A Dispute in Italy

     We left Barcelona overdosed on Spanish history, bizarre structures, tapas, crowds, Gaudi, and Miro. Next stop:  Naples.

     Over the years we have fallen in love with southern Italy.  Life is exuberant and loud.  Neapolitans are brash, grabbing life as it comes and squeezing tight, as evidenced by the antics of twosomes on scooters or in passionate embraces whenever the mood strikes.  Neapolitans have ruled and been ruled, many times. They know in the course of human events, cultures are fleeting.  The sea lies in front of them, with Vesuvius behind.

     Men gather to discuss world events, local problems, and familial disputes.  Their voices rise, as their hands move up and down in prayer position.  Sometimes they squeeze their fingers together, pointing inward, as if they'd burned themselves.  For hours they stand there talking and yelling, yet nothing seems to get resolved.

   
     The three-quarter-mile road to our hotel on the island of Ischia was under construction for eighteen months.  The hotel owner was in a dispute with his neighbor, who shares the driveway, as to who should pay to fix the road.  Meanwhile, guests could either walk up the hairpin turns high over the Bay of Naples or wait at a staging area for the hotel to retrieve them.

     Last year, we noticed stones from the wall along the driveway tumbling down the hillside. Walkers could become ghosts, swallowed by gaping voids that delineated the sides of the promontory. "This is a prestigious hotel and I don't understand why the owners can't negotiate a settlement," I said to Charley.  "They're a member of a chain that must demand inspections."

     "You'd think they'd have paid off the neighbor," Charley, the pragmatist, said.

     "There has been a dispute as to who owns the part that needs fixing," the hotel manager told us.  "They won't accept our offer."

     This year, a new rock wall appeared where the driveway had been disintegrating.  The neighbor constructed a ninety-degree angle where the property divided.  The walls create such a narrow turn that taxis can't make it through.  Unless they're in Lilliputian cars, hotel guests must wait for shuttles to bring them to the hotel.  I could hear the neighbor saying, "Gotcha!"







   

   

   

   



   

Flamenco on the Island of Mallorca, Spain



Manolo de Cordoba, Madrid
Photo his own

     Picture Ichabod Crane from Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow: "tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves...and his whole frame most loosely hung together."  Add oily hair sticking to his ears and narrow head and Ichabod's snipe nose.

     That is the figure that spun in front of us during a flamenco show at our hotel.

     Except that this male wore black tights and a shocking pink ruffled shirt under black vest and twirled a pink neon cape.

     We shouldn't have been surprised.  The hotel was billed a "five-star" on Mallorca, but was more like a Holiday Inn.  Housekeeping had shoved twin beds together to form our king, so one of us was continually falling through the crack at night. When we used the sink, pipes gurgled in the shower and water rose from its drain.  There were four computers available for guests to use (with accompanying coin machines), but none of the four worked.  The front desk gave me refunds.

     Ichabod continued to twirl in front of us, like a whirling dervish.  He accompanied three very talented female dancers,  who changed for each number from gold spangles to red ruffles to blue fringe to yellow satin. Their feet pounded the stage in a blur. Finally Ichabod stopped twirling and toppled toward the audience, obviously dizzy.  Someone in the front row caught him.

     The music muffled my laughter.  In Ichabod's final moment of glory, he threw his head back while his arms shot straight toward the ceiling.  As the music faded, we watched his long appendages creep down his torso and over the thin hips to his thighs.  The seductive pink cape slithered with them.  Fortunately, it was only a few steps to the bar.

Mallorca, Spain

We flew nonstop from Dublin to the island of Mallorca, Spain.  A transport was supposed to meet us at the airport to take us up the coast to our hotel.  After we retrieved our bags and exited the luggage area, we scanned the signs.  No "Carey."

We waited fifteen minutes.  There was a cluster of people in the middle of the terminal.

A man in a dress shirt and tie came toward us.  He displayed a nervous smile.  "Are you Carey?" he said in almost - English.

"Yes," Charley said, no smile on his face.  "Where have you been?"

"My name is Juan Lopez," he said, extending his hand.  "I've been waiting at the meeting place."

"Meeting place?  What meeting place?  We've never been here.  We got our luggage and came through the nearest exit," Charley said.  I was trying not to giggle.

"In the middle," Juan said, pointing.  "Where everyone meets."

"Except all the drivers who came down here, near our luggage," Charley mumbled.

We relaxed by the pool and walked the wide promenades along the beach for two days.   A guide was going to drive us across the island on the third day.  "Hello, remember me?  I'm Juan," he said.

Juan drove us to a winery in Santa Maria, as well as an olive oil factory and Saturday market in Soller.  He never stopped translating. One hand went up in the air off the wheel, a finger pointing out the correct pronunciations. "Here, 'Macia' wine, it's pronounced 'Mathia,'" he said.  "The Spanish 'S' is a 'C' on Mallorca, but is pronounced like a 'TH.'"  I kept my gaze focused out the window.  We were going seventy mph with a one-armed driver.

"Limoneros," Juan said, pointing to thousands of acres of lemon trees in the plateaus.  "Cabras, goats," he said, pointing to the hillsides.

For lunch, Juan drove us up hairpin turns to a restaurant two kilometers above Porto Soller.  The view was spectacular. After lunch we wound down along coastal 'S' curves ('C' curves in Mallorca, pronounced 'TH' curves), past villages crumbling off cliffs and Hollywood stars' homes. On a 'TH' curve in Deia, Juan took both hands off the wheel to demonstrate the round shape of potato cakes covered in chocolate   "There, in restaurante," he said.  "Famoso," he added.  I didn't give a rat's ass about potato cakes.  I just wanted Juan to get both hands on the wheel .

In Valldemossa, Juan explained that "shopping" had made the town famous with a French woman.

"What kind of shopping?" I said.

"I forget how you say his name in English."

"You mean a man brought his French mistress here and made the town famous hiding out?"  Charley's imagination was having a good time.

"No, not hiding out. Shopping," I said.

"No shopping, living, no hiding out.  Shopping," Juan said.

"You just said no shopping," I pointed out.  "And why would he bring her to this small village to shop?"  I could think of better places to get a designer collection!

I opened my guidebook.  Turns out Chopin ("shopping") had brought his mistress, French writer George Sand, to live on the coastal mountainside.  Sand described it as "the winter from hell."

Valldemossa, Majorca, Spain

Notes from Dublin

We started in Dublin, a five-plus-hour overnight flight from Boston.  By the time we got our drinks and dinner on board, read a few pages of a novel, and closed our eyes, we were landing...at 7 a.m. local time or 2 a.m. Boston time.  Which gave us all day to explore, except that we couldn't see straight, were lightheaded, and our hotel room wasn't ready.

So we grabbed breakfast and sat on a comfy sofa in the lobby.  By the fire.  Yes, in Dublin in June they needed a fire.  When my eyes rolled back in my head and my mouth hung open with drool slithering down my chin, Charley returned to the front desk to beg for our room.  By noon we were in.

We didn't bother to unpack.  I would never have found anything I put away, anyway.  Instead, I peeled down my slacks, tore off my jacket, and crawled on all fours across the bed covers like an animal.  Charley wasn't far behind.  We stayed there for four hours, till we got hungry again.  So much for our first day in Dublin.  After a spectacular dinner of fresh fish, we found our way back to our lair.

The following morning brought sunshine and temperatures into the seventies.  Ashes smoldered in the fireplace.  We dug through suitcases to find tee shirts and shorts.  For four hours a guide walked us through Trinity College, the Temple Bar section, Dublin Castle, and two cathedrals. Guinness Storehouse had to wait till the following day, with its free sample of ale.  We got our own pints at lunch and headed back for...what else? A nap, but not before we'd fallen in love with Dubliners and their city.  

Nothing in two weeks of travel that followed would top the time I spent in an apothecary there...James Joyce's apothecary, to be precise, where he'd chatted with neighbors who later appeared as characters in his novels.  China shaving mugs with lather brushes sat on wooden shelves along the walls.  Lime soaps, Joyce's favorite, remained stacked in glass cases.

Five members of the James Joyce Club sat on wooden benches behind the counters. They were reading from The Dubliners.  Twice a week they read, until they finished. Then they'd select another of Joyce's novels. I stood and listened.

"Come in, come in," the man on the end said.  "Sit with us."

He was stout with a bulbous nose but slid his haunches over so I could fit.  I listened to the flow, since I'd missed the entirety of the story (they were on the last chapter), and I'd never read the book.  My companion took his turn reading in a deep, sonorous voice that commiserated, then laughed, with the priest who was the protagonist.

When he stopped, he handed me his copy.  "Would you like to take a turn?"

I'd studied Joyce in college and had taught English in high school.  I figured I couldn't flub up too badly, although my voice was missing the brogue.  I began reading and continued through the ending.  "Great job!" my companion said, as I passed his book back.

The rest of them clapped.  Too bad it wasn't for me.

"Building" an Argument

     Just like any other married couple, we have our disagreements.  Have you ever asked, "How does that make you feel?" in the middle of an argument with your spouse?  Me, neither.  And I know enough not to mention my husband's departed mother during an argument.  Although it would be easier to blame her for his faults, since she can no longer defend herself and she raised him, didn't she?  I'm sure my daughters-in-law have a few thoughts about me during arguments with my sons.
     I don't go to psychological help books like, His Needs, Her Needs; ScreamFree Marriage; and Getting to 'Yes.'  Some couples find marital retreats helpful, where they practice the avoidance of name-calling and placing blame.  Can't I practice that in my kitchen?
     Today researchers have discovered ways to BUILD better family arguments, including those between siblings.  That's right - build an argument.   In a N.Y. Times article on April 14, 2013, Bruce Feiler discusses seven lessons from various psychologists' and professors' research.  Here they are:

1.  Do not bring up an issue that bothers you between 6 and 8 p.m.  Women, not men, are highly stressed during those hours (can anyone guess why??).

2.  Physical posture matters!  Sit at the same height to talk to each other, with feet on the floor, and look in the other person's eyes.  Do NOT cross your arms over your chest like Chief Sitting Bull.

3.  All parties should sit on CUSHIONED  chairs.  A soft cushion makes people more accommodating and generous. (Perhaps pillows would suffice, if there aren't cushioned chairs.)  Parties should sit next to each other, instead of opposite, to increase collaboration.  So far, they're not recommending hand-holding.

4.  In a heated argument, go to the balcony for five minutes.  If you don't have a balcony, just separate.  Come up with alternative solutions that would be acceptable to you before coming back together.  New options might emerge - or not.

5.  Be sure to get out an egg timer before starting an argument (?!).  Each party should have three minutes to state his case.  After that, researchers found that people repeat themselves and voices get louder with each repetition.  If this begins to happen, go to the balcony for five minutes (you will cool off quicker if the temperature is below freezing).  Just be sure to come back.

6.  Never use the word "You."  Use "I" or "We."  The pronouns "he" or "she" should be avoided, since focus will divert to another party (perhaps, rightfully so?).

7.  "I'm sorry" is necessary because it may describe how you feel.  If it isn't how you feel, say it anyway.  Apparently it will indicate you're taking responsibility for the impact you've had on someone else.  Try to avoid all sarcasm as you say the words.

I have no additional comments to make on these findings.  I'm sure some of you might, though.

Charles J. Sykes, aka Bill Gates, Speaks to the Graduates

     In honor of those graduating in 2013, I'm summarizing some thoughts of Charles J. Sykes from his 2007 book, 50 Rules Kids Won't Learn in School.  These thoughts have been attributed incorrectly to Bill Gates, but according to Snopes.com, they are not the words of Bill Gates and he never gave this speech to Mt. Whitney High School, Visalia, California. This is in no way intended as a political statement, but is certainly food for thought.

Rule 1:  Life is not fair - get used to it.                                  

Rule 2 - The world won't care about your self-esteem.  The world will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good about yourself.

Rule 3 - You will NOT make $40,000 a year right out of high school.  You won't be a vice-president with a car phone until you EARN both.

Rule 4- If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss.

Rule 5 - Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity.  Your grandparents had a different word for burger flipping - they called it opportunity.

Rule 6 - If you mess up, it's not your parents' fault, so don't whine about your mistakes, learn from them.

Rule 7 - Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now.  They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes, and listening to you talk about how cool you are.  So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parents' generation, try delousing the closet in your own room.

Rule 8 - Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life has not.  In some schools, they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as many times as you want to get the right answer.  This doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.

Rule 9 - Life is not divided into semesters.  You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you find yourself.  Do that on your own time.

Rule 10 - Television is NOT real life.  In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to jobs.

Rule 11 - Be nice to nerds.  Chances are you'll end up working for one.

CONGRATULATIONS!

Ladies' Night Out

                                                                    

     I opened the envelope and saw shoes - beautiful shoes - all over the invitation.  I figured my friend was selling some brand I'd never heard of and probably wouldn't want.  Or maybe it was a fundraiser.
     But there was no mention of a sale or a charity.  The invitation asked me to come enjoy the company of my "sole mates," and to wear my funkiest, dreamiest, or most comfy shoes...to go wild, or not.  A girls' night out!
     I looked through my closet and brought out a shocking pink pantsuit and a blue spiky wig.  No blue or pink shoes in there, though.  I ran to PayLess.
     For eighteen dollars I found six-inch stilettos in a pink, blue, and white floral.  I pictured my back twisted like a pretzel after five minutes in those beauties.  But the immediate issue was getting them on over the balls of my bunions. 
     I went up a size and, like Cinderella, slid the shoe over my left foot.  For some reason, probably having to do with the right side of my brain being dominant, my left foot is one-quarter-inch larger than my right.  So going up a size was automatic, and  I'd brought along some knee-highs to make the slide less painful.  I held onto the shelving and tried to stand up.  Miraculously, I was able to take a few steps.  "Perfect," I thought, "as long as I don't have to stand to talk, drink, or eat."
     A photographer snapped shots of the most unique pairs among the fifty that stepped over the threshold that night.  Who would've guessed - our hostess had on my exact shoes!  Well, they weren't exactly the same, since she'd used a glue gun to encrust the six-inch heels in crystals.
     That was just the opener for our hostess' creativity.  The living room showcased magnificent pairs, including red sparklers resembling Dorothy's from "The Wizard of Oz."  Quotes around the room brought to mind Imelda Marcos' famous line during her exile, "They went into my closets looking for skeletons, but thank God, all they found were shoes, beautiful shoes."  Eight-and-one-half-by-eleven-inch renderings of Prada, Jimmy Choo, Chanel, Dior, Givenchy, Ferragamo, complete with peacock feathers and laces to the knee, surrounded the dining room.  A miniature shoe collection sat in the center of the table.  In the downstairs party room, tables were set for dinner with a single shoe and "Fifty Shades"-type poem as centerpieces.  We found our assigned seats and admired the red, purple, and gold footwear painted by our hostess on three-foot-by-three-foot canvases around the room.
     Fifty ladies in a conga line, wearing shoes they couldn't stand in (or not wearing them - I'd jettisoned mine under the table), created an indelible image. In a contest we guessed the most expensive pair on the shelves at Nordstrom.   The answer was a $3900 pair of Christian Louboutin's, but the winner didn't receive shoes for a prize.  She received wine - even better!  We formed a circle to pass decorated flip-flops to our right and left, over and over, until our hostess said, "What you hold in your hand right now is yours."  I ended up with pink ones, topped by floppy white roses.
     It was our hostess' birthday, and the two-tiered cake boasted a Cinderella-like crystal shoe on top.  But it was our hostess' daughter who made the night so memorable.
     "Our family's been through a lot in the last several years," she began, "and yet we feel so fortunate to celebrate Mom's birthday with you.  There's nothing more important in life than friendship, love, and the memories we create together...not our jobs, not our houses, not our clothes, not even our shoes!"