next month (as long as you live forever).

But unlike immortal Santa I have the deadline of death, the unpleasant reminder that the best time to paint the sleigh, train the reindeer and write is now. And as I remind myself, might I also remind the members of the Diapers and Deadlines Club that the deadline of death  
deserves more attention than anything else in your inbox.



 

Smart Working or Smart Living?

In a world of smart phones, smart watches and Smart cars, I'm dumbfounded at how often my students don't know what smart means. I used to ask if they were kidding. It's not a very nice thing for the English teacher to say, but I thought it beat telling them that smart was something they weren't. 

Most Italian students have studied British English and have learned that a British lift is an American elevator, a British garden is an American yard and a British queue (great Scrabble word) is an American line. But for some reason they've taken a fancy to Webster's third definition of smart, 'stylish or elegant in dress or appearance' (British) and haven't learned the first definition, 'intelligent' (American). Maybe it's because they're Italian, where being stylish or elegant in dress or appearance is what really matters. If I taught English in another country they might understand that smart phones were intelligent and not stylish.

Now that Covid and smart working have become universal (or so I thought) I'm hopeful that the word smart will take on a new meaning.  (Not a new meaning, but rather definition number one). All of my students use the word differently. For example....when I have smartworking, when I'm in smart working and when I'm on smart working. I correct them and say it doesn't need a preposition, but the truth is I'm not sure how to use the word. So, I turned to my fellow Americans. These are the responses from a Sales Representative, a Portfolio Manager and an ex-Office Manager of a premier news magazine (in other words, they ain' t dumb).

"Need more info on smart working, not sure what you're asking."
"Smart working? Doesn't ring a bell."
"Haven't heard that before."

Those answers came from people that have been working from home throughout the pandemic and they call what they're doing 'Working From Home.' So much for my fellow Americans, I returned to my friend Google. I searched 'Chicago smart working' and the words never appeared together. 'Smart working LA' produced an article about Italy. It was 'smart working London' where I found the connection.

It seems the British, who once waited in a queue for the lift are now at home in their gardens smart working (and hopefully playing Scrabble). But where does that leave me...an American in Italy that won't accept students if they don't agree to anti-Covid, open-air lessons in the YARDen? If I say I'm working from home, my Italian friends think it means I'm doing housework. And if I tell my American friends I'm smart working they don't get it.  So I decided I needed a word of my own and I picked smart living.

How do you describe outside English lessons that may include frost and fog at dawn, sunshine at noon or ski coats and candles in the evening?  It feels more like smart playing than smart working. I considered calling it Lessons in Wonderland, but that sounds like I only teach kids. And as much as the kids love coming once a week, it's the adults that have pleasantly surprised me. In a land where 40 degrees fahrenheit is cold and people protect themselves from all old wives' tales regarding health, it's hard to believe students are unobligatorily drawn to my cast iron stove for English lessons.

6:30 a.m. the day before Halloween

Italians are famous for LA BELLA VITA, as long as it involves good food and wine, smart clothes and all other things sensible. I'm trying to show them LA really BELLA VITA which includes lying on the ground with no blanket, walking in the moonlight with no flashlight and feeling a cool breeze with no scarf.

I'm not a Portfolio Manager (I'm not even sure what that is). I'm a Smart Living Manager. My services are included in English lessons at no extra cost. Sign up soon. When the pandemic has passed I'm expecting a queue.   

Come......High Water

A boat on the wrong side of the wall.

I'd looked at photos of floods, watched movies with floods and seen floods on the news. Then one night a flood knocked at the door of my tiny yellow house with turquoise shutters and this time the photos, videos and news were about people and a place that I knew.

My house is on a long, thin island between the Venetian Lagoon and the Adriatic Sea.  At its narrowest it's 16 feet and at its widest, about a quarter of a mile. There are only two roads on the island, one by the sea and one by the lagoon. Colorful houses line the lagoon and face the sea, but most (like mine) are tucked in the tiny calli (lanes) between the two.

Storms on the island are always spectacular.  The residents congregate in the lagoon to watch the clouds roll in and the whitecaps grow.  As it gets colder and windier, most head back inside, but some of us don't give in until the first cold raindrops fall.

On November 12, 2019 I wasn't on the island for the storm. That night I received a video with waves sloshing over the low wall on the lagoon side, 30 steps from my front door.  The message said that everyone was on alert for acqua alta (high water). There were voices in the background on the video, but they didn't sound much different from what I usually hear at the beginning of a storm...oohs and aahs like spectators at  a good American fireworks display and a few ciaos from people pedaling past on their bikes to beat the rain. 

Acqua alta wasn't new on the island, but it hadn't been around for nearly two decades after pumps were installed to protect the island from seasonal high water. It took several years before the residents found the courage to store their emergency acqua alta panels in the attic.  That's where I found mine when I bought the house and for history's sake decided to use them as kitchen shelves.

The beginning of the eerie clean-up.

Shortly after receiving the first video, I got a message saying that no one had seen anything like it (which was alarming since many of the islanders are old enough to remember the flood of 1966).  Then came the video with waves pouring (instead of sloshing) over the wall and heading straight down my calle.

The videographer was my neighbor.  She's of the group that usually runs for cover before the first raindrops fall, so her videos were shot from her second floor window. Twenty-eight minutes after her first message she wrote that the water in our calle was one meter high (3 feet, 3 inches) and there was no electricity. Next came a photo with water as high as the bottom of my first floor window. There was nothing to do but wait in my safe, dry kitchen (a 90-minute drive and 20-minute boat ride away) while my friends on the island waited in their second floor bedrooms (because they no longer had safe, dry kitchens). 

The island skyline.

Some families spent the night bailing water out their windows while others tired and went upstairs to bed. Everyone knew the water would eventually recede but many worried about when it would rise again.  Acqua alta had always been a part of life on the island. This group was just out of practice.

For a few hours that night the island and lagoon had become one. Those that slept woke to bikes and upturned dumpsters floating past their doors and found boats where cars were once parked.  I was told to wait a day before making the trip because parts of the island were still under water.

Two days after the flood I shared  the ferryboat with a lot of new stoves, fridges and washing machines. When I arrived on the island I was greeted with somber yet resilient hellos from a population insistent on staying afloat instead of bailing out.

Several years ago I found a sunken boat washed up in the lagoon. I made it into a sofa. This time it didn't sink. It floated around my livingroom until the flood receded.