It's just another day...it's just another day.

 When I was less than a teen, I looked forward, like mad, to turning sixteen.  My sisters (twins) had had a spectacular sixteenth birthday celebration..not sure of the restaurant, but it might have been the Waldorf.  There were white tablecloths and candlelight...music and gorgeous dresses, high heels, gloves (!!)...gosh, it was nearly magical...I couldn't wait to turn sixteen.  I used to look through the newspapers and I remember seeing an ad by Lord and Taylor for a dress...it was a drawing...but it was so beautiful to my childish eyes.  THAT'S what I want to wear when I turn sixteen!!!

My actual sixteenth was spent alone. No party, no nothing. Much like my graduation from high school, met with a whole lot of nothing, while my sisters had fancy white dresses and bouquets of roses. 

My grandfather (maternal) was, according to me, a wonderful guy. I know my father didn't like him, because he even, stupidly and cruelly, really...an example of the WORST parenting...made a cutting comment to me when he was getting me out of the lake to dry off because "big mouth" had shown up.  I was five.  His comment stung and stuck, along with others.  

I loved Grandpa and have many fond memories with him.  I wish I had more.  I wish I had sought more and insisted upon more.  At any rate, he had the audacity to die on Christmas Eve.  I don't mention it, I don't make it topic of conversation because it is not relevant to anyone but myself and might be considered inappropriate or rude, but I remember it each year.  Oh, damn it, Grandpa...you had to go and die on Christmas Eve??!!!

My work life in the US healthcare system lasted forty-four years.   At one point, I became a "unit clerk" so I could work nights and weekends and be home with my child more in the daytime, during the week.  I did that until she was in school.  They were some of the most demanding years of my life. 

Not only because my child had autism, not only because my husband, going through law school and the first stages of bipolar disorder (unbeknownst to anyone), but because the job of a unit clerk is not an easy one.  They are, in fact, grossly underrated and underpaid.  They work shifts, they have tremendous responsibilities and they are perceived as "peons."  All that being beside the point, when I was training, I trained on various hospital floors and one was the children's ward.  It nearly broke me.

Michigan is not known for its glorious weather. One absolutely perfect and spectacular day in May, during my shift, which began at 4 in the afternoon, a family gathered at the bedside of a twelve year old girl.  She died before my "lunch" break.  The sun was still shining, the birds were singing, flowers were blooming and I walked through the halls of the hospital until I came to a spot by a courtyard and there was no one around.  I sat and cried.

It was then I realized that bad things happen every day.  Good things, probably, too.  I sat there, in the late afternoon sun, on a splendid day, and tried to understand how a young girl could die on such a spectacular spring afternoon.  We don't get to choose our birthdays...or the day that we die.  We don't get to choose when a serial killer will attack, or when a car accident will happen (every day, somewhere) or when  a virus strikes a population or a volcano erupts.  Bad things happen...on someone's birthday, on someone's anniversary, on a holiday.  We don't get to choose.  

What we do get to choose is to recognize that and pay homage, in our way.  We don't get to burden other people with our loss or our sorrow that they may not understand or share.  Not that they shouldn't know....at all.....I told my husband about my Grandpa, once.  I've never told anyone about the little girl in the hospital.

I could walk around carrying my weight of sorrow all the time....I remember when a certain person died, when a certain beloved pet died, when a past tragedy happened, old anniversaries and endings.  But, I cannot continue to live in constant, crippling pain.  I nod my head to it and I raise my head and move on.  The burden is heavy and gets heavier with passing time, but I cannot foist it on someone else.  It isn't theirs to bear.  They will know their own.

We can tick off the days in sorrow or choose to meet them with, I suppose a degree of courage...and stamina....rather than with debilitating grief.  

We don't "do" holidays much anymore.  We don't live in the US, so those don't make much of a blip here and with time we tend to forget, but they were losing their meaning for us anyway.  We don't make much of other "fake" holidays either...Valentine's, for instance....we acknowledge our birthdays and anniversary....and do a "Festivus" dinner every December.  And I remember Grandpa...silently.

Oh, yes, wait a minute Mr. Postman!

When you are an American living in a foreign country, you have to have a mail forwarding service.  Only because the US Post Office does not offer this service.  In other words, they forward mail within the United States but not overseas.  They could.  You could sign up and pay a monthly fee and extra fees for those things (packages) that go above and beyond....it would help the Post Office and it would help ex-pats.  But....no such service exists.

What you have to do, as an ex-pat, is find a mail forwarding service.  What fun.

I shopped around and was not happy with anything, quite frankly, but I had to choose so I settled on one that is "popular" and has been around a while.  There is a modest monthly fee of twenty dollars.  However, the cost racks up quickly as the mail arrives and departs.  You get an American address to use, for instance, with our American bank, which does not take foreign addresses.  So any and all mail from our bank goes to the "virtual" address.  The service is supposed to show you everything that arrives.  You then have the option to have it opened and scanned (for a fee), or sent (for a fee), or thrown away. If you recognize something from the envelope, you can skip the scan and just have it sent.  Let me tell you, international mail is expensive. 

Along the way, I have experienced problems, such as NOT seeing things in my "virtual mailbox" that get sent here..for a price...rather than thrown away. I have faced the choice of having something scanned or sent because both cost about the same.  It depends on whether or not an original is required.  I have waited seemingly forever for something to arrive.  When it is "tax time" waiting is not always an option, so then there are "express" fees.

Luckily, as time passes, the mail continues to dwindle down to a mere trickle, so the additional costs have lessened.  

Since we are still under restrictions here, and because we have far too many  housecats, and because Spring is hinting here and there that it will arrive, I decided to buy a pillow from Pier One.  

When I was in the U.S. I was a "member' and got points and discounts.  Sometimes it was just fun to poke around the store just to get ideas, inspiration.  There is no store like it anywhere near here, or one that I could reach.  Being quarantined and confined for a year now, I was itching for something fresh to look at that the cats could not destroy.  Pier One online was the way to go.

I found a pillow (on sale!) but they don't ship internationally. No worries.  I'll just have it sent to my "virtual mailbox" and it will be forwarded here.  It's a pillow.  How much could it cost?

Said pillow, in the package, weighs TWO pounds.  2.  Just two little pounds.

The email happily announced that the pillow was on its way for a whopping TWO HUNDRED and NINE DOLLARS!!!!   Do you know the feeling when you go up in an express elevator and your stomach seems to drop to your ankles?

The deed was done, the pillow was already winging its way here via Fed Ex.  I "chatted" online with a representative from the mail service.  "209!!????"  The answer was "Packages over four pounds are sent via Fed Ex International, here are the rates."  "The package weighs 2 pounds."  "Yes, but the DIMENSIONS of the box matter."  "WHAT?"  "The dimensions cause the package to take up more space on the airplane."  So now we have to be Fed Ex packaging and pricing experts?????  I'm so freaking livid.  

I asked my daughter if, in the future, I could send something to her and she could just mail it to me.  She told me the little package she sent at Christmas via the Post Office cost $165.00.  

There's no good side to this.  The most expensive pillow in the damned world is the last thing I will ever purchase from the U.S.  Lesson learned the hard way.

P.S.: Don't tell my husband and try not to laugh.

Addendum:  For those who love cats, I have another blog about our menagerie here that we have acquired since moving.  www.gattitudeblog.blogspot.com

One of those flights on gossamer wings...

 Ah, Italia!  I do love it here, there is so much to recommend it.  Gorgeous vistas, excellent food and wine, a mild climate, that sense of community, the lack of violence, particularly gun violence.  

Of course, there are downsides.  One of them is the infamous Italian bureaucracy. It doesn't matter how much you research, how much you prepare, or how much you read, there is always the unexpected.

I know that a certain piece of information is most definitely not anywhere included in the information on the Consulate website.  I am sure I did not come across it in any of the articles or blogs that I read.  With absolute certainty no one at the Questura advised us.  And, even when we dutifully showed up at the Municipale with our very first Permesso, and we were issued "cittadine" cards (residents of this town) not a soul told us we would have to show up each and every time we got a new Permesso.  After all, the cittadine cards are good for 10 years!  Chissa? Who knew?!

Besides, there was a little virus going around, and our second Permesso was delayed by nine months.  

A very official looking letter arrived yesterday.  It was in duplicate, hand signed and stamped with an official stamp.  It cited several ordinances, (you have violated regulation whatchemacallit , section such-and-such along with regulation blahdeeblah) which was a bit alarming.  

Turns out, as foreigners here (outside of the EU) we have to present the new permesso within sixty days of applying for it, or, if the actual card is not ready, the receipt from the post office proving the request was sent in. 

The new prime minister of Italy has appointed several people to the task of bringing Italy into the 21st Century with computer technology.  It's there already! But, the left hand doesn't talk to the right hand.  As in, why can't the Municipale just look up our new permessi via computer by accessing the Ministry of the Interior?  Or, conversely, why can't the Posta or the Questura notify the Municipale when someone applies?  It saves time, paper and potential problems. *like a pandemic

My husband reacted with his usual over the top anxiety, putting me on edge.  I emailed the official who sent the letter to say that we would take care of it immediately.

We trucked off this morning...a lovely, almost warm, sunny day with a clear, blue sky.  The Municipale is just up in the main piazza, housed in an ancient former monastery.  The cards were presented, copied and that was that.  Problem solved.  Another hoop to jump through that you just have to know about because NOBODY tells you. 

We were told to understand that this is a local level "thing"...it isn't like the Italian government is coming after us.  Tranquille.  Ok....so what would happen if we never showed the new Permesso?  Well, maybe nothing.  On the other hand, maybe you could be thrown out of the country.  Hard to say.  It's just....one of those things.

Imagine

 

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?

Who knows where the time goes?

 

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?

Tell me, over and over and over again....

 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.

But that was yesterday, and yesterday's gone

 

In this Medieval town, we live next to a building that dates back to the 12^th 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.