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.