If not now, when?

One American woman. Twenty acres and a 1650 farmhouse in Tuscany. Random introspection and hilarity, depending on the day.

29 October 2005

Finally. A new man in my life.

Okay, so for all of you hoping-against-hope that I finally am going to dish the dirt on my sex life (omg, get a life if you're waiting for THAT!!), I'm getting the suspense over with quickly: my new 'man' is Simon (in Italiano, "Simone" (pronounced Si-moan-ay).

He's a Lancia Y10, born in 1993. Only 40,000 kms on him (for the conversionally challenged, less than 25K miles). He's only been with one other woman his WHOLE life(really, at my age I have to expect that...), and she only used him to do 'normal stuff' (errands, etc.) around town. He does have a coveted "Firenze" (Florence) license plate.

He's british racing green, purrs like a kitty, and quite possibly (god, I hope this turns out to be so... knocking on wood and throwing salt over my shoulder and all that) the best bargain I have ever gotten.

Oh, I know, some of you playing along at home are wondering ... why now?? WHY did I buy Simon? Long Story Short: I'm at the end of my five-and-a-half-month 'long term' French auto lease. For some reason (oh, overoptimism on my part?!?!), I thought somehow I'd be a LOT more settled here (read: have my shit together, including all my @*#&*@$! visa paperwork) by now than I actually do.

The French-auto-lease thing is a tourism promoter, a gov't program (and it's all prepaid.) Hence, they can't extend the great terms beyond 6 months. But, if you want to do a long term 'rental' of a different car, you can do that - the quote I got was 71 days for $2100. *(not bad if it really IS a rental - about 250 a week!! - but, multiply that out ... and realize I've got NO equity at the end of it, it seems that 2100 could be better spent on a downpayment on a car I'll have to buy at some point anyhow.) Except the catch is that without all my paperwork in order, I can't actually buy/register/insure a car here.

Enter ... you guessed it, Il Cavaliere (really - he IS my knight-in-shining-armor on so many fronts.) I explained the problem. He in turn called *his* good friend, Silvano (who, conveniently, sells cars.) If you ever wondered if the Italian system REALLY is all about "who you know and who THEY know" - or does that just sell good movies - the answer is YES, it really does work that way.

Anyhow. Just the day prior, Silvano had received the car-now-known-as-Simon in his lot. We left the office immediately to go meet Simon for ourselves.

He's darling. (already said but worth repeating just 'cuz it sounds so sexy): British Racing Green. A little boxy in his rear-end, but really - don't we all deep down have body issues about something?! He's in nearly-pristine-for-a-12-year-old-car (oldladywholovedhim) condition. He doesn't have power steering, but I affectionately am calling that my daily 'upper body workout'.

And, cash-out-the-door (including tags, title, registration, and a new CD player - because apparently his former owner was, um, deaf?!? - I can't imagine why else she wouldn't have had a stereo ... ) he cost only


(oh, the suspense is killing me.)


(Actually, I already know. Rather, it's killing you!)


1500 Euro (1800 dollars or so at the current exchange.) Crazy, I know. Bald Eagle, when I told him about Simon, commented that it wasn't a car, it was a collectors' item! 93 was the last year they made this model. And there actually are collectors' websites out there devoted to them. Though, really, there are websites for ... um, ... everything... and a LOT of stuff that I wouldn't want to own.

Including a year's worth of insurance, I'm out the door at E2500. If Simon lives that long (and really, I have NO reason to believe he won't!!), it's still 294 days longer than the next 'long term car rental' which I would also have to drive back and forth from France (6 hours each way.)

Please, please, please (for the love of all that's good and holy), let this be one of those things that actually IS as good as it sounds! I could use a lucky break.

And if it's somehow not, I do already know the family who owns the gas station / mechanic shop. As always... optimistic, but covering my bases.

The Happy Couple...

26 October 2005

Eureka

I figured it out today. I desperately miss sarcasm; a dry wisecracking sense of humor. Sarcasm may exist in Italian, but the critical elements of nuance and subtlety have not yet made their merry way into my bag of conversational tricks. My current energies are being concentrated on these things like 'future' and 'past' tense. Damn you, VERBS!!! Why are you so IMPORTANT?!?!?

To get my fix, I found this gem of a website. Featuring 'motivational' posters such as this one:


'Not Everyone Gets To Be An Astronaut When They Grow Up'.

Ode to small towns...

I'm not sure if he was John Cougar or John Mellencamp at the time, but he pretty much hit the nail on the head about 'small towns'. And so here I am in my little hilltop town. I've never lived in a small town before (much less an Italian small town!), so it's been even MORE of an adjustment.

What I really, truly love ...

The woman who sells bread calls me "tesoro" (treasure). The one who sells sheets & towels greets me warmly, gives me a "good customer discount" and teases me that I come in every Saturday (which, when I was trying to get the house set up, I pretty much did!)

The guy who services my lawnmower knows exactly which model I have, and can GUESS what I've done wrong with it when I go in and say "um, I think I need more oil..." (flipped it over, which indeed, I had.)

The lavasecco (drycleaner): there are no "tickets" - just ... come get your clothes later, I'll have them for you, and I'll know you (and says, 'you had the grey sweater this time, right?!) when you walk in the door.

That Wednesday is 'market day' (finally, finally, FINALLY, I understand the "Market Day" concept from my elementary school youth!) Vendors come from all over, set up their trucks/tents/stands in the main piazza and people all go in to stock up for the week. Fresh fish. Cheeses from the nice cheese man. Veggies from the grower. And random clothes, underwear, shoes, you name it... all, once a week, in the main town square.

That everyone drinks their morning coffee with WARMED milk. Okay, this is an Italy thing, not just a small town thing. But how much sense does THAT make? Why 'chill down' your (hot) coffee with cold milk!?!

That I call the guy to get firewood delivered, he says "I'll stop by when I'm near your house." He calls 10 minutes before he comes, looks to understand where I want it placed, and says "I'll bring it sometime next week, maybe Tuesday or Wednesday, whenever it is sunny." And he does. I'm not there, but he leaves it anyway, and he knows I'll catch up with him later to pay him.

That if you don't have quite enough exact change to buy something, they tell you "don't worry about it" or, "bring it back next time." That, if you pay in cash, what was 77 becomes 75.

The poste-lady and the carabinieri wave at me on the street. The carabinieri make housecalls.

Everyone makes their own wine and olive oil (or so it seems!)... though varying degrees of tastiness, as I've found!

'Whoops, the tomatoes had to be canned' is an excuse for missing an appointment. Which I guess brings me to ...

What drives me a little crazy...!

Don't even try to buy a replacement curling iron. Nope. Not in my small town. I could have had three 'crimping' irons, though, likely circa 1989. Footloose, here I come!! (And the man in the appliance shop didn't understand why I didn't want one of those. He seriously took it out of the box and showed me how "big" the waves were. TOTAL cultural disconnect!)

Shops close between 1 and 4. And everything has a different 'shop'. The sheets are at the fabric store. The appliances (radio, toaster, hair dryer) are at the appliance store. Meat is at one of the four butcher shops in town. The veggies are (you guessed it ...) Shopping is not a one-stop deal! (okay, I actually love this and hate it all at once... these fit in BOTH categories!)

The bank is open 8:20 am - 12:20 pm. Huh?!?!?

No sour cream. No tortilla chips. This isn't a small town thing, I think it's an Italy thing. But it's awfully hard to satisfy your craving for good mexican food ... Ditto asian food. Thank heavens the Mom is importing boxed PadThai for me!

That mushroom & wild boar hunters seems to roam freely throughout my woods in the fall. A little creepy hearing random voices and seeing flashes of orange in your otherwise serene woodland setting.

That I call to get the heater (caldaia) serviced, and all they can tell me is that they'll call next week sometime to let me know when they can come out. No appointment setting, just 'Hmmm. Okay, you're on the list. Maybe next week. We'll call later.' They called yesterday at about 7pm, before arriving today at 10am. Totally not able to plan your life around THAT! Thank heavens I've got a flexible /work-at-home job!

When things are 'out of season' - they're just not available. Today, no brussels sprouts (and I was seriously having a brussels sprouts craving.) After it gets cold, no basil. "Sorry, it all got cold" (go to all 4 frutta & verdura shops, the answer is the same everywhere.) Which reminds me of the crazy story of Beatrice's Great Basil Hunt: she was desperate to have fresh basil for one of our meals... we looked everywhere for 2 days. We then walked into the drycleaners to drop off our clothes, and sitting in the front of the shop was a basil plant that the woman at the cleaners had bought that morning from the market. She sold it to us (for 1 Euro!) and said 'she'd get another one'.

HAH! Basil from the drycleaners! Try THAT in America...!

24 October 2005

Homesickness or Fatigue?

Hard to tell the difference. This past weekend was my first 'free' weekend... woohoo!!! So, I (wait for it...)

I slept 12 hours a night. (oh, yeah, I'm sure that my little town is on alert for the crazy american party girl!!) I was mildly concerned, but UBlend brushed it off today -- reminding me that the body has a funny way of getting what it needs.

True. I'm just thankful I'm not down with the flu.

I spent the 'waking hours' of the weekend clipping and prepping to dry stupid amounts of sage and rosemary from my garden (heaven knows I won't USE it all, but it looks cool and I feel virtuous for having done it), and evenings trying to deciper Italian television. There is a 3-hour marathon program on Saturday nights: 'C'e Posta Per Te' (literally, I think, we've got mail for you) -- where a scantily clad hostess brings in people who want to 'reconnect' with lost friends, parents, loves, blah-blah-blah through this whole ridiculous "the envelope please" format. Really bad drama, but good to learn the language, because the stories are easy to follow.

Although I have yet to be able to find a "TV guide" of any sort, I did discover (during a commercial for the posta show) that one of the TV channels runs Desperate Housewives (dubbed in Italian of course) Mondays at 9pm. LAMENESS ALERT: I just set my computer 'alarm' to prompt me at quarter to nine here, so I can whip up some pasta and take my dinner break with the ladies of Wisteria Lane.

Someday I will have lived here long enough to not know (or care) that this is not the current season, but today is not that day. Today, it's enough to watch something sort-of familiar (though I *do* hope it's an episode I haven't seen!)

22 October 2005

Gastronomic postcards

"Meals are talismans salvaged from a reckless, selfish life. On a hot day, it is easiest to think back to such things as silver-green mint juleps, or the smooth golden taste of cold papaya on a freighter near Guatemala, or a crisp lettuce anywhere." (Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher, The Art of Eating, 1954)

Talismans salvaged from a reckless, selfish life: how true. Meals are simultaneously totally self-oriented and community experiences. A travelogue of sorts: favorite meals. Some glimpses from my own history:

Dinner at The Ivy in London with UBlend. Nobu in Paris, the weekend of Almost Legal's 40th bday. (For the snob effect, if nothing else.)

My grandmother's veal scallopini (I still have her hand-written recipe card for this.) Or Chicken Paprika - the one with the water chestnuts - from the San Francisco cookbook, which she photocopied for me. In her day, she was a hell of a cook. Pimiento cheese spread.

Anything at The Oval Room - three chefs ago - when it was still 'our secret' and fabulous.

Virtually anything from the kitchen of The Old Soul. Looking back to the times I feel safe, welcome, comfortable, 'at home' -- it's standing in his kitchen sipping a martini or prosecco, making idle chatter - rehashing the days events or just enjoying the moment, watching him encrust a fish or stir risotto. He probably has no idea how much I have learned from watching his effortless 'throwing dinner together;' or how much I prefer being there to just about any restaurant in town.

Anytime I've ever eaten at Grotto #9 in SanFran.

The Mom's porcupine meatballs, beef barley soup, potatoes romanoff, or the holiday-special beef wellington. Because they just taste like love.

Wagamama.

The pay from my job is nothing to write home about but the people and the memories are absolutely priceless - from simple to extraordinary: Ham sandwiches on crusty bread at Monet's Garden with Blossom and the Pecks. Seven years ago: the checkered tablecloth, sliced salami, Mr. Zelari (who spoke no english), a 17th century farmhouse, 'house wine' and a 250 year old olive tree (I do believe that was the day I fell in love with Italy). The most recent was a private evening - complete with broadway musical performances - at the Musee d'Orsay in Paris. I must confess that I don't remember what we ate, but I do remember the electric moments standing alone with VanGogh and Monet; and the stunning vaulted ceilings of the room in which we ate.

Macaroni and cheese (at least I *think* that's what we ate?) with Dad and Danza Sorellina. I was probably 11? Mom was away for the night, and we got to eat WHILE WE WERE WATCHING Wheel of Fortune. TV during meals was a complete "no-no" in our house, but Dad was a great rule-breaker: letting us feel "privileged" and "in on a secret activity... shhh, we can't tell your mom ..." just with a flick of the switch.

Dinner at Montelucci with Sparky, Tortola Artista, and Stefania. Because sometimes the characters outshine even the most amazing food.

Because it was college and we could: Olive Garden takeout on days we didn't go to classes. Thanksgiving dinner in the boss' apartment. The night we ate nothing but lifesavers for dinner. Aaaah, those were the days.

Linda Bracken's Gumbo. I carry the recipe on a purple sticky note, hoping someday I will be half that elegant, graceful, and collected when I have no running water and a houseful of international guests 60 miles outside of civilization.

Dinners with Big; he always orders for me, I always let him, and it's always wonderful. Stolen moments in a chaotic life, the symbol of a slightly dysfunctional friendship.

Hot Soup at sunset in the meadow above Weaver's Cottage.

Lunch the day we played "tour hooky" with Jane, where she taught me how to make day old risotto pancakes, which inspired (nearly three years later) - the 'day old risotto lasagna' with Beatrice and sitting in the tuscan sunshine.

27's invention: Mayo/Mustard/Breadcrumb encrusted chicken. Because not all the memories are bad.

The magical, all-natural dinner at The Botanical Ark, tropical north queensland, Australia. Slow food, passion for a cause, and gorgeous gardens.

Burgers at Skinny Legs and Lobster at the Lime Inn with Uncle Bob & Auntie Carol.

Spaghetti and telline (tiny clams) at Ida & Luciano's: because the gift of being welcomed warmly into a neighbor's home ... when you only barely speak their language (and they don't speak yours at all) ... and you leave having laughed hysterically, somehow having found a kinship and a way to communicate.

Cooking meat on personal "hot stones" (for a group of 40!!!) in Germany.

Hands-on, making dinner with Il Cavaliere at La Querciola 2 1/2 years ago. Looking back; the end of 'the trip' and the beginning of an adventure.

Which brings me to last night: the solo farm girl personified. I put a fire in the wood stove to stave off the damp from 3 days of rain. Heated a pot of broth and wine on the wood stove (I'm COOKING ON A WOOD STOVE, can ya believe it?!?!), and made the perfect sausage-and-artichoke heart risotto. Mary on the stereo, montepulciano in the glass: Delicious. Here. Enough.

20 October 2005

Advantage Italy: WAY Sexier Street Artists.

So while in Rome a few weeks ago (I will NOT get tired of saying that...!), I had a little time to kill while waiting for my wayward group to come back from their visit to St. Peters. I was hanging out in Piazza Navona, one of my very favorite places, and checking out the myriad street artists/vendors. Gorgeous sunny Sunday afternoon.

I had two bags full of gifts for the tour group weighing me down. An attractive artist catches my eye and says (in Italian) "oh, beautiful lady, your shopping isn't finished, come visit me!"

For an effective visual, this guy looks like a cuter version of Joe Rogan (the host of Fear Factor), with sunglasses, a sweater tied around his shoulders (this look *only* works in Europe and US Yacht clubs, by the way.) Yeah, I'll bite.

I go over to look at the things on his easel: interesting -- more contemporary, ink/watercolors of major Roman attractions. We chat. He's charming. I'm beautiful and witty (can you hear the soundtrack playing??) and have good hair blowing in the breeze. My italian suffices. He humors me. I do have a house needing artwork; but I have bags to drop off. I promise to return after stopping at the restaurant. He makes me take off my sunglasses so he can see my eyes "to remember me". I oblige, we introduce ourselves: Massimiliano. My, it DOES roll off the tongue.

I return, buying a few pieces, including this one. He gives me a good price, but I don't care. We had seen the Trevi fountain that morning, in perfect morning sunlight. Many years ago (last I was touristing in Rome), it was scaffolded -- so today was my first time; it's a perfect memory. In the movie version, he packs up his easel and we go off to share a bottle of wine and laugh and talk about the meaning of life until sunrise. In the real-life version (sigh), my group is arriving and I'm returning to another evening of babysitting my flock. We trade numbers. Maybe next time.

Today, an email arrives... "Ciao Cara, I like to thank you and for supporting my Art in giving you an interpretation of the Italian Beauty, the Roman in particular. I look forward to please you again, with my passion and sincerety."

Yeah, what HE said! Oh, you can't imagine how fervently I pray that my broken Italian is as endearing and sexy as his broken english! Those of you who know me well know that on a subconscious level, I REALLY don't enjoy Rome. HOWEVER, it's amazing how much more - well, welcoming - it seems with someone there who is willing to 'please me with passion and sincerity'! I always knew I aspired to be a patron of the arts...

19 October 2005

Seven Things

Let me preface this by saying I hate chain letters. And while I love the IDEA of 'get to know your friends better' fill-in-the-blanks-with-the-answers kind of emails, I never seem to have time to get around to them.

But, Sean is my blog-daddy. He (a brilliant writer, though edgy as hell - as he would say 'forewarned is fairwarned'!) inspired me to be here in my corner of the web in the first place, so when he "tags" me for one of these, I feel somewhat obligated. Plus, it's the introspective equivalent of spending an hour at the shrink's office (but closer and cheaper and you get to do it in your pajamas at 2 in the morning when you can't sleep.) So. Seven things. This one's for you, Sensitive Rebel:

7 things I plan to do before I die:
1) Speak Italian. Verbs and all. Confidently and passionately, if not fluently.
2) (Let myself) fall in love again.
3) Learn to say ‘no', even when it's just for – (or perhaps ESPECIALLY when it's just for) – self preservation.
4) Travel to every continent.
5) Somehow make a measurable difference for people whose lives are less privileged than mine has been so far.
6) Get through my lifetime must-read list.
7) Learn to love ‘what is’ (all credit to B. for this one…! But it’s true.)

7 things I can do:
1) Drink scotch neat and accept a compliment graciously (these have NOT always been the case.)
2) Go to the end of the earth for family: the one I was born into, and the ones I have chosen for myself.
3) Burst into tears on a crowded airplane when reading a book or watching a movie. (Yup, as the people behind me murmur, “hmmmm, she’s got issues”)
4) Be a fantastic manager in a crisis. Really.
5) Make an ass-kicking sausage risotto.
6) Lead a bus full of otherwise perfectly normal adults just about anywhere, and get them to do (and ENJOY!) crazy stuff.
7) Put a condom over my head and inflate it til it pops. (life of the party, that one.)

7 things I cannot do:
1) That cool cab-whistle with my fingers (try as I may.)
2) Possibly put into words how much my “family” – see #2 above – really means to me.
3) Ski worth a damn. Or ballroom dance really well. Or platform dive.
4) Open myself easily again when someone steps on my spirit.
5) Be patient with ignorant people.
6) Stop taking risks. Calculated and well-thought ones, but risks nonetheless. A safe and predictable life makes me yawn a little.
7) Sort out organized religion in my own mind. Is someone right? Is everyone equally wrong? Why do so many of them seem to thrive on exclusion? Why can’t we all just get along?!?!?!

7 things that attract me to my preferred gender:
1) A brilliant wit. *(even better if he’s just a little dorky.)
2) Someone who can keep up with – and indeed, make me work a little, in a debate
3) A person who has something to teach me, and who never stops learning.
4) Someone I won’t snap in half like a toothpick.
5) A fantabulous smile and infectious laugh.
6) Confidence and streetsmarts.
7) Noticing, and remembering, and doing, the little things.

7 things that I say most often:
1) Poke me in the eye with a sharp stick. (or its adaptation, “Sharp stick, sharp stick!” … or better, sign language … just jabbing rapidly at my eye with my finger).
2) ‘I was right, I was right, I was right’ (only to UBlend. But I say it a lot.)
3) Jiminy crickets (which I adopted trying to eliminate the less-attractive expletives from my vocabulary)
4) Damnit, Jim!
5) Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight…
6) Currently, ‘mi dispiace, non parlo bene l’Italiano, ma ho bisogno…’ (I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian well, but I need … )
7) Yeah, well, let’s not fall on our swords over that

7 celebrity crushes (in no particular order):
1) Colin Firth
2) Jon Stewart (I’m a sucker for BRILLIANTLY WITTY.)
3) Bradley Whitford (okay, maybe not him, but Josh on the West Wing.)
4) Bruce Willis – back when he was Dave Addison in Moonlighting. Not now.
5) All the best geeky news guys: Stone Phillips, Bill Hemmer, Matt Lauer, David Gregory, Anderson Cooper, the late David Bloom, Stephen Colbert (how excited is he that I just called him a ‘news guy’?) … not Brian Williams, though. Too pretty.
6) Robert Redford (Rugged, and not, all at once. Always, perennially, eminently doable.)
7) Andrew Lincoln – who plays the guy in Love, Actually who stands at the door on Christmas Eve with flashcards… which is one of those moments I burst into tears on airplanes.
(As you can see, I apparently don’t even have functional celebrity crushes – it’s more the CHARACTERS than the actors that I’m talking about here. Yeesh!!!)

7 people I want to do this. (and as we know, wanting does not getting make … but it IS harder than it looks, and a good albeit random exercise in introspection.)
1) The Mom and DS: because it’s Lucky 7, how can you resist?
2) The Old Soul, because I know he never would.
3) UBlend, because just when you really think you know someone, they can surprise you.
4) Beatrice, because her wisdom and sense of self always make me think.
5) The Unassuming Princess & Virgin Blogger – because it’s like a Cosmo Quiz, but better!
6) Timmo – because I learn something every time he opens his mouth, though I can’t quite figure him out.
7) Fratello Guido, because he would have to be serious for more than 37 seconds at a stretch.

Benvenuti ...

It's been a banner month, to say the least. While I've been dragging busloads of people across Europe, friends everywhere are bringing new lives into the world! (Last January/February must have been cold ...!) Many of you know that the idea of parenthood scares the hell out of me (well, admittedly, it probably does THEM, too.) I've said for many years that I think I was born without a maternal instinct; though I find myself awe-inspired and respectful and reverent and hopeful for the future of the world with these new souls in it. I am encouraged that these people I am honored to call friends are all willing to take on the awesome, all-important job of parenthood. For my part, I am content for the moment to make a great adopted "crazy auntie." Coincidentally, the three baby girls were all born to women who were in my wedding 9+ years ago. Wow, how time flies! A warm welcome to the world ("Benvenuti"!) to:

Lauren Victoria (to Jean & Dave, born Oct 4)
Audrey Rae (to Jennifer & Jon, born Sept 16)
Lucas John (to Ryan & Kim, born Sept 12)
(and belatedly, but none the less warmly) Violet Marie (to Amy & Sean, born March 22) and Jake "Little Man" (to Danielle and Shawn, February).

"May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human, and enough hope to make you happy"

18 October 2005

It's my typhoon, damnit.

We're psychic twins, I'm convinced, somehow, Patti and I. (Actually, she's a twin of one of my psychic sisters, which makes her a twin once removed, but that's inside baseball.) Or she's my subconscious therapist. Always putting into words what I am thinking, or offering perspective that my spirit desperately needs and my brain can't rationalize quickly or eloquently enough.

Today: Dreary and foggy. Sparrow stuck in the kitchen before 2nd cup of coffee (maybe he was there all night? rather not think about it.) Couldn't make it to the bank before they closed. Work permit/car lease expiration/visa drama continues. Need to change airline tickets to get home for Danza Sorellina's b-day soiree. Had to call to get the guy to come look at the caldaia (heater!) here, he *may* be here before Sunday (which would be great if it weren't going to be ice-on-the-toilet seat cold TONIGHT.) Note to self: find wool socks and long underwear in as-yet-unpacked boxes. Have a similar 10-day wait for a repairman to look at the mysteriously broken washing machine in the rental condo in DC (that's only, ahem, 3 months old). Got a panicky phone call / email from aforementioned renter at about 10:45 pm (Italy time) that now, adding to the joyous news, there's water coming through the closet ceiling (did I mention the whole place was BRAND NEW three months ago?!) And I'm 6,000 miles away trying to direct repair traffic via cellphone.

And then, at 1:30 am, there's the quote on Patti's 37days blog:

"For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin - real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way. Something to be got through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life.” – Alfred Souza

The rest of the "Own your Typhoon" is totally read-worthy (as is the previous post, close the boardroom closet), but here's the (/ahem, sic, can't resist/) Readers' Digest version:
"We have an urge to get past the messy, messy once and for all. To get to that point of clarity where the “obstacles” fall away: the desk is clear and there are no toddlers running around with diapers half off, no teenagers remembering at breakfast that they need to make a full-scale plaster model of the universe by tomorrow morning—to clear the decks and make nice, make everything clear and nice and uninterruptible. Yes! When we get there, we will indeed be recognized as a genius! Then, our work in the world will be powerful! We will be on Oprah! Our ship will finally come in! We will save lives! We will miraculously be able to make a soufflé! We will know the difference between poison ivy and ivy, how to pronounce Csikszentmihalyi’s name, and fit into those jeans! All our plants will live and thrive, proving our mother-in-law wrong! If only all those pesky obstacles would go away. ... When I worked on the Semester at Sea program, we hit rough weather (can you say typhoon?) three days into the ten-port voyage around the globe. As a result of damage to the ship, we were delayed going into several ports, which meant that in-country programs were altered or cancelled altogether. “I want my money back,” wailed one student. “We’re missing trips and that’s not fair,” he went further. “This isn’t the real Semester at Sea.” “Interesting perspective,” I replied. “but this is your Semester at Sea. This is the one you have, the only one, yours. There isn’t a more real one.”"

Yup. Ahoy, Mateys. Today it's a bumpy ride, but it's MY ride. Thanks for the perspective, Cap'n, and welcome aboard.

Scare of the Day: Jump off the Big Rock

This is my answer, more simple perhaps, to trying to not live life in a rut. To, as the magnet on my refrigerator tells me, "Do One Thing Every Day that Scares You". Today's edition is brought to you 7 weeks after it actually happened, but it remains one of the best memories of all my travels, perhaps ever, and definitely this past summer - with scant moments of freedom to savor. I share it now, in play-by-play fashion as if it were happening to you (because they say referring to yourself in the third person is a sign of insanity?)

Today's Scare of the Day: Jump off the Big Rock.

Because it's there, beckoning to you. Because you watch UBlend do it and not kill himself. Because the lifeguard says that despite the 25-30 foot height of the rock, the water there is more than 7 meters deep with no rocks. Because it's begging to push you out of your comfort zone. Because you are scared out of your mind of heights, but know that ... if you don't ... you'll not be able to forgive yourself. Because you're just a little bit nuts, and you like it that way; you'll try anything ... once. You've got a rep to uphold.

Walk out onto the jagged surface in borrowed shorts and a tanktop. Do it with your agile, wonderful, monkey-like friend who is willing to hold your hand and help you climb over the fence and wait until you get your footing, then scramble back over in time to take a picture of you in all your knee-knocking glory.

Stand for a minute trying to make your legs stop shaking. Take a deep breath. Look at the Ligurian Sea below. Will yourself to calm down. Glance, teeth clenched, over your shoulder for the 'before' picture.

Laugh, slightly panicked, when UBlend tells you that his camera battery is dying. It's now or never, you HAVE to have a photo of it, and you're NOT doing it again.

Three. Two. One.

A force you didn't remember that you had in you jumps. And your mind can do nothing but fall. It's empty. The brain fails to remember the all-important (ONLY) advice you were given before jumping: Arms and legs STRAIGHT DOWN to break the surface of the water.

Gravity takes over and (ahem) the heaviest and broadest part of you (I think this is self-explanatory from the photo) is what you actually hit the surface with. Onlookers will describe it as a 'big splash'. A loosely modified cannonball, to use childhood parlance.

Underwater, disbelieving. The wind is knocked out of you, as you come to the surface, gasping a bit ... part from the shock of the impact, part from the chill of the water even on a late August day.

And you think - just for a moment - that it would be a poetic end to the story to now be munched upon by a shark or stung by a killer jellyfish - something random, after having had the courage to get this far, and so you don't lounge in the water ... focus on swimming back around the point, getting to the rope and up to the steps on the rocks. You giggle out loud.

"Una volta e' suficiente!" you yell up to the lifeguard, victoriously. (Once is enough).

And so it is. But you climb out of the water (and it is NOT a pretty picture): wet, triumphant, out of breath: panting, partly from the sheer terror of it all and giggling at the fact that you actually DID IT.

And, you have an unexpected souvenir: as the gargantuan (and I do mean GARGANTUAN) purplish burgundy bruises start to blossom all across your behind and thighs for the next 24-48-72 hours, as it aches every time you sit or shift in bed, you remember, and you giggle again. It was worth it.

17 October 2005

Bad in any language

Okay. Week one of 'the rest of my life' in Italy commences. I've GOT to learn this language.

I'm trying to get over my trepidation about trying to speak on the phone ... it's the hardest thing to do. I do avoid it unless it's absolutely necessary; as it was today when I had to call to get my "caldaia" serviced (think furnace/boiler/radiator thing all in one), and order firewood from "Biondo the Firewood Guy" (who of course knew who I was within seconds of saying 'hello' (this is the benefit of small town life!). Yup, it's life in the small-town countryside: me and the chipmunks are prepping for winter - with the crispy fall days getting shorter and shorter.

As for learning, I feel some days like I've made TONS of progress, and others like I am regressing and will never quite 'get it.' People tell me that just talking to people who are patient will help a lot, which it does. Fratello Guido is wonderful for this, as are some of my new local friends. The other advice is to watch television, which I had been doing a bit while traveling in hotel rooms. So, today, I finally plugged in my TV here at the house.

Let me just say that the sheer badness of Italian television is not describeable; it has to be seen to be truly comprehended. There are only five channels, and they all leave a LOT to be desired. I did know this already. I have, however, developed a bit of an affinity for these goofy 'question and answer' gameshows (kind of the 'who wants to be a millionare' format, but with competitors) -- primarily because they speak slowly and thoughtfully, writing the question and the answer choices on the screen, give you a minute to think about it, then give the right answer (after I've had time to look up suspect words in the dictionary) -- it's learning trivia AND language at the same time!

Every now and again, it's fun when I stumble across an American show that's been dubbed into Italian - when I already know the storyline (Judging Amy or Friends, for example), it's a lot easier to 'get it'. However, most US shows move waaaaaaay too fast for me to really grasp any language learning benefit: though I do have to admit there's not much more hysterical than Will & Grace dubbed into fast-paced flourishes of 'gay-talian'.

When my Q&A gameshow ended tonight, I was greeted with yet another dubbed show. Now, this is the country that gave us the Renaissance, that gave birth to Botticelli, Michelangelo, DaVinci ... where the modern foundation of the Arts was based, yet SOME ITALIAN had the poor taste to decide that "Walker, Texas Ranger" should be dubbed into Italian and played in Prime Time. Yeeks.

The TV also has an 'off' button. Even in the name of learning the language, I just couldn't. Sorry, Chuck.

16 October 2005

And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming...

What a whirlwind. I did a count just the other day, and the results were that I have officially been "home" (without guests) for a whopping 15 days since June 9. Bad for the karma, psyche, routine, sanity, health ... you name it.

Have squeezed in wonderful visits with friends throughout the months on the road, though - i'm lucky to work with people that I truly enjoy and respect. The Deb & The Reb were here, as were the travelling cloudboffers, The Dreamer, and of course Beatrice & The Pensive Oak. It was wonderful to have the house really enjoyed & lived in.

And, heading into Fall, it's all s..l..o..w..i..n..g down. (breath). It's no wonder that I've spent the last three days just ... (laundry, unpacking, taking stock, pulling weeds, getting those long-overdue finance reports in, cleaing out email) ... trying to BE here. And today being Sunday, it was a 'day of rest'.

Coffee. sunshine. breakfast. feed cats. crossword puzzles #3-6 in the book.

And then, I remember I'm in Bella Toscana. And it's a 'hunt weekend' - shotgun blasts punctuate the gorgeous day. Dogs barking. People hollering excitedly across the meadow. Not long ago, it freaked me out a little; now it seems more a welcome din; a sign of fall and weekend and a sunny day.

Lazing in the sun doesn't keep me in the manner to which I have become accustomed; I begin pulling weeds, stacking firewood, starting to bring the terracotta pots in to the limonaia for the winter. Spent 2 hours raking the gravel driveway back into place after more than a month of rain and not-careful driving (backbreaking work, that!) Halfway through, I am interrupted by 5 riders on horseback coming through the yard ... looking for the path through the forest. I point them onto the right direction with a cheerful "di niente" (it's nothing.) Just another day in paradise.

Made a (miserable tasting) olive & mushroom pasta for dinner - truly scraped from the nothingness of my cupboards ... but I didn't want to face going out and being friendly with people. It was enough.

I briefly entertain the thought of sitting down to write, then decide to put off the correspondence I know I need to spend energy on: I owe JillyBean, Bird of Paradise, Blossom, Almost Legal, and the Unassuming Princess long letters. Need to send Gram that pic of me at the Musee d'Orsay, the one with Degas' dancers. Don't have the energy today. It would be hard for all of them to understand that it's been literally three months without a true moment of peace. Or then again, maybe not.

What's the saying again? Never explain - your friends don't need it and your enemies won't believe you anyway. So, as is already painfully obvious ... my hiatus from posting was driven only by the psychosis of my world for the last three months. I can't apologize or explain, to you or to myself, it just was what it was. Missed ya.

Today, it is enough to just be. In the famous words of Beatrice, "sometimes you've just gotta love what is."

Tonight, I'm bone tired after a good day of physical labor (the new version of 'the gym' - more enjoyable, by far!) The soundtrack for tonight: Raining In Baltimore (Counting Crows.) It's always haunted me, I don't know why. A glass (okay, two!) of wine. A fireplace. Early to bed. Tomorrow is another week.

01 October 2005

The answer is not quite...

The question? Have I fallen off the planet or met a cute Italian guy. (kudos to Diva di Giardino and N.Winkust for emailing to ask when blogland had gone quiet...)

No, sadly, just have been NONSTOP on the road since 4 August. Miss writing and checking in with all of you.

Today, I have a whopping and blissful 3 hours to myself - the Travelling Cloudboffers just left and Beatrice and the Pensive Oak are on their way in tonight... I'm packing to leave tomorrow to host another (AND THE LAST OF THE SEASON!) 10 day educational tour. There are TONS of fun stories from the last month (the Dreamer and the dishwasher, the pippistrelli hunter, basil plants at the drycleaner...) , but they'll have to wait.

In the brief few days I was here, I truly tried to do it all. Get the house feeling homey. Answer 500 emails. Pretend that the REST of my job exists amidst the chaos. Play around with Beatrice and chill a little. And mow the entirety of the gargantuan lawn that had gone to jungle with an unusually rainy late summer.

After one full day trying and getting not much of anywhere (except the lawnmower turned over, resulting in the need for a new air filter, argh), I broke down and hired my neighbors (darling little family of old farm-men) to do it for me. Their mother - still living with them - is 100 this year. Whooo-eee! That makes the 'boys' at least in their mid-to-late 60's, and probably well into the 70s. But hearty, the Tigli brothers! And they're all right at or a bit less than 5 feet tall, we affectionately call them the 'seven dwarves'. Of the brothers I've met, there's a gardener, a shepherd, and a carpenter: Lino, Otello and Settimo. There are seven children, and I'm guessing by the time they got to "Settimo" (which means 'seventh' in Italian), Mamma was out of creativity and probably sanity.

At any rate, Lino the garden gnome came over to give me an estimate. He says it's E10 an hour if he uses my little lawnmower, 15 an hour if he uses his bigger tractor, but that he has an idea -- the side 'meadow' area is the most overgrown, so why doesn't he just have Otello bring the sheep over to graze? (That'll be free.)

I'm a gigantic ball of stress after a summer of insanity and holding my breath that I make it through the next 12 days, and I've just struck a deal with a man slightly younger than my grandparents to tend my lawn. Bring on the sheep!