Monday, February 2, 2009

Quickie

Just a quick note about the articles you'll find here. These are the original, unedited versions, and therefore might be just ever-so-slightly different than the published ones. The images here I have added for the blog, and were not necessarily those used in the final edit by Fra Noi. Also, I have used the original titles here, so when you go digging through your back issues of Fra Noi, looking for a certain title, it might be different than that posted here.

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Star Trek alla Italiana

Star Trek alla Italiana

(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, March 2009)


Space. The final frontier. These are the voyages of the traveler Terri S. Maxfield. Her five day mission, to explore strange new environments. To seek out new life and new perspectives. To boldly go where she has never gone before...

Maxfield’s Log, Stardate 62435.2: The day begins very early. I cannot sleep for the excitement. The eagerly anticipated day has finally arrived. I know not what to expect, though I feel in my bones that this is no ordinary mission. It is almost as if catharsis is tangible, mixed in on the breeze that plays with my hair as I wait at the train station, leaving there a sweet, intoxicating scent. Something wonderful is about to happen, I can feel it. I am on my way to my first Star Trek convention.

The great event is to take place in the town of Riccione, on the eastern coast of Italy. I had always been a fan of Star Trek when I lived in the United States, but never went so far as to attend an official gathering. My passion for Star Trek has recently been revived by my having rediscovered the series “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine” via the internet. And I must admit that had it not been for my falling somewhat in love with the profoundly intriguing character of Weyoun from that series (delightfully played by actor Jeffrey Combs), I don’t know if I would be making the journey I am today. I know Weyoun has his faults, every once in a while wanting to exterminate the population of the planet Earth, and so on…but nobody’s perfect. He’s just a little misunderstood, that’s all.

After an almost uneventful journey, I arrive at the hotel and proceed to my assigned quarters. The festivities are not to officially start until tomorrow, so I decide to seek out familiar territory to pass the time this evening. I head for the bar.


It is here that other Trek-loving humanoids begin to converge. I was alone when I arrived, but by the end of the evening, I am now surrounded by the most interesting collection of people I think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. They are a fascinating species, so kind, fun and open, traits that I have noticed almost consistently in the Italian population in general, but then adjoin to that the special added bonus of being a Trekkie, and you’ve got yourself one hell of spectacular individual. And I enjoy the company of these wondrous creatures until the sun is threatening to rise again.


Maxfield’s Log, supplemental: The next few days are a surrealistic blur of Starfleet uniforms, video presentations, costume contests, incredible meals, and of course the coup de grace, the Guests of Honor. This year’s guests are actors Renè Auberjonois who played shapeshifting Constable Odo on Deep Space Nine, and Alice Krige who portrayed the evil Borg Queen in the film “First Contact” and on the series Star Trek Voyager. Each give two separate presentations, Auberjonois is animated and amusing, Krige enchanting and elegant.

One evening during dinner, Mr. Auberjonois went around the room to each table for a quick hello to everyone, something I thought quite nice indeed. When he came to our table, he asked if anyone spoke English. My dining companions all pointed to me, and I shyly raised my hand. He smiled and said slowly, “Do you speak English?”, to which I replied, “Well, actually I speak American.” He stood bolt upright and gleefully said, “You certainly do!” Then a thought struck him, he leaned forward, and looking me deep in the eyes asked in his gravelly Odo voice, “ARE you American?” Now, I am not one that is often made nervous in the presence of celebrity, but having Chief Constable Odo’s bright blue eyes staring into me, I felt my cheeks begin to warm and I realized that I was losing the power of speech. I answered all his questions to the best of my ability, that being a series of one word answers and a lot of giggling. Even my beloved Weyoun, who considered Odo to be a god, was able to remain composed and eloquent in his presence, but I, to my embarrassment, could not. It was…glorious.



There was someone else that shared the stage with both our honored guests. His name is Paolo Attivissimo, and he is nothing less than amazing. There were many things that left deep impressions on me during this excursion, but Paolo Attivissimo’s performance left me spellbound. Aside from being a radio host, author, blogger, journalist, and all-around information technology genius, he is also a devout Star Trek aficionado. Paolo served as interpreter for each actor during their scheduled appearances. Watching him work was one of the highpoints of this adventure. I was astounded at how precise and perfect his translations were! His memory was mind-blowing. The actors would tell a story that could last up to several minutes, and Paolo’s translation was always spot-on, never missing even the slightest detail. (I suspect he is the product of some genetic enhancement program. Julian Bashir ain’t got nothin’ on this boy…).

Maxfield’s Log, Stardate 62364.7: Departure. This is a sad day. Even the sky is crying. After four days of unusual sun and moderate temperatures, it has turned grey, cold and is now raining. We are all very tired, you can see it in our droopy posture, in the puffiness around our eyes. We have all eked out every last drop of this experience. We have all started our days early, and gone to sleep very, very late.

I am sitting at the bar, ordering the first coffee of the day, when I notice Alice Krige standing next to me, searching for something in her purse. I think exhaustion has set in, I’m too tired to be nervous, too weary to even think twice before speaking to the Queen of the Borg. I simply say to her, “Did you enjoy yourself as much as it appeared you did?” She looks up at me with eyes alight, and breathes more than says, “Oh, yes!” We talk for a few minutes, about her fascinating film project “String Caesar” (filmed in large part at Pollsmoor prison in South Africa, using inmates as actors), about Star Trek conventions, and about Italy. I ask her if conventions in Italy differ from those in other countries. She thoughtfully says that every country brings its own flavor to the conventions, and the Star Trek events here do certainly reflect the cultural flavor of Italy. She noted especially the relaxed atmosphere, the respect of the fans, and how mealtime is not just a time to eat, but time to share with this adopted-extended family.

It strikes me then, that this is the feeling I’ve been trying to name since my arrival. There is a feeling of family amongst these people. When a large group of like-minded humanoids get together peacefully, and all share the same positive philosophical passion, there is a familial bond that forms. And where else is family more important than in the Italian culture? There is an energy of love here, and I find it wonderfully addictive. The people I met here, are now more than just friends. I now feel heartbroken at the reality of having to leave this place, to leave this my new family.

I find comfort, however, in the fact that there is another, even larger convention in May. Warp speed, Mr. Sulu! It’s not that far away…

End Log

Sunday, February 1, 2009

A Special Language Lesson



A Special Language Lesson

(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, February 2009)

For the past couple of years, I’ve been writing about the effects that Italy has had upon me, my language, and my understanding of the world and the human condition in general. As of late however, I have become aware of the enormous influence that I personally have had on Italy, its language, and its understanding of the world and the human condition in general. Well, putting my delusions of grandeur aside for the moment, perhaps the problem isn’t as serious as all that. But I do have to say, that I am now aware of one particular effect I’ve had on many of my friends, and those around me on a daily basis. 


And for that, I would like to publicly prostrate myself before the world and humbly beg the forgiveness of my beloved Italy and all her people.

As with most stories of things gone awry, it started off innocently enough. I had been invited to party at a friend’s house, about a half hour’s drive from where I lived. The hostess of the party was sweet enough to offer me a ride, as I didn’t own any form of transportation. I wanted to go, but felt just a tad bit guilty for the hour in total that she would have to spend on the road just so I could attend. I told her that it was very kind of her to offer, but that I didn’t want to be a “pain in the…backside.” When converting that into Italian however, I did not use the word for “backside,” but rather a direct translation for the word that is most commonly used in American jargon. I told her I didn’t want to be a “dolore nel culo,” which, as I immediately found out, has absolutely no meaning whatsoever in Italian. What the phrase lacked in cultural significance was notably made up for in comedic relief. My friend laughed hard and long at my gaff, and before I knew it, she began using the expression herself here and there, as a new and very humorous way of communicating the idea of something or someone being a bother. 

And so it began.

From there, I started noticing that many of my friends began peppering their speech patterns with dashes of American slang. Affirmative responses, for centuries known as “sì,” were now, to my horror, turning into “Yeah.” At times I heard my friends saying, “Datzkuhl,” a seemingly German word, but I was to find out that is how I apparently pronounced the phrase, “That’s cool.” But when I began to see my comrades shrug, roll their eyes and apathetically utter, “Wud-evah,” it became clear to me that I had really better start watching my language.

Unfortunately the damage had been done and there was no going back. On the contrary, things only got worse. I arrived at work one afternoon, only moments after my colleague had accidentally knocked over a jewelry display. With little sparkly things scattered everywhere around her, my co-worker was waving her hands, bouncing on her toes and chanting a monotone mantra that consisted solely of one famous four letter word that begins with “F,” repeated over and over. I stood shocked into immobility, and putting on my best prudent grandmother voice, ordered her to immediately stop saying that word. She halted her dance, and looked at me innocently quizzical, and declared, “But you say it all the time!” 

My initial reaction was to get indignant and deny such a charge, but then almost instantaneously I realized she had to be right. It wasn’t the first time in my life that my usage of that particular word was pointed out as basically constant. Whenever I’m made aware of the fact that I even use it at all, it astounds me. I am a refined young lady, not some vulgar gutter punk. Aren’t I? But then, I think back to my formative years, that tumultuous time of late adolescence, when I was replacing my Donny Osmond-esque record collection, with anything loud, angry and/or naughty from the London music scene, and it begins to make sense. When Sid Vicious replaces Shaun Cassidy, when safety pins become your favorite earrings, and when flipping somebody off takes two fingers on one hand, the constant, unmitigated usage of the magic “F” word isn’t far behind. And I’ve never been able to free myself from it since. 

And now I’ve brought “it” to Italy. Though I’m certainly not terribly proud of the fact, I’ve obviously been using the word more often than I would care to admit, as I have heard it used time and time again by otherwise fine, upstanding, polite Italian friends of mine. When there was a sudden drop in temperature one evening, a young man I know emphatically noted that it was “f-ing freddo!” When crying over the loss of her most recent love, another friend wept that her ex-boyfriend was a “f-ing idiota!” And if those examples weren’t dreadful enough, I had the unfortunate experience of witnessing yet another acquaintance of mine yell into his cell phone, “Oh mamma! F – you!” 

For my Italian friends here, using the F-word is hilarious. They don’t use it subconsciously as I am all too often prone to doing, but instead it is a choice they make to lightheartedly punctuate their speech. The gentleman that used it when speaking with his mother, laughed like mad when I attempted to reprimand him for using it in that context. In fact, he told me that his mother thought it was so funny, that now even she is heard to be saying it on occasion. The thought of a genteel little “nonna” somewhere in Puglia telling her grocer to F-off because his celery is a little limp, disturbs me to no end. 

To alleviate my culpability though, some have brought it to my attention that they did not necessarily learn the word from me, but rather from American films and music. I must admit that when giving English lessons, that word is the one thing that I get more questions about than any other. One student in fact, considered it the most important word in the English language, as he said he has noticed that Americans use it to express virtually every type of emotion. He says that whether they are angry, happy, frightened or in pain, Americans will eloquently wield that word as a noun, a verb, an adjective or adverb. 

Though I find it comforting to know that I am not personally responsible for bringing the F-word to the Italian linguistic table, I do feel I must be held accountable for my part in its proliferation at least amongst the people I know here. When I hear one of my friends use that word, I feel a lot like I do when I see a McDonald’s sign in the heart of Rome or Florence. It’s not so much the word that bothers me, but I see it as perhaps another form of Americanization encroaching on the beautiful Italian cultural landscape. So maybe I had better just watch my mouth. Having kicked the Big Mac habit, I’ve watched what goes in, and now I just need to be a little more careful about what comes out as well.

The Ice Girl Cometh


The Ice-Girl Cometh
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, January 2009)

I can always tell when an American Midwesterner visits the little Italian town I live in, because without fail, they perceive the challenges of January even in the middle of summer. Most Midwesterners have an innate sense of winter survival, having had to deal with the extreme conditions of blizzards and super-sub-zero temperatures all their lives. One look around this tiny village and its 45 degree upward-angled streets, they turn to me and ask, “How do you get around in the winter?” 

When I first arrived here, it never crossed my mind that there would even be such a thing as winter. I arrived in the late spring, and had nearly a full year of beautiful weather to simply enjoy my existence in this exquisite new environment. But I was repeatedly warned by those that grew up here, “You’re going to stay year-round? No! The winters here are horrible! It can get below freezing, and sometimes…it even snows!” Having been raised in the flatlands of Northern Illinois, I took this ominous admonition all too lightly. I fondly remember “snow days” that kept me from going to school as a child, the blowing and drifting snow that on occasion would even block the front door of the house. “Sometimes it even snows,” was a threat that I could hardly take seriously.

When winter finally came though, and I got to experience its Tuscan version firsthand, I began to realize that even if it was not at all the kind of winter I was used to, it still held its own unique challenges. Snow was hardly a grave consideration. The only thing I really noticed was how damp the air was, allowing the cold to sink into your bones, even through the heaviest wool sweater. But I found that a warm bath or sitting in front of a fireplace would easily alleviate this little problem, and I thought that if this was the worst of it, winter wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

One late night in a January a few years back however, I did finally realize one of the more serious disadvantages of winter in this otherwise paradisiacal place. The heart of the town rests at roughly 1600 feet above sea level, but the rest of the city slopes upward, culminating at the height of roughly 2400 feet, a steep climb for anyone that lives up in that neighborhood, as I did at the time. I never thought much of the vertical slant of the streets, apart the fact that I was terribly impressed by all the exercise I was involuntarily getting just by walking home. That night however, I was made all too aware of just how precipitous those pathways are.

I was invited to dine with friends who lived just off the main piazza in the center of town. As I was making my way down to join them, a light rain began to fall. I had forgotten my umbrella, and so made haste to get to dinner as quickly as possible. Once inside, warm and dry, I put the weather completely out of my mind and enjoyed the evening and all it offered. The wine flowed as freely as the conversation, and hours passed unnoticed. After most of the guests had left, I found myself sitting around the fire with a small group of my closest friends, and there we chattered away until someone noticed that it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. With big sloppy hugs, we parted, and I headed outdoors. 

I was happy to see the rain had stopped, and as I looked around, I was mesmerized by how stunningly beautiful everything was. The temperature had dropped to just below freezing and the rain that had fallen earlier had given a silver patina to the entire town. The ancient stone buildings in the soft, late-night light, took on such an argent majesty that I felt that I had been somehow transported to some magical kingdom where fairies most assuredly ruled. 

I carefully made my way across the vacant and now rather slippery piazza, and headed for the first little street that would begin my ascent home. At the foot of that passageway, I looked at its mirrored surface, breathless at the sight. First for the aesthetic wonder of it all, and then seconds later, the reality of the situation began to sink into my wine-muddled brain. 

My first tentative steps met with disaster. The ice that covered my way was as smooth as glass, depriving me of any kind of foothold. I tried digging in my heels, but discovered that the momentum of swinging one’s leg in an attempt to implant the next footstep, would inevitably send one’s center of balance off in the completely wrong direction, and within seconds I would find myself face down on the ice-covered stones. Fortunately the levity of the evening had left me in a seemingly indestructible good mood, and I found the entire slapstick process most amusing. On my hands and knees, unable to gain any kind of forward motion, I lightheartedly laughed at the situation for a very long time. 

However, after that very long time was spent in the cold, and with frustration sitting in, I didn’t find it all that humorous anymore. An hour had passed and I was not even halfway home. What normally was a twenty minute walk was now looking as though it was going to take all night! I had managed to find semi-iceless pockets here and there, and by way of blending a mixture of climbing techniques, I was ever so slowly making some kind of headway. Some walking was actually accomplished, but most of the progress I was able to make, was made by either crawling on my hands and knees, or by grabbing iron handrails whenever present, and pulling myself upwards. At some points, I found that if there were even a few inches of bare pavement next to a palazzo, I could press my body against it’s rough hewn surface to sort of Velcro me in place, and then remembering my childhood ballet lessons, put my feet in First Position and cautiously walk-climb-cling up the street that way. Little by little, with every fearful step and with every Three Stooges-esque fall, I was slowly making my way home. 

The entire endeavor took a little over two hours to accomplish. Unlocking the door to my apartment, frozen, bruised and very grumpy, I made straight for a hot shower to thaw out. As the welcome warmth of the water began to melt its way into my stiff, sore muscles, the aggravation, anger and frustration of the experience washed down the drain, and I began to relax. After quickly drying off and putting on my warmest nightclothes, I snuggled into bed, pulling the blankets up tight over my head. 

And as I drifted off to sleep, I relived the whole incident but from an observer’s point of view, as if watching a film, and the humor returned. Giggling myself to sleep, I thought that even as ridiculous as the entire scene was, I would still rather face these slippery slopes than ever have to shovel another driveway again.

Whine Country


Whine Country
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, December 2008)


As a cherry preserved in Maraschino liqueur will absorb the flavor of the liquid that surrounds it, so will a person absorb the flavor of the culture in which they are living. After years of existing in Italy, I have found that I too have soaked up many of the characteristics of the Italian customs that envelop me. I find I cannot speak without an immense amount of gesticulation, I cannot fathom the idea of dinner before eight at night, and I’ve even discovered that losing your temper from time to time is not necessarily a bad thing. But there is one habit I’ve subconsciously adopted that, originally, I wanted to cancel from my personality altogether, until I discovered what an incredibly useful tool it is. 

When I first noticed this ostensibly tiresome tendency in those around me, I found it to be a rather annoying sound. Though some very skilled men occasionally use it, it is mostly a feminine communication tool. The little boutique where I work, has proven time and again to be the perfect environment to study the Italian female psyche, as it provides the subject with many of the utensils used in being female. We sell clothing, jewelry, perfume and so on, and after having observed the process that women use to carefully choose various items for acquisition, I have learned an enormous amount. And it was here that I first noticed the refined talent of whining. 

Two friends will enter the shop, look around for a bit, and then one may spot a pair of earrings that she is fond of. But then a moment later, she’ll notice yet another pair that strikes her fancy as well. She will pick up both, turn to her friend and say something like, “Paaoollaaa…whiiiich one do yoouuu like better?” Her friend will study both pairs with great intensity, finally saying, “Weeell, I dooon’t knooow. The blue paaair would go with a looot of thiiings, but the pink pair is just sooooo prettyyyyy…” This ritual exam of prospective purchases can continue on for up to forty minutes at times! The droning used in this example is what I call the Whine of Deep Consideration.

Other times, a woman will enter with her husband or boyfriend, and I’ve been privy to witness the subtle differences of feminine whining in the presence of a male. The Whine of Deep Consideration can be used on a man as well, but what I have found most interesting, is the Whine of Manipulation. It is a fine art, and if not expressed properly, will have the completely opposite result of the user’s intention. When used correctly however, the results are astounding. While shopping, the male’s mind may wander off to other things, like where they will be dining that evening. He may innocently mention to his partner that he has decided that they will eat at a particular restaurant, recommended by his best friend. If the female had other plans in mind, she will skillfully use the Whine of Manipulation to get her way. “Weeell, Amooore,” she might say, “I waaas thinking that maaaybe we should gooo to that little trattoriiiia in the piaaaaza insteaaad.” After a few minutes of finely honed whimpering, the man can rest assured that he will indeed be enjoying the experience of having his dinner in the piazza.

The first time I noticed myself unconsciously wielding this vocally inflected power, was when I was trying to get a phone line installed in my apartment. As with most anything in Italy, it was a bit of a challenge to actually accomplish that goal. After numerous phone calls, I was finally able to set an appointment for the technicians to come to my home and do the work. They never arrived. So I set another appointment, and again, I found myself waiting for hours alone and abandoned until I accepted the fact they weren’t coming. On the third try however, a very nice man did eventually show up with a tool box. He looked inside the apartment, then outside, then down the street to where the junction box was. I had been looking forward to this day for months. I was finally going to have a phone line, and I was finally going to be hooked up to the Internet! I was giddy with anticipation as I waited for this sweet man to initiate his installation endeavors.

We were standing in the little street just outside my door, looking up at the cables on the building, already connected to other apartments in the palazzo. He stood in silence, thoughtfully scratching his chin, while I tried my best to contain myself from bouncing up and down with excitement. He eventually turned to me and calmly stated, “I’m going to need a ladder.”

Now, I’m no phone-line installation technician, but even I knew from the get-go that a ladder was most likely going to be a necessary instrument for this venture, as most phone cables are not running along the ground, well and easily within reach. I just looked at him, waiting patiently for him to say he was going to his truck to get one. But he didn’t. He said instead, “I’m going to have to call my colleague, he’s got the ladder. And I’ll probably need his help as well. We can probably come back and take care of all this in about two weeks.”

After nearly three months of negotiations just to get a tech to show up for an appointment, I knew that if I let this man go it would not be two weeks before he came back, but that it could be an infinite amount of time before I ever saw him again. And that, dear friends, is when I snapped and made the transition from using American reserved and polite interactive decorum, to implementing a much more effective method.

With a serious stamp of my foot, my hands flew up as to supplicate an unseen deity, my eyes rolled back in my head as if I was possessed, and I let out a not-exceedingly-loud, and perfectly pitched, “Whaaaaaaaaat? Noooooooo!” I whined those two words with such passion and profundity, my technician friend actually took a step backward as his eyes widened to the size of saucers. The invisible force that took me over, was much stronger than I could ever hope to be, so I humbled myself into it and continued, “But it’s been threeee mooonths alreeeeaaady. I thought I was going to have the phone line todaaaaay…” 

The technician stood for a moment, just staring at me, as if he’d just seen a goat go bowling. Then, to my utter surprise and satisfaction, with a gentle smile he spoke, with the kindest of voices, and said, “Now, now. Don’t be upset. Let me make a phone call. Maybe we can get this done today after all, ok?” And within two hours, I was cheerfully sitting down in front of my computer, surfing to my heart’s happy content.

Italy is known for many glorious things, but I found myself thinking that day that there is nothing more fine, than a good Italian Whine.

Train To Nowhere



Train to Nowhere
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, November 2008)

Anyone that knows me, is well aware of the fact that I am completely enamored with that magnificent conglomeration of chaos and noise otherwise known as Rome. When the narcotic tranquility of small town life leaves me feeling as if I’m slipping into a comatose state, all I have to do is run down to Rome and recharge my mental battery-pack. My occasional escape is made possible by one of the many marvels of Italian life, that being, the Italian train system. Not only is it a relaxing and enjoyable way to get from one place to another, it’s economic and ecological. When I see a train full of people, I can’t help but think how many cars are not being driven in that moment! It is a cheap and reliable form of transportation that I take advantage of whenever I can.

The word “reliable” however, should be noted above, as a mutable one. Train schedules are fixed, though there is a random event known as the “sciopero,” or “strike,” that can leave the unsuspecting voyager in a bit of trouble. Train strikes are listed in the newspaper days in advance, and clearly noted on the railway’s website on the Internet. But if the traveler happens to miss that information for some reason, they may find themselves stranded.

And it happens even to the best of us.

A few weeks ago I journeyed down to Rome to visit my dear friend and co-Fra Noi correspondent, Judith Testa, as she was making her annual pilgrimage to the Eternal City. As always, her company was extraordinary, time passed too quickly, and unfortunately my visit had come to an end. I was cutting it close, as I was expected to be at work that afternoon at three o’clock, but I had double checked the railway’s website, and was confident that I would arrive with plenty of time to spare. After all, it was less than a two hour train ride, and I had given myself six hours to do it in. What could go wrong?

Judy had graciously accompanied me that morning, and we walked around, gleefully window shopping amongst the numerous little stores that excite the train station with color and light. It was getting close to the time for me to leave, so we checked the departure board to see what track I needed to get to. But in lieu of a track number next to my train listing, there was the ominous word “soppresso.” I looked at Judy and asked her what in the world that meant. She considered the word for a moment, and then cautiously said, “I think it means that the train’s not coming.”

After finding a nice man in a railway uniform, we were indeed able to confirm that the train I was expecting to take, was in fact not arriving. When I asked him why, he vanished, uttering only one word, “sciopero.”

But that was impossible! I checked the website!

As it turned out, my first mistake was to have looked for information on a national strike. It never occurred to me that there was such a thing as a “regional” one. And that day, Tuscany was on strike. No trains were stopping anywhere in the province I needed to get to, but I’ve lived in Italy for nearly eight years now. I know that there is always some way to get around whatever inconvenience faces you. There are always options.

The first step in our search for an alternative plan to get me home, was to stop by the Customer Service office. As most strikes only last a few hours, we merely wanted to find out when this particular nuisance was to conclude. After a lengthy wait in line, I was finally able to talk to someone that was extremely helpful by hastily telling me they had no idea when the strike would end, and waving me away as if I were a pesky mosquito, yelled “NEXT!” to the person standing in line behind me.

Thinking quickly, Judy and I decided that perhaps there might be a bus going to Tuscany. So we hopped a train over to where the bus station was located. After a prolonged attempt at trying to decipher the hieroglyphics that made up the various schedules, I finally spotted a bus driver on his break and decided to just ask him. He told me I had to go to window “C” for information about getting to Tuscany. Luckily, I chose the correct window “C” (yes, there were more than one windows marked with the letter C!), and got the information I needed. I discovered that I would first have to take a bus to Siena, then another to Florence, then another to Arezzo, and finally from Arezzo I would be able to find a bus to take me home. I gazed at the unsmiling man behind the window and asked him, “Um…just how long is all of that going to take?” With a very weighty sigh, he looked over the schedules laid out before him, and after some serious calculations said, “Eight or nine hours. NEXT!”

By nature, I am an extremely relaxed individual, usually able to handle any amount of challenge, but that afternoon I found my limit. I was feeling a great deal of guilt for having made Judy waste an entire day of her vacation watching me run from one information desk to another, and was also feeling an overwhelming sense of dread regarding my employment situation. Not showing up for work is usually a good motive for dismissal. And back at the train station, after the umpteenth dead-end in my search for an answer to this dilemma, I snapped. With tears of frustration burning in my eyes, I threw my bags on the floor, my hands in the air, and yelled, “I just wanna go home!!!”

It was an embarrassing spectacle. But thankfully, I was not alone. Judy, my friend, mentor and patient witness to all this, fluidly recovered my bags with her right hand, took my arm in her left, and with a voice that resonated nothing but kindness and understanding said, “I think you need a break. Let’s go.” Judy led me out of the station and back to the haven that is the neighborhood of Trastevere. She wisely prescribed a stress-remedy of food and a glass of wine, and almost immediately, I actually started to feel better. And thanks to her, I began to think that there were certainly worse things than being trapped in Rome for another day.

As for my job, oddly enough, I am still employed. When I had phoned my co-worker to inform her that I was not coming, she was, needless to say, very angry. But much to my surprise, not at me! Having been in such situations herself over the years, she let loose with some of the colorful expletives of which the Italian language is so abundantly rich, regarding the incompetence and ridiculousness of the railway system. Then she told me to relax and not to worry about it.

So, in good company, and with all the beauty that is Rome surrounding me as comfort, I was somehow able to do just that.

Dolcetto O Scherzetto!




Dolcetto O Scherzetto!
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, October 2008)


October has always been my favorite month. The summer is officially over and autumn takes over with its cooler temperatures and intense colors. Here in Italy, the harvest season begins, and it’s the winemaking time, and that in and of itself is reason enough to love this month all the more. But my favorite thing about October, is one of the few things American that I tend to hold onto. I simply adore Halloween.

In Italy, Halloween has been receiving mixed reviews over the past few years as its popularity rises. When I first arrived on these shores almost eight years ago, there was virtually no sign of it anywhere. There might have been the occasional decorative candle in a storefront window, but other than that, the focus was on the Italian holidays “All Saint’s Day” on November first, and the “Day of the Dead” on November second. But over the past few years, Halloween has been rapidly growing in reputation, although not everyone pleased about this development.

Considered by many of my Italian friends to be “that American holiday,” Halloween is now unofficially being celebrated by many Italians all over the peninsula. As in America, children go Trick-or-Treating by dressing up in costume, knocking on doors and shouting “Dolcetto o scherzetto!”, eagerly anticipating candy and other goodies from their neighbors. For the children, Halloween is a fun, new holiday, but for many adults, it may not always be appreciated.

The first line of resistance to this freaky festival, is of course its spooky nature and its less than Catholic roots. Nearly all holidays in Italy are based on religious days of importance, but Halloween doesn’t fall into that category and is therefore eyed suspiciously by many. That initial problem, however, seems to be fading with time, and Halloween is slowly making itself known and accepted even in the tiniest villages.

Over the past couple of years, late in the afternoon on October 31st, the streets of the little town where I live suddenly becomes populated with tiny pirates and princesses carrying decorated baskets for collecting their goodies. For now, it seems the holiday is celebrated only by children, but even that appears to be changing. Some of the more daring adults are challenging the raised eyebrows of their peers, and donning fuzzy cat-ear headbands, skull and cross-bone earrings, or other subtle forms of acknowledging the celebration. I’ve yet to see an adult go all out and walk around in full costume yet, but I don’t think those days are far off. 

I’ve noticed a lot of curiosity regarding this particular holiday over the past couple of years, and have inadvertently become one of the town’s leading Halloween experts. I don’t know if I technically deserve such an honor, but it is one that I take to heart nonetheless, and do my best to answer the queries put to me. Whereas the children just love the excuse to dress up and eat candy, the adults want to know what the celebration actually represents. They find it amazing that in America, this is the holiday that rivals even Christmas. They look at me in wonder as I describe the elaborate costumes and parties I have experienced over the years. They seem relieved when I explain that it is not a Satanic celebration at all (as has been suggested by some), but rather an ancient Celtic festival celebrating the end of summer. They even seem pleased to know that the word itself, “Halloween,” actually comes from the Catholic festival known as “All Hallows Eve.” 

Whereas for now, the idea of a “Halloween Party” is still a strange one, I have to admit, there has been noticeable progress. Every year I see more and more Jack-O-Lanterns sitting on people’s doorsteps, and I find that it has an extremely magical effect on me. Seeing that warm orange glow flickering along these medieval streets, doesn’t seem at all out of place, even though it’s a very new trend. On the contrary, something about candlelight reflecting off these ancient stone walls seems more than appropriate, and I find myself taking longer evening walks this time of year just to be able to absorb as much of the atmosphere as possible.

Another of my newfound responsibilities as Halloween Ambassador, has been instructing interested initiates on the fine art of pumpkin carving, a duty that I have no qualms about fulfilling. Whereas the basic principles are the same, there is just something a little extra nice about this ritual in Italy. While sitting around the table last year with a lovely family that had invited me to teach their children how to make their own “real Jack-O-Lanterns,” there were no tricks involved, only treats. Before the carving began, we dined on handmade tagliatelle pasta, served with fresh porcini mushrooms and olive oil. After dinner we sat in front of the fireplace and began our autumnal artistic endeavors. The children and I were having a wonderful, giggly time scooping out our pumpkins while their mother lovingly roasted chestnuts over the fire. The father had disappeared down into the “cantina,” only to reappear proudly carrying a bottle of wine that he had made only a couple of weeks ago. The irresistible sweetness of this new wine was the perfect compliment to the freshly roasted chestnuts now being passed around in a large wicker basket. 

When the carving was done, we placed the Jack-O-Lanterns around the room, lit the candles inside, and as a final touch, turned off the lights to appreciate them all the more. We were all silent, taking in the beauty of that moment. After a minute or two though, one of the children said, hypnotically, “Ganzo-o-o-o…” the Italian equivalent to the American slang term “Cool!” He looked at me, and even in the dim light, I could see his eyes were sparkling. This young man was definitely a Halloween convert. 

Living here, there are many American holidays that I’ve more or less forgotten even exist. July 4th comes and goes without my even being aware of it. I know sometime in November, there are some Americans here that go out of their way to find a turkey to roast, but I’m not one of them. Halloween, however, is one holiday that I’ve never been able to forget, and now seeing it slowly being accepted here pleases me to no end. I know it has been criticized for being yet another American import. But so was the tomato…and just look at what Italy has done with that. 

 

Italian Physics 101


Italian Physics 101
(Published  by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, September 2008)

Albert Einstein once said, “The only reason for time, is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.” He was an incredibly insightful man, with a gift for making the incomprehensible, simple and clear. When once asked to explain his theory of relativity, he replied that our perception of time was relative to our experiences in any given moment. He went on to say that an hour sitting on a hot stove would seem much longer than an hour spent talking to a pretty girl. But I think that dear Albert missed one very important detail in his supposition, that being, whereas his Theory of Relativity may hold true anywhere else on the planet, the country known as Italy is an anomaly.

Years ago when I first came to Italy, I remember writing my friends back in America, saying that instead of 24 hours in a day here, it seems that there are instead 28. Time appears to move at a different speed here, a much slower one. And it seems to slow down because of an enjoyment of life, not speed up as in the Einstein theory. This paradox has perplexed me for years, and I have been pondering the possibilities for a probable paradigm. 

I now think I may have come up with a reasonable explanation. After years of observation and considerable contemplation upon my studies, I have devised my own personal theory regarding time in Italy, what I call the Theory of Buffered Time. 

Allow me to explain. Initially, for the novice, Buffered Time can be an uncomfortable and confusing experience. One must learn to adapt to this new flow, or suffer unpleasant side effects, such as anxiety or irritation. In the role of translator, I once accompanied a middle-aged American tourist to the grocery store, and was forced to witness her unfortunate reaction to this new, Italian cadence of time. After selecting her purchases, we were waiting in the checkout lane, when I noticed she began to physically react to the situation. There was a detectable rocking motion to her body and a subtle drumming of her fingers on the handle of the shopping cart. I intuited that the source of her irritation was the cashier casually chatting away with another customer, long after their transaction was completed. My companion’s body language became more and more anxiety ridden, until she exploded, yelling, “Oh for God’s sake. Forget it! I don’t need this stuff! Let’s just go!” She shoved her shopping cart off to the side, and stormed out the door, leaving me to apologetically shrug to the surrounding shocked witnesses of her tantrum. 

I did not fully understand then what the real problem had been. I simply concluded that this poor woman had not yet adjusted to the “rhythm of life” in Italy. And I came to realize that at that time, I myself had not yet understood exactly how to define the Italian rhythm. And so began my quest to comprehend.

I have now come to the conclusion that every minute in Italy is cushioned by a tiny little cloud of flexible time, a buffer zone if you will, with a maximum dimension of 3.497 minutes. In Italy, sometimes an hour will last the commonly accepted duration of 60 minutes, but at other times it can last up to an amazing 238.2 minutes! The reasons for these variances in time are not fully understood as of yet, but I feel they may be due to all kinds of fluctuations in the time-space continuum, the results of powerful astral phenomenon such as black holes or supernovas, or can even be affected by something as simple as the breeze created along the flight path of a swift. 

To fully demonstrate the Buffered Time Theory (henceforth referred to as the BTT), let us use the often referred to issue of dealing with an Italian plumber, to understand the concept. It is well-known in Italy, that if you call a plumber to fix a leaky sink, although he will make an appointment to come and resolve your drips, he never EVER arrives when he says he will. Using the BTT, we can clearly see why this happens.

First, let us understand that just as in space, a black hole’s gravitational pull can bend and flex the web of time, in Italy time is affected by its proximity to any given set appointment. Using the aforementioned parameter of one Earth minute having the maximum duration of 3.497 Italian minutes, when one says “See you in 5 minutes!” that actually means that the person you are waiting for will arrive in 17.485 minutes. “See you tomorrow,” can mean “See you in 2.76 days.” And so on.

Now, for our plumber. Let us say that you call your plumber on Monday at 9 a.m., and make an appointment for him to come to your home on Thursday at 3 in the afternoon. To calculate his actual arrival, you simply take the time between your phone call and his appointed appearance, in this case, a difference of 4,680 minutes. Multiply that sum by the aforementioned BTT variant of 3.497 and you will get a total of 16,365.96 minutes. Divide that by 60, and you get 272.766 hours. Divide yet again by 24, and you see that your plumber will arrive 11.36 days late.

Now, after all that mathematical laboring, you might think that your leaky kitchen will be repaired a week from next Monday. However, one must take into consideration that plumbers don’t work on Sunday, so we must add on another two days, thereby allowing us to hedge our bets on his coming the following Wednesday, a grand total of 13 days behind schedule. 

However, I do need to mention at this point there is yet another variable we must take into consideration, that being the Holiday Factor. In any given two week period, there most certainly will be some sort of Holy Day, Day of Celebration, Day of Recognition, or Day to Rejoice for Any Given Reason, and this will throw off our carefully calculated result by an unquantifiable amount of time. So to conclude, the plumber will knock on your door anytime between a week from next Wednesday and the middle of next month. 

Time is limited. Time is precious. Time is all we really have in this life. It is a glorious gift that we need to appreciate. If you’re waiting in a grocery store line, and the cashier is enjoying a few minutes of her life talking to a friend instead of hurrying through her work, who cares? Take that time given you in that moment to talk to those around you, organize your wallet, daydream, anything. Every instant in our life is an opportunity to live, if we will only see it as such. The 19th century poet Philip James Bailey said, “We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; in feelings, not in figures on a dial.” So whether a minute in your life lasts 60 seconds or 238.2 seconds, live it in all its splendor, for once its gone, your chance to enjoy it is gone as well. 

 

 

Touched By A Cloud

Touched by a Cloud

(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, August 2008)



“Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.” – Henry Miller


When I was invited to tag along with a friend of mine to Florence recently, my first instinct was to say no. Anyone that has been to Florence on a hot, summer day, knows very well that Florentine temperatures can be akin to Hades’. I really didn’t want to face that kind of heat, but as my friend is an incredibly kind and sweet lady, and someone for whom I have an enormous respect, I just couldn’t deny her request. And so, arguing against my natural instinct to avoid profuse sweating, I agreed. 

As it turned out, it was one of the most wonderful times I’ve ever spent in that beautiful city. From the beginning of our excursion, things just seemed to go magically. Boarding the train, I mistakenly led us to a first class car, instead of the second class seat for which we had tickets. I wasn’t aware of my mistake (although the presence of air conditioning and bigger, comfier seats should have been a clue), until I saw the conductor coming down the isle, checking passenger’s tickets and then telling them to move to another car. Amy, my friend, suggested we just get up and move before being asked to, but I wanted to savor every last moment of air-conditioning while I could. I could see the conductor slowly making his way along the aisle, sending people off to lower-class cars as he went. Then, strangely enough, just before he got to our seats, he wandered away, never to return. We arrived in Florence, cool, refreshed, and happy.

Amy had various errands to run, as she was leaving for Germany in just a few days. We arranged her tickets, found out where to meet the bus that would take her to the airport, and so on. Once the business of our trip was accomplished, we settled into shopping mode and headed off for the famous San Lorenzo market. After that successful, and surprisingly not very costly leg of our journey was complete, we stumbled across a wonderful little “trattoria” near the Ponte Vecchio, called “Trattoria Mamma Gina.” The name was so inviting, we decided this was the place to have lunch, and for the life of me, it was one of the most delicious meals I’ve had yet in Italy. Who knew that Eggplant Parmesan could be such a sensual experience?

After lunch, we began the lazy, enjoyable phase of just wandering aimlessly, looking in shop windows, admiring the beautiful people around us, and eating gelato. Then as we were coming back across the Ponte Vecchio again, I asked Amy’s indulgence, saying that I would really love to pop into the church of Santa Felicità for just a moment, to take a peek at my favorite painting. She enthusiastically agreed, and so we made our way through the little stands of “Ciao Bella” T-shirt vendors, to the soft yellow church, quietly set back off the busy buzz of the street.

We entered the church, and just to the right of the entrance, we approached the Capponi chapel. This was not the first time I’ve been there. Nearly every time I come to Florence, I make a pilgrimage to this place, to drink in the beauty of the painting the dominates the small chapel. “The Deposition” by Jacopo Pontormo, painted in 1528, is over ten feet tall and six feet wide, and this oil-on-wood work takes my breath away every time I see it. I live in Italy, so being exposed to amazing works of art is thankfully not a rare thing for me, but this particular painting touches me like none other. In a swirling composition of melancholy, bright pinks and blues drag the eye around the circle of characters, each expressing its own reaction to the death of Christ. The empty center emphasizes the feeling of loss in this masterpiece, as does the swooning Madonna, being caught as she falls, by those behind her. The background is vacant, devoid of anything but a single, lonely cloud in the upper left hand corner, adding even more to the emotion, the solitude one feels after losing something as precious as Love.


It had been a while since I had last visited Santa Felicità, and I had forgotten just how powerful this painting is. I had forgotten what an embarrassing reaction I have every time I’m there, until I felt the first tear rolling down my right cheek. Amy must have noticed as well, and she whispered to me that she was going to go explore the rest of the church for a few minutes, leaving me time alone with the artwork before me. 

I don’t know why this time was different, why this time it affected me so profoundly, but the normal two or three tears I shed in appreciation of Pontormo’s magnum opus, were lost in a flood this time. I was so taken by what was in front of me, that I found myself unable to control the inundation of emotion. I reminded myself a bit of Mary Tyler Moore when she was on the Dick Van Dyke show, hiccupping breaths while she tried to regain control of her senses. “Oh (hiccup-breath) Ro-(hiccup-breath)-o-(hiccup-breath)-ob…!” When I start the Mary Tyler Moore crying, it’s time to make an exit.

I silently snuck back out the door, into the bright, hot day outside. The curator of the church was standing there, and with a quick “Grazie,” I hurried past her, out into a quiet corner of the piazza, where I attempted to regain my composure. Now, a quiet corner of a piazza in Florence during the summer means that there are less than 200 people around you. That’s about how quiet a piazza can be during the height of the tourist season, and the people passing by, gave me sympathetic looks of compassion, surely thinking that something terrible must have just happened to leave me alone in a corner crying. I wanted to clarify, shout to them, “I saw something beautiful!”, but deciding that might seem a tad bit odd, I just kept to myself and my tissues. 

Eventually, Amy came out of the church, and approaching slowly, she reached out her hand, placing it on my shoulder and asking in a sweet, caring voice, if I was alright. I answered, “No (hiccup-breath), but I will (hiccup-breath) be, in just (hiccup-breath) a moment.” She smiled and waited, listening patiently as I blathered on, hiccupping through my reasons for being so moved by a work of art. 

The spell was finally broken when, after seeing the information sign, my friend looked at me and asked, “This church is called ‘Santa Felicità’?”, to which I replied that indeed it was. She then asked, “Doesn’t ‘felicità’ mean ‘happiness’ in Italian?”, and again I concurred. With a wry smile, she told me, “Well then sweetie, I think you better pull yourself together, as I don’t think crying outside the Church of Happiness is doing them a great deal of good publicity!” We had a nice laugh, a quick hug, and then discussing the meaning of life, we left to catch our train.  

Gladiator Grandmas


GLADIATOR GRANDMAS
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, July 2008)

Some people wake to a rooster crowing, to the sound of traffic or an alarm clock. I wake every morning to the shouts of my little old lady neighbors screaming “BUON GIORNOOOO!” to one another from forest green doorways or flower laden windows. Most of them are hard of hearing, so the morning conversations tend to be passionately loud, inviting each other over for coffee or talking about what the weather will be like. Precisely at 7:30 a.m., before I’m even out of bed, I am fully caught up on the neighborhood gossip and I know whether or not I’ll be taking an umbrella to work.

Now as dreamy as that sounds, there is a darker side to the Little Old Lady Club in my part of town. When things go well, they are caffeine and rumor sharing friends, but if things go a bit off track, these sweet, diminutive dames turn into the most vicious creatures imaginable. And recently I found myself accidentally stuck right in the middle of a Little Old Lady War.

It all started a little over two years ago. I had never lived in a ground floor apartment before in Italy, and was a bit concerned over the fact that an inner wall was extremely damp and growing a rather unpleasant black mold. My landlady was outside in the alley talk-shouting pleasantries with my next door neighbor, so I took advantage of the moment and asked them both to come in to get their opinion.

After a quick peek, they both laughed and told me that this was completely normal for a “fondo” like mine, a ground floor room. The building I live in is made of stone, and was constructed sometime during the Renaissance. In those days, my room was used to keep animals, and the people would live in the drier rooms upstairs. The stones that make up the walls are sitting directly on the earth, and therefore absorb moisture from the ground below. They told me there was a special paint I could buy that would seal the wall from a moisture spot like this. Then we had coffee and a quick chat, and that was the end of it.

Or at least it was, until last week when my next door neighbor came pounding frantically on my door. With the “r” of my name being pronounced like a “d,” she was screaming “Teddy! Teddy!” with frightening urgency. I ran to the door, thinking someone had fallen or set their living room on fire. Flying out the door only half-dressed, in a panic I asked her what the problem was. She looked me up and down, told me to put something on and then come over. Her smile didn’t really give me the impression that anyone was dying, so I got dressed and proceeded to her house.

Still smiling, but gesticulating wildly, she pointed to the wall that we share between our two apartments. There was a HUGE grey spot, where an obviously large amount of water was soaking through the plaster. She wanted to see the wall from my side, and so we went back to my house. Although the pattern of dampness was not even remotely similar to that in her kitchen, she determined that the problem was coming from my apartment, that a plumber was to be called immediately and my side of the wall was to be torn down.

This was not something I really wanted to hear.

I decided the best course of action was to call my landlady to ask what I should do. She went berserk and I was instructed not to do anything until she arrived. I wholeheartedly agreed. First because I just didn’t want to face such an thing alone, and secondly, because I simply couldn’t see the connection between the “normal” dampness in my apartment, and the serious problem my neighbor had. Her dilemma was obviously coming from an entirely different source, but there was no telling that to an enraged octogenarian.

When my landlady arrived and the two of them met, I was eerily reminded of the film “Gladiator.” Our peaceful alleyway turned into the Colosseum, and these two otherwise polite ladies went at each other like warriors fighting for glory and the approval of the emperor. Before me was nothing but a screaming blur of lace and jewelry. The battle raged on for several minutes before my neighbor disappeared into her house, slamming the door behind her, and my landlady still shouting and flailing, walked away down the street. I was left alone in the silent aftermath wondering what the hell had just happened.

About an hour later my landlady called me on my cellphone, and I was ordered to not allow anyone in my house, no neighbor lady, no plumber, no architect, no one. I said that would not be a problem, as I was going off to Rome for a couple of days. It was a perfectly timed escape.

After my return from a much needed break in the glory that is Rome, I was completely oblivious to what had transpired during my absence. While away, I had somehow managed to completely block out the entire fiasco, but home again, dread washed over me like the mold on my wall.

I was home only a few minutes before a knock came on my door and as I had imagined, my neighbor was standing there. I prepared myself for the worst, but then she held out a small bag and offered it to me. I opened the bag, and very much to my surprise, inside were two pairs of my underwear. As this was probably the very last thing I would have expected, I gave her what I’m sure was an incredibly stupefied look. She told me that while I was gone, some of my laundry had blown off the line, and she thought that I probably didn’t really want my “intimate clothing” just lying around in the street. Which of course I didn’t, and I thanked her for being so kind as to think of that for me. She then invited me over to her house, and told me that my landlady was there too and that I should join them.

I tossed the bag behind me into my apartment, and with a cold feeling of trepidation, I followed her. I was preparing myself to face what I was sure was going to be another frightening scream-fest, when upon entering her kitchen I saw my landlady sitting at the table eating ice cream and smiling. “Would you like some?” they both offered. I accepted, confused but comforted by the oddly peaceful atmosphere in the room. As it turns out, the problem had been a broken rain gutter that had been directing water into a small crack on the outside of the building, with its final destination being my neighbor’s kitchen wall. All had been resolved with no invasive demolition, and was now ending with three women sitting around a table enjoying each other’s company.

I thought to myself how wonderful it would be if all wars could be fought only with waving hands, and then resolved with ice cream.

I'm so Boar-ed!


I'm so Boar-ed!
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, May 2008)

There is an Arab proverb that states, “Upon entering Paradise, one smells the perfume of the jasmine flower.” Seven years ago this month, May 18th to be precise, I smelled that perfume for the first time. And coincidentally, it was also the first time I set foot upon Italian soil. As I stepped down from the train, at the Trastevere station in Rome, I was instantly intoxicated by this rich, delicious scent. Although I had never heard that proverb before, and I didn’t even know what a jasmine flower was, I did have the distinct feeling that I had just landed in Paradise.

And for the most part it’s turned out to be true. Despite the occasional “real-life” problem, that catches up with you wherever you are on the planet, I have never been happier in my life than I have been these past seven years. Italy’s beauty, both natural and that created by her inhabitants over the centuries, makes it nearly impossible NOT to believe you’re in Heaven when you’re here. And then, when you get invited to dinner, and you taste “Nonna’s” handmade pasta, and wash it down with a glass of “Nonno’s” homemade wine, you discover what Paradise really is!

However, despite all the evidence for the argument, Italy is not Paradise. There are creatures that live here…horrible, nightmare creatures, whose very structure, whose very essence could only have been designed by an evil, evil mind somewhere deep in the bowels of the Great Eternal Inferno.

And no, I’m not talking about pickpockets, but beings much, much worse.

There is for instance, an enormous, supernaturally psychic spider, that knows when you’re about to squish it, jumps six feet, and then runs under your bed, miraculously becoming invisible. You will also find scorpions living here, fiends so vile that I’ve seen even grown men shriek like little girls in their presence. There are also vipers, snakes that have the dreadful reputation of intentionally dropping out of trees, biting you on the neck and killing you in less time than it would take you to go get help. (It must be noted here, that although I have seen psychic spiders and sinister scorpions on numerous occasions, I have never seen a viper, nor do I know anyone that has had one fall on their head. Nor do I know anyone that knows anyone, that knows anyone, that knows anyone that has suffered such a fate.) But there is a monster here that I have encountered a few times, that makes all of those look as frightening as a Teletubby. Giant, lumbering, grey and black beasts, with long tusks and beady eyes, that look as if they just escaped from Jurassic Park.

Wild boars, or “Cinghiali,” are massive creatures that will make your blood run cold if you happen to meet one and you are outside anything but a tank. The first time I saw one, I was riding along at night, on my trusty Piaggio Sì, a moped that is basically constructed of a few metal rods, two bicycle wheels and a lawn mower engine. I came around a curve, and standing in the road was this huge, saber-toothed pig on steroids, that thankfully seemed not to take much interest in my existence, but nonetheless, was in no hurry to be moving along. I had been told that their eyesight is terrible, and that if you don’t move they can’t see you. But as I was sitting astride a motorbike that made a rather loud purring noise and shined a light directly into his eyes, I decided to take my chances by gunning the throttle, maneuvering a lightning fast u-turn and making my get-away. In good horror film fashion, I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see those terrifying, yellow, lower-jaw fangs of his to be just inches from my back as this prehistoric porky gave chase. Instead, he was still just standing there, watching me go, not really caring that I had been there at all.

They say that the males are like that. They have a terrifying appearance, but rarely cause any trouble, as they simply just can’t be bothered. However, the danger comes if you happen to run across a mother with her babies, and just as with many other species, maternal instinct will turn her into a killer. Last summer I had the distinct pleasure to meet a mamma and her baby while hiking in the woods. Ahead of me on the path, I saw what appeared to be a plump, fuzzy teddy bear out for a stroll. For a moment I couldn’t figure out what it was, I thought perhaps it was a lost dog or something. Then I heard that inimitable sound off in the bushes, a mix of snort and growl, that only a Cinghiale can make. And it certainly didn’t sound like a happy snort-growl, but rather a “I’ve picked up on something out there near my baby and I’m going to go rip it to shreds now” kind of snort-growl.

Those of you that have read the book “Watership Down” by Richard Adams, will be familiar with the term “Tharn.” In the language of the rabbits in the book, it means when one becomes so taken with fear that they cannot move. Their eyes glaze over, their muscles freeze, and whatever predator has spotted them, has no problem gobbling them up. I admit here and now that when that big mamma came bounding out of the woods and stood defiantly between me and her baby, I completely understood the word “Tharn.” I couldn’t have run even if I had been capable of thinking about running. I just stood there, not moving, not breathing, looking at this four-legged angry female, and wondering to myself “Just how much is this going to hurt?”

I stood there with the light summer breeze on my face, seeming to kiss me goodbye. The mamma boar lurched forward and looked to my left. She snorted again and then looked to my right. A thought fizzled down through the porous cement that was my brain in that moment…”She can’t see me.” Then it hit me, that with the breeze coming at me, I was downwind of her, and she couldn’t smell me either. All I had to do was stay still and fight the growing urge to scream and run, and I just might be alright.

After seven hours (or what was realistically more like a minute and a half), my would-be assassin turned to her little fuzzball baby, nudged him with her snout, and they both waddled off into the depths of the woods. I listened to them as they moved farther and farther away, until finally I risked taking a breath. As that had no negative consequence, I decided to take another. That went well, and so I tried moving. I took a slow step backward, then another, then several more, finally turning and got myself out of there as quickly as my shaky legs would carry me.

Although Italy might not be Heaven on Earth, I think that if one can avoid the monsters that live here, it’s still the closest thing we’ve got.


Little Italy



Little Italy
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, June 2008)

It was getting late, and Maurizio looked up at me with those dark, magnetic eyes, those orbs of ink that had so enchanted me. We were alone together on the dark steps of an abandoned villa, and after dinner, drinks, and a long Vespa ride in the country, it seemed like an intensely romantic moment. We chatted about various things, and the energy between us was tangible. The conversation gradually turned more personal, and I thought that this would finally be it. This would be the moment that he tenderly touches my face, our eyes would meet, there would be a hovering moment of mutual tension, and then exorbitant amounts of passionate kissing would surely ensue. But instead, he chose this moment to tell me about his girlfriend. The surprise obviously registered on my face, and he asked, “Oh. You didn’t think that I was interested in YOU that way, did you?” I embarrassingly admitted that I had gotten that impression after his very affectionate text messages, his endless supply of little gifts, his repeatedly taking me out to dinner, and so on. He shook his head laughing softly, and said, “But I could never date you, at least not seriously, not in public. I mean, my friends would laugh at me. You’re too tall!”

And so it has been. Not only in the dating sector has my vertical enhancement been a source of controversy, but virtually every aspect of my life has been effected to some degree.

I am six feet tall, and have been since my mid-teens, and so am very accustomed to most of the one-liners that go with being prodigiously perpendicular. Even here in Italy there is a version of “How’s the weather up there?” Oh yes, I’ve heard them all, and now in two languages. I love the clever witticisms and the constant battute of the Italians. There is a joy to life here in Italy that is reflected in the lighthearted banter of everyday conversation. (As long as politics or cooking are not discussed, that is. Those are two things taken very seriously.) But on the average, I get teased about my height, at the very least, three times a day. Three jokes, every single day for seven years. 3 x 365 x 7 would mean that I have been made fun of a minimum of 7665 times. 7665 times I have repeatedly heard the same jokes again and again. And though for the most part, I can still laugh about it, sometimes it’s not always so funny.

Last summer for example, I went to an outdoor rock concert starring the divine Renato Zero, one of Italy’s most enduring pop stars. After arriving very early in the morning and waiting in line all day, I managed a front row position. I was in seventh heaven! That is until I felt a severe and immediate pain in the back of my right leg. As I turned around I realized that I had just been kicked (and very hard!), by a short, angry, elderly woman. I was wondering what I could have done to deserve being so viciously attacked, when she screamed over the music, “You are too tall! I can’t see anything! Get out of here!” Leaving was of course no option. I momentarily considered offering her my place in the front row, however after being mule-kicked by this mad munchkin, I wasn’t feeling particularly generous. I did what I could though, to slouch as much as possible.

Then, just last week at the theatre, I was aggressively asked to move by two women sitting behind me. As the play was sold out, there was no where else for me to move to, and though I apologized profusely to the signore, throughout the play I was (as well as those around me were) subjected to the sighs and the louder-than-a-whisper comments on what a “giant of a woman” I am. Again, apart from leaving, slouching was the best I could do in recompense.

There have been other, more innocent reactions to my stately stature, but with perhaps an even a more disturbing effect on my psyche as a result. I went out for a pizza once with a woman I didn’t know very well, but her company seemed enjoyable enough. During dinner however, there was a moment of confusion when she asked me “Where did you make the change?” We had been discussing how and why I had moved to Italy. I was talking about my passport at that particular moment, and her question seemed odd to me. We were speaking Italian, and I assumed it was a linguistic error on my part, and that she probably was asking where I had changed planes when I first came to Italy. I answered her by saying merely “Amsterdam.” She looked puzzled and said, “I didn’t know they did that there.” The confusion continued to tangle itself around our words, until it finally dawned on me that she was asking about where I had had my sex change operation. I dropped my fork at the realization. When I clarified that I had been talking about a problem with my passport, NOT having any gender modification procedure, the poor girl turned purple with embarrassment, and blurted out, “Oh! But I thought that explained why you’re so tall!”

I felt just awful after that one. Getting kicked by a grandma at a rock concert is one thing, but having my femininity put in question simply because I can reach the top shelf in the grocery store without a stepladder, is quite another.

But once again, I found solace and comfort in an old Italian proverb. I’ve heard many of these sayings over the years and the wisdom and consolation they bring, seem to miraculously make whatever quandary I’m facing appear easier to overcome.

After being mistaken for a giant ex-man, my self-image was lacking a bit, as one could well imagine. I was feeling a tad down about the whole thing, and I suppose is showed. Then one afternoon a tiny woman in her mid-eighties passed me on the street and she said, “Ah, but you don’t look quite happy today.” Without going into detail about having been mistaken for the recipient of sex reassignment surgery, I explained that I was just feeling a little awkward about my height and that I was uncomfortable being such a monster. She grabbed her cane with both hands and playfully smacked me in the head with it. She said, “But ‘Altezza è metà bellezza!’ You’ve never heard this?” I had to admit that I had not heard that phrase before, “Half of beauty is height.” My wise friend then took her cane once again, and waving it like a conductor leading a symphony, said, “You are a beautiful girl! Nothing wrong with you at all! It is only you’re heart is so big that God had to built an extra long container to keep it in, and that is it! Anyone that does not agree with this is just jealous and not worth your time. You understand me?”

I thought about that for a moment or two. What a great way to look at it! And so, with head held high, no more slouching, good posture all around, I decided to take the signora’s words with me and keep on walkin’ tall.

Stranded In The Spotlight


Stranded In The Spotlight

(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, April 2008)

Well, it seems the long, hard winter is finally over. Here in the central heart of Italy, flowers have again become exploding waves of color, dripping from every windowsill and balcony. Shop owners are dusting off the merchandise hidden from view these past cold months, and are re-opening their doors to embrace the torrent of tourism that comes with warmer weather. The tourists are returning to the hills of Italy, like flocks of swallows that mark the anticipated return of Spring. Every town and village prepares itself for another working season, with myriad fiere and festivals, in an attempt to catch the wandering traveler's eye, and lure them in to spend a bit of their holiday time and money.


It has been through these festivals that I have not only found an occasional secondary source of income, thanks to my having been graciously deemed "fluent" in Italian, but also where I have enjoyed myself immensely. At smaller festivals, I've helped with translating for many happy travelers, and in their company, have eaten remarkable things, danced traditional dances, and on one occasion even been involved in a medieval sword fight. At larger festivals, I've worked as a translator as well, but perhaps in a more "professional" manner. For example, a couple of years ago, I was asked by an Italian writer friend of mine to accompany her to interview Bobby McFerrin, the musician of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" fame. His performance left me astounded. It was not the Top 40, pop music show I had expected, but rather, an amazing mix of world, jazz and classical music, sprinkled with sparkling moments of enchanting humor, that lifted my heart to the point of joy. After the show, I was thrilled and honored to speak with him, and translate the short interview my friend had requested. McFerrin was an elegant speaker, a very warm soul, and one musician that I would describe as genius, without feeling the least self-conscious about saying it.

Yes, festivals are fun…but, that's not always entirely true.

Early summer 2006, I met one of the organizers of a "Coffee and Poetry Festival," and after chattering away for a while in Italian, she asked if I would be interested in helping them during the upcoming festival. She said they needed someone to do some light, informal translating for a visiting American poet, at an evening "meet and greet" session. I understood it to be an opportunity for the public to meet with the gentleman, and I would be on hand to help the conversation run smoothly if needed. It wasn't a paying gig, strictly voluntary, but it sounded like it could be interesting, and so I readily accepted.


The day of the meeting arrived, and I showed up where the event was to take place, ready and relaxed. What could be more tranquil than an evening of poetry in a palazzo? Having been through things like this before, I had anticipated tables draped in linen, adorned with flowers, hors d'oeuvres and wine, with a smattering of white chairs arranged around the open space in typical "garden party" fashion. Walking through the enormous, 17th century entrance into the intimate 13th century courtyard, I found in its place, something else entirely.

In lieu of the dreamy, picturesque scene that I had quixotically imagined, I found no flowers, no wine, no linen, no smattering, but instead rows and rows of plastic chairs all facing the same direction, straight at my worst nightmare.

A stage.

My heartbeat began assaulting my eardrums. "Don't panic," I told my stage-phobic self, "it's probably just the set up for some performance AFTER the informal meeting with the public. You don't have to go up there. I'm sure you don't have to go up there. I promise you…y-y-you don't have to go up there."

I spotted the woman that had recruited me, and doing my best impression of calm-cool-collected, I asked her just what it was exactly that was going to be required of me. Her replies were vague. When I pressed her for a direct response to whether or not I had to actually go up on that stage, she suddenly remembered she had to talk to the sound engineer, and flitted away, waving her hands at me and smiling, saying more to the air than to me, "Non è niente. Tranquilla! Tranquilla!" – "It's nothing. Don't worry! Don't worry!" Her sudden disappearance and non-answer to my question, did anything but make me feel very "tranquilla."


As I was standing there, looking at the giant doorway that had led me to this, I began to think how easy it would be, just to slip away. I mean, I certainly didn't want to let anyone down, but it is my deep-seated, personal feeling that I would rather wrestle a six-armed, rabid grizzly bear with severe halitosis and razorblades for claws, than set foot on any stage. As I stood there fantasizing about a quick and easy exit, a young man gently touched my arm, waking me from my mental-escape moment, and said, "It's time to meet Mr. Strand."

The tone in his voice when he spoke those words, made me feel as if I was about to be ushered in to meet the pope. Or the Wizard of Oz. Or a firing squad. I didn't know what to expect, I just knew this was a very serious thing.

My first impression of Mark Strand was that he is a very, very tall man. My second impression of him was that he was a rather handsome man as well. Wikipedia says that he was born in 1934, but armed with his movie-star good looks, I never would have guessed. And spending just a few minutes with him, his eyes gave me the impression that he was someone that wanted to laugh a lot more than he actually did.


When it came time to start the afternoon's affair, I was still operating under the delusion that I could pull off whatever it was I was supposed to do. "Informal" was the word she had used. "Tranquilla," she had said. I told myself that this was a wonderful experience, and that stage-fright or no, I was going through with this.

As we stepped onto the platform, I was amazed at how serene I was feeling. In retrospect, I understand now, that I had gone well beyond the state of Fear, and deep into the bordering country of Resignation. There were three chairs on the stage. To my left was seated a very well informed Italian journalist. To my right was Poet Laureate, MacArthur Fellowship recipient, and Pulitzer Prize winner, Mark Strand. I, in the middle, was to serve as interpreter. Some faceless, bodiless entity from somewhere handed me a microphone, and the torture began.

The young man to my left spoke, "Signore e Signori, benvenuti." For an eighth of a nanosecond, I felt relieved. Maybe this wasn't going to be so horrible after all. I could say "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome," no problem. But before the hint of a word could leave my lips, he began speaking again, fast and furious, full of praise for Strand, comparisons of the works of today's guest artist to the works of other great poetical masters in history, and…much, much more. Even if he had been speaking English, it still would have sounded like "omstyqwuèptoz.x,vnjf<," to me. Poetry, is not my field. With a little work, I might be able to qualify as "plebian" someday. But that afternoon, I just sat listening to what this young man was blathering on about, trying desperately not only to understand it all, but to REMEMBER it all. He rambled on for what seemed like an eternity, before his vocal inflection alerted me to the fact that his little speech was coming to an end, I was going to be expected to do something.

When his introduction was done, he nodded his thanks to the audience, and then turned to me, signaling that it was now my turn to regurgitate everything he just said, but in English. I brought the microphone up to my mouth, took a deep breath, and then…hanging there in time, with my mouth open and not saying anything, I drove straight through the country of Resignation and into the Alternative Dimension of Surrealism. This whole thing became absurdly funny to me now. Still holding onto it, I flipped the microphone over my right shoulder, tilted my head, leaned in towards the overly eloquent journalist, and whispered with a grin, "That was super. Now, could you say that again, but…shorter?"


I don't know what reaction I was expecting. An understanding smile? A glimmer of empathy in his eyes? I really don't know. What I did receive however, was a cold, empty "You-have-got-to-be-kidding" stare. Reluctantly leaving the Alternative Dimension and slinking back to Resignation-land, I proceeded to stammer to the audience something along the lines of, "Mark Strand is a great poet. He writes great poetry. We think he's great. It's great he's here tonight." I pivoted toward Strand, preparing myself to have a go at his response. The withering stare that met me, was not unexpected. I had known for several minutes now that I was in over my head, and now they did too.

This torment went on for well over an hour. I did find though, as the interview progressed, that Strand's understanding of Italian miraculously seemed to improve immensely, as did the journalist's understanding of English, and I was slowly and subtly relieved of duty. But I was still unmitigatedly trapped on that stage. So, for the last leg of the endeavor, I initiated my Cranial-Auto-Gyrator, so that when either Strand or the journalist would speak, my head would rotate in the direction of whichever voice I heard, giving the appearance that I was actually listening to what they had to say. For good measure, I also applied the OTHTLORIAIF Program (that is, the "Occasionally Tilt Head To Left Or Right In An Interested Fashion" Program), so as to give the illusion of being touched by or involved with the flow of words that came from either man. In reality, I was actually engaged in an exquisite out-of-body-experience, far, far, faaaar away from that whole scene.

When it was finally over, I quickly shook Strand's hand, told him what a great pleasure it had been for me (something we both knew to be a lie), and I got out of there like a kid running for recess.

One hour and two glasses of wine later, I finally accepted the fact that humiliation won't actually kill you, and vowed to never put myself in that kind of position again. From now on, I'm keeping my festivals festive, gleefully sticking to dancing and dining, and leaving the stage for those who actually want to be there.