Inexplicable Italy

Why is it Italy casts such a spell? 

Sidewalks buckle under ancient portals and gutters are lined with plastic.  Back roads bloom with last night's dinners.  We hopscotch across dog poop on broken cobblestones.  In Naples during the Mafia-controlled garbage strike, the only good thing one could say was, "Isn't that two-story formation of stinking debris interesting?"

We have found a place we love there, the island of Ischia.  Capri is across the water.  Small fishing villages have become tourist towns, but the volcanic mountains remain green and lush and vineyards climb the sides.  Every hotel has a thermal spa.  Fishermen still sputter along in moonlight next to highspeed ferries that jump from harbor to harbor on their nocturnal return to Naples.  We watch from our al fresco perch under the stars.

Even in this idyllic setting, we overlook what we wouldn't tolerate at home.  The road to the hotel up the hillside is under construction.  It has been under construction for eighteen months.  The hotel owner is in dispute with the neighbor as to who should pay what to fix the road.  Meanwhile, we can either walk up the tortuous road (which we choose to do) or wait at a turnaround area for a golf cart to retrieve us.

The roads in the Amalfi region often have landslides that block one lane of traffic.  Instead of removing the boulders, Italians install a fence around the obstacle as well as a traffic light, creating a single lane and backup for half a mile.  The traffic light might still be there when we return next spring.

It's not that they don't care.  They do.  They just don't stress over what they can't control.  Which is why it is so refreshing to vacation there (living there will be the subject of another blog).  If a sudden rainstorm forces too many tourists into a restaurant at lunch hour, the owner simply shrugs his shoulders.  "It's raining.  Wait for a table if you want."

Their priorities are different.  They love to eat.  They love to talk and will try desperately to speak English.  They love to argue and can spend an hour using sign language to make the same point over and over.  They love people who help them, and they have long memories.  They have ruled and been ruled, so they are both humble and proud. Given the opportunity, most Italian men will explain the derivation of their first name at the slightest opportunity. 

"Ambrosio" - means "nectar of the gods" or in his translation, "eternal youth."
          
"Fausto" - means "giving joy."  Be careful, he warned us, not to use "enfausto," meaning "no
joy!"
  
"Toni" - his father and grandfather were both "Antonio," so it would have been too
confusing for his mother to have another "Anonio."  He ended up with "Toni."

"Ciro" - the popular piano player on Ischia proudly explained that his name is "Cyrus,"
but "Ciro" will be remembered!    

Directions, Italian Style Part II

Another scam?

It's a scam as old as Rome itself.  Unsuspecting visitors to the city (aka Pam and Charley) are walking along the Tiber when a car pulls up.  The driver is dressed in a white shirt with rolled up sleeves, a tie, and long pants.  Pointing to a city map, he asks for directions in broken English. 

He explains he is Italian but unfamiliar with the city, becauses he works for a well-known clothing designer in Paris.  At this point he pulls out a catalogue of clothing by the afore-named designer.

I actually know where we are and where he wants to go.  Being a do-gooder, I give instructions in a couple of  English sentences mixed with Italian.  On the sidewalk Charley is tugging at my sleeve to get going.

"Grazie, grazie," the man says.  "Here, a leather bag from my designer with thanks.  No charge!"  With this, he thrusts a bag into Charley's arms.   Red lights are flashing in my brain and Charley's.  Charley thrusts the bag back into the man's lap.

"Non, non, per favore, please take."  The bag passes back into Charley's arms.  "In return, a little money for gas?"   Charley heaves the bag through the car window onto the passenger seat and yanks me along the sidewalk.

It must have been the same con artist our friends met along the Tiber.  There was an added twist to their story.  After the guy thrust a "freebie" into their hands and asked for gas money, a second official-looking black Mercedes pulled up behind.  The crook took off and a burly 6'5" agent-type jumped out of the Mercedes.  "Documentazione, per favore," he said, asking our friends for their identification.  They produced drivers' licenses and were instructed not to pay anyone who stopped in a car.  Including him?  After all, he was the one holding their drivers' licenses.  Was he part of the scam?  Moral of story:  keep walking.

One last story about Italians and their directions.  On a trip to Lake Como, we inquired in our hotel if there were a walking trail around the Lake. 

"Certo, signora!  Follow the garden path behind the hotel.  There are stone steps up the hillside and they will lead you along the top with beautiful views."

We found the gardens and the path.  We even found the stone steps.  They should have been our first clue.  They were crumbling and in many areas there were no steps at all.  Just like the nonexistent guard rails along hairpin turns on the Amalfi Drive. 

We continued climbing vertically in our trusty cross-trainers, intent on getting some exercise after all the pasta.  At the top, we walked several hundred yards and had magnificent views.  We had left any trace of a trail behind. 

"Let's turn back,"  Charley said.

Since he has absolutely no sense of direction, I'm usually the navigator.  "I think if we continue along we'll see the next little town below us," I said.

An hour more and we had no clue where we were.  In desperation we took the first steps downward and hoped for the best.  There was no "good" or "better," let alone "best."  There were no steps after the first ten.  I slid in mud down the hillside on my butt.  We ended up in someone's backyard garden and crept back to our hotel along the road.  Within twenty-four hours I was covered in poison ivy.

                                                                      

    

Directions, Italian Style Part I

     It's not the Italians' fault.  Their DNA is missing the gene.  Here's a quote from The Rise of Rome by Anthony Everitt, page 291:  "Go uphill past the arcade by the market, straight along the road.  Rattle your way down that.  Next there's a little shrine on this side, and there's an alleyway thereabouts...there's also a big fig tree.  But you can't get through that alleyway..."  From sometime in the middle of the second century!

     Take this trip, for example.  We began in Rome and spent one morning walking through Trastevere.  Then decided we wanted to cross the Tiber to walk through the Roman Portico of Octavia and the Jewish ghetto before lunch in Campo dei Fiori.  We knew the trolley tracks crossed the Tiber, and approached a uniformed poliziatype for directions to the bridge.  (Note:  there are different kinds of "polizia" en Italia, so you have to know that "carbinieri" are a notch above the "polizia" and won't answer if you ask for directions.  The "constabulari" fit in there somewhere, so consult your guidebook before asking directions in Italy.)

     "Dove (where is) il Ponte Cestio?" I asked.  I was always complimented for my pronunciation in the Italian classes I took. 

     Expecting him to say, "Diretto," meaning "straight along the trolley line," I was surprised when he said, "Come?" ( "What?").

     I tried again.  And got the same response.  "Come?"

     I repeated "Ponte Cestio" again.  This time I added "Dove?" at the end and changed the accent.

    That made all the difference.  "Diretto," I heard.

     The hotel made a dinner reservation for us at a local trattoria.  The splintered-toothed concierge told us, "Just ten meters down this street, then left at La Fontana Barberini.  Very easy!"  We walked as we were told but at the Fountain, five roads collided.  In the center on a pedestal stood a polizio?, carbiniero?, beekeeper? directing traffic.  From the back with his white gloves moving rapidly, his white jacket, and his white helmet flapping down his back, he looked as though he were swatting bees away.  Of course he was unapproachable.  We took a hard left.  Wrong!  Back to the la fontana to try the middle left.  Wrong again!  Last try down the soft left.  Finally, ecco la!  Thirty minutes late for a reservation en Italia means nothing.  Your friends will still be waiting for you, after their first bottle of wine.

     At our hotel in Trieste I asked to use the guests' computer.  "Certo, signora," I heard.  "Behind the marble columns next to the bar is a hall.  Go down the hall, take the second left, and the computer will be there.  You will not need a password,  it is free."

     I found the bar ok, and the columns.  There were two closed doors behind, and in front of the doors was a sign that read, "Non Ingresso"  ("no entrance"). I was always good at following orders (Charley would not confirm that!), so turned around and looked for another hall.  Nothing.  Back to the front desk.  "It's the hall where there are two doors," I heard.

     I opened the doors marked, "No Entrance," and found the computer room down on the left side.  The computer was sleeping.  I did what I do at home to wake my laptop up.  This Italian was stubborn. Back to the front desk.

     The bellhop came and reached down to the floor to switch on a button someone never mentioned.  Non problema!

     All of this probably explains why the ANTIMAFIA DEPARTMENT in a blocklong building on the Tiber can't rid the country of its gangsters!

     TO BE CONTINUED....

    

    

A Ladies' Luncheon

Ladies over age fifty should hire an event planner if they want to "do" lunch.  This was my latest experience.

     Two days before the luncheon, I called three other women to carpool with me.  They weren't home, so I left messages.  I emailed two of the three who actually check their emails.  The next day, I heard from those two that they'd like to ride with me.  My SUV holds seven and I still had empty seats, so I decided to call another woman who lives close by.

     Again, I left a message.  I heard from her that night.  "I called someone else for a ride but I don't remember who it was.  I might need a ride with you, Pam."  Meanwhile, I still hadn't heard from one of my original invitees, so I left another message.

     The morning of the luncheon, I had no idea who would show up in my driveway.  Six ladies appeared.  We pulled down the jump-seats in the back that accommodated five-year-old rumps and were on our way. 

     There were the usual drinks in the lounge, where fourteen different floral scents mixed to form one giant cloud of nausea.  The wine loosened everyone up, and someone asked about the recent demise of a family pet, which led to more stories about the loss of family dogs, hamsters, and parakeets.  Eventually a waitress led us to a long table for fourteen. 

     One of the women seated across from me didn't respond to any of my inquiries.  I figured she was blowing me off.  "She's deaf in her right ear," the companion on my right said.  After that I shouted diagonally across the table at her left ear.  Each time I did, the conversation on both sides of the table stopped.

     Then the woman at the head of the table rose and clinked her wine glass with her spoon.  "I want to thank all of you for your support while I was going through treatments," she said with tears in her eyes.  More than one of us reached for a Kleenex. 

     She finished and sat down, swiping her nose with her napkin and rearranging the napkin on her lap.  "Do you remember, Janet, when you were teaching and my daughter hated your class?" she asked.

     "No, I don't remember that," Janet said.

     "Do you remember when you lived next to me, Sue, and your son was such a willful child that the other kids used to spray him with the hose?" the speechmaker said.

     "Actually, he was the easiest of my three children to raise."

     The plated meals arrived at that moment.  "Is that tuna?  I can't eat tuna," the speechmaker told the waitress.

     "No, it's chicken," the waitress said.

     "I don't eat chicken," my companion on one side said.  "Please may I have just a green salad?"

     It came time for the bill-paying and per usual, those who had not had a glass of wine didn't want to pay for those who had.  Judy, who'd organized the luncheon, had a calculator and declared that she was splitting the bill equally among us.   End of discussion.

     We each passed the appropriate money down the table to Judy.  But Judy counted twice and she was missing fifty.  That was because Cynthia, with dementia, sat in the middle and thought we were paying her for something.  The missing dollars were in her wallet.

     When we got outside.  I unlocked my car and sat waiting for the rest to come out of the ladies' room.  One of them appeared and kept going right through the parking lot and out onto the street.  "I can't find my car," she kept saying.  "Where did I park?"

     "Betty, you didn't drive," I yelled.  "You came with me!"



    

    

Packing for a Trip

I must confess:  I do not pack lightly.  For forty-seven years dear Charley has complained that I bring my entire closet when we travel.  Suitcases with wheels saved our marriage.

     As "snowbirds," we transfer residences from Florida to Massachusetts and back twice a year.  One year I shipped five cartons of shoes, sweaters, purses, shorts, tees, and tennis clothes.  Oh yes, I threw assorted paperbacks among the boxes as ballast.  In the car are the ESSENTIAL items - computer, cameras, tennis rackets, golf clubs, jewelry, pants, blouses, outerwear, dresses, medical and personal files, and, of course, the manuscript I'm working on.

     It's not that my outfits are complicated.  It's just that if I don't pack everything, I'll be missing something - probably a belt (forgot to mention those in the list of boxed items above) or shoes or a purse to go with a favorite outfit.  My personal style could hardly be called "backwoods flannel" or "minimalist." 

     I do not brag about the fact that I pack too much.  However, if I wore two pairs of black pants and one tee for a two-week stay in European capitals, I wouldn't brag about that, either.  There's nothing enchanting-looking about a Pashmina tied twelve different ways over the same black outfit.

     When we go overseas, I begin packing two weeks ahead.  First I put essential medical supplies into the big suitcase that I will check - creams, ointments, sprays, gauze (with tape), Band-Aids, drops, and pills in case we come down with poison ivy, bronchitis, diarrhea, pink eye, asthma, altitude sickness, sore throat, sun poisoning, or swimmer's ear.  In fact, these items stay in their own cosmetic bag and never leave my suitcase.  The clothes, underwear, nightclothes, jackets, and belts have to fit around the medical supplies and small makeup kit.  Shoes go in the side pouches, along with Woolite in a baggie.  One time we ended up paying an extra $50 just for my suitcase to get on the plane with us.  That did not make for a pleasant ride.

     My overnight bag contains other essentials, in case my big bag never arrives.   That's what happened in Hong Kong, and Hong Kongers' feet were not my size when I had to shop for walking shoes!  In fact, nothing on Hong Kongers' bodies was the same size as mine.  Since then I started carrying an extra set of underwear, an extra shirt, as well as travel jewelry, meds, travel-sized Woolite, deoderant, toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, and a pocket-size Canon with battery charger in my overnight bag.  Also walking shoes and socks. I don't bother with makeup in the overnight bag, since there are liquids involved and I usually don't know anyone at 7 a.m. in a foreign city, anyway.  There is no fee for this bag, but sometimes I can't lift it into the overhead compartment and have to wait for a nice person to offer, unless Charley is right behind me.

     I attended a demonstration once to see how a stewardess packed.  She carefully rolled the flimsy stuff, like underwear, nightclothes, and tee shirts, then stuffed them in the corners of her suitcase.  She put all socks into the shoes and only brought three pairs - how could she survive?  Then she hung half the long pants, jackets, dresses (does anyone travel with dresses anymore?) out one edge of the suitcase, and the remaining half out the opposite edge of the suitcase.  She began folding each group into the suitcase, alternating so there would be a cushion in the middle of the fold, where a crease might appear.  Very clever!  But when I do it, some of the fabrics still get creased.  She forgot to tell us she buys only wrinkle-free.

    

    

    



    



    

The Spy in the Sky

Photo reproduced with the permission of Don Mullaney.

       

      I don't understand how it works.  A GPS is built into my car.  I program a state, then a town,

       then a street and number.  The lady inside my screen tells me I must turn around and get 

going in the right direction. 

    Somehow, a beam is being transmitted from my GPS device to a spy in the sky.  The spy is telling the lady that I must get turned around NOW.

     I don't want to.  I happen to know a shortcut to the area I'm going.  So I ignore the pleasant lady.  I keep going straight.

     The lady tells me to turn around at the next road and go back, since I've missed my turn.  I keep going.

     The lady is still listening to the spy in the sky.  She tells me again to turn around.  I ignore her and sail past the next turn-off.

     The lady gets insistent.  "Turn around in three more miles at the next right and head in the opposite direction."  The spy in the sky is whispering in her ear that I'm not a good listener.  I keep going, for four miles.  "Shut up!"  I tell her.  "I don't need you till later."

     The lady gives up.  She knows I'm a stubborn fool, so she redirects me from that point along another route.  "Finally!  Good riddance," I say.

     But she's only laughing at me.  She knows the mileage may be shorter, but the road is slower.  The spy in the sky is rolling his eyes, while a thunderstorm breaks over my car.  The road is two-lane and circuitous and I can hardly see.  Lady knew best!

     There's something else I don't understand.  How does my e-reader tell its mama where I stopped reading?  And how can mama know whether I've finished the book or decided to abandon it?  Also, how fast I read it?

     Is this something the spy in the sky (Amazon and Barnes and Noble) needs to know?  Will it affect how many books are published in that genre and by which authors?  It seems the spy in the sky and its puppet ladies are interested not only in how I get to my destination, but in whether they'll make a profit by pigeonholing authors.  I need to yell at someone, but unlike the lady in my car, my e-reader mama doesn't speak.

   

What's That??

     I have previously written about parts of my body that are no longer where they should be or have gone missing (click on blog post for April 10, 2011).  Having been married for forty-seven years, I have learned that men have similar problems.  They just don't discuss them the way women do.

     However, Charley recently told me this story from the golf course. The four men were all in their sixties and beyond.

     Larry:  I  haven't had a homecooked meal in a week.

     Steve:  I haven't seen my wife in two weeks!

     Al:       I haven't seen my wife naked in a month.

     Jeff:     I haven't had sex in six months.

     Steve:  Sex - what's that?

     Jeff:      Google it!

     Steve:  I already did, and it said, "No known match."