The Unreachable Egoist

My Italian friends often accuse me of not answering my phone, a reputation I'm proud to uphold. The reason I don't answer is because I'm seldom READY to answer. If I'm reading, I've chosen to read and that's not the moment I want to talk on the phone. And the same goes for running, walking, cleaning, writing, planting flowers, eating, visiting friends or, lo and behold, daydreaming. Egoistical? Perhaps. But I find it no different from the way my accusers handle their calls.  

Here's a typical Italian exchange on the telephone.

Instead of 'hello' they say pronto. The first dictionary definition of pronto is ready, prompt, prepared, immediate and rapid. Although those seem like 'at your service' kind of words, many responders are anything but available when answering a call.

Next, the caller asks, "Ti disturbo?" (am I bothering you?). In my opinion if someone takes a call they should be ready to talk (after all, they say READY when they answer). So I don't feel the need to ask if I'm bothering them. It's their fault if they've answered and they're not ready, so I just start talking. 

From here the calls have two possibilities. The first is, "Sorry, I can't talk. I'll call you later." Answering, apologizing and hanging up shouldn't get the egoistic answerer off the hook. In my opinion that response is the same as not answering at all.  

The second possibility is completely ignoring their current activity (taking a walk with me for instance) to answer the phone and talk to their cousin in Sicily about cannoli. What this demonstrates in courtesy to the caller, it lacks in respect to the person at hand. 

This is not to say that all calls should be ignored (or that Sicilian pastries don't deserve recognition). Quickly confirming an appointment, answering a call from a kid or talking to the mechanic don't upset this termagant. I understand that some parts of life require immediate attention, but the fresh eggs and radicchio your mom leaves by your door will be there whether you answer your phone or not.  






 

Now Hear This.

I've been pondering a week with no pay.  I don't mean a week OFF with no pay, simply a week with no pay. Students would still come with their blankets and winter coats to talk by the potbelly stove in the yard and I'd still stay 10-feet away in my beret and montone to listen. The only difference is that if they weren't paying me, maybe I'd feel a little less guilty talking.

My job description includes nothing more than carrying on a conversation and correcting mistakes. (I occasionally get into 8th grade grammar rules, help with resumes, learn about people like Virginia Woolf and edit documents like the masonry quality of seismic performance in historic buildings.) But the truth is, we usually just talk about LIFE. Rather, we usually just talk about THEIR lives.

My students feel like friends. We exchange Christmas gifts and send silly messages. I help them quit their jobs, break up with their boyfriends and girlfriends and pick colors for their new kitchens. I love them and I love my job, but something is missing. I don't feel like they know much about me.    

When a one-hour lesson (which is seldom less than 75 minutes because I'm having fun) is over, I cap my pen (so they know it's over) and throw in a comment about my own life. I continue with the closure signs to make sure they know I'm not talking on their dime and I speak with a little less guilt.

Last week I got a message from one of my favorites, 73-year old Mr. Bean. (He has authorized the publication.)

Hi Ten.
I'd like to write some notes.
Actually I consider you not only as a teacher but as a sort of valley surrounded by high mountains. Many many times I've walked in the mountains and I used to shout to listen an echo, to feel nature answering me. In this case the nature is you. In other words, having no blog, no Facebook, I consider you, how could I say: my follower, my friend, my audience, or....simply an unpaid strict teacher or a psychologist whom I ask only to listen.

Although Mr. Bean's English is very good (better than usual in this note) there was a mistake with his use of 'unpaid' because in fact, he pays me. Perhaps he meant underpaid? Clarification confirmed  that he wanted to say that he recognizes correcting his midnight messages (when I'm unpaid) isn't part of my job, so he asks that I only listen (read them). Bravo, Mr. Bean. His English teacher must be good if he can write so eloquently. But his psychologist is a little dim to have misinterpreted "whom I ask only to listen" as "just be quiet."

Unfortunately, my job has a negative effect on my non-student friends. When I'm not working and finally feel free to talk, I can't shut up. During lessons with students I tell myself, "You can't talk. You have to listen." And on walks through fields with friends I tell myself, "You can talk 'til you get to the next tree and then you absolutely must stop."

To the friends who've had to walk in silence and to the students who've heard a story or two before the pen was capped, I apologize and leave you with my favorite quote from Anne of Green Gables. "I won't say another word--not one. I know I talk too much but I am really trying to overcome it, and although I say far too much, if you only knew how many things I want to say and don't, you'd give me some credit for it."

If I've mentioned that quote in the past, I apologize. I thought it was just one of the things I wanted to say and didn't.

As always, thanks for listening.
 

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.