Yoko Ono Envy

     I wish I could be more like her sometimes.  She's had to deal with kidnapping, deportation, assassination, yet she absorbs it all and still says what she believes is true, not what will make her look good to the public.  She gave up the search to find her daughter after many years, believing that her daughter would come to her if she needed a mother.  "Mothers are not supposed to give guidance," she said in 1998.  "Children should do their own thing."  Seriously??  She let John "do his own thing" when he strayed, but he did come back.
     She believes in art for art's sake, without caring what anyone thinks of her as a woman and an artist.  Her work is disturbing and yet comforting.  It can't be figured out.  She makes us look at the empty space in her paintings and go outside just to study the sky.
     I have trouble following her path to inner peace.  I guess I am too "Type A."  I rest only when work is done.  I need to know where I am going on any given day, what phone calls I need to make, and how much writing I need to do.  I have been told that in getting my manuscripts published, I "dot every i and cross every t."  Is that a bad thing?  Only when I become so manic that I drive myself and Charley crazy.
     I just attended the Florida Writers Conference for three days.  I have a manuscript ready to be sold - A Survival Guide for Grown Children with Elderly Parents (Who Still Have Their Marbles).  I rewrote it twice over the summer and then three editors read it, each from a different perspective.  I tweaked it each time I got their suggestions.  In preparation to pitch to an agent at the conference, I prepared a bio, a query letter, a synopsis, a proposal, a flash drive of the manuscript, and a hard copy of the manuscript.  I practiced my five-minute pitch twenty times, assuming the other five minutes with the agent would be her questions.
     An agent takes an average of five new clients a year.  That's from among the 80-100 query letters he receives EVERY WEEK.  If he likes a writer's query letter, the agent will ask for a proposal for the manuscript or a partial manuscript.  If he likes the partial, he'll ask for a full manuscript.  Which doesn't guarantee representation.  But at least his request saved the writer on round two from becoming "slush."  This process can take many weeks.
     Experience made me choose a skirt, jacket, and low heels to wear to the interview.  I wanted to look professional, since I'd had a television interview in 2009 when Minor League Mom was released, and I'd taught back in the dark ages, when teachers couldn't stand in front of the classroom in shorts and sandals.  Outside the interview room I saw young writers going in to pitch in jeans and flip flops.  Why can't I be more like Yoko Ono? I asked myself.  It's my work that will speak, not my clothes.
     I stayed fifteen minutes with the agent I'd chosen, and we talked about a lot in common - sports in the family, teaching - as well as about my manuscript.  When it was over, I shook her hand and thanked her for her time.  Her other hand held my proposal and a completed manuscript.  Maybe it's better to be me.

               

The Kids Next Door

     Charley and I recently visited three of our five grandchildren.  Half a dozen kids came into the cul-de-sac to shoot baskets or draw with chalk on the asphalt.


     Older brother Sam admonished a younger sister for not retrieving the ball he was pitching to her.  "Jesus Christ, go get it!"
     "Where is he?" younger sister Nancy wanted to know.
     "Who?"
     "Jesus Christ.  I want to meet him when he gets the ball!"


     One of the mothers answered questions from her daughter. 
     "Mommy, how long have you been married to Daddy?"
     "For ten years."
     "Did you get me before you married him?"
     "No, I got Daddy first."
     "Did I cost a lot?"
     "Yes, and you still do!"


     One of our granddaughters pointed to the ball protruding from my right foot.  "What's that?" she said.
     "It's called a bunion.  A bone grew that way because I wore pointy shoes teaching for many years."
     "Will I get one?"
     "Not if you don't wear pointy shoes."
     "My mom wears them.  I think I'd better clean out her closet."


     Older brother Jack told his younger brother that classmate Aidan was no longer his friend.  "He said something bad about you," Jack told his brother.
     "What did he say?"
     "He said you were a sissy."
     "I'm going to kill him," younger brother said.  "But don't worry!  It won't be on school grounds."

    

    
    

The Joys of Living in Spaghettiland

I am writing this post in memory of Vicki Lange, our hostess extraordinaire in Baldissero.  The following are some Do's and Don't's for living in Italy, based on her experiences.

DO:
-  Register to live there.    This means getting a document from the town offices where you
   reside.  Bring electric, gas, or water bills you have paid or an affadavit from your landlord (notarized and
   stamped with a wax seal) that you are in good standing with your rent.  The landlord can be bribed, if
   necessary, with a cash gift.

-  Find out first which town offices are "chiusi" (closed) on which days for which surnames. 

-  Get in the right line early on the right day.  If your name is Burgess and you wait for an hour on the correct
   day for A-L's but in the wrong line, when you finally reach the clerk's counter, she will
    explain, "You are in the wrong line.  Move to your right for residency documents."  You look at the
    twenty people in that line and realize that you will never make it to THAT clerk before the mandatory
    four-hour lunch break from 1-5 p.m.
    Repeat:  go early.

-  Register for an EZ pass for your car only if you are the owner of that car or the primary driver of that
   car.  Appear at appropriate office on the designated day for your surname (see above).  Get in the
   right line for EZ passes as opposed to residency documents or school registration (see above).  Provide
   proof of car ownership or an affadavit  (notarized and stamped with a wax seal) that you are the primary
   driver of the rental/lease. An employer can swear to this if you provide him with a cash gift.

-  Register your children for school on the correct day for A-L or M-Z.  Show up with proof that the
   children are truly yours.  Footnote:  an American mother who has taken her husband's last name must also
   provide a marriage license, since Italian women keep their maiden names and the school will assume you
   are no blood relation (different last name) and have stolen the children from a hospital nursery or
   orphanage.

-  Understand that a first-grader in Italy need not report till 10:30 a.m. on the first day of school so
    he can "adjust" to the idea of first grade.  He will parade past former teachers from the 3-5-year-old
    rooms (who are clasping their hands together and wiping tears as their proteges file to their new
    classroom upstairs).

-  Get your 3-to-5-year-old up at 7:00 a.m. so he can be at school by 8:30 a.m. on the first day of class.

-  Rush out to purchase the list of color-coded supplies (a different color for each subject)
   by the NEXT DAY.  Question:  Do the lines on the pages have to match the outside notebook color? 

-  MOST importantly, TAKE ITALIAN LESSONS.  You will learn that in Italian "later" means three hours
   later, "domani" means
   next week, and "next week" means next month.

DON'T:

-  Neglect to put out your recycling bins on the appropriate day.  Your neighbor will report you and you
    will be fined.

-  Assume workers will show up from Monday to Friday any given week.  Offices close at random and
   workers strike at random.  If you need to catch a plane and there's an imminent rail (or taxi) strike, sleep
   at the airport the night before. 

-  Conclude the Pope is visiting your town because there is a crowd of thousands gathered on the first
   day of school.  They are merely relatives of first graders who are there to weep and wish the first
   graders luck.

-  Think you will have a brief parent-teacher conference.  Conferences start at 4:30 p.m. and last till
   7:00.  Students must accompany their parents.  Is there really that much to talk about in first grade?
   Little Emma's teacher told Vicki (Emma's mother) that she was sorry Emma had an allergy to paint and
   eraser dust.  "What allergy?" Vicki wanted to know. 

  

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!"