12 December 2008
Not in the sense you might think. Not like, I thought I would go to the cafe but then I changed my mind and decided to go running. I mean that my mind is changing; my thoughts are changing. Last night I stayed up until 2am on skype with my best friend, and had to wake up at quarter to eight to get the kids ready for school. When they left the house at 8,25 I thought I'd pop back into bed for an extra hour's rest. Pulled down the shades, closed my door, tucked the blankets under my chin... Nothing. Couldn't sleep, could hardly rest. Whereas in college I could sleep at the drop of a hat, at nearly any time of day, this is why I can no longer relax:
Okay, I have to get out of the house this morning-- I'll go for a run-- I'll go to the gym because when I run in this cold it activates that old injury-- yeah, then if I go to the gym I can stop and get the cheese for the boys' lunch-- but it's the small DiPerDi [grocery store] which means they might only have the kids of mozzarella that R doesn't like to eat, so if he doesn't what else can I give them?-- Lauren, go to sleep! Go to sleep. You're going out tonight, and then waking up at 7am to take a train to Genova. Go to sleep-- I'd love to take them outside today, it's finally sunny. What can I give them for snack? Their parents won't do the big grocery shop until tomorrow... chocolate milk and cookies? Neither of them will eat fruit-- Check the clock, how much longer is this nap supposed to be?-- R has gymnastics today, F has catechism, I have to do F's English lesson. The parent-teacher meeting yesterday confirmed that he's bright but he lies a lot, especially about homework... how can we fix-- That's not your job, Lauren, just snack and afternoons. But then again, how can you lead by example when you're gone all the time? Maybe you shouldn't go awa-- Oh! Have to help R choose some toys to throw out to make room for Christmas things. What to get him for Christmas? Already bought one twin present for them, but then found another little tihng for R. Not yet for F. Maybe a board game, but if it's too hard they can't play it together, F can only play with one of his parents and then R will be all alone and then he will want to play, they won't be able to play, they'll lose the pieces-- We should go visit their grandma today. We havne't seen her for over a week. They will fight me, though, they hate going there because she doesn't have any toys. She does let them watch tv, though. Maybe I can get them a movie for tonight, but the money they gave me is running out-- Okay, run and the mozzarella and then home again, prepare F's lesson, pack for Genova (or I can pack tonight) (no, I'm going out tonight) (at what time? sometime after dinner, but not too late I hope because I have to get up at 7am) (I can sleep on the train) (no, the earmy morning train ride wil be gorgeous! Stay awake. You can nap this morning, instead.) (I AM napping!), kids have lunch, done by 2pm, P will take F to catechism, I'll play with R until we go pick up F, I need to make some photocopies but don't know if there's a copy place near the church... don't want to wander when I have the kids with me, they'll complain and it's too cold to bribe them with gelato, but maybe a hot chocolate-- then home for two hours, then gymnastics and English, then home for dinner and I go out and then I go to Genova and then it's Christmas-- how much longer do I have to nap? When--
I just don't nap. I can't. Not anymore. It's "What will they like? How long will it take? Will they fight over it, or can they share it? Does it mean I'll pay more attention to one and not the other? Is it educational/healthy/entertaining/safe? Can I do something else in the meanwhile?" My life is no longer my life, but theirs. I know that there are some au pairs, especially the live-out au pairs (who don't live with the family for whom they work) who simply co-exist with their host families, but I'm not the type of person to do that. Which means that I've given up naps - and peace of mind - for the time being.
18 January 2009
In Which She Doesn't Speak for Hours
9 December 2008
Yesterday Italy enjoyed a big holiday - Monday the 8th of December, a bank holiday, I think - and throughout the long, lazy day I wrote three letters. One was written in the morning, in a slim brown moleskin notebook, as I perched on a park bench in Parco Valentino. The River Po glistened through tall, naked trees. The sun shines yellow and weak upon the famillies who've braved the cold to bring their bundled children out to stroll and play, I wrote to my friend in Washington D.C., upon the runners and bikers who are always here; on me, in a down jacket and black beret, slightly disappointed that the exhibit I came to see is closed but grateful for the quiet, pretty stillness of this morning. It's like another Sunday, this holiday day. Cold and sunny just like Colorado. I miss it like crazy - am trying not to waste time looking back, but can't help it sometimes. You know.
Then, at the end of the afternoon or start of the evening (take your pick), I sat in a café with a Viennese coffee to write a postcard to someone in Albany, California. It was gorgeous today, sunny and cold. Everything sharp around the edges. Spent most of the day wandering Torino in my beret and wool scarf, just looking at everyone, soaking in the wintry atmosphere... The kids are growing, wild, frustrating, and rarely but sometimes cute. I oscillate between moments of euphoria and week-long periods of deep existential crisis. I draw and write and try to introduce good music, interesting idioms and American traditions to this family. I think "scaglie" means "sprinkles" in Italian.
The day before this day off I had been out for a jog in the isola pedonale, the nearby neighborhood closed to traffic, when I heard someone playing Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" on a grand piano before an open balcony window. I stopped my run to peer through his iron fence toward the piano. I knew that this crisp musical voyeuristic moment could easily slip into nonexistence if I didn't tell anyone about it... and then I lost myself in wondering how many moments just like this, profound slices of strangers' lives as they cross and recross, get lost each day? How many things do we not remember, each day? It was sunny and cold then, too, and magic. At that moment of listening I knew what I was doing here in Italy: soaking up a number of lovely moments, because I've earned the time, the luxury, to do so. There were and there will be times in my life during which I wish for the time to look about me with curiosity and without pressing worry (bills, rent, job), so I'm trying to embrace this year abroad as a gift to myself, twelve whole months of whimsy and leisure. It's hard not to look back in sentiment or forward in apprehension, and lose sight entirely of this, my original aim.
I'm currently plodding through a short volume in Italian called "Il cammino dell'uomo." The walk of man. Very existential meditation on the questions "Where are you? Who are you?" Makes for restless dreams. Why do I do this to myself!
Recommendations to everyone:
Listen to Cat Power's "The Greatest"
Watch "My Blueberry Nights"
Read Miranda July's short story "Roy Spivey"
Yesterday Italy enjoyed a big holiday - Monday the 8th of December, a bank holiday, I think - and throughout the long, lazy day I wrote three letters. One was written in the morning, in a slim brown moleskin notebook, as I perched on a park bench in Parco Valentino. The River Po glistened through tall, naked trees. The sun shines yellow and weak upon the famillies who've braved the cold to bring their bundled children out to stroll and play, I wrote to my friend in Washington D.C., upon the runners and bikers who are always here; on me, in a down jacket and black beret, slightly disappointed that the exhibit I came to see is closed but grateful for the quiet, pretty stillness of this morning. It's like another Sunday, this holiday day. Cold and sunny just like Colorado. I miss it like crazy - am trying not to waste time looking back, but can't help it sometimes. You know.
Then, at the end of the afternoon or start of the evening (take your pick), I sat in a café with a Viennese coffee to write a postcard to someone in Albany, California. It was gorgeous today, sunny and cold. Everything sharp around the edges. Spent most of the day wandering Torino in my beret and wool scarf, just looking at everyone, soaking in the wintry atmosphere... The kids are growing, wild, frustrating, and rarely but sometimes cute. I oscillate between moments of euphoria and week-long periods of deep existential crisis. I draw and write and try to introduce good music, interesting idioms and American traditions to this family. I think "scaglie" means "sprinkles" in Italian.
The day before this day off I had been out for a jog in the isola pedonale, the nearby neighborhood closed to traffic, when I heard someone playing Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" on a grand piano before an open balcony window. I stopped my run to peer through his iron fence toward the piano. I knew that this crisp musical voyeuristic moment could easily slip into nonexistence if I didn't tell anyone about it... and then I lost myself in wondering how many moments just like this, profound slices of strangers' lives as they cross and recross, get lost each day? How many things do we not remember, each day? It was sunny and cold then, too, and magic. At that moment of listening I knew what I was doing here in Italy: soaking up a number of lovely moments, because I've earned the time, the luxury, to do so. There were and there will be times in my life during which I wish for the time to look about me with curiosity and without pressing worry (bills, rent, job), so I'm trying to embrace this year abroad as a gift to myself, twelve whole months of whimsy and leisure. It's hard not to look back in sentiment or forward in apprehension, and lose sight entirely of this, my original aim.
I'm currently plodding through a short volume in Italian called "Il cammino dell'uomo." The walk of man. Very existential meditation on the questions "Where are you? Who are you?" Makes for restless dreams. Why do I do this to myself!
Recommendations to everyone:
Listen to Cat Power's "The Greatest"
Watch "My Blueberry Nights"
Read Miranda July's short story "Roy Spivey"
In Which She Manages to Pull It Off
29 November 2008
Thanksgiving, that is! After a couple of weeks of brainstorming, and one long day of preparing and cooking and shaking my head, I sat down at the end of a twelve-person dinner table with five Italians, three Americans, two Germans and a Swede to celebrate a special autumnal thanksgiving holiday. It wasn't seeing people tell stories at the table, hearing compliments about the food, nor sending my guests away with leftovers that made it all worthwhile; after a long night's sleep in my very own bed (explanation to come),
waking up a luxurious two hours later than I usually wake up, the stress of preparation really paid off when I came to the breakfast table this morning to find a sticky note that read,
Dear Lauren,
Thank you 4 everything...
all was great and well cooked! :-)
patrizia e alberto
First of all, you should know that our house has been under renovation for the past two weeks. Painting, knocking down walls, building walls, replacing windows, doors, furniture. Repainting things after one or both of the homeowners realise they don't like the color as much as they thought they would. (Test strips, anyone? Beuller?) Which means that each day there have been strange men -- and the occasional woman, but she's either the architect or the color consultant -- working in the house, making it difficult for me to shower, or dress, or relax, in what is usually my own space. This Monday I was evacuated from my room so they could paint it, and we planned for me to sleep one night in one of the boy's rooms so as not to inhale the fumes. All of my clothes and shoes and books and things were piled onto my bed and covered in a protective plastic sheet, and the painters did their job. But what had been a tranquil blue-green on the paint chip turned out to be a rather sickening institutional robin's egg blue, and one night in F--'s little twin bed turned out to be three nights as we had to choose a new color, wait for the new paint, and then repaint my bedroom. I slept horribly in his room, and had quite a time trying to weasel new clothes and belongings out from under the plastic covering each morning before the workers entered the room. It was maddening, and while I tried to remain calm and positive about being displaced in my own home, I entered Thanksgiving Day with four day's worth of unease weighing on me.
Friday morning I woke at 7,15 because both parents had to catch early trains to Milan, and I was in charge of feeding the boys and getting them to school. Alarm went off. I sighed, "Another day. Lauren, you can do this," and sat up in bed. Looked out the window. Double take-- what?? Snow! Everywhere! Walked across the room to the window to peer further over the balcony, and was astonished to see a layer of snow covering the roofs and streets as far as I could see. The first snow in Torino for a while, I was to hear later that day. Anyway, while it was beautiful in its way, all I could think about was the long walk I would have to take later that morning, home from our butcher, with a turkey of undetermined size in my arms... After I brought the boys to school and made sure the painters would take care of the kitchen before I began cooking in earnest, I sent a text message to my American friend Aubrey to request her company to fetch my bird. I peeled potatoes for Mom's scalloped dish while I waited for her to arrive. Together we took a bus to the butcher. "Sono qui per il tacchino. I'm here for the turkey," I told him, and didn't even have to mention the reservation name since it's highly unusual to eat turkey in Italy. P--- had asked him to please, please find the smallest turkey possible, because when last year's au pair did Thanksgiving they had turkey leftover for days and days, so I crossed my fingers when he popped the huge naked bird onto the scale... 5,8 kilograms! Roughly 14 pounds. Not bad. They wrapped it up in paper, plastic, more plastic, and several bags. I gathered it up like a baby and carried it all the way home through the snow. Aubrey laughed at me, and I laughed at me, and we agreed that it was better to brave the snowy streets than to take the raw turkey - however packaged - onto a public bus. I envisioned myself slipping on some icy curb and tossing the turkey/baby into the street, but Aub kept an eye on me and the three of us made it home safely.
I'll spare you the details of my laborious debate over whether or not to use a Reynolds turkey bag. Ended up using it, which turned out to be for the best because it was the smell of burning plastic that alerted me to the fact that I'd set the oven to "broil" instead of "bake," an error which, had it gone unnoticed, would have rendered the huge turkey inedible! I rubbed the inside with sea salt and lemon, slathered the outside with lemon and olive oil, stuffed the cavity with a slightly modified version of Aunt Kati's stuffing (no raisins, added big chunks of carrot), and tucked sprigs of rosemary and sage against the meat. Baked a big dish of scalloped potatoes, made a bowl of mashed potatoes, and popped two apple crumbles into the oven halfway through dinner so I could serve them steaming, with cream, for dessert. One of my American au pair friends brought a big green salad with tangerines, cranberry, and homemade vinaigrette; another brought a pineapple bread casserole; still another came with a dish of green beans and bacon. A Swedish student I met back in September informed me late in the afternoon that he'd only be able to stay for a little while because he had some guests in town, and I said, "Bring 'em along! We're going to have so much food anyway, and we'd be happy to have them." So they arrived with a humongous bundt cake, and the last guest, an Italian, came with a platter of assorted dessert pastries. What a spread!
I cooked all afternoon. The snow never stopped falling. When the workers went away they left behind them a clean but completely empty living room, and P-- and I hoped against hope that some couches would arrive before our guests did. It was getting on 6pm and didn't look likely. In the meantime, we checked and rechecked the turkey, took an aperitivo (glass of white wine and some sliced prosciutto on crackers), sliced four different types of bread, and tried to spruce up the bare soggiorno - living room - with table lamps and a flower arrangement, as all of the carpets and painting had been removed from the floor and walls whilst the painting was completed. We set the table with our colorful plates from Sicily, nearly all of the drinking glasses we own, three bottles of red Californian Mondavi wine, "hand turkeys" that I had made with the boys earlier in the week (remember those? trace your hand, draw a face, color the feathers), and little cornucopias I'd put together with fresh pine sprigs, autumn coloured leaves, and red berries from our terrace plants wrapped up in brown paper and bright fabric ribbon. The bell rang... first guests? We looked at each other anxiously. No! It was couches!! Yes! Two huge red divans, and a plush purple reading chair. Now we had a real socialising space!
The whole thing was great. The turkey came out moist and evenly roasted; I mixed the in-bird stuffing with some that I had set aside before; a friend helped me made gravy from the drippings; and we all enjoyed a long, lively dinner. The youngest boy complimented the turkey, which was a HUGE achievement-- he's one of the pickiest eaters I've ever seen, and to hear him say, "Molto buono!" almost made me cry. We did a round of "I'm grateful for..."s, exchanged Thanksgiving memories and stories, talked about traveling, and concluded the night with a conversation about Obama, the United States' political system, German stereotypes versus Swedish, and the Torino film festival. All over glasses of grappa, and tiny cups of Italian espresso.
Today, I rested. Tomorrow I run a 10k in the snow, with more than 3000 other participants. I think I am crazy. But I sure am trying to make the most of my time here, and I think it's working...
Thanksgiving, that is! After a couple of weeks of brainstorming, and one long day of preparing and cooking and shaking my head, I sat down at the end of a twelve-person dinner table with five Italians, three Americans, two Germans and a Swede to celebrate a special autumnal thanksgiving holiday. It wasn't seeing people tell stories at the table, hearing compliments about the food, nor sending my guests away with leftovers that made it all worthwhile; after a long night's sleep in my very own bed (explanation to come),
waking up a luxurious two hours later than I usually wake up, the stress of preparation really paid off when I came to the breakfast table this morning to find a sticky note that read,
Dear Lauren,
Thank you 4 everything...
all was great and well cooked! :-)
patrizia e alberto
First of all, you should know that our house has been under renovation for the past two weeks. Painting, knocking down walls, building walls, replacing windows, doors, furniture. Repainting things after one or both of the homeowners realise they don't like the color as much as they thought they would. (Test strips, anyone? Beuller?) Which means that each day there have been strange men -- and the occasional woman, but she's either the architect or the color consultant -- working in the house, making it difficult for me to shower, or dress, or relax, in what is usually my own space. This Monday I was evacuated from my room so they could paint it, and we planned for me to sleep one night in one of the boy's rooms so as not to inhale the fumes. All of my clothes and shoes and books and things were piled onto my bed and covered in a protective plastic sheet, and the painters did their job. But what had been a tranquil blue-green on the paint chip turned out to be a rather sickening institutional robin's egg blue, and one night in F--'s little twin bed turned out to be three nights as we had to choose a new color, wait for the new paint, and then repaint my bedroom. I slept horribly in his room, and had quite a time trying to weasel new clothes and belongings out from under the plastic covering each morning before the workers entered the room. It was maddening, and while I tried to remain calm and positive about being displaced in my own home, I entered Thanksgiving Day with four day's worth of unease weighing on me.
Friday morning I woke at 7,15 because both parents had to catch early trains to Milan, and I was in charge of feeding the boys and getting them to school. Alarm went off. I sighed, "Another day. Lauren, you can do this," and sat up in bed. Looked out the window. Double take-- what?? Snow! Everywhere! Walked across the room to the window to peer further over the balcony, and was astonished to see a layer of snow covering the roofs and streets as far as I could see. The first snow in Torino for a while, I was to hear later that day. Anyway, while it was beautiful in its way, all I could think about was the long walk I would have to take later that morning, home from our butcher, with a turkey of undetermined size in my arms... After I brought the boys to school and made sure the painters would take care of the kitchen before I began cooking in earnest, I sent a text message to my American friend Aubrey to request her company to fetch my bird. I peeled potatoes for Mom's scalloped dish while I waited for her to arrive. Together we took a bus to the butcher. "Sono qui per il tacchino. I'm here for the turkey," I told him, and didn't even have to mention the reservation name since it's highly unusual to eat turkey in Italy. P--- had asked him to please, please find the smallest turkey possible, because when last year's au pair did Thanksgiving they had turkey leftover for days and days, so I crossed my fingers when he popped the huge naked bird onto the scale... 5,8 kilograms! Roughly 14 pounds. Not bad. They wrapped it up in paper, plastic, more plastic, and several bags. I gathered it up like a baby and carried it all the way home through the snow. Aubrey laughed at me, and I laughed at me, and we agreed that it was better to brave the snowy streets than to take the raw turkey - however packaged - onto a public bus. I envisioned myself slipping on some icy curb and tossing the turkey/baby into the street, but Aub kept an eye on me and the three of us made it home safely.
I'll spare you the details of my laborious debate over whether or not to use a Reynolds turkey bag. Ended up using it, which turned out to be for the best because it was the smell of burning plastic that alerted me to the fact that I'd set the oven to "broil" instead of "bake," an error which, had it gone unnoticed, would have rendered the huge turkey inedible! I rubbed the inside with sea salt and lemon, slathered the outside with lemon and olive oil, stuffed the cavity with a slightly modified version of Aunt Kati's stuffing (no raisins, added big chunks of carrot), and tucked sprigs of rosemary and sage against the meat. Baked a big dish of scalloped potatoes, made a bowl of mashed potatoes, and popped two apple crumbles into the oven halfway through dinner so I could serve them steaming, with cream, for dessert. One of my American au pair friends brought a big green salad with tangerines, cranberry, and homemade vinaigrette; another brought a pineapple bread casserole; still another came with a dish of green beans and bacon. A Swedish student I met back in September informed me late in the afternoon that he'd only be able to stay for a little while because he had some guests in town, and I said, "Bring 'em along! We're going to have so much food anyway, and we'd be happy to have them." So they arrived with a humongous bundt cake, and the last guest, an Italian, came with a platter of assorted dessert pastries. What a spread!
I cooked all afternoon. The snow never stopped falling. When the workers went away they left behind them a clean but completely empty living room, and P-- and I hoped against hope that some couches would arrive before our guests did. It was getting on 6pm and didn't look likely. In the meantime, we checked and rechecked the turkey, took an aperitivo (glass of white wine and some sliced prosciutto on crackers), sliced four different types of bread, and tried to spruce up the bare soggiorno - living room - with table lamps and a flower arrangement, as all of the carpets and painting had been removed from the floor and walls whilst the painting was completed. We set the table with our colorful plates from Sicily, nearly all of the drinking glasses we own, three bottles of red Californian Mondavi wine, "hand turkeys" that I had made with the boys earlier in the week (remember those? trace your hand, draw a face, color the feathers), and little cornucopias I'd put together with fresh pine sprigs, autumn coloured leaves, and red berries from our terrace plants wrapped up in brown paper and bright fabric ribbon. The bell rang... first guests? We looked at each other anxiously. No! It was couches!! Yes! Two huge red divans, and a plush purple reading chair. Now we had a real socialising space!
The whole thing was great. The turkey came out moist and evenly roasted; I mixed the in-bird stuffing with some that I had set aside before; a friend helped me made gravy from the drippings; and we all enjoyed a long, lively dinner. The youngest boy complimented the turkey, which was a HUGE achievement-- he's one of the pickiest eaters I've ever seen, and to hear him say, "Molto buono!" almost made me cry. We did a round of "I'm grateful for..."s, exchanged Thanksgiving memories and stories, talked about traveling, and concluded the night with a conversation about Obama, the United States' political system, German stereotypes versus Swedish, and the Torino film festival. All over glasses of grappa, and tiny cups of Italian espresso.
Today, I rested. Tomorrow I run a 10k in the snow, with more than 3000 other participants. I think I am crazy. But I sure am trying to make the most of my time here, and I think it's working...
In Which She Describes for You A Typical Day
30 September 2008
Turin, Piedmont, Italy
7,15.
Alarm clock rings. I press snooze for five more minutes. The weight of my blankets, doubled against the beginning of autumn's chill until the central heating turns on October 15th, makes it hard to get up.
7,20.
Five more minutes, since I don't yet hear anyone in the kitchen.
7,25.
Sigh as loud as I want because I have my own room then throw back the covers, put on my glasses, fuzzy slippers. Bathroom, hair is insane. Go into F---'s room to raise the shades and bring out his backpack. Lay out his clothes for school. Pour a cup of tea, sit for just long enough to dip and eat a handful of little biscuits, then put out R---'s backpack and uniform shirt. Morning snack into both boys' bags (just a juicebox, because anything more intervenes with cafeteria lunch), shoes and jackets placed near the front door.
8,35.
Whew! They've gone - boys to school, Mom by train to Milan for the day, Dad to the office - and I finish my mug of tea at a leisurely pace. Shower, put in contacts, blow my hair dry (because if I don't, my new coif somewhat resembles the middle-aged female politician mullet), put on dance clothes under sweats, and grab an apple on my way out the door.
9,00.
Take my bicycle to two different outdoor markets to find a grey hooded sweatshirt for under 10 euro, because on my way home from H&M yesterday I realised that the 20 euro sweatshirt I'd just purchased from an international corporation could be easily replaced by a less expensive market-bought one of equal quality, and the original, returned. Scan the market tables with the shifty eyes of a seasoned veteran, no longer the starry-eyed browser I once was.
9,40.
Arrive at Belfiore Dance studio for a trial run at an advanced contemporary dance class. The teacher wears a pink bandana around his baldness, chain smokes until he has to come inside for the start of class, and knows most of the women by name. I proceed to make a nearly complete fool of myself by mixing up left and right, failing to catch onto the phrase in the across-the-floor combination, lacking the Italian vocabulary to ask the kinds of questions that would prove that I actually do know what I'm doing - "How can I shift my weight to more smoothly connect these two movements? In which direction should I look when I do this?" - but keep trying and smiling and turning the urge to cry into the fortitude to finish the class with a laugh. Afterward Eugenio tells me that it's good to do things that challenge us, otherwise we have nothing. Encourages me to come back. The girls in the locker room squeal over the fact that I am American - Californian, to boot! - and hope that I return so they can practice their English with me.
12,15.
On the way back home I run into the mother of one of the boys' friends, one of the two mothers in the neighborhood who don't work. This one's husband just designed the new Cinquecento. I tell her that I'm coming from the dance class I told her about yesterday, and that it was hard! She tells me that she's on her way to a trial class, too, but for Judo. Brava, I say, I can't wait to hear about it in the schoolyard this afternoon. Ciao!
12,20.
Back home, and have to leave again at 14,00. Put bicycle into basement, take the ancient elevator up to the sixth floor instead of stairs, since I can already feel my muscles getting sore from dance. Decide to be adventurous and try to make a soup: start a pot of water, add a half cube of vegetable stock, slice up a fat carrot and a medium potato, simmer them with three sage leaves. Check email. Go back to add a sliced sweet onion. Change out of dance clothes. Tighten some screws in my self-assembled IKEA dresser because the bottom drawer was beginning to sag, fold some clothes, and check on my soup. It tastes good! I cooked something! Pour the whole mess into a shallow porcelain bowl, grab "Portrait of a Lady" and two little wheat toasts, and enjoy a slow, quiet, yummy lunch alone.
14,00.
Put out placemats for the boys' merenda (after school snack), the sweats into which they'll have to change before we set off for their various sports. Take the bus to the train station where I meet an American girl with whom I've been emailing about teaching English; she's leaving the country soon and looked for someone to take over her clients, and while I am too busy to do it I know someone who is interested, so the three of us meet for a coffee. We exchange explanations of how we got to Torino from the States, and when I leave the two of them are still talking about teaching. I'm glad I put them in touch.
16,10.
Waiting in the schoolyard for school to let out. It actually is just like "The Nanny Diaries." Chat with the moms, and my two American au pair friends with whom I went out last night for a movie and wine adventure (Hancock, dubbed over in Italian, and after-hour drinks at a restaurant in the middle of closing... another entry...). The mom I had seen earlier says that Judo was a little too difficult for her, she's too old for that kind of physical activity. We laugh, the boys come out, and everyone goes home. While we walk the four short blocks between school and home I ask them about lunch (gross, as they say every day), class (good), tell them they can't have ice cream today but maybe tomorrow, all the while putting myself between these two little blonde boys and oncoming traffic.
16,35.
Arrive home, toss backpacks and shoes aside, commence to argue over F--'s gameboy. One runs to the bathroom, the other changes into his sweats. I pour identical bowls of chocolate rice krispies cereal for merenda, exchange them when R-- bursts into whiny tears over something his brother put into or did to his cereal, and opt for a plum and slice of wheat bread for my merenda. Turn right around to catch the number 10 bus to F--'s tennis lesson. On our way out I race the elevator in a shoe-tying marathon: they line up their feet, shoes untied, and I have to tie all four shoes before the elevator arrives at the top. I won!
17,10.
We dash against a red light to catch the bus, and cram into an unusually full car. I teach them the phrase "don't get fresh with me" when the automatic closing door clips my butt, which makes them laugh. We try to guess which stop will be the magic one that lets enough people off for us to breathe. (It's the third.) I accidentally get off one stop too early, but we still have ten minutes before F-- has to be there, so we walk/jog the long block past the Olympic Stadium (built for the Winter Olympics in 2006) to the sport building.
17,30.
We leave big brother at the entrance and turn around again to hop on the 10 going back in the direction form whence we came, to bring R-- to gymnastics. Meno male, thank goodness, we arrive at the bus stop five minutes before the next bus arrives, so we can rest our bodies for a bit. We practice naming body parts in English, and the bright little six-year-old asks how to say puzza in English? Stinky. "Stinky nose," he says, "stinky eyes!" This bus is thankfully emptier, but I choose to stand, holding R-- against me so we can look at all the people. A decent-looking university student wearing an orange sweater with big buttons notices from four or five seats away that my stream of upbeat English banter (I can almost see people's ears perk up when they hear me on public transportation), and gives me a lovely smile before descending the bus one stop before ours. Do you know him?, R-- asks, and I say, Nope!
18,08.
Walk into a madhouse of an athletic club: little girls in pink sequined leotards scamper between pairs and groups of tired Italian parents, waiting parents, protective parents. He changes into his non-skid socks, and I let him run into gymnastics class with his schoolmate Yaya. Sit in the hallway with the others. Mom texts me to see if he's alright, and that she'll be back from Milan in time to see the end of his lesson.
19,15.
Patrizia and I greet R-- after his lesson, get him dressed. She promises him some potato chips from the downstairs cafeteria bar for being so good. We run into a mother she hasn't in a long time and the two chat, pinch the cheeks of each other's offspring, and I stand there with a polite smile, waiting to be introduced. Doesn't happen. On the five-minute walk home her husband calls three times wondering where we are and if we'll be home for dinner. Yes, she replies, we're arriving! "Men," we laugh together.
20,00.
Home, finally. Dinner is a meat in tomato sauce, prepared this morning by the Peruvian cleaning woman, with rice and sauteed spinach. There are a few brief, airy comments about there being only one plate for dinner (fine with me, but some are still hungry). The kids talk about school, the parents about work, and we all breathe a sigh of relief that a new month starts tomorrow. A better month, they hope; the return from vacation to school and work is always tough. There's a quarrel over Nutella for dessert - one wants it on fruit, the other on bread - and I try not to giggle at A---'s sweet paternal confusion. This wheedling and mediating is what I do ALL AFTERNOON!
21,30.
I'm in the laundry room scrubbing down my Adidas, the ones that used to be white but now blend in almost perfectly with the pavement outside, when I hear someone scrambling around in the kitchen. Poke my head out to make sure it isn't one of the boys, and it's their mother. In a fit of bitterness the younger brother has hid the charger for the elder's Nintendo, and now he can't remember where it is. The older one is throwing a tantrum because his charger is gone, the younger because he wishes he had a Nintendo, and I slide the door of the laundry room closed. It's the biggest screamfest I've heard since my arrival (someone is shoving chairs and throwing toys), but I hear that both parents are actually involved in the situation. I consider myself off-duty.
22,00.
Turned down an invitation to watch the Juventus soccer match at a friend's friend's house, and another to a late-night university party at a friend's friend's apartment. Instead I put on my Colorado College running shorts, my XL "Democrats in Italy for Obama" t-shirt, and curl up on the couch with a mug of rosemary lemon tea to read my novel.
If you ever wonder what I'm up to in Italia, it's probably a variation of the day above. I'm nearly always exhausted! But generally content.
Turin, Piedmont, Italy
7,15.
Alarm clock rings. I press snooze for five more minutes. The weight of my blankets, doubled against the beginning of autumn's chill until the central heating turns on October 15th, makes it hard to get up.
7,20.
Five more minutes, since I don't yet hear anyone in the kitchen.
7,25.
Sigh as loud as I want because I have my own room then throw back the covers, put on my glasses, fuzzy slippers. Bathroom, hair is insane. Go into F---'s room to raise the shades and bring out his backpack. Lay out his clothes for school. Pour a cup of tea, sit for just long enough to dip and eat a handful of little biscuits, then put out R---'s backpack and uniform shirt. Morning snack into both boys' bags (just a juicebox, because anything more intervenes with cafeteria lunch), shoes and jackets placed near the front door.
8,35.
Whew! They've gone - boys to school, Mom by train to Milan for the day, Dad to the office - and I finish my mug of tea at a leisurely pace. Shower, put in contacts, blow my hair dry (because if I don't, my new coif somewhat resembles the middle-aged female politician mullet), put on dance clothes under sweats, and grab an apple on my way out the door.
9,00.
Take my bicycle to two different outdoor markets to find a grey hooded sweatshirt for under 10 euro, because on my way home from H&M yesterday I realised that the 20 euro sweatshirt I'd just purchased from an international corporation could be easily replaced by a less expensive market-bought one of equal quality, and the original, returned. Scan the market tables with the shifty eyes of a seasoned veteran, no longer the starry-eyed browser I once was.
9,40.
Arrive at Belfiore Dance studio for a trial run at an advanced contemporary dance class. The teacher wears a pink bandana around his baldness, chain smokes until he has to come inside for the start of class, and knows most of the women by name. I proceed to make a nearly complete fool of myself by mixing up left and right, failing to catch onto the phrase in the across-the-floor combination, lacking the Italian vocabulary to ask the kinds of questions that would prove that I actually do know what I'm doing - "How can I shift my weight to more smoothly connect these two movements? In which direction should I look when I do this?" - but keep trying and smiling and turning the urge to cry into the fortitude to finish the class with a laugh. Afterward Eugenio tells me that it's good to do things that challenge us, otherwise we have nothing. Encourages me to come back. The girls in the locker room squeal over the fact that I am American - Californian, to boot! - and hope that I return so they can practice their English with me.
12,15.
On the way back home I run into the mother of one of the boys' friends, one of the two mothers in the neighborhood who don't work. This one's husband just designed the new Cinquecento. I tell her that I'm coming from the dance class I told her about yesterday, and that it was hard! She tells me that she's on her way to a trial class, too, but for Judo. Brava, I say, I can't wait to hear about it in the schoolyard this afternoon. Ciao!
12,20.
Back home, and have to leave again at 14,00. Put bicycle into basement, take the ancient elevator up to the sixth floor instead of stairs, since I can already feel my muscles getting sore from dance. Decide to be adventurous and try to make a soup: start a pot of water, add a half cube of vegetable stock, slice up a fat carrot and a medium potato, simmer them with three sage leaves. Check email. Go back to add a sliced sweet onion. Change out of dance clothes. Tighten some screws in my self-assembled IKEA dresser because the bottom drawer was beginning to sag, fold some clothes, and check on my soup. It tastes good! I cooked something! Pour the whole mess into a shallow porcelain bowl, grab "Portrait of a Lady" and two little wheat toasts, and enjoy a slow, quiet, yummy lunch alone.
14,00.
Put out placemats for the boys' merenda (after school snack), the sweats into which they'll have to change before we set off for their various sports. Take the bus to the train station where I meet an American girl with whom I've been emailing about teaching English; she's leaving the country soon and looked for someone to take over her clients, and while I am too busy to do it I know someone who is interested, so the three of us meet for a coffee. We exchange explanations of how we got to Torino from the States, and when I leave the two of them are still talking about teaching. I'm glad I put them in touch.
16,10.
Waiting in the schoolyard for school to let out. It actually is just like "The Nanny Diaries." Chat with the moms, and my two American au pair friends with whom I went out last night for a movie and wine adventure (Hancock, dubbed over in Italian, and after-hour drinks at a restaurant in the middle of closing... another entry...). The mom I had seen earlier says that Judo was a little too difficult for her, she's too old for that kind of physical activity. We laugh, the boys come out, and everyone goes home. While we walk the four short blocks between school and home I ask them about lunch (gross, as they say every day), class (good), tell them they can't have ice cream today but maybe tomorrow, all the while putting myself between these two little blonde boys and oncoming traffic.
16,35.
Arrive home, toss backpacks and shoes aside, commence to argue over F--'s gameboy. One runs to the bathroom, the other changes into his sweats. I pour identical bowls of chocolate rice krispies cereal for merenda, exchange them when R-- bursts into whiny tears over something his brother put into or did to his cereal, and opt for a plum and slice of wheat bread for my merenda. Turn right around to catch the number 10 bus to F--'s tennis lesson. On our way out I race the elevator in a shoe-tying marathon: they line up their feet, shoes untied, and I have to tie all four shoes before the elevator arrives at the top. I won!
17,10.
We dash against a red light to catch the bus, and cram into an unusually full car. I teach them the phrase "don't get fresh with me" when the automatic closing door clips my butt, which makes them laugh. We try to guess which stop will be the magic one that lets enough people off for us to breathe. (It's the third.) I accidentally get off one stop too early, but we still have ten minutes before F-- has to be there, so we walk/jog the long block past the Olympic Stadium (built for the Winter Olympics in 2006) to the sport building.
17,30.
We leave big brother at the entrance and turn around again to hop on the 10 going back in the direction form whence we came, to bring R-- to gymnastics. Meno male, thank goodness, we arrive at the bus stop five minutes before the next bus arrives, so we can rest our bodies for a bit. We practice naming body parts in English, and the bright little six-year-old asks how to say puzza in English? Stinky. "Stinky nose," he says, "stinky eyes!" This bus is thankfully emptier, but I choose to stand, holding R-- against me so we can look at all the people. A decent-looking university student wearing an orange sweater with big buttons notices from four or five seats away that my stream of upbeat English banter (I can almost see people's ears perk up when they hear me on public transportation), and gives me a lovely smile before descending the bus one stop before ours. Do you know him?, R-- asks, and I say, Nope!
18,08.
Walk into a madhouse of an athletic club: little girls in pink sequined leotards scamper between pairs and groups of tired Italian parents, waiting parents, protective parents. He changes into his non-skid socks, and I let him run into gymnastics class with his schoolmate Yaya. Sit in the hallway with the others. Mom texts me to see if he's alright, and that she'll be back from Milan in time to see the end of his lesson.
19,15.
Patrizia and I greet R-- after his lesson, get him dressed. She promises him some potato chips from the downstairs cafeteria bar for being so good. We run into a mother she hasn't in a long time and the two chat, pinch the cheeks of each other's offspring, and I stand there with a polite smile, waiting to be introduced. Doesn't happen. On the five-minute walk home her husband calls three times wondering where we are and if we'll be home for dinner. Yes, she replies, we're arriving! "Men," we laugh together.
20,00.
Home, finally. Dinner is a meat in tomato sauce, prepared this morning by the Peruvian cleaning woman, with rice and sauteed spinach. There are a few brief, airy comments about there being only one plate for dinner (fine with me, but some are still hungry). The kids talk about school, the parents about work, and we all breathe a sigh of relief that a new month starts tomorrow. A better month, they hope; the return from vacation to school and work is always tough. There's a quarrel over Nutella for dessert - one wants it on fruit, the other on bread - and I try not to giggle at A---'s sweet paternal confusion. This wheedling and mediating is what I do ALL AFTERNOON!
21,30.
I'm in the laundry room scrubbing down my Adidas, the ones that used to be white but now blend in almost perfectly with the pavement outside, when I hear someone scrambling around in the kitchen. Poke my head out to make sure it isn't one of the boys, and it's their mother. In a fit of bitterness the younger brother has hid the charger for the elder's Nintendo, and now he can't remember where it is. The older one is throwing a tantrum because his charger is gone, the younger because he wishes he had a Nintendo, and I slide the door of the laundry room closed. It's the biggest screamfest I've heard since my arrival (someone is shoving chairs and throwing toys), but I hear that both parents are actually involved in the situation. I consider myself off-duty.
22,00.
Turned down an invitation to watch the Juventus soccer match at a friend's friend's house, and another to a late-night university party at a friend's friend's apartment. Instead I put on my Colorado College running shorts, my XL "Democrats in Italy for Obama" t-shirt, and curl up on the couch with a mug of rosemary lemon tea to read my novel.
If you ever wonder what I'm up to in Italia, it's probably a variation of the day above. I'm nearly always exhausted! But generally content.
In Which She Buys Her First Pack of Cigarettes
31 August 2008
Mom and Dad heard this one already, but it's worth sharing at the very least for its humor. My first and somewhat anticlimatic attempt at world-weariness. Accept my apologies for the melodrama.
Important to know that only a couple of hours before my frustrating phone call to vayama.com, I had closed Truman Capote's "Breakfast at Tiffany's" with the lasting impression that fear and sadness can be easily avoided with a martini buzz, the right accessories, and a rather loose (albeit vague) attitude towards men. Aubrey Hepburn's Holly, at the time, was my heroine.
Picture me nearing end of my last day of freedom before the C-- family returns from their week of vacation in Normandy, during which I stayed alone in Torino. It's early evening and the fading afternoon sunlight filters across the hardwood floors to me, barefoot at the marble-topped dining table upon which I've opened my laptop to read the email containing my international flight itinerary. I have the black cordless phone up to my ear, fingers beginning to cramp from their clutched position, and I'm thanking Jamie at Vayama for all of his help, accepting with strained civilty his scripted apologies about my situation. Long story short, I've just discovered that I paid close to 1800.00USD for what turned out to be not a round-trip but a one-way flight from SFO to Turin, Italy, and although that's considerably less than most international one-way flights nowadays it's enough money lost to make me hiss, "Shit. Shit. Shit," into the empty house. I sit for a bit like that, one foot up on the chair, the other on the floor, muttering aloud to myself, eyes going in and out of focus, until I get up and go into the kitchen to hang up the phone and realise that I need to get out of this house NOW. My frustration about losing the battle with the airline companies and third party, my impatience with telephone transactions, my anger with myself for not buying a one-way ticket at the start, underlined by an immense fear accompanying my spanking new lack of a conrete return date: all of these combined, if left to fester within me in this small space would soon leave me in no condition to receive the family back into their (my) home. Still had on the running shorts, wild hair and grubby t-shirt I had this morning. I paced the kitchen like a tense, caged animal. I had to get out.
Recalling the unshakeable composure of Capote's Holly Golightly, I thought what better way to take a furious walk than in style? It might lift my spirits to gussy up for all the strangers out there, all those unsuspecting people past whom I will boldly stride in my brisk walk down to the River Po to burn off some of these brittle, bright red feelings I have bundled up like so much tinder. I donned the black mid-thigh jersey dress from Old Navy that Mom sent me a few weeks back; slipped on my new black flats with sturdy, audible heels; cinched a little red belt around my waist, applied a generous amount of eyeliner and my new rose lipstick from Paris; angrily stuffed into a shoulder bag my wallet, mobile, an apple, journal; and then, with my chin up and unnecessarily huge sunglasses on, strode out of the apartment building onto the warm sidewalks of a European city transitioning from late afternoon to early evening. Ha-rumph! I hate you, vayama.com! Stupid United Airlines! Stupid three-month limit on my round trip ticket! Stupid lady who gave me the wrong info the first time I called!
Destination: The River Po. (When I came to this part of my story, Dad said, "No! Don't jump!") More or less fifteen minutes away from the house on foot, I figured I could steam along the oft busy Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II until the park near the River, then sit for awhile and vent into my diary like the predolescent schoolgirl I sometimes am before going home again. I walked two blocks in a blink, anxious anger settling into more of a vague mauve depression, when some mangy young "tamarro" (Italian word for the guy who drives by in a tricked out outdated sedan that once belonged to his uncle, wearing reflective aviators and blasting techno) approached me on the right, muttered something rude-sounding into my ear, grabbed a huge handful of my ass and squeezed it, HARD, before jogging away. I had just enough time to widen my eyes in serious, serious disbelief, and gasp aloud-- but, because of my dark Olsen-twin glasses, I think he registered only the lipsticked gasp, and I can hardly bear to think of the satisfaction he probably gathered from that. Ugh. What a PERV! My fury flared up anew, though this time shaded with indignation and disgust, and having no one to turn to I said to myself, You know what? That does it. I'm fed up with
being lonely,
with
sucking up my frustration!
and
impatience!
and
sadness,
with
not having any G.D. friends in Turin,
with
THIS
and
THAT, and
that other thing...
and worked myself into such a huff that I may have alarmed the poor guy who sold me my first packet of cigarettes in a convenient shop near the train station, Porta Nuova. I don't even know what kind they are, or what led me to choose the box I chose. Whatever I saw behind the counter that wasn't Marlboros (because that makes me think of the anti-smoking cowboy ads of my youth, the tan denim men toasting frothy beer mugs with body bags (Remember those?), and then I feel REALLY bad). While I've smoked a cigarette or two in my life, I've never before actually bought my own pack: a streak I was, afterward, somewhat remiss to break. The remaining seventeen now cower pathetically in the bottom corner of my handbag, ashamed of themselves for sharing my purse with the kids' juice boxes and afternoon snacks.
I digress. Basically, I was tired of being so danged healthy about my feelings and my body and everything, for taking care of myself for such a long time, being a good girl who generally does the right thing, and decided that I had experienced in this day two moments of such profound disappointment - in the travel companies that should have secured for me my passage home from this crazy job I've undertaken, and in Men (Yes. ALL of you.) for grabbing girls' butts. It's just. not. nice. So I bought some cigarettes halfway between my house and the River, eventually sat down on the lawn in Parco Valentino to write in my journal and proceeded to smoke three in a row. Also burned a couple of holes in the page, just for kicks. After ten or fifteen minutes of chain-smoking I stood up, brushed all the dead grass off my butt, noted the nasty blisters forming on my heels on account of the new shoes and not-so-leisurely stroll, and headed home. At a pedestrian stoplight I reached into my purse to light up one more, clinging stubbornly to my waning rage like the kid whose tantrum was interrupted by someone saying, "Don't smile! Don't smile!," keeps whimpering after the tears have stopped, when my hand instead brushed the apple... and Good, Rational Lauren shook an admonishing finger at wannabe Hepburn's movie character Lauren, brought the apple to her lips instead of the cigarette. When I got home I showered, hung my dress outside to dispel any odor of nicotine, and tidied up the house. Later that evening after a raucous reunion with the C-- family, I sat in the living room with the parents and told them about my cancelled plane ticket. P-- was mildly surprised at my frustration. Spreading her hands wide and lifting her eyebrows, she said, "Oh, but, Lauren. It's only MONEY." And very secretly in my head (next to the cowardly box of cigarettes nestled deep in my shoulder bag) I screamed at the top of my slightly-blackened lungs a series of ugly words in two different languages.
Mom and Dad heard this one already, but it's worth sharing at the very least for its humor. My first and somewhat anticlimatic attempt at world-weariness. Accept my apologies for the melodrama.
Important to know that only a couple of hours before my frustrating phone call to vayama.com, I had closed Truman Capote's "Breakfast at Tiffany's" with the lasting impression that fear and sadness can be easily avoided with a martini buzz, the right accessories, and a rather loose (albeit vague) attitude towards men. Aubrey Hepburn's Holly, at the time, was my heroine.
Picture me nearing end of my last day of freedom before the C-- family returns from their week of vacation in Normandy, during which I stayed alone in Torino. It's early evening and the fading afternoon sunlight filters across the hardwood floors to me, barefoot at the marble-topped dining table upon which I've opened my laptop to read the email containing my international flight itinerary. I have the black cordless phone up to my ear, fingers beginning to cramp from their clutched position, and I'm thanking Jamie at Vayama for all of his help, accepting with strained civilty his scripted apologies about my situation. Long story short, I've just discovered that I paid close to 1800.00USD for what turned out to be not a round-trip but a one-way flight from SFO to Turin, Italy, and although that's considerably less than most international one-way flights nowadays it's enough money lost to make me hiss, "Shit. Shit. Shit," into the empty house. I sit for a bit like that, one foot up on the chair, the other on the floor, muttering aloud to myself, eyes going in and out of focus, until I get up and go into the kitchen to hang up the phone and realise that I need to get out of this house NOW. My frustration about losing the battle with the airline companies and third party, my impatience with telephone transactions, my anger with myself for not buying a one-way ticket at the start, underlined by an immense fear accompanying my spanking new lack of a conrete return date: all of these combined, if left to fester within me in this small space would soon leave me in no condition to receive the family back into their (my) home. Still had on the running shorts, wild hair and grubby t-shirt I had this morning. I paced the kitchen like a tense, caged animal. I had to get out.
Recalling the unshakeable composure of Capote's Holly Golightly, I thought what better way to take a furious walk than in style? It might lift my spirits to gussy up for all the strangers out there, all those unsuspecting people past whom I will boldly stride in my brisk walk down to the River Po to burn off some of these brittle, bright red feelings I have bundled up like so much tinder. I donned the black mid-thigh jersey dress from Old Navy that Mom sent me a few weeks back; slipped on my new black flats with sturdy, audible heels; cinched a little red belt around my waist, applied a generous amount of eyeliner and my new rose lipstick from Paris; angrily stuffed into a shoulder bag my wallet, mobile, an apple, journal; and then, with my chin up and unnecessarily huge sunglasses on, strode out of the apartment building onto the warm sidewalks of a European city transitioning from late afternoon to early evening. Ha-rumph! I hate you, vayama.com! Stupid United Airlines! Stupid three-month limit on my round trip ticket! Stupid lady who gave me the wrong info the first time I called!
Destination: The River Po. (When I came to this part of my story, Dad said, "No! Don't jump!") More or less fifteen minutes away from the house on foot, I figured I could steam along the oft busy Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II until the park near the River, then sit for awhile and vent into my diary like the predolescent schoolgirl I sometimes am before going home again. I walked two blocks in a blink, anxious anger settling into more of a vague mauve depression, when some mangy young "tamarro" (Italian word for the guy who drives by in a tricked out outdated sedan that once belonged to his uncle, wearing reflective aviators and blasting techno) approached me on the right, muttered something rude-sounding into my ear, grabbed a huge handful of my ass and squeezed it, HARD, before jogging away. I had just enough time to widen my eyes in serious, serious disbelief, and gasp aloud-- but, because of my dark Olsen-twin glasses, I think he registered only the lipsticked gasp, and I can hardly bear to think of the satisfaction he probably gathered from that. Ugh. What a PERV! My fury flared up anew, though this time shaded with indignation and disgust, and having no one to turn to I said to myself, You know what? That does it. I'm fed up with
being lonely,
with
sucking up my frustration!
and
impatience!
and
sadness,
with
not having any G.D. friends in Turin,
with
THIS
and
THAT, and
that other thing...
and worked myself into such a huff that I may have alarmed the poor guy who sold me my first packet of cigarettes in a convenient shop near the train station, Porta Nuova. I don't even know what kind they are, or what led me to choose the box I chose. Whatever I saw behind the counter that wasn't Marlboros (because that makes me think of the anti-smoking cowboy ads of my youth, the tan denim men toasting frothy beer mugs with body bags (Remember those?), and then I feel REALLY bad). While I've smoked a cigarette or two in my life, I've never before actually bought my own pack: a streak I was, afterward, somewhat remiss to break. The remaining seventeen now cower pathetically in the bottom corner of my handbag, ashamed of themselves for sharing my purse with the kids' juice boxes and afternoon snacks.
I digress. Basically, I was tired of being so danged healthy about my feelings and my body and everything, for taking care of myself for such a long time, being a good girl who generally does the right thing, and decided that I had experienced in this day two moments of such profound disappointment - in the travel companies that should have secured for me my passage home from this crazy job I've undertaken, and in Men (Yes. ALL of you.) for grabbing girls' butts. It's just. not. nice. So I bought some cigarettes halfway between my house and the River, eventually sat down on the lawn in Parco Valentino to write in my journal and proceeded to smoke three in a row. Also burned a couple of holes in the page, just for kicks. After ten or fifteen minutes of chain-smoking I stood up, brushed all the dead grass off my butt, noted the nasty blisters forming on my heels on account of the new shoes and not-so-leisurely stroll, and headed home. At a pedestrian stoplight I reached into my purse to light up one more, clinging stubbornly to my waning rage like the kid whose tantrum was interrupted by someone saying, "Don't smile! Don't smile!," keeps whimpering after the tears have stopped, when my hand instead brushed the apple... and Good, Rational Lauren shook an admonishing finger at wannabe Hepburn's movie character Lauren, brought the apple to her lips instead of the cigarette. When I got home I showered, hung my dress outside to dispel any odor of nicotine, and tidied up the house. Later that evening after a raucous reunion with the C-- family, I sat in the living room with the parents and told them about my cancelled plane ticket. P-- was mildly surprised at my frustration. Spreading her hands wide and lifting her eyebrows, she said, "Oh, but, Lauren. It's only MONEY." And very secretly in my head (next to the cowardly box of cigarettes nestled deep in my shoulder bag) I screamed at the top of my slightly-blackened lungs a series of ugly words in two different languages.
In Which She Adds "Travel Writer" to her Resume
27 August 2008
After replying about a week ago to a craigslist:Turin ad seeking freelance bloggers, I just received an email of congratulations: my first article has just been published on the Venere Travel Blog!
www.venere.com/blog
It's called "Discovering the Film Archive," will probably be on the top of things for the next day or so. If you comment on my article, the editors will think I'm cool! And maybe they'll pay me more!
Thazzall.
After replying about a week ago to a craigslist:Turin ad seeking freelance bloggers, I just received an email of congratulations: my first article has just been published on the Venere Travel Blog!
www.venere.com/blog
It's called "Discovering the Film Archive," will probably be on the top of things for the next day or so. If you comment on my article, the editors will think I'm cool! And maybe they'll pay me more!
Thazzall.
In Which She Meets Many Strangers
15 August 2008
Paris, France
We came home for just one day, to do laundry and repack for Part II of our vacation, before waking up at 7am Friday to eat, dress, gather our bags, close up all the windows and shutters, and catch a taxi to the train station to meet A--'s brother and his two daughters for the 8,10 TGV train to Paris.
It took 6 hours to get from Torino to Paris by rail. During the journey the way I wrote a long letter to Christa; started Chaim Potok's "The Chosen," a travel gift from Alberto; napped for half an hour or so, as I can't help but do in a train's rhythmic cradling; listened to my iPod and gazed out the window. Somewhere in the middle one of the children asked, "Dove siamo? Where are we?," and when I heard someone reply, "Siamo arrivati a Francia. We've arrived in France," I raised the windowshade to find an entirely difference sky hovering over the landscape. The first thing I noticed about France was the clouds: they seemed whiter, fluffier, more voluminous, appearing in several layers - some nearer and heavier, some farther away and more like long pulls of cotton, still others even higher and wispier - so that, as our carrozze (train car) sped along at its famed hyperspeed, the varying distances of le nuvole created a staggering three-dimensional effect rivaled only in my experience by a view of the multi-hued ocean floor from an airplane. It was incredible.
And that was only the beginning.
From the very moment we surfaced from the tangled Metro (a long, whiny ordeal, as our bags were heavy, everyone was hungry, and our line was conveniently closed for the weekend of our arrival), I was dazzled. The infamous city of romance and magic managed not only to meet but surpass all of the expectations I hadn't wanted to admit I had built up since I started to learn to speak French, in the very first class of the very first day of high school, and left me breathless and dazzled by something new every hour of my five days. The family had an ambitious itinerary of museums and monuments, but informed me at the start that I was not required to do anything with them, as I was on vacation and thus free to roam around as I liked. I knew that I wouldn't be able to see everything, and contented myself to see one or two big things each day and spend the rest of it wandering side streets, taking the Metro as little as possible, listening and talking to all sorts of foreigners (as all the Parisians are gone!, for we arrived in the very middle of high tourist season). It's difficult for me to write about everything, as I feel like I learned so much in such a short time about me and my life and the possible directions my life might take, but I'll hit some highlights.
Jardin de Luxembourg: Our hotel was located right across the street from Luxembourg Gardens, the rambling spring green lawns and sand-colored promenades of which were frequented on sunny days by thousands of runners, readers, tourists, and locals alike, each with enough space to move about without feeling crowded. On overcast mornings and one grey afternoon, however, I found myself almost alone in the sprawling park with my baguette and English newspaper, made somewhat uneasy by way the avocado green garden chairs scattered about the edges of the forbidden grass had been left facing whichever direction the last sitter gazed and thus echoing the presences of so many strangers. The constables blew little silver whistles to warn people to stay off the grass, or to get down from this or that statue.
Free Hugs in Paris: I first took advantage of my vacation liberty by joining the throngs of tourists to mill about the grand cathedral of Notre Dame on Saturday morning. After lighting a candle in memory of Grandma Aczon, my role model (deceased January 2006), I knelt in an empty pew to shed a few tears, and felt my initial elation of being young and fancy-free in this beautiful French city turn into a deep, deep loneliness. I felt far away from home, isolated. I hurried out of the church and into daylight to lose my feelings in the crowded sidewalks, and as I walked I looked at the faces of people going the opposite direction. Among the strange faces I saw young blonde man holding a sign that said "Free Hugs" smile at me, a momentary connection, but I was so distracted by my feelings of self-pity that I continued on my way. A few seconds later I stopped in the middle of the of the sidewalk (much to the annoyance of the people behind me, I'm sure) to consider this rare opportunity to directly contradict my isolation distress* with a big, unconditional hug.
*Forgive the RC (Re-Evaluation Counseling) lingo for those of you who aren't familiar with it, but this is an interjection for my friends who DO know about RC and the significant role it plays in my life. Loneliness is one of my personal struggles, a big recording for me: that I deserve, that I have chosen, to be lonely. Somewhere along the way to adulthood I learned - wrongly - that loneliness is something that inherently comes with personal qualities like self-sufficiency and independence, and not something to complain about as its simply an effect of being who I am. Quite on the contrary, seeking time for myself does not mean that I don't need or enjoy the company of other people. One of the frustrating facets of modern American society/culture is the way it continues to oppress women with their own liberation by perpetuating the myth that a strong, successful woman is cold and unfeeling; that she relies on her shrewd mind to climb the ranks without the added help of a support network or place to discharge. In my own life I found that being smart in the classroom and seeking leadership roles among my peers, in combination with my natural desire for personal space and time, led to some confusion about loneliness: is it, in fact, a consequence of being independent and capable of taking care of myself? Is it my own fault that I have CHOSEN to isolate myself? (End of RC train of thought.)
After a moment's deliberation I turned around to find the Free Hugs guy. I creepily followed him for nearly two blocks before I caught up to him in the middle of hugging a heavy-set Englishwoman who gleefully exclaimed, "Isn't this lovely! A free hug!" I waited my turn. Then he turned to me with open arms and we embraced. Neither of us seemed in a hurry, so I put my head on his shoulder and seriously felt his hug say, "You are not alone, Lauren. Though you are half a world away from home and doing something new and difficult, I am here with you right now, and I think you are wonderful." It was one of the best contradictions to my isolation that I could have wished for, and when he finally pulled away I had tears in my eyes. (The Englishwoman had also misted up, and after he'd gone she and I hugged each other, too! Just because!) The simplicity of it, of having someone hold you for no other reason than that you are another human being who needs holding, was immense. I managed to say, "Merci, merci Beaucoup. Thank you, thank you so much," to which he replied, "Rien. It was nothing," and walked away radiating love.
*One more: The truth is that everyone needs and deserves loving human contact. This can be hard to remember, especially outside of RC community (my closest chance at regular contact lies in Milan, a train ride away), but for me, taking a big risk to physically contradict my distress recording -- that loneliness is an inevitable result of my choice to be an independent, assertive woman -- was better than seeing the Mona Lisa, ascending the Eiffel Tower or gazing down at Paris from the church steps at Montmartre. It was a moment of profound emergence from an old, chronic recording.
According to the official website www.free-hugs.com, the Free Hugs Campaign (est. 2001) operates under this credo: "What an amazing world it would be if we were known as people who have a smile and a kind word for everyone. No matter what our jobs are, perhaps the most important work we can do is to help and encourage others, especially by our actions. With constant threats targeted towards our morale and human spirit, kind and encouraging actions are needed to get us through our everyday situations, no matter how big or small they may be." Somewhere in Paris walks a tan, gentle-eyed youth who agrees with this idea. If you see him, hug him.
Dinner atop Le Pompidou: disastrous
Louvre: gigantic
Party of Ten in "The Swamp": Berkeley
Montmartre: San Francisco
Shopping at La Fayette: frivolous
Menu Fisse near L'Arc de Triomphe: like dining on the Titanic
The Freedom Pub: fortuitous
Aaron from OR and Mario from OH: also fortuitous
An Afternoon with René Miller: brown
Musee de Rodin: evocative
Le Tour Eiffel: electric blue
I'm pretty sure that while I was crossing a street near Arc de Triomphe, right after I took the photo of myself looking backwards at it, I became 22. Like... how can I explain it? All the bits of years that I had been missing, all those bits adding up to enough childhood and adolescence to keep me from feeling completely my real age, came rushing up to the surface as though they'd held their collective breath too long underwater and had to push up toward daylight with every ounce of strength they had. I almost made a noise from the force of it, of realising I was 22 years OLD. So this is what "coming of age" feels like. It hurts a little, and it's related in part to the purchase of my first serious lipstick (BeneFit's "dessert first"), and it has everything to do with being a stranger who is forced to carry home in her heart.
Paris, France
We came home for just one day, to do laundry and repack for Part II of our vacation, before waking up at 7am Friday to eat, dress, gather our bags, close up all the windows and shutters, and catch a taxi to the train station to meet A--'s brother and his two daughters for the 8,10 TGV train to Paris.
It took 6 hours to get from Torino to Paris by rail. During the journey the way I wrote a long letter to Christa; started Chaim Potok's "The Chosen," a travel gift from Alberto; napped for half an hour or so, as I can't help but do in a train's rhythmic cradling; listened to my iPod and gazed out the window. Somewhere in the middle one of the children asked, "Dove siamo? Where are we?," and when I heard someone reply, "Siamo arrivati a Francia. We've arrived in France," I raised the windowshade to find an entirely difference sky hovering over the landscape. The first thing I noticed about France was the clouds: they seemed whiter, fluffier, more voluminous, appearing in several layers - some nearer and heavier, some farther away and more like long pulls of cotton, still others even higher and wispier - so that, as our carrozze (train car) sped along at its famed hyperspeed, the varying distances of le nuvole created a staggering three-dimensional effect rivaled only in my experience by a view of the multi-hued ocean floor from an airplane. It was incredible.
And that was only the beginning.
From the very moment we surfaced from the tangled Metro (a long, whiny ordeal, as our bags were heavy, everyone was hungry, and our line was conveniently closed for the weekend of our arrival), I was dazzled. The infamous city of romance and magic managed not only to meet but surpass all of the expectations I hadn't wanted to admit I had built up since I started to learn to speak French, in the very first class of the very first day of high school, and left me breathless and dazzled by something new every hour of my five days. The family had an ambitious itinerary of museums and monuments, but informed me at the start that I was not required to do anything with them, as I was on vacation and thus free to roam around as I liked. I knew that I wouldn't be able to see everything, and contented myself to see one or two big things each day and spend the rest of it wandering side streets, taking the Metro as little as possible, listening and talking to all sorts of foreigners (as all the Parisians are gone!, for we arrived in the very middle of high tourist season). It's difficult for me to write about everything, as I feel like I learned so much in such a short time about me and my life and the possible directions my life might take, but I'll hit some highlights.
Jardin de Luxembourg: Our hotel was located right across the street from Luxembourg Gardens, the rambling spring green lawns and sand-colored promenades of which were frequented on sunny days by thousands of runners, readers, tourists, and locals alike, each with enough space to move about without feeling crowded. On overcast mornings and one grey afternoon, however, I found myself almost alone in the sprawling park with my baguette and English newspaper, made somewhat uneasy by way the avocado green garden chairs scattered about the edges of the forbidden grass had been left facing whichever direction the last sitter gazed and thus echoing the presences of so many strangers. The constables blew little silver whistles to warn people to stay off the grass, or to get down from this or that statue.
Free Hugs in Paris: I first took advantage of my vacation liberty by joining the throngs of tourists to mill about the grand cathedral of Notre Dame on Saturday morning. After lighting a candle in memory of Grandma Aczon, my role model (deceased January 2006), I knelt in an empty pew to shed a few tears, and felt my initial elation of being young and fancy-free in this beautiful French city turn into a deep, deep loneliness. I felt far away from home, isolated. I hurried out of the church and into daylight to lose my feelings in the crowded sidewalks, and as I walked I looked at the faces of people going the opposite direction. Among the strange faces I saw young blonde man holding a sign that said "Free Hugs" smile at me, a momentary connection, but I was so distracted by my feelings of self-pity that I continued on my way. A few seconds later I stopped in the middle of the of the sidewalk (much to the annoyance of the people behind me, I'm sure) to consider this rare opportunity to directly contradict my isolation distress* with a big, unconditional hug.
*Forgive the RC (Re-Evaluation Counseling) lingo for those of you who aren't familiar with it, but this is an interjection for my friends who DO know about RC and the significant role it plays in my life. Loneliness is one of my personal struggles, a big recording for me: that I deserve, that I have chosen, to be lonely. Somewhere along the way to adulthood I learned - wrongly - that loneliness is something that inherently comes with personal qualities like self-sufficiency and independence, and not something to complain about as its simply an effect of being who I am. Quite on the contrary, seeking time for myself does not mean that I don't need or enjoy the company of other people. One of the frustrating facets of modern American society/culture is the way it continues to oppress women with their own liberation by perpetuating the myth that a strong, successful woman is cold and unfeeling; that she relies on her shrewd mind to climb the ranks without the added help of a support network or place to discharge. In my own life I found that being smart in the classroom and seeking leadership roles among my peers, in combination with my natural desire for personal space and time, led to some confusion about loneliness: is it, in fact, a consequence of being independent and capable of taking care of myself? Is it my own fault that I have CHOSEN to isolate myself? (End of RC train of thought.)
After a moment's deliberation I turned around to find the Free Hugs guy. I creepily followed him for nearly two blocks before I caught up to him in the middle of hugging a heavy-set Englishwoman who gleefully exclaimed, "Isn't this lovely! A free hug!" I waited my turn. Then he turned to me with open arms and we embraced. Neither of us seemed in a hurry, so I put my head on his shoulder and seriously felt his hug say, "You are not alone, Lauren. Though you are half a world away from home and doing something new and difficult, I am here with you right now, and I think you are wonderful." It was one of the best contradictions to my isolation that I could have wished for, and when he finally pulled away I had tears in my eyes. (The Englishwoman had also misted up, and after he'd gone she and I hugged each other, too! Just because!) The simplicity of it, of having someone hold you for no other reason than that you are another human being who needs holding, was immense. I managed to say, "Merci, merci Beaucoup. Thank you, thank you so much," to which he replied, "Rien. It was nothing," and walked away radiating love.
*One more: The truth is that everyone needs and deserves loving human contact. This can be hard to remember, especially outside of RC community (my closest chance at regular contact lies in Milan, a train ride away), but for me, taking a big risk to physically contradict my distress recording -- that loneliness is an inevitable result of my choice to be an independent, assertive woman -- was better than seeing the Mona Lisa, ascending the Eiffel Tower or gazing down at Paris from the church steps at Montmartre. It was a moment of profound emergence from an old, chronic recording.
According to the official website www.free-hugs.com, the Free Hugs Campaign (est. 2001) operates under this credo: "What an amazing world it would be if we were known as people who have a smile and a kind word for everyone. No matter what our jobs are, perhaps the most important work we can do is to help and encourage others, especially by our actions. With constant threats targeted towards our morale and human spirit, kind and encouraging actions are needed to get us through our everyday situations, no matter how big or small they may be." Somewhere in Paris walks a tan, gentle-eyed youth who agrees with this idea. If you see him, hug him.
Dinner atop Le Pompidou: disastrous
Louvre: gigantic
Party of Ten in "The Swamp": Berkeley
Montmartre: San Francisco
Shopping at La Fayette: frivolous
Menu Fisse near L'Arc de Triomphe: like dining on the Titanic
The Freedom Pub: fortuitous
Aaron from OR and Mario from OH: also fortuitous
An Afternoon with René Miller: brown
Musee de Rodin: evocative
Le Tour Eiffel: electric blue
I'm pretty sure that while I was crossing a street near Arc de Triomphe, right after I took the photo of myself looking backwards at it, I became 22. Like... how can I explain it? All the bits of years that I had been missing, all those bits adding up to enough childhood and adolescence to keep me from feeling completely my real age, came rushing up to the surface as though they'd held their collective breath too long underwater and had to push up toward daylight with every ounce of strength they had. I almost made a noise from the force of it, of realising I was 22 years OLD. So this is what "coming of age" feels like. It hurts a little, and it's related in part to the purchase of my first serious lipstick (BeneFit's "dessert first"), and it has everything to do with being a stranger who is forced to carry home in her heart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
