Sojourn
Walking through the park
Waiting at “Imagine”
Remembering
A child asks, “Who was John Lennon?”
Brain blinks, heart sinks
Everything has changed.
Ours was just a sliver of time
We thought it was forever
Shining
This world is someone else’s now
Cold truth, spent youth
How could that happen so quickly?
First off, the family.
Of course, where else? One of
these things is not like the others.
Well, to me…none of “those things” was like the rest other than being
older…..no one looked like anyone else, even the “twins”….and my next oldest
sister wasn’t one of “them”….so…how was she so different from me?
Well, turns out being “older” was a BIG difference, since
the world shattered when I was twelve. I
had sisters already in nursing school and college. There I was…..left.
I understand it is an exercise in futility…but I play “what
if” from time to time anyway. What if I
had had two parents all through school like all the rest of my
schoolmates? What if I had had some
encouragement? What anyone had been
proud or happy or mildly pleased that I was college material? What IF I had been able to graduate at age 20
with a BA? What if?
What if I hadn’t been taught to be someone’s wife? What if I hadn’t been told my role was to
keep quiet? What if I had felt, from the
start, that I had some self worth?
********************
We are watching “The
Handmaid’s Tale.” It is becoming
progressively more painful…I think for my husband, but I know, especially…for
me. For while the “Tale” is taken to the
extreme……it strikes chords…deep chords….within.
“Please don’t tell me what to do”….”June” says to the
“Eye.” June.
“I will survive this.”…me, in 2000…when my then husband
threatened to kill us all, took an overdose and wound up plunked in a psyche
ward. And still…no one took me very seriously, except my child.
I doubt that my present husband has any idea of the gut
wrenching pain this series is causing…..l know that I would not even have a
clue as to where to begin to explain.
I am left handed.
When in first grade, I was asked to go to the board and add one plus
two. Easy. Three. But I wrote the numeral “3” backwards. I was repeatedly told my answer was
“wrong.” The other girls (yes, girls, in
an all girl’s Catholic school) started to giggle. Oh..so funny!
Wrong!!! What the hell else is
two plus one? One plus two?
************************
I have been looked over, passed over, ignored…in every
aspect of my life. Every job. Everything I wanted to achieve.
I had a dear friend in my 20s….she was a phlebotomist in our
office….I was a secretary….she got divorced and later met a guy who really
cared about her. She quit working and
went to nursing school. What a gift. I remember going to her graduation party with
my “fiancée” and thinking how lucky she
was that someone thought that much of her….to allow her to get through school
and better herself. The gift of a
lifetime.
Maybe I was lazy…..no, really, maybe I was lazy
because….well,…why? Who cares? You are just a girl. You don’t have a degree. You have a child. Whatever they could use against me they
did. Now I wonder…how many males are
asked….do you have a child? How many are
told…you are just a boy? A young
man? I’ve been overqualified for a
majority of the “positions” I held….and then asked to do things BEYOND my
realm…be half a nurse…take physical histories, sign documents for surgery…list
drugs you never heard of and don’t know how to spell….take blood pressures,
pulses and temperatures….take blood (I couldn’t)…give shots ( I did…and felt
like a charlatan and pray I didn’t kill anyone.) All to survive. All to keep a roof over my head, food on the
table….health care (the biggest joke of all.)
If I had stayed single I might have had a better
chance. But….noooooooo…I had to “have a
man.” No woman is complete without a
man. Right? And he was charming. Funny. Cute.
He also just wanted me to be his workhorse. And a good little workhorse I was.
********************************
I am happy for, yet envy, my friends or anyone who finds
that one person who values them. What
good fortune!! I think I was meant to
find my way alone. It is what I do
best. Not by choice…but by
circumstance. It just always seems to
work out that way. “One of these things
is not like the other.” And…that would
be me.
I don’t know how “The Handmaid’s Tale” ends…we have barely
scratched the beginning….and I never read it….so…….but I do know it is painful
for me, as a woman, as a woman who had aspirations that never were
clarified….encouraged…..
Oh…I DO have that degree….took me forty years, but I got
it….I spewed out a couple of independently published books that no one
reads…but I did it. And I moved to
Italy….whoever thought of that? Perhaps
that is one thing I can claim. I always
dreamed of going places and seeing things…and thanks to pandemic 2020 I may not
see much more, but I did do this. I have
to say, I am grateful each day I wake up in my 600 year old bedroom and look up
an ancient ceiling of handmade bricks.
People live and people die, times come and times go…..what
are we here for? What is it all meant to
be about? I have had a life a mediocrity…..like
so many others…most others. Should I
lament….or should I be thankful that I had a life at all…and is that not
extraordinary in and of itself?
Italian Quarantine Chronicles (Volume II) November 19th, 2020:
Things relaxed over the summer. Bars, cafes, even some restaurants opened again....although they were "reservation only." Take out and delivery were offered everywhere. Some of the establishments, like the gelato store, stopped taking pre-orders and opened their doors again. Every place had a clearly marked "ENTRY" and "EXIT." They had tape on the floors to keep people away from the counters. They marked spots, with a picture, or an "X"...anything...to show where people could stand and still maintain distance.
Some paid attention. Others didn't and marched confidently through "Uscita" signs...took up space in between marked spots...and the kids. Oh, the kids. Groups of four, five, even ten or more...all together, masks hanging around their necks or from their wrists...because they are invincible.
There were no "protests" here, thank goodness. although there were in other parts of Italy. Even the "Milani" who come here part time and have the apartment upstairs, blithely walked in and out with masks down, even though Milan was the epicenter of the virus from day one in Italy.
And then the schools were opened. They bent over backwards to find venues for classrooms, they sent in teams to disinfect....and space the desks. Rather than spending the funds to supply everyone with a PC or tablet so they could take classes online.
Here we are again.
Out of caution, because we are older, because we have several risk factors between us, we have been in virtual quarantine non-stop. We visited Cafe Belvedere twice. Cafe Corso twice or three times...outside. One day we stopped at Cafe Malu. We had take out from Cretarola and Pin Up. My husband, for the most part, remained the designated shopper. I would go out on solitary jaunts once in a while.
We took walks on Sundays when everything was closed. I would feed the outside cats, with a mask on, in my cortile, during "pranzo" when no one was likely to be around.
The doctors and the scientists predicted this months ago. They knew this was going to happen, yet governments around the world took a chance. Vacations! Business! School! What? I can't eat out? What? I can't have a big birthday party?
I understand people's concerns, especially when it comes to their livelihood...but...you can't work if you die.
***********************
I had to walk up to the farmacia again this evening. Stupid me, I forgot my phone....it was such a lovely evening. A chill in the air, but at 4:45 pm, the sun was setting and the town was bathed in that distinctive Italian glow...while lights inside homes and any place that might be open burned from within.
Cafe Corso, on my way, looked festive in the evening light, although now they have a "counter" at the entry door...da sporto solo - take out only. At the door.
The housewares store, photographer and gift shop were dark. The shoe store was open, but no one was there. Even Cafe Centrale, the 24 hour chi-chi...preferred by the young crowd..bar/cafe was dark.
The streets were primarily empty. I had no wait at the farmacia.
This picture is from the first quarantine. I don't know...maybe it didn't have to be this way. If people had just sucked it up a bit more even though it was summer...even though the kids wanted to get together...even though.....because here we are again...with winter approaching.
I downloaded four books yesterday. We have several Netflix series and movies lined up...my "designated shopper" hit the supermarket today and stocked us up for the next two to three weeks. Being an American, I am used to that...it is how we lived, especially with gruelling work schedules. I plan meals out...and stuff the freezer and fridge so it looks like a damned Rubic cube when I'm done.
Being an introvert I don't have a huge problem with this....there are things I would like to do, places I would like to go, people I enjoy seeing....but being aware of the greater danger...I set my priorities. And I remind myself I never dreamt I would live in Italy....there were decades I never dreamt I would ever make it to Europe....so I remind myself to be grateful every day for where I am and what we have.
Intrepid shopper did a splendid job this time...he brought home Twinings English Breakfast tea for me...and perfect chicken breasts for what we will call "Thanksgiving" but is really an excuse to open a big bottle of prosecco.
And so we hunker down once again...and worry each time one of us goes out the door, and worry for friends and relatives.....but we are determined to get through this.
As a kid on Long Island....no one ever travelled to Europe. People barely even took what everyone calls a "vacation" now...vacation was no school, or home from work. A barbecue in the backyard. If you were lucky you had a friend or two with a pool. A movie, maybe, on a really hot day. On Long Island, once I was old enough to drive, we also had the beach....which, come to think of it, we do here, also. THAT was "vacation." Stay up late and watch Johnny Carson. Have pizza for dinner.
We have everything to be thankful for....a roof over our heads, affordable health care, stupendous local, natural food...six little clown kitties...my sweet Harry still hanging on.... we might get a dusting of snow this weekend...we are warm and cozy inside...we have clothes, entertainment...beautiful views...friendly neighbors...look around you....be safe, be smart....and be grateful. This is an emergency and we must persevere.
In this
Medieval town, we live next to a building that dates back to the 12th
Century. Formerly a church, there is
still a small obelisk outside in the front with a cross atop, and the remnants
of the ancient bell tower. More recently the building has been used as a “civic
center,” for various town meetings. I
saw some activity going on inside for several days, wondering what was coming
up. As of yesterday, the antique “Church
of San Comizio” houses a dance studio.
While the
weather was warm (70 degrees Fahrenheit) the sky, the slant of the sun…just the
feeling in the air for the last several days has whispered “Autumn is here.”
Late in the
afternoon I had to visit the farmacia for over-the-counter allergy
medication. The sun was waning, the
streets were strangely quiet, everything seemed subdued. It was an early evening to take in,
leisurely, the beauty of this town, the colorful, historical buildings, the
sound of footsteps on cobblestones, what few people there were having a late
coffee or early glass of wine.
When I had
left the house some 20 minutes before, there were a couple of parents and
grandparents dropping off their little charges.
My husband had noticed through our window that a little girl was going
in carrying her ballet slippers and he smiled.
Coming home,
as I turned down the street, I heard music.
As I approached it became apparent that it was coming from the new dance
studio. And although I did not recognize the piece, just like when a certain
melody can magically transport you back to another time and place, I was
overwhelmed with memories and bittersweet emotions.
My initial
reaction was to smile. My neighbor and
friend across the street was on her balcony.
“It is nice to hear the music!”
Yes, it is. It is nice to have a
bit more life in our little piazzetta.
It is good for the town, especially since the quarantine, to have a
small business open, too.
A bit later,
while still hearing the studio music, I began to reminisce about my days in
dance classes. Going to the Danskin
store for slippers and tights. Our teacher was “Miss Bobbi.” She looked like Lynda Carter (“Wonder Woman”)
but this was long before anyone knew that.
I am going back to the mid and late 1960s. Her dark hair always up in a proper bun. Perfect makeup. Black leotard and little wraparound chiffon
skirt. There was a wall of mirrors and
another wall with a “window” that contained a mirror. That was the two-way mirror, so anyone in the
waiting room could see us inside. I know several friends were in the class with
me but I can only recall two, Linda and Angela.
I remember many evenings such as this one, with the taste of Fall in the
air, the quickening sunsets, that strange but beautiful silence.
Sometimes I
rode my bike. The studio was “just
around the corner,” in a non-descript, flat strip mall, it was the last “box”
on the left. Usually, however, I
walked. I’m not sure how far it was…I
had to get to our corner, make a right and go for several blocks to the end of
our “subdivision” and then cross Commack Road and head to the right until the
little row of shops. And with that
recalled, the tears began. Those sneaky, silent ones that creep down your face
without warning or control.
I cried for
the loss. Not of youth, not of
flexibility or dexterity, not even for the people long out of sight who are
only memories now. I cried because of
what all Americans have lost. You see, I
felt safe. Walking or riding my bike, I
never had a moment of fear – of a stray bullet, or a stalker or any kind of
harm. I knew where my friends
lived. I knew there were Moms and Dads
keeping watch. I knew I could walk up to
any one of those houses if I needed to and maybe the door would not even be
locked.
We moved
here in retirement as a place of comfort, affordability and peace. We have that and so much more. We have friends and acquaintances. There are doors I can approach if I ever need
to. We have a sense of belonging to a
community. “Salute alla
moglie”…”Greetings to your wife,” from the shopkeepers because since
quarantine, my husband, for the most part, has been the “designated
shopper.” Everyone knows everyone
else…if not personally, then by sight.
Italy has laws about the ownership of guns. Only the top tier of police carry them.
Is it
perfect? Of course not. There are people who don’t care for
foreigners, there are people who are mentally ill, there are “bad” people
everywhere. But I breathe a sigh of
relief whenever outside because I know, for the most part and more than I have
had the pleasure of feeling in many decades, that I am safe. It is a quiet life that some might find
boring but I love it.
What will
happen in November? What will happen in
January? Will Americans be able to ever
get back what they have lost over the course of the last forty years? Will they recover from the last four or will
they sink further into fascism? Will
everything that was being accomplished for civil and sexual rights be
negated? I can’t say. All I know is that I weep for my country and
for the generations who never knew the kind of security that my generation
knew. I weep for the loss.
Today we had the door to the balcony repaired. We have no idea how old it is…25 years? More?
Two double doors. They look
alright. But during a storm or strong
winds, they are weak. The wind comes
leaking in underneath. The last big
storm we had, while my husband was on the balcony taking hanging plants down
and securing things, I had to hold the doors closed or they would have blown
in, smacking the walls beside them.
Turns out that the locking mechanism within the doors was
broken. When? Who knows?
Chissa? It’s broken and useless. No wonder the doors blew in.
So our neighbor and friend, Domenico, took a while…a couple
of days…to find the right part. The part
is attached to a new handle, as well, which is fine by me. I have no love lost for the old handle.
He put it in today…had a cup of coffee with my husband….the
cats steered clear…Scaredy cats!! I had
two in my lap, one on the couch, two on the bed and one hiding within layers of
one of Harry’s beds. Want to go
outside? Ummmmm….no thanks.
While all this was going on, I was doing my daily “Duolingo”
lesson…Facebook stuff….and preparing dinner.
Today was a bit of an adventure because I made my very first
Tuna Casserole in Italy. WHY did it take
nearly two years? …………………..
We bought tuna to catch street cats so we could get them
sterilized. The pictures on the products
were always wonderful…but when I opened the cans…they were all in oil, not
water….the smell was obnoxious and permeating.
It was gray tuna, looked like cat food.
So, that put me off buying tuna here.
I should add I am “fish shy”…not a big fan…but I will take a
can of tuna….from time to time.
One evening we went to a nearby pizza restaurant…we don’t
frequent it often, but enough…..anyway….they got my order wrong. I asked for a “Margarita con cipolle.” That is a plain cheese pie with onions. Somehow…somehow….I got tuna. Tuna?
How does “cipolle” sound like “tonno?”I know they switched me with
someone else, but it was really busy and crowded (before Covid) and I did not want to send it back because I
had already bitten into a piece. So I
sucked it up and hated it. It was gray
tuna and very “fishy”….bleh.
I’ve been searching for tuna in Italy. Finally…finally…after nearly two years…….not
only did we find white albacore tuna but it is packed in water rather than
oil. The can says “one drop of water”
and they are not kidding! I had a cat
bowl nearby to drain the water into and out came…..”plip.” Plip?
That’s it? Yep…that’s it. One plip.
No more water.
I was prepared for and waiting for the odor of tuna to waft across the room and overwhelm everything. Nope. Nothing.
Now that we have identified our “brand”…I can buy it in the
future….tuna was never a “big” item on our list anyway, but I like knowing it’s
there.
We had the comfort of knowing our back door to the outside
world is now securely in place against wind and storms. And we had some comfort food from “back when”
that is even better here. Thank you, Italy. I love you.
La Guerra della Porta
Some background: The apartment directly above us is owned by a real estate agency. They tried to make it into a Bed and Breakfast (minus the breakfast) and it didn’t work.
Three or so years ago they rented it to an old lady. When we bought and when we moved in, she was living up there. Of course, we didn’t know any of this at the time and we thought that she had been there for many, many years because it seemed an inconvenient place for someone elderly to live. The stairway is 14 steps and they are quite deep. I, myself, cannot go up those stairs. They are also made of tile, so they can be slippery. I had also noticed that she ascended those stairs one at a time, like a child.
A year and a half ago the lady fell somewhere in the streets outside and broke her left wrist. Five months later she fell down the stairs and broke her right wrist. We were the only ones in the building when that happened. It was Palm Sunday, no one was around and we were frantically seeking help. Eventually, another neighbor drove in and saw us out in the chilly rain and helped to get the lady to the hospital.
The apartment next door to us is a studio. It had been for sale when we were thinking of buying this one, but it sold before we made a decision.
The day after I arrived in Italy (tired, just a little scared, cold and quite hungry) someone rang the doorbell. I opened it to see a middle aged woman whose first words were “Mio marito e morto”…my husband died. I was not very good at Italian at that point, but I understood that. I was able to grasp that she wanted to know if we wanted to buy the apartment. ??? Not at the moment, thank you…a little busy…exhausted and just…no.
She insisted on showing me the place anyway. As I said, it is a studio, a decent size, with the kitchen on the left, one back window and a narrow bathroom adjacent to the kitchen, which also has a small window.
It was not the time for us to buy another place and it took me three or four tries to finally make this woman tell me what her asking price was, which was WAY too high, anyway.
She was persistent for quite some time, but the situation was impossible. We needed a new boiler, refrigerator, bed, stove, oven….sorry, no…not now.
Since that time we have become more capable with the language, we have gotten to know our neighbors and we have more understanding of the situation.
The old lady upstairs is somehow related to the woman trying to sell the studio. I suppose that is why she was in the upstairs apartment, renting, since her relatives owned and sometimes used the studio downstairs.
Also since then, we have mused about buying the place if the owner would come down on her ridiculous price. Not only for a place for our daughter to stay when she visits, but if it were possible, I would break through the wall and make the bathroom twice as large and make the studio a master bedroom. It has a northern exposure window so it doesn’t get much light, which is fine for a bedroom.
The studio sat empty for more than a year. Until a couple of weeks ago.
The little old lady from upstairs moved into the studio. Of course, it is much better for her not to go up and down those stairs. There is just one little problem. Upstairs she had more windows and a south facing balcony. She also had more than twenty plants.
Somehow she expected to take all of these plants into the studio (which has neither the room or the light) or the courtyard. The courtyard???
The courtyard is enclosed, completely covered. It gets quite cold and has no light unless the front communal door to the entire building is open. I tried growing a shade loving philodendron out there and it nearly died before I brought it inside. I opted for a fake plant instead.
Since we were the only people downstairs, we put out a couple of benches for seating, an umbrella stand, we had the entire courtyard plaster repaired, we had the front door restored and we had some sconces installed for more ambient light (there are lights that go on for 3 minutes when you enter and leave but they are utilitarian and not attractive in any way).
The only time the front door is open is when one or both of us is there. Why? Isn’t it a safe place to live?
Yes, it is. However, every Saturday there is a large street market and people come from all over and in pre-pandemic days, there would be lots of tourists, too. Strangers, in other words. Second, there are lots of feral cats. Some of them are predatory males. They get into fights, they spray, they are not cats that we want wandering into the courtyard. Third, there are also people who let their dogs of the leash (!!!) and some of THEM chase the street cats and that is another thing we don’t want in our courtyard. And last, we now have some property in the courtyard which was formerly empty…lights, benches, an little end table. We don’t want them damaged or lifted.
Here is the problem. The little old lady brought her twenty or so plants downstairs and plunked them ALL in the courtyard. There is room OUTSIDE on the front step and beside it for several plants…south facing, just like the balcony they came from. She refuses to put any of them out there and we don’t know why. We spoke to her. Two other neighbors spoke to her. She won’t do it. It makes not one bit of sense.
Then, she started opening the front, communal door and going back inside her studio and closing the door, which doesn’t even have a peephole. Welcome, one and all, feral cats, wandering dogs and strangers.
We could see through our peephole if the door was open because of the amount of daylight. And we would go out and close the door, only to find it open again some time later.
Several times we were surprised by the post person or a delivery right at our inside door, rather than hearing the buzzer so we could release the lock outside.
Door open or not, the plants are dying. Roses, geraniums, cyclamen….they need sun, not indirect daylight. Twenty became sixteen, then fourteen and now about twelve. Gosh, what a surprise. That only took a couple of weeks. Oh, she waters them every day, by the way. And the terra cotta tiles on the floor are being stained from the runoff. The sight of dropped petals and leaves and drooping plants is not something that anyone in their right mind wants to be greeted with.
She rearranged the ones left two days ago and I don’t know what happened but there was a mud stain across about a meter of the floor. She was cleaning it up with a paper towel under her shoe. She’s old, and she can’t bend down. It’s a total mess. (Yes, we will clean it up.)
Two weeks of this. Door is open again! Ok….close it. An hour or two later…door is open again!
I printed out a sign. “For security, PLEASE close the door if you are not in the courtyard.” Did she see it? I have no idea. Does she care? Don’t know that, either.
I was coming in from having been out on an errand. One neighbor was in the piazzetta talking to another, both older men. “Buongiorno,” we all said to one another.
I turned to head to our building and the door was wide open. I was not facing the men nor was I talking to them, I was growling to myself…”Mamma mia!”…and I continued inside and shut the damned door. Well, life in a small town. Somehow that must have gotten back to the old lady. Something did, because the door is being closed once again. She still refuses to put some plants outside where they could survive.
Is she upset at me? At us? I don’t know. All I know is she was the one who told me, originally, to close the door because she was “all alone,” which she is not because she is not only related to the owner of the studio, but she has a niece who comes by at least once a week.
I don’t know, maybe I’m a total bitch. Would you feel “safe” if you lived in a multiple apartment dwelling and the entry door to all of them was wide open all the time? I wouldn’t. I don’t. Bad things happen even in nice places and I don’t want to invite them in. I am not sure if the war is over, but there is peace for the time being.
