The scooter has changed, the hair has changed, even the country has changed...but yep, that's still me. "Terri 2.0"

Below you'll find most of my articles that were published in Fra Noi in Chicago, from 2006 though 2010. I took a break from writing about living in Italy as I was living in Washington, DC. The original plan was to get my documents in order and head back to Italy...but life in DC just turned out so well. Who knew???

Anyway, just click on 2009 there on the right, and you'll get some drop down menus to choose from, February has the most titles for now. I think my favorite has always been "Stranded In The Spotlight" for some reason. Maybe because the searing pain in my stomach is ever-so-slightly still there after that incident. At any rate...

I hope you enjoy the reading.

Rock On!

Rock On!
(Published April 2009, Fra Noi, Chicago, IL)

A few years ago, I was working for a large rental villa in the heart of Tuscany. As the owners of the villa spent the colder months in a much warmer climate, it was my duty to attend to the house and its guests, and to make sure everything ran smoothly in their absence. Early one morning however, I got a phone call from one of the people staying there, urgently telling me there was no heat. It was late December, between Christmas and New Year’s, and the temperature had fallen below freezing, and these guests were understandably upset. I hopped on my trusty moped and rushed up to the villa to see what the problem could be. 

As most houses in the countryside are not attached to any kind of gas network, the homes are supplied by means of a giant tank, or “bombola,” buried somewhere near the house, and this villa was no exception. The first thing I did when I got to there was to check on the supply of gas. I opened the heavy metal trapdoor that covered the above-ground valves and meters attached to the “bombola,” and I saw that the gauge read over 80% full. I then checked the thermostat, and anything else I imagined that could have been causing this problem, but found nothing amiss. I finally succumbed to the reality that this was something I was not going to be able to figure out on my own, and called the gas company to see if they could send someone out to check and see if there was some sort of blockage somewhere. 

To my surprise, they dispatched someone immediately. I was in luck and there was a repairman in the vicinity who had just finished another job higher up in the hills, and was able to stop by on his way down. He asked me if I had checked the “bombola” to see if it was empty. I assured him that I had, but he asked if he could take a look at it anyway. I led him through the back garden and out into the vacant area where the “bombola” was discreetly hidden. He opened the trapdoor, and after a few moments of poking about, checking this and that, he looked around until he saw a rock, slightly larger than his hand. He picked it up, and to my great shock, began whacking the tank with it. This unnerved me a bit, as all the warning labels on the “bombola” have great scary pictures on them, depicting various images of the tank in assorted stages of explosion. And though there wasn’t one specifically portraying a man in blue overalls wielding a small boulder, I still couldn’t help but think that this was more than just a wee bit dangerous. My love for Italy is profound, and it has been my secret wish since arriving here, that when Death finally comes for me, he will find me on Italian soil. But this just seemed a bit soon for me.

After a few good bashes with the stone however, the seemingly-unconcerned-with-being-blasted-into-microscopic-bits technician stood up straight and proclaimed, “Ah, yes! There you go! The tank, she is empty.” Relieved that I was still in one piece, I leaned over and peeked at the gauge that now read below 0%. I looked at the gentleman that had just unintentionally sent my blood pressure well beyond normal parameters, and stammered, “But….how?” He explained that the needle in the gauge had gotten stuck at 80%, but that the tank was in fact bone dry. I stood there pondering just how I would have ever figured that out, when this nice fellow gave me some words of advice that I will carry with me the rest of my days. He smiled and shrugged, and said, “In Italy, when something doesn’t work…just hit it with a rock!”

Now, as absurd as that sounds, you would be surprised to know just how often that remedy works. I have utilized it many times over the years, and with a fabulous rate of success. My most recent experience with this was a few nights ago, when I was taking a shower, preparing for bed. My bathroom is in a central part of the palazzo where my apartment is located, and thereby completely lacking in windows. That makes for a nice warm room when one steps out of the shower, but when one is still in the shower and the electricity goes off, it makes for a very dark place indeed. And that is exactly what happened to me. One minute I was happily shampooing away, and the next I was blind. 

I felt around for the handle and shut the water off. Then cautiously opening the shower door, reached out and found my towel. After several stubbings of toes, and a few colorful Italian words, I managed to located some clothes and get dressed. The main breaker for my apartment is located nearly a block away, outside, on the other side of the palazzo. So, wrapping my hair up tight in a towel, I braved the very chilly night air to remedy the situation.

I made my way around the building, and opened the little metal box that held the circuit breakers for all the apartments in the building. All the little green lights were on, except for one blinking red one, and I knew that was mine. I saw that the switch was in the down position, and proceeded to do the logical thing and push it back up. However, it did not stay up. As soon as I let go, with a plastic sounding “pop,” it snapped back down again. After three or four tries, I began to get a little irritated. I stepped back to gather my wits, and stumbled over a rock that was lying there. In a Yoda-esque moment, I heard the words of the Gas Man from years ago, “Hit it with a rock…hit it with a rock….” Putting aside the other voice of wisdom in my brain that was saying, “Yeah, you hit it with a rock and you might blow out the power to the whole building, you goof!”, I picked up the stone and slowly approached the blinking red light. I studied the outer casing of the breaker, and letting faith be my guide, I chose a spot, and with a powerful yet controlled momentum, I whacked.

At first, nothing seemed to have changed. On the one hand that was good. I was halfway expecting all the little lights to turn red, and for a flood of angry neighbors to come spilling out of the building ready to tar and feather me. But there remained only one red light flashing, and it was still mine. Tentatively, I reached in and tried the switch again, and this time it stayed up. Terribly pleased with myself, I returned to my flat, finished my shower, and curled up in bed content in the knowledge that although it may seem primitive by it’s very nature, no matter whatever may go wrong in my life, I need only to hit it with a rock and all will be well. 

 
 

 

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

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.