Sartorial Schizophrenia

All your favorite shows - LOST, The Office, Grey's Anatomy - go on summer hiatus while they go make more shows. Your beloved Viaggiatore is also headed into "rerunland" for a bit, while the crunch of dayjob takes me offshore. This is my first trip back in a while, and the first since I've REALLY felt at home here, so compare-and-contrast opportunities should abound.

The first such shock came tonight as I peered into the corner of my wardrobe known as "dressy work clothes".

I tried on a knee-length turquoise blazer, that I bought at Nordstroms a year and a half ago. I was with The Mom, and she - a good judge of such things - reassured me that it was a great find, very snazzy.

Tonight, I look abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous in it. Laugh out loud funny.

My size hasn't changed.

It's me, I've changed: I own a wardrobe for a life I don't have anymore.

Or rather, my skin no longer feels comfortable in the clothes of the life I used to lead.

Here's the problem: I STILL HAVE TO LEAD THAT LIFE. Because, as I'm fond of saying, sitting in the sun and sipping Chianti doesn't pay the bills.

I feel like a trained monkey or a girl playing dressup in that outfit, and four others like it.

Yes, I hear you saying, "but, Italy is fashion heaven!! Don't you have Gucci and Prada and Armani out your ears? Wear those!" Well. Tuscany, and RURAL Tuscany more specifically, is not the streets of Milan. I would look just as ridiculous here in a swanky Gucci suit as I feel right now in this turquoise getup.

I should reiterate that I am not a nudist here: I do have a wardrobe, and it's a simple but stylish one I that I feel comfortable and confident in. Though it, sadly, will not be sufficient for the upcoming gigs with ye ole day job, which is expecting the girl in the snazzy turquoise blazer, or some iteration thereof.


I never thought I'd wish for a job with a uniform ... but leading two lives is hard enough; DRESSING for both is a project I never considered.

The rebel in me has decided not to take the turquoise monkey suit. Though I'm sure I'll break down and go shopping when I land; I mean ... I won't feel so obviously like a monkey when I'm in the middle of the zoo. Or at least I'll blend with the other monkeys.

But when I get back and have a little quiet time, rest assured there will be some very DC-power-suited homeless folks wandering the streets of Italy.


Anyhow: I'll stay in touch the best I can. Grab a bowl of popcorn and click on the archives to the left if you're lonely.

Not washing the passenger seat of my car.

As an adult, I have not normally been a starstruck person.

Ye ole' day job affords me the opportunity to work and brush shoulders relatively frequently with celebrities, both major and minor, and generally I find they fall into two categories:

A) The majority of them are hopelessly over-handled - so it's difficult to discern what is the will of the "TALENT" vs. the interest of the Snooty Assistant (yes, there are great horror/gossip stories here.) They generally are passably-but-not-particularly-pleasant, going through the motions, good at what they do but generally waaaaay overrated. Not anyone I'd choose to spend a bunch of time with, even if I do have the keys to the "green room."

B) A rare few are truly delightful people, who connect on a human level, who are doing their job (of being famous) but are real people beneath it all, those who mean it when they say, "I hope you'll give me a call next time you're in ... (blank)"

No matter WHICH of these categories said celeb falls into, I typically feel (and treat them as if) they put their pants on one-leg-at-a-time, just like me. And quite frankly, I'm not a swooner. I don't ask for pictures or autographs, it's just not my style.
(Unlike my cute Sis, who once accosted Adrian Zmed in a Mexican restaurant -- I mean, ADRIAN ZMED?!? is he even a celebrity?!?! Did anyone even SEE Grease II other than my sis and her friends?) Anyhow - no pics or autographs for me... I always ask myself, where would I put them all anyway, and what do they prove?

That said, tonight I was taken by surprise by a surprise celebrity experience. I drove a world-renowned orchestra conductor (and harpsichordist) to dinner ... in Simple Simon, the super-farm-car.

For a quick moment, I thought I should be embarrassed. This guy is probably used to town cars.

But then again, if he's anyone I actually want to know, he appreciates the humanity of it all. For *!&$^!@'s sake, when in Tuscany, travel like a Tuscan.

And he did. And I'm happy to report, he's DELIGHTFUL. Someone I'd hang out with in the 'hood. During the ride and dinner, we chatted comfortably about being workaholics, dating after a long-term relationship ends, life on the road.


In 24 hours, I've heard two full concerts of his -- both private, featuring music of Handel ... last night for 125 people - dinner in a historic villa, guest counter-tenor, the works. The second - more informal, today, at a friend's home for about 20 people after tea. Damn, I am living sooooo far out of my social order here (!)

And both times, I was completely mesmerized. Enthralled. Hypnotized by his hands on the keyboard (I had a front-row-to-his-right seat at the larger concert and it was incredible to watch him.) I'll be candid: classical music has for a long time baffled me -- my own musical talents running more towards "shower singing" and "showtunes" -- but I have always been transfixed seeing it performed in person.

And so, reminding me of the way that I once-upon-a-time had posters of Davy Jones on my bedroom walls, I'm newly crushing on a harpsichordist-slash-conductor, in an entirely different way (meaning, I'm amazon searching to buy a CD.) Though they are both British, it's nice to see my musical tastes have evolved a bit over the years. Besides, I just don't see pinning an "American Idol" poster to the wall of the stone farmhouse.

And it just happens that he's young and apparently quite the up-and-comer. For all my readers who are crazed harpsichord fans, and/or the rest of you who might be remotely inclined to classical music, this is my hot tip of the year for you: Laurence Cummings. Google away.

And if you live in Boston, apparently he's conducting something there in September and December at the Shubert. Seriously, check it out. Tell him you know the girl in Tuscany who took him for a ride to dinner in Simon the farm car. And, please, don't ask him for his autograph, I mean, REALLY ... famous harpsichordists must get that ALL the time.

A mile in more comfortable moccasins, but moccasins nonetheless.

Her name was Ivete.

It is her voice that I hear in my head when I speak Italian badly, which is frequent. Because she spoke English badly, at times verging on incomprehensible for all but the most dedicated listener.

She was a woman who cleaned my house, many years ago. She was a part-time nanny/housecleaner for my neighbor, so it was logical to turn to her, when I needed an extra hand, when my travel schedule became so overwhelming that even basic household chores were too much in my spare moments at home.

She cleaned brilliantly. She had only a handful years on me. She dressed oddly and suited for labor, with no regard to color or fabric combinations; a woman clearly accustomed to hard work. Out of workboots and flannel, she might have been a somewhat comely girl.

She was eager and industrious. And friendly. On more than one occasion, she invited me to her shared apartment - which was in a comparably not-so-safe section of town - for a party. When I was unable to come, she brought pictures of the festivities to share with me.

I am ashamed to admit this: between her overzealousness to befriend me and the fact that I found her so challenging to speak with, I preferred to have her come when I was not home. (Well, okay, that and I hate the sound of vaccum cleaners. And I don't like people invading my personal space. And that nagging feeling that I should have been doing something to help her. In fact, I have always preferred that my cleaning ladies - even the unintrusive, perfectly-spoken ones, come when I am not home -- and yes, I realize prescisely how obscenely privileged and offensive that sounds, but it's honest. Maybe it's easier on both of us: I don't like the man that signs my paychecks standing around in my office while I work, either.)

She followed me in my move from the suburbs to downtown, though the drive from her house was a commute I myself wasn't willing to make. Perhaps it was because I was kind and paid her well, and also was quick to offer her appliances, furniture, clothes that I no longer needed in a much-smaller place. Perhaps it was because she needed the work. Perhaps it was because she liked me, and felt a sense of loyalty.

But talking to her made me so uncomfortable, because she was so hard to understand, and I felt that my lack of comprehension was embarrassing to her. She was struggling to learn English. Perhaps she also had a minor speech impediment, either congenital or simply that of a foreign tongue pretzeling itself to mimic and create unfamilar sounds. And then again, perhaps I had a hearing impediment, or a patience impediment. Or, E), all of the above. And she was so very eager to speak to me, to make me her friend.

In an elaborate ritual 'dance' dictated in part by schedules, we eventually communicated only in cryptic notes -- mine in SIMPLE EXPLANATORY English:

PLEASE CLEAN THE REFRIGERATOR TODAY, Thank You! ☺).

Her responses, labored over I'm sure, penned in broken verb-challenged English in the flowery script of one schooled in another country.

6 months after my move to the city one of those notes told me that she had to leave the country, as I recall, because of an urgent family situation of some sort. I never saw her again, though the next week I left her an appreciative farewell bonus and a small gift and card wishing her well. She left me my keys and a friend's name in case I needed someone else to clean for me, and her new address, encouraging me to visit her if I was ever in Brazil.

She was Italian. She gave me my first lesson in irregular verb conjugation -- pulire (to clean), pulisco - "I clean". She spoke fluent Italian (in dialect of some sort, I now realize) and Spanish and Portugese, and perhaps a bit of Romanian, I think. She probably had an advanced degree of some sort from one of those countries. I do not know whether or not she was in the US legally, nor any more of her story because, while I was kind, I was also distant. I never took the time to get to know her. Because it was hard. It wasn't prejudice, it was simply impatience coupled with discomfort. Because My Life was too Full of Very Important Things.

And now ... now that I am the outsider -- the "one of these things is not like the others," she who dresses oddly, the fish out of water, the American Girl with the past that noone knows and would be comically unimportant here anyhow, the one who speaks oftentimes incomprehensibly, the one who the locals avoid talking too much to because it makes them uncomfortable when they cannot understand me, I think of her. Of Ivete, and how incredibly brave she was - though I paid her bravery no attention at the time. To be an immigrant, to try to fit in, to make friends, to be working two jobs and barely earning a meager living in the hardest possible way, staying in a group apartment in a part of town that I would lock my doors when I drove through.

And she was always, always cheerful. And exceptionally, heartbreakingly brave.

Some of you used that word to describe my move here. But it isn't. By comparison, not even remotely close.

I do not know if she is still there, but today, I sent Ivete a postcard in Brazil inviting her to come visit if she ever makes it back to Italy; an invitation very long overdue. And I really hope she will. Perhaps she will be as challenged by my Italian as I was by her English. And even if she speaks English in exactly the same way, I suspect I will be a better listener this time.

Vacation, all I ever wanted...

Let's talk about vacations. You've been on a vacation, right? It goes something like this: you're decompressing. Free from the stress of routine. No gym in the morning, no kid to pick up at school, no meals to plan, no day job at which to toil. You have a totally flexible schedule. Let's look at what you do:

* You sleep in (why get up early? you're on vacation!)

* You go out to eat every night, making meal choices you wouldn't normally: appetizers AND pasta with cream sauce AND a meat course AND dessert ... (a whole day's recommended caloric intake in one day - because you're on vacation!)

* You accept that extra glass of grappa or limoncello (or two) at the end of the meal ("oh, honey, we're on VACATION!")

* You sit in a cafe in the sunshine having a glass of wine at 11 in the morning... because it's Italy and you're on vacation! (Whereas if you were caught doing that in your hometown people would immediately schedule an intervention.)

And retirement, of course, is like one long vacation where the biggest daily challenge is figuring out how to not annoy the hell out of your spouse.

Therein lies my problem: with the exception of me and the few Italian locals that I know, EVERYONE here seems to be on permanent vacation. The friends who come to visit, and stay with me. The tourists I run into in the towns who sense a kindred spirit, offering to buy me a glass of wine if I can help them. The Italian and expat retirees from other countries with summer homes in this area, whose primary source of entertainment is hosting lavish lunches and dinners in their beautiful homes.

Especially this time of year, it's my own personal form of schizophrenia; attempting to find the delicate balance as I juggle some semblance of a workout routine and a day job with the constant festivity of the "vacation" culture that surrounds me.

Needless to say, it's taken a little getting used to.

When I'm out in a restaurant with visiting friends, I have finally learned to not be pressured to eat like they are eating. And then, once they leave ... or, for example, after the most recent loooooong weekend of festivity, I usually whip up something odd and simplistic for my own dinner: sauteed zucchini and a cup of yogurt, or two tomatoes and a piece of cheese, and nothing else.

I'm not sure I'd call it balance as much as feast or famine, but for the moment it appears to be working. Though now in the height of tourist season, methinks I either need a little more famine or a new pair of jeans!

I'm clearly losing my edge

I cannot believe that I am about to post this. I debated not doing it, because it has bugger-all* to do with living in Italy, or really anything else remotely relevant to my life or any of yours. But I'm going to because I'm playing around with new blog technology (well, okay, new for not-tech-friendly ME which means it's probably already the internet version of the 8-track!!), and part of me wants to see if I can actually embed this link. Plus, I wanted to confirm for those of you wondering that the acerbically witted, sharp-edged, corporate power-suited gal with heart of steel that I resembled once upon a time has clearly been shot all to hell. Maybe it's the seclusion. Or the copious amounts of wine. Or all this fresh air.

But I'll be a monkey's uncle* if this isn't one of the cutest darn things I've ever seen (for those of you even less techie than even me, you need to click on the PLAY button):



Hat tip to Michelle Collins, who occasionally has some laugh-out-loud funny stuff ... if she is only a slight tinge strangely too obsessed with baby animals and small children in formalwear, IMHO.

And I do just have to say, I don't care how f***ing cute that kitten is. He's not jumping all over my MacBookPro Blu. I alternately cringed and cooed through the whole thing.

*Damn! British slang, cute kitten video and vaguely incomprehensible hick colloquialism in the same post. There's gotta be a pharmaceutical treatment for this condition.

Neither here nor there

The Old Soul said it to me once, in the context of a work situation (where we were hot and sweaty and tired and hauling stuff while our clients were showered and dressed and gliding off to evening dinner engagements): "It's not very often it's this obvious, but there is definitely an us, and there's a them."

And, you see, that's the funny thing here: there is, most definitely, an 'us and them' and I am neither.

Neither "villa owner" nor "contadina" (farmer)

Neither city-dweller nor truly rural.

Neither permanent, nor just-passing-through.

Neither laborer nor elite.

Neither Italian nor tourist.

I am welcomed into the kitchen at my local "contadini" restaurant like family. Both Friday and Saturday nights I will be dining -- quite elegantly, I'm sure -- as a guest at two different villas, amongst fascinating people who could buy-and-sell me in a heartbeat. In my most honest of moments, I will confess that while I play a damn good game in both, I am not truly comfortable in my skin in either world. It is disquieting and liberating all at the same time to feel as if you belong somewhere, but not truly with anyone -- or perhaps, a little bit, with everyone. Complicated things, souls are.

Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair where I sit.
There isn't any other stair
Quite like it.

I'm not at the bottom,
I'm not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where I always stop.

Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up and isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in the town.

And all kinds of funny thoughts
Go running round my head:
"It isn't really anywhere!
It's somewhere else instead!

(A.A. Milne)