Use Your Imagination

It's not every day you're chosen as the most beautiful skier on the mountain. In fact, it's safe to say I've never won that title. But a little imagination can turn an already exceptional day into a day where the slopes sparkle with diamonds even when it's cloudy.

Upon arrival I search for the perfect parking place for my peanut-butter-and- jelly-and-potato-chip-lunch break. The SUVs and mini-vans pull in to face the lodge, but I back in to face the snow covered mountains without chairlifts and skiers. Anyone watching probably recognizes the bathroom dance while I pull out my skis, pull on my boots and pull up the ragtop.

It took me half the season to decide which pockets suit the essentials for a day on the slopes. Money goes in the pocket on the back of the inside pants. The car key's in the left front pocket of the outside pants. It has a zipper that can't be unzipped until I get back to the car. I tuck a couple of Kleenex in my sleeve (thanks Grandma) and lip stuff in the left coat pocket because my cell phone goes in and out of the right one at least 23 times a day. When everything is in place, I elegantly walk to the bathroom in my unbuckled boots and then I'm finally ready for my first run.  

Every chairlift has a little hut at the bottom and another at the top. And every little hut has a man to man the lift (there are still no women to woman the lift). This year at the beginning of the season my day was made when a lift operator came out of his booth to give me a piece of candy. If he said anything at all, I don't remember.  And I only had time for a grazie and smile before the next chair came to remind me to make my way. Fortunately, the inside coat pocket on the top left with the granola bar had room for an individually wrapped caramel so they shared the space for a few runs while I contemplated my treat. 

The only name I'd had for this chairlift guy was the one with a long ponytail and a super long beard. And I suppose he'd gotten used to me as the girl (or lady) with green, pink and orange coats but always the same grey hair, grey helmet and goggles. So why the caramel? I imagined that around Halloween the designated lift guy bought bags of individually wrapped candy so they could divide it in their huts at the beginning of the season and give it to their favorite females of the day. (For more information on a similar game I invented in 1984 click here and read Go ahead. Make my day.)

https://10leaves.blogspot.com/search?q=go+ahead+make+my+day

Self-help gurus call my take on the explanation for the candy 'a positive perspective.' But have you ever heard a parent tell a child to find the positive perspective when complaining that they had nothing to do? We tell kids to use their imaginations, and unless you think you're too grown up, you should try it.

If singing Sinatra on my morning drive up the mountain, eating a thick hot chocolate with a tiny spoon at noon and driving back down as the sun sets aren't enough to completely fill my soul, imagining that I'd been selected as one of the sparkling diamonds in the snow makes my annual ski pass worth every centesimo.
 

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.      

Parents Say Things

Parents say the darndest things. It's no wonder kids' favorite words are 'why not'. And seeing that I'm not a parent, I've dangerously fallen into the kid group at the risk of gaining enemies and losing friends. More and more often I find myself giving up something I really want just to keep peace between my little friends and my big ones.

Take CocaZero (aka Coke Zero) for example. Other grown-ups drink beer and wine and some even smoke in front of their tots. Those bad habits are allowed because they're off-limits to kids. Parents don't feel guilty partaking and kids don't feel left out. But this grown-up doesn't like beer and wine and sometimes has the need for an ice cold CocaZero. The problem is, my drink of choice isn't illegal for kids. So if I have it, they want it. And that's where I'm stuck. Drinking my Coke doesn't quench my thirst the same way a beer makes a dad say "Ahhh!" Mine includes envious eyes and sad smiles from whom it's been forbidden. That's enough to pour myself a glass of water.

I've spent most of my life eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips simultaneously. It's created a monster. I like two things served at the same time and I decide when to take a bite of one or the other. I like my salad WITH my pasta, my Oreos WITH my ice cream and my french fries WITH my hamburger. But try opening a bag of potato chips with a family when the kids haven't finished their sandwiches yet. I suppose it's easy for most adults to wait. But this monster likes soft things and crunchy things at the same time. The parents tell me to go ahead and open the chips but that the kids can't start crunching until they've finished their mortadella (aka bologna) sandwiches. The kids reluctantly agree. But this (sometimes) softy doesn't have the heart, so I, too, patiently wait for the signal from Mom and Dad.

Don't walk barefoot in the house (the truth is, don't even walk in your socks. You have slippers.) Stay out of the tall, wet grass (but that's where adventures begin). And don't crack the ice in the frozen puddle (but then you'll never hear that splintering crack that only comes from cracking ice in frozen puddles). All we want to know is why not.

Last month I was invited on vacation in Vienna with a family of four. Onlookers would have seen a mom and dad rushing ahead with two kids and Maria (from the Sound of Music) curiously walking hand-in-hand often far behind them. Our evenings ended with chamomile and cookies as the five of us sat huddled around the little table on four chairs and a bunkbed planning the next day. The mom's insistence that the 8-year old drink the hot chamomile brought understandable protests as to why it couldn't be drunk cold. That's when Maria (aka me) took over for Chiara, maturely asking, "Is there actually a valid reason she has to drink the tea hot? Because I'd really like to know if cold things hurt you or if hot things make your digestive tract work better. And if we understood why she had to drink it hot, maybe she'd drink it. Right, Chiara?" I was so shocked by my courage to ask, I don't remember the answer. But I have a feeling it included some hemming and hawing.   

My parents' militant comeback would have been (as always), "Because I said so." That's all it took to make me stop asking why. But if there'd been an explanation maybe I'd have learned something and now I wouldn't be so desperately curious about absolutely everything in life. Perhaps the only thing I'd be left wondering is if I'll ever be invited on another family vacation.

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."

Driving in Italy is scary. Getting your license is even scarier. Part One.

Seeing that it's really not safe to eat, drink and breathe the Coronavirus, I've decided to change the subject.  I finally got my Italian driver's license.

Americans are allowed to drive in Italy for the first year of residence.  I think you can drive with your normal license from the States.  And you can definitely drive with an international license that you pick up from TripleA for 15 dollars.  I can't remember why, but I had an expired one from one of my past trips and I brought it when I moved to Italy. I didn't have a car and I never drove, but I held onto the license thinking that some day I might have to forge the date.
 
Let me repeat....an American can drive for his first year as an Italian resident with one of those two licenses.  Then, one year later, they are invalid.  So, when you don't speak the language and know nothing about the roads.....go ahead and drive. And then, once it all becomes familiar and easier and safer.....it's time to stop driving.  Make sense?  When my  American visitors came and we rented a car at the airport they were always ready to hand me the keys.  It seems smart for the one that knows the lay of the land to drive, no?  No, not in Italy.

Several years ago I realized I had no choice.  I had to get an Italian license. The ink on the international license was fading so forgery would have been risky.  I decided to buy a study app from a driving school and was registered as one of their users.  That meant they had access to all of the practice tests that I took online and they could evaluate and manage my progress to help where I was having the most difficulty.

I started with great enthusiasm, but panic soon set in and I stopped.  When I was ready to give it another go, the app had been blocked.  I went to the school for help and found out that it had a one year expiration date. So, I signed up again. I REstarted with great enthusiasm, but panic soon set in and I stopped.

If you're an American reader, you're asking yourself why there's so much panic about getting a license in Italy.  In America we do it when we're 15.  I actually don't remember much, but I think it was kind of fun (except for the gory accident films). It seems like it was a three-week class taught by the cool teachers right when school got out. And it probably cost about 25 dollars.

Here's what it's like in Italy.  When you tell people that you're studying for your license the good luck comments flow.  They say that if they had to take the test now, they would never pass. They say that their friend didn't pass the first time, but had more luck the second time.  Keep in mind, these are the responses Italians give other Italians, so you can imagine the well wishes for an American. 

The test can only be taken in Italian, French and German.  Make sense? No, but we're in Italy, you just have to get used to the fact that nothing here makes sense.  There are 7000 practice questions.  7000 practice questions in Italian. 7000 practice questions prepared to trick even native speakers.

At the end of September (after a road trip through France where I couldn't drive) I decided that the only way I was really going to get serious about studying was to have a date on the calendar. I went to the school, but they were hesitant because my results on the app were far from positive.  I insisted that the only way I would get serious about studying was with a date and a down payment, and they agreed.  I paid 40 euro for a doctor's visit that is really just signing a paper.  And then 30 euro for the other doctor's visit which is really just to have me read something from afar and sign another paper.  I paid 4 euro for the paperwork for the second doctor's visit and another 'stamp' (maybe it's a tax?) for 16.  I paid 63 euros for another 'stamp' for something else and 8.50 for photos.  And the app was 12. The total before taking the test was 173.50.

As the test approached I had learned that cows are domesticated animals (I thought only dogs and cats were domesticated animals) and if you see one near the road with a look of fear in their eyes you're obligated to slow down. I wasn't sure if that meant that you didn't have to slow down if they didn't have the look of fear in their eyes, because those are the kind of trick questions thrown in everywhere.  I also learned that in order to drive a motorcycle with a certain power you need license A and to drive a motorcycle with a sidecar with a different cylinder you need license AM.  Trucks that can carry up to 600 tons require license A1 and scooters for 14 year-olds that have a 50cc but only go 35 mph hour need A2.  (I've made all of that up because I really can't remember any of it and I don't know the difference between 50cc and cylinders, but on November 4, I can assure you, I knew it all.) In any case, does it seem necessary that a little old lady that wants a license to drive a convertible in Italy should have to know all of the requirements for all 7 types of licenses (or is it 9)? Add it to the list that nothing makes sense here.

On test day, before the hour-ride in the minivan with all of the other kids taking the exam, I paid the school another 250 euros.  We drove to an official testing site run by the State and then sat and waited for two hours.  Before entering the room with 30 other students you are put in line alphabetically and given the rules.  Once inside, the scary lady calls you to the front one by one. You give her your documents and she assigns you a computer. 40 of the 7000 questions come up on your screen. You have 30 minutes and you can only make 4 mistakes.  Total silence.  Then, one by one the scary lady calls you back up to the front and tells you if you've passed.

Fortunately, all nine of the kids in the minivan passed.....the written test.

Let There Be Emotion

The last time someone told me that people either love me or hate me I saw the bright side. I was never really bothered by the statement in the past, but I've finally realized I should take it as a compliment.

Being loved or hated means having a strong enough effect on someone to evoke at least some kind of emotion; be it good or bad, at least they feel my presence. If you hate me it means I have a personality. I might rub you the wrong way, but a bad rub to one is a massage to another. And knowing there are people out there that I rub the right way makes the haters fade away.

It's not to say I find joy in being hated. But is there joy in feeling that your place in someone's life is met with the same indifference as the __________?

I had to leave that blank because the only people I feel indifferent about are the ones I don't know. I could have written the guy at the gas station, but when I go for gas we talk about skiing. Then I thought about the mailman, but when he shows up on his scooter I teach him new phrases in English. The lady on the running path smiles, the guy at the dump saves me broken ceramics and the old people in the mountains and at the sea wave and say hello; I find indifference difficult.

So go ahead and make my day. Tell me you love me or hate me. But please don't say I'm just ok, because I take that as a real insult.

Italian-American Guidelines for Food Rationing during the Coronavirus Lockdown

Before most Italians were very worried about the Coronavirus, l'americana was starting to panic.  I did my grocery shopping early.  I didn't clear out the shelves, I was just thinking ahead.  No more weekends on the island meant I needed more food at the house in the country.  No more trips to the pizzeria meant I needed frozen pizza. I certainly bought more than I've ever bought before, but I only filled one cart.  I even thought I'd be laughing at myself in a week or so when my cupboards were filled with this extra stuff that I don't really even like and I was back to going out for pizza.

That was three weeks ago.  I still have almost everything I bought.  I've been eating the old stuff that's been in the cupboard for months.  There are jars of things I never sent as Christmas gifts because the package weighed too much at the post office, so I removed them. I found boxes of tea that I tried and didn't like and had frivolously gone out to buy new flavors. Today I ate frozen zucchini curry soup that had gone uneaten because I'd added too much peperoncino. (It's homemade soup because in Italy we don't have an aisle dedicated to Campbell's.)

Don't get the wrong idea. Grocery stores in Italy are still open, but I haven't been in one for three weeks. Living without lettuce and carrots seems a little easier than living with the Coronavirus. I'm sure I'm overexaggerating, but it doesn't make sense to have cancelled English lessons two weeks before the lockdown and then head out into the real world at the peak (wishful thinking) of the problem. Instead of waiting in line in the grocery store parking lot to enter one at a time and then follow the newly painted lines at the checkout indicating the safe distance, I'm thinking about how to ration.

I've already started diluting my beverages. 6 bottles becomes 12 if you fill the glass halfway with water first. Crackers (I've been out of bread for two weeks) don't need peanut butter AND jelly.  Unfortunately I found myself with more jelly than peanut butter, so I go two days with jelly and the third with Jif (wishful thinking again.....it costs 6 euros in Italy). Fortunately I've found 5 different brands at Gli Africani (Italians' friendly name for the African food stores) and they're all reasonably priced.

Expiration dates are being read more carefully.  First, to make sure you consume the fresh mozzarella that only has a few days left before you grate the parmesan which seems to last forever. Secondly, because what used to be thrown out on the date of expiration probably doesn't really have to be.

The most difficult decision is when to eat the chocolate.  I'm still cutting the Lindt balls in half and have just opened a box of individually wrapped Loacker cookies from Christmas. I made brownies and froze them because the eggs were about to expire and I thought brownies in the future sounded better than scrambled eggs right now. I've found a simple hot chocolate recipe that takes nothing more than melting a chocolate bar and pouring it in a cup of hot milk.  I just can't decide when to open the last carton of milk.

I was also thrilled to find a container of frozen chocolate chip cookie balls. It's an attempt at being a good Italian hostess.  No matter how big your surprise visit is, you're always invited in for coffee and something sweet. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work for me.  While waiting for those unexpected guests I usually end up eating the balls of dough one at a time.....until now.  It was already in my mouth when I thought of my brother-in-law that easily refused raw cookie dough for fear of salmonella. His fear of salmonella became my fear of an Italian hospital during the Cornavirus outbreak. Spitting out the half eaten ball was one of the saddest (and grossest) decisions I've had to make in the past three weeks.        

Nutella (which is cheaper here than in the States) has always been well-scraped from the inside of the jar before opening a new one. Now the scraping resembles that last squeeze of toothpaste, when there's always a little bit more. Until that day when there really isn't.  Fortunately I found a new jar because it wouldn't be a real Italian household without Nutella.