Today, I was scheduled to docent a tour at the California Museum at 9:45am. It's about a fifteen minute drive to the museum from my house, door to door.
Today, I went out to my car to head to the museum and when I pressed the garage door opener, it went about four inches up (all askew) and then stopped. I pressed the button again, and the door went back down. I pressed again, and again it went up about four inches (again, all askew) and stopped. The garage door was broken. I was stranded. There was no way to get my car out. I had no way to get to the museum.
I called Dave, who happened to be at the gym. He headed home, and assessed the situation. The garage door was, indeed, broken. He handed me his keys. I headed out to the museum.
I arrived at the museum at 9:40am. Five minutes before I was scheduled. In time to greet my group of fourth graders. In time to do my job.
Thank you, Dad.
Thank you for all the years we left our house bleary-eyed because we got up before the crack of dawn.
Thank you for all the years that we arrived at the airport hours before our flight.
Thank you for enduring all of the teasing that went (goes) with arriving at the airport hours early.
Thank you for instilling in me the idea that early is on time.
Today, I was scheduled to docent a tour at the California Museum at 9:45am. My garage door broke. I couldn't get my car out. Dave had to drive home from the gym and give me his car keys.
And today, even with all of that crazy happening, I arrived at the museum with time to spare. Because I left early. Because that's what you taught me.
Thank you, Dad :)
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Forever Fifty
Note: All credit for the idea for this particular post goes to my cousin Paige.
My (sister) cousin Paige and I were recently talking about Christmas gifts for our daughters, who are in their early 20's. It came to light that these two young women both love the store Zara. Carly had just been shopping there and brought home several cute work dresses (I saw them--they really were very cute) and Olivia had gone shopping there with her grandmother and said she picked out a few cute blouses that would be work-appropriate.
I took a look at the Zara website. I'm short on Christmas ideas this year (Dave needs a few from me) so I thought maybe, given that both girls were enthusiastic about how great the clothes were, I'd find something cute that I could request for me.
Let's just say that I did not find anything even remotely plausible as a gift idea for me. That's not to say there wasn't cool stuff. There was. If you're twenty-one. Or twenty-three. Or in your twenties at all. Possibly if you're in your very early thirties and are just one of those hip people. But there was most definitely not anything for, ok let's call it the "mature" woman. Shut up.
It pains me to admit this, but I am a solid thirty years too old to shop at Zara's. And that's SOLID in all caps. For funsies, below is a visual comparison of what I'm looking for contrasted with what Zara's offers. See if you can guess which is which...
My (sister) cousin Paige and I were recently talking about Christmas gifts for our daughters, who are in their early 20's. It came to light that these two young women both love the store Zara. Carly had just been shopping there and brought home several cute work dresses (I saw them--they really were very cute) and Olivia had gone shopping there with her grandmother and said she picked out a few cute blouses that would be work-appropriate.
I took a look at the Zara website. I'm short on Christmas ideas this year (Dave needs a few from me) so I thought maybe, given that both girls were enthusiastic about how great the clothes were, I'd find something cute that I could request for me.
Let's just say that I did not find anything even remotely plausible as a gift idea for me. That's not to say there wasn't cool stuff. There was. If you're twenty-one. Or twenty-three. Or in your twenties at all. Possibly if you're in your very early thirties and are just one of those hip people. But there was most definitely not anything for, ok let's call it the "mature" woman. Shut up.
It pains me to admit this, but I am a solid thirty years too old to shop at Zara's. And that's SOLID in all caps. For funsies, below is a visual comparison of what I'm looking for contrasted with what Zara's offers. See if you can guess which is which...
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Can you tell which one is Old Navy and which one is Zara's? Here's a hint... which one of these can you absolutely NOT picture me wearing (and if you did try to picture me wearing it, I apologize that you can't unsee that)?
Young women are looking for stylish. They're looking for trendy, hip. They're looking for looking good.
I, on the other hand, am looking for comfortable. I want something that fits, but isn't tight. I like my tops to hang, not cling. I'd prefer the bottom of my tops to extend well past my belly button. I don't necessarily want anyone to notice me (except Dave--and actually, if I wore that red top he would most certainly notice me; but honestly I don't really have a problem with Dave not noticing me enough, so that's a hard no on the red top regardless).
Perusing the Zara website made me realize that women like me should have our own website. Forever 50. Named after Forever 21, but with literally nothing else in common with that store other than a similar name. Truly, really nothing else in common. Have you BEEN in Forever 21? I'm amazed anyone can find anything in that store. It's huge and every square foot is a MESS! It always looks as though a tornado has ripped through it. (Odds are good that I am not Forever 21's target demographic)
Forever 50 would be a medium-sized store--Old Navy is too big and Madewell is too small--somewhere in between. There would be no size 0's. Seriously, who do you know that's over fifty who's a size 0? Racks of merchandise would be nicely and neatly spread out so that you could actually see what's there without feeling like you're dumpster diving.
And okay, let's be honest--nothing in Forever 50 is going to be made of spandex. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
It's all going to be made out of 100% cotton fleece!
No, just kidding (sort of). I mean, you can't really have jeans made out of fleece. Can you? Seriously, can you? Because if that's a possibility, then count me in! But okay, probably not possible. So maybe not everything out of fleece, but everything made out of some derivation of cotton. Yes, it will require ironing. But it will be comfortable. You don't want to iron? Have fun in your spandex...
Forever 50 will have some good Queen music playing, quietly but audibly, in the background. There will be no fluorescent bulbs. It will all be soft lighting, casting a warm glow. There will be prosecco available. Do NOT feel guilty drinking prosecco at 10am while you shop. You are over fifty--you get to drink prosecco whenever you want (I could swear I read that somewhere...). Saleswomen will be present, but will not pester you. There will never be a line at the register (I don't know how that's going to happen, but let's just go with it).
Forever 50 will have beautiful clothes. Comfortable clothes. Useful clothing that you will wear and feel good wearing. It will be the store for "mature" women (shut up). But there will be limits.
There will be no Crocs.
Sunday, December 2, 2018
La Dolce Vita
Dave and I got back from Italy over three months ago. I have had so much swirling around in my head since then, and yet almost none of it has made its way onto the (figurative) page. It's not writer's block. It's kind of the opposite. Italy--its people, its culture, its land, its food, its history, really its everything--so consumes me that I don't even really know where to begin trying to convey my delight in the two weeks we spent traipsing through four cities we had never before explored. I want to go back.
So here it is--my love letter to Italy. If you can possibly read it while slowly sipping an Aperol spritz I can't see how that wouldn't make you feel just a bit more of the amore.
As our plane slowly descended toward Malpensa airport just outside of Milan, I already felt the magic. The countryside. Tiny farmhouses dotting huge expanses of green. I wondered if those houses had been there for hundreds of years. Not the ones with the backyard in-ground pools. Those probably were slightly newer. But the other ones. Who built them? Were the people living there rooted to that land for centuries? Might there be wood-fired ovens in their kitchens, ready to bake a Margherita pizza any night of the week? (It's possible I have a tendency to romanticize Italy. I probably could have gotten mugged on our trip and I'm confident I would retell the tale in such a way that you would wish you had been mugged with me).
We hadn't even landed yet and I was enamored. Deeply. That's Italy's effect on me.
Italy transforms the ordinary to extraordinary, the mundane to the spiritual. If you asked me how we got from the airport to our hotel in Milan, I would happily, dreamily recount the journey, which in reality involved figuring out what train to board, where to get off said train, and then navigating a couple of city streets to arrive at our destination. It wasn't a particularly long or difficult trek, but I'm pretty sure that I could describe the hour-long trip in such a way as to convince you that it was a holy pilgrimage, at the end of which we were rewarded with warmth, hospitality, a beautiful room AND (bonus!) a bottle of champagne (thanks Mom and Dad).
I will not, however, regale you with the story of a short train ride and a ten minute walk. Again, I could. Regale you, I mean. You definitely would be enthralled (with the way I would tell it; maybe not the way Dave would tell it). But there's a better story that comes right after that one, so let's start there. We've checked into our hotel in Milan. Which is beautiful. Marble floors. Sleek lines. Chic furniture.
After a short rest, we decide to explore. We head out in search of the Duomo cathedral, which is the heart of Milan. We wind through a few small streets, onto a bigger street, onto a bigger street, come around a corner and BAM!, out of nowhere we are hit with this view.
The Duomo. It is imposing. It is breath-taking. It is a cathedral. I get that. Generally, if you're going to give your church such a title, it would not be unexpected that it would be rather grand. But words just can't. I can't even finish that sentence. I've seen cathedrals before. Not like this. You should go there. Because that's the only way you're going to understand its magnificence. So since words utterly fail me with regard to this masterpiece, I'm going to move on. Otherwise it's just not fair to the Duomo.
Milano. Where the gelato shop to human ratio is about 1:1. I am not complaining about that. I'm also being semi-serious. You cannot walk a block without encountering a tiny little storefront that has twenty flavors of homemade, creamy deliciousness. (side note, America: nowhere in Italy are you going to find "artisanal" flavors like olive-oil/tomato or carrot/habanero) We had gelato every. single. day. in Milan, sometimes twice a day. I regret not having it a third time.
Milan, like every Italian city I presume, has delicious food. Our first dinner was alfresco at a street-side cafe--just what you'd picture. Charming waiter, great pizza, late-night romantic atmosphere, cathedral in the background. It was our second dinner, however, that was the more memorable. We had asked our hotel staff for a recommendation, and they directed us to a tiny restaurant literally around the corner--maybe forty steps away, named Andry. Our dinner began with our waiter presenting us each with a glass of prosecco (and really, isn't that how every meal should begin?). As we perused the menu a small basket of focaccia arrived. We ordered wine. We ordered dinner--crab pasta for Dave, cacio e pepe for me. Mine was divine. There's not much to cacio e pepe, as the name suggests. Pasta, cheese, pepper. That's pretty much it. But if you do it right--deliciozo, and mine was definitely done right. Dave's, unfortunately, was not great. And that might be an understatement. It was downright inedible. Suffice it to say there should not be crab pasta offered if you're down to the dregs of the crab meat. However, the waiter was attentive and noticed that Dave was not eating his dish. He offered that they would make him whatever he wanted to replace it and Dave ended up with a shrimp pasta dish that was not just delicious but beautiful! The shrimp were some special variety that are this vibrant red that honestly neither of us had ever seen in a shrimp before. A feast for the eyes and the appetite. We had a second glass of wine and cleaned our plates. At which point the waiter (and if memory serves we now might have had two waiters attending to our every need) brought us each a limoncello because again, isn't that how every meal should conclude? And just for fun, they then brought us each a meloncello, which is like drinking a shot of creamy cantaloupe with a kick. Just amazing. This is how dinner goes in Italy. It takes a couple of hours, but it's relaxed. It's yummy. It's friendly. No one is trying to get you to eat faster so they can have the table. You can stay all night drinking digestifs and chatting it up with the wait staff, who are all utterly endearing, especially if you are trying to speak Italian with them. Even if you can't really speak Italian.
So that was our night at Andry.
In the next several days in Milan we walked around gazing at the sights and people watching, but again and again we found ourselves at the Duomo. The enormity, the mystery, the beauty--it's like Italy built a church that perfectly proclaims itself.
After a few days of circling the Duomo and enjoying the elegance of Milan, we boarded a train for Genoa.
Before I go any further, a brief word regarding navigating (some) Italian cities with your iPhone.
Ha! Good luck! Your state-of-the-art device may be fantastic for the organized grids of New York City or the planned neighborhoods of San Francisco, but "Maps" will not do you much good in the vexingly narrow vicoli of Genoa.
Genoa rises up from its port into the hills above it by way of a scramble of tiny alleys (vicoli) and streets (vico) called the caruggi. I can't stress this enough--there is no rhyme or reason to this perplexing maze. Street signs don't exist. You might occasionally find the name of a vico or a piazza stenciled onto a building on a corner. But you most likely will not. Ninety degree corners are rare. The most impossibly tiny alleyways (if you raise your arms up on either side of you you're touching the walls) connect to piazzas with, sometimes, nothing, in them.
Or they connect to piazzas with still-functioning ninth century churches situated next to the Italian version of CVS. Not kidding. Below is a picture of the piazza in which our hotel was situated. That is the entire piazza, by the way. The designation of piazza has nothing to do with the size of the space--it just denotes a public area. Our hotel is on the left. A tiny cafe that opened at random hours I could never quite figure out is in the middle at the far end. And a church is on the right. The middle area is the piazza.
Our hotel, the Palazzo Grillo, was once one of the many palaces of one of the many royal families of Genoa. Every "palazzo" seemed to have its own piazza with its own church. Here's the carving on the side of our piazza's church:
Pulling from my extensive fluency in Italian, this says that Guido and Oberto built this church in the year 980. 980! And it's still standing. And used for services. And open to the public at no charge. I walked in one afternoon because I saw the door was slightly open. Based on its age and its outside appearance (a relatively small, white marble box with a few columns--nothing fancy or intricate as you can see from the piazza picture above) I was not expecting much. Here's what I found:
That, folks, is the magic of Italy. And this picture doesn't even remotely do the interior justice. It's spectacular. From the murals on the ceilings to the spiral staircase leading to the "royalty seat" (look at the third column from back left) to the intricately carved arches, this is a beautiful church that is well over one-thousand years old. Europeans hadn't even made it to the New World when this church was built. Again, it was twenty feet from the door of our hotel, in a piazza that is not distinguished from any other small piazza. This is just commonplace stuff in Genoa, in Italy. There's beauty and mystery in every little crevice, often times where you would least expect it.
Dave and I had fun exploring Genoa. I was directionally challenged the entire time. The vico and vicoli confused me--they didn't go in straight lines and they were often so tiny I couldn't tell one from another. Dave was masterful at this, however, and always seemed to know how to get where we were going. He was the hero of our first night in Genoa for two reasons: first, he got us to the restaurant which had been recommended to us by the nice man who ran the cafe outside our hotel door, and second because he got us home from the restaurant after several glasses of wine and a couple shots of limoncello, each. (And incidentally, in my opinion, the streets of Genoa are much less frustrating and way more fun when you're several drinks into it...)
The restaurant our first night in Genoa was called Antico Osterio di Vico Palla. Memorable. In all of the very best ways. Very difficult to find, but unforgettable once you get there.
We were quite Italian that night in that I believe we sat down for dinner around 9pm (again, getting there was not easy). Our waiter handed us the chalkboard with the menu, which was 100% in Italian. I can translate basics, but I was at a loss for most of what was on that board. The head waiter, quite graciously, went through the entire menu with us. It was not a short menu. He was very kind.
We ate a lot of food that night. And every. single. bite. of it was good. One of their specialties was sautéed octopus. Not squid. Actual octopus. We shared it as an appetizer and it arrived looking like a lot of octopus tentacles, which was a little disconcerting.
It was good. It had a shrimp-like texture and was sautéed in butter and herbs. I enjoyed it, except for the part where I could feel the suction cups. That kind of wigged me out a bit, but I got over it. Also, I couldn't bring myself to take a bite of the head. Just no. But otherwise chalk one up to trying something new! The entire meal was wonderful. We had lovely house wine (we learned that you do not need to order anything but the house wine in Italy because the house wine is always delicious and it's always the cheapest--win/win!). Genoa is the birthplace of pesto, and I love pesto, so I was going to order pesto at every possible opportunity and ordering it at Vico di Palla proved to be maybe the best culinary decision I made the entire trip.
The pesto itself was amazing, but the noodle added to its glory. Fresh and herby and velvety, the pesto covered very thin sheets of house-made pasta that were shaped like lasagna noodles but wider. This is starting to sound like a restaurant review instead of the tales of our adventures, but in my defense the food on this trip should have a blog of its own.
Contributing to the magic of this dinner was the wait staff, who were all outfitted in t-shirts with various Italian "sayings". I asked our waiter what his said, and he was hesitant to tell me, giving me the "no, no, you don't want to know" signal. I persisted, telling him that there is nothing he could say that would offend me, and I was rewarded with him telling us that his shirt reads, "You cannot suck and blow at the same time." No joke! And this is a family restaurant! Everyone in there, tiny tikes included, could read his shirt. I just love that. I asked our busboy what his shirt said and he blushed and ran away so quickly that I had to again ask our waiter for a translation. "If your pee pee is small, don't worry about the women and just start drinking."
I don't think I can adequately convey the fun we had at Vico di Pallo, from start to finish. It is most definitely a local restaurant, not a tourist hangout, and yet we were treated like we were family. Our meal concluded, as was clearly the tradition and who are we to buck tradition, with shots of limoncello. Two, to be exact. Each. At the bar as we paid our bill, we were gifted with a literal parting shot of some raspberry liqueur that we have yet to identify but was quite delicious (I mean, what's NOT delicious after two glasses of wine and two shots of limoncello). And as I mentioned earlier, Dave was the hero of the night for somehow getting us back to our hotel. Honestly, he's a hero just for remembering the name of our hotel. It was a fun night.
Genoa is such an interesting city, so unlike any other Italian city I had ever visited. It has a very gritty vibe to it--not in a bad way. It is an ancient city, a working-class city, a port city that once was home to royalty, religious and political leaders. It's a city of contrasts. We walked to Piazza Ferrari to see the beautiful modern fountain, and found that it is right at the foot of what is considered the first bank in Genoa, which was founded in the early 1400's.
We took a funicular (which was crazy hard to find) up a hillside to get a breathtaking view of Genoa. The city is just crammed together--a jumble of buildings so crammed together you can't really see between them. But it is spectacular.
And just like that it was time to eat dinner again! We asked the young man at the front desk of our hotel if he had a recommendation for somewhere we could go that was where he would take his grandmother, and first on his list was Vico di Pallo. We were in good hands, clearly. His second recommendation was a place called Il Genovese, which he said was a very old place frequented by locals and had not only great pesto (my request) but also he told us we had to try the specialty, "salsa di noci". We set out across the city to find Il Genovese.
The tiny little alleys and vicoli are fascinating, but not particularly beautiful. There are parts of Genoa, however, that are breathtaking, and we walked right through one on our way to dinner. Via XX Settembre looks as if it's a movie set rather than an actual working boulevard with wide, covered sidewalks.
Above is one section of the covered shop entrances on one side of Via XX Settembre. Below is another section of the SIDEWALK on Via XX Settembre. Note the mosaic floors and beautiful ceilings, along with the striped marble work of the arches. This area was built in the late 1800's but looks as if it's a thousand years old in terms of its style. It's just stunning. We had a lovely walk to and from Il Genovese.
We arrived at Il Genovese after a nice half hour brisk walk only to find that we should have made a "prenotazione" (reservation). The place was packed--almost an hour wait! It was already almost 8pm but we decided it looked like it was going to be worth the wait so we put our name on the list and decided to walk down the street to have a drink while we waited. If you've been to Italy you know that "apertivo" is similar to cocktail hour, except in Italy you pay for the drink and they bring you a somewhat astonishing amount of really good (free) food just because you ordered a drink. It's designed to open up your appetite, but if you're not careful you can mistakenly make a meal of apertivo only to then have a fabulous meal presented to you and even though you're already full you feel the need to eat the fresh pasta and drink the house wine and the waiter says the tiramisu is not to be missed and before you know it you're a carafe and three courses in and it's late at night and once again you have to find your way back to your hotel.
I'm just saying this could happen to you. If you're not careful.
We roamed Genoa for a couple of days with no real agenda (mostly because every time we tried to actually find something specific we got lost), just trying to soak in the city and its people. The one activity that we did schedule was a walking food tour, a three hour gastronomical overindulgence led by the charming young Federico. The description said that we would be walking throughout the city for a few hours, taking periodic stops to sample the local specialties. It said to come hungry. Understatement.
We met Federico after breakfast down in the Porto Antico, which is right along the water and has a long strand of covered shops and food establishments housed in seemingly ancient buildings. Our first stop was to a tiny, and famous according to Federico, fish market where we each were handed a paper cone full of freshly deep-fried anchovies and squid. Not that you can't start your day with fried anchovies. You can. We did. For some reason I had it in my head that we would begin our culinary excursion with a cornizzi (Italian croissant) or a pastry. Fried anchovy was just unexpected and honestly, I had never eaten an anchovy, fried or otherwise, in my entire life. But it was deliciozo. Truly. We learned a little history of Genoa as we walked through the caruggi and up Via San Lorenzo toward our second stop, which was a focaccia bakery where we ate the single best piece of focaccia I have ever had. It was so good I tried to make it last by employing that whole Zeno's Paradox thing, thinking that if every time I unwrapped my piece I ate half then theoretically I would never eat it all and it would last forever. I'm pretty sure I disproved a major physics concept by actually finishing my focaccia.
We then ended up in another type of bakery that specialized in flatbreads called farinata (made with chickpea flour). This doesn't sound appealing, but they were amazing. Some were covered with caramelized onions, some with cheeses and herbs--they had at least seven varieties and I think between Dave and I we tasted them all. At this point we were only three stops in on a five stop walk, and we were already stuffed. Which absolutely did not stop us from sitting down at the next stop for a FULL LUNCH. It's about two hours in and we have already had fried fish, focaccia and seven kinds of flatbread, and Federico walks us up a hill right to the ancient wall that used to surround Genoa and tucked right next to it is Locanda Tortuga, where we proceeded to eat more focaccia, plates of pasta, and an entire plate of various pizza slices. There may have also been something fried thrown in there somewhere. I honestly can't remember. It was so much more than we were able to eat. Federico knew the owner, who was a young(ish) man with a huge personality and about as good a grasp of English as I have of Italian. I asked him, in Italian, for his mama's focaccia recipe. He laughed at me. He asked us where we were from and told us that if he visited California he would stay with us. We laughed but also, hey, that would be really fun! The food was good, but sitting and chatting with Federico and finding out about his schooling and his plans, and chatting with Bernardo (the owner) while he threw focaccia dough was the best part of the afternoon.
We still had one stop to go. Gelato. At this point we were so full that we contemplated calling it a day but I mean, gelato. So no. There is no throwing in the towel when you're in Italy and about to have what your tour guide says is the best Gelato in Genoa. You persevere. You endure. As Wesley says in The Princess Bride, "To the pain!" Luckily it was about a twenty minute walk to get to the gelateria so by the time we arrived we were able to make a go of it, though we did order "piccola" (small) servings. (Incidentally, while you'd practically trip over a gelateria every 100 feet in Milan, in Genoa they were not nearly as prevalent; you really just had to stumble upon one, full well knowing if you did that you'd never be able to retrace your steps and find it ever again no matter how hard you tried.)
We had such fun with Federico on our walking food tour. We learned about Genoa, we learned about Federico, and we ate copious, ridiculous amounts of food. I'm pretty sure we went back to the hotel and fell into food comas for a few hours. And if I recall correctly we skipped dinner.
I'm realizing there might be a theme going here--Italy is full of gorgeous, delicious food. Eat it. Enjoy it. Linger over it. Take in the atmosphere. There's no room for regret in Italy. That's part of the magic.
On to Rapallo!
If you've never heard of Rapallo... have you heard of Cinque Terre? Rapallo is on the same coastline, just a tad north of the Cinque Terre towns. It has all of the beauty, considerably fewer tourists and a fraction of the cost.
I love Rapallo for countless reasons, this chief among them. This is the view out the window from our hotel, down to a tiny park below.
It's trampolines. Six of them. Teenagers would show up in the early evening and jump for about half an hour. WITHOUT ADULT SUPERVISION! I love this to no end. Kids being kids. Hanging out. Having fun. Trusted to not break all the bones in their body. Imagine.
That was fun to watch--a great view. This, also, was our view (you can just see the trampolines in the lower center under the canopy of trees). Not bad. Not bad at all.
There really isn't much to do in Rapallo. Thankfully. By the time we arrived we were ready to marinate in the atmosphere (and the Aperol) and kick back. This was the perfect town. We spent a day at one of the beach clubs, sunning ourselves on lounge chairs and taking a dip in the Ligurian Sea. We made use of the free bikes at our hotel and pedaled around town, winding our way through neighborhoods and down the beautiful waterfront. We contemplated taking a funicular up one of the hillsides to get a better view but decided against it because we really couldn't imagine the view getting much better. We were perfectly content.
I had researched a few restaurants before we got to Rapallo and Sole seemed to be on everyone's "eat here!" list, and for good reason it turned out. We spent a lovely, languid evening on Sole's outdoor terrace, beginning the night with by far the most extensive and most delicious apertivo we had the entire trip served to us by yet another charming young waiter (are there any other kind of waiters in Italy?).
You order two drinks and voila! Do NOT let the potato chips fool you. This was a plate of delicious food, and was followed by an equally delicious dinner (so good we came back on our last night). Sitting outside, watching the sun set over the ancient Castello (castle), sipping cocktails, savoring the cuisine... those are hours well spent. I may have mentioned this earlier, but Italy is not a country made for regret.
Side note: There are Italian supercars everywhere in Rapallo. Dave pointed out to me that the Alfa Romeo logo is a snake eating a baby. That's all. Just wanted to pass that little tidbit of crazy along.
After three quite restful days in Rapallo, we got back on TrenItalia once again and headed south to Lucca.
I'm not even sure where to begin describing Lucca because I love this city. I love every. single. thing. about this city. Let's start with it was founded in the third century BC and was the chosen location for Julius Caesar, Crassus and Pompey to reaffirm their triumvirate alliance. The composer Puccini was born and lived in Lucca. So, you know, history and all.
Also, Lucca has this wall around it-- a wall so big there are entire events held on various sections of the wall. There are restaurants on the wall. ON TOP OF THE WALL! You can walk the three mile wall or bicycle around it, which Dave and I did. Twice. It gives you this gorgeous view of the city inside and immerses you in the people of Lucca. One afternoon we were walking the wall and sat down on a bench to just watch. We sat next to an older gentleman who was waiting for his wife. I know this because Dave nudged me to try to talk to the man in Italian, so I did, and over about ten probably very excruciating minutes for that poor man, he spoke and responded to me slowly in Italian, asking about our travels and our lives and gently helping me find my words. He was very kind, and that will forever stay with me.
The day we arrived in Lucca we checked in to our hotel, and while Dave kicked it for a bit I went out to wander. I could hear what sounded like loud drumming, so I began winding my way towards the sound. It wasn't very long before I turned a corner and...
This picture doesn't quite show the enormity of what was going on. There were hundreds of people dressed in period costumes, all parading behind these drummers towards... I didn't know what. Was this an everyday occurrence for the benefit of tourists? A special festival (the Italians have a LOT of festivals)? I was curious so I followed. The group marched from this piazza to the next, about a three minute walk, at which point they all gathered behind an odd looking contraption set up with barricades around it. I had no idea what it was, but things became clearer as two costumed men set up crossbows onto the structure. A shooting competition! Have you ever seen authentic crossbows? They are enormous, first of all. If you try to picture men attempting to stop invading armies with these things it seems unlikely considering the time it takes to set them up, aim, and actually shoot.
This was pretty fun to watch and the crowd was quite enthusiastic. The pair of archers took a few shots, the crowd cheered, and then the whole group reassembled and moved on to the next piazza, where it turns out there was to be a large contest with dozens of crossbow clubs from throughout Italy, again in full costume, ready to compete. The dedication to the cause was impressive. I tried to imagine a sporting competition in the United States where trained groups come from throughout the nation to compete. In full period costume. Nothing sprang to mind. I know there are groups in the US that do battle re-enactments and the like, but that is not what this was. This was a serious competition amongst established crossbow organizations, but put on as if it was happening in the 1500's. Entire families were dressed to be a part of this--teenagers included! There were archers, knights, cooks, scullery maids, royalty, soldiers, ladies in waiting... how could I not fall in love with this immersive town?
What comes to mind when I picture Lucca: churches (dozens of them inside this tiny city), bell towers (again, dozens of them), piazzas, outdoor ristorantes, a friendly waiter who not only remembered us when we returned for dinner a second night but also remembered what we ordered and served us complimentary cappuccinos after dinner, biking the wall, pizza at Alice's (pronounced uh-leech-ays), the beautiful necklace Dave bought for me to remember Lucca, and the Museo della Tortura (yes, exactly what you think it is). So let me explain...
Ok, well, I don't really know how to explain. We were wandering the streets, taking in the people and the shops and the relaxed atmosphere. We walked right by it at first, but I noticed the very small sign and we doubled back. Torture Museum. Come on. How do you not go in? In our defense we didn't spend much time in there, but also in our defense it was pretty interesting and considering the fact that we were walking around a medieval city it was pretty relevant. Also gross. But fascinating. Horrifying. And gripping. All of the devices in it were authentic and part of a "private collection". Which begs the question, who amasses torture apparatuses as a hobby? I do not have the answer to that question. I tried looking it up, but it turns out that if your thing is medieval torture devices you don't want your name necessarily attached to that fact.
I hesitated to include this little foray into the macabre because it just sounds (I know) like a weird thing to do when you're surrounded by the magnificence that is Italy; except that it's a pretty good example of how Dave and I end up having a great time just about anywhere doing just about anything. Sure, torture isn't a topic you think you're going to extensively discuss on vacation, but when you're with someone interesting and funny and smart, trust me, it can be hilarious!
I want to go back (to Italy, not to the Museo Torturo). Anywhere in Italy would be fine--north, south, mountains, lakes, islands--doesn't matter. I love the country. I love the language. I love the people. Italy sparkles. It twinkles. It's spellbinding. I just want to soak it up.
Milan, Genoa, Rapallo and Lucca--all so different, each with its own distinct personality. It seems like every Italian city I've been to somehow captures the enchantment that overtakes me in Italy and makes me want to return again and again.
Thinking about going back to ride that wall again...
So here it is--my love letter to Italy. If you can possibly read it while slowly sipping an Aperol spritz I can't see how that wouldn't make you feel just a bit more of the amore.
As our plane slowly descended toward Malpensa airport just outside of Milan, I already felt the magic. The countryside. Tiny farmhouses dotting huge expanses of green. I wondered if those houses had been there for hundreds of years. Not the ones with the backyard in-ground pools. Those probably were slightly newer. But the other ones. Who built them? Were the people living there rooted to that land for centuries? Might there be wood-fired ovens in their kitchens, ready to bake a Margherita pizza any night of the week? (It's possible I have a tendency to romanticize Italy. I probably could have gotten mugged on our trip and I'm confident I would retell the tale in such a way that you would wish you had been mugged with me).
We hadn't even landed yet and I was enamored. Deeply. That's Italy's effect on me.
Italy transforms the ordinary to extraordinary, the mundane to the spiritual. If you asked me how we got from the airport to our hotel in Milan, I would happily, dreamily recount the journey, which in reality involved figuring out what train to board, where to get off said train, and then navigating a couple of city streets to arrive at our destination. It wasn't a particularly long or difficult trek, but I'm pretty sure that I could describe the hour-long trip in such a way as to convince you that it was a holy pilgrimage, at the end of which we were rewarded with warmth, hospitality, a beautiful room AND (bonus!) a bottle of champagne (thanks Mom and Dad).
I will not, however, regale you with the story of a short train ride and a ten minute walk. Again, I could. Regale you, I mean. You definitely would be enthralled (with the way I would tell it; maybe not the way Dave would tell it). But there's a better story that comes right after that one, so let's start there. We've checked into our hotel in Milan. Which is beautiful. Marble floors. Sleek lines. Chic furniture.
After a short rest, we decide to explore. We head out in search of the Duomo cathedral, which is the heart of Milan. We wind through a few small streets, onto a bigger street, onto a bigger street, come around a corner and BAM!, out of nowhere we are hit with this view.
The Duomo. It is imposing. It is breath-taking. It is a cathedral. I get that. Generally, if you're going to give your church such a title, it would not be unexpected that it would be rather grand. But words just can't. I can't even finish that sentence. I've seen cathedrals before. Not like this. You should go there. Because that's the only way you're going to understand its magnificence. So since words utterly fail me with regard to this masterpiece, I'm going to move on. Otherwise it's just not fair to the Duomo.
Milano. Where the gelato shop to human ratio is about 1:1. I am not complaining about that. I'm also being semi-serious. You cannot walk a block without encountering a tiny little storefront that has twenty flavors of homemade, creamy deliciousness. (side note, America: nowhere in Italy are you going to find "artisanal" flavors like olive-oil/tomato or carrot/habanero) We had gelato every. single. day. in Milan, sometimes twice a day. I regret not having it a third time.
Milan, like every Italian city I presume, has delicious food. Our first dinner was alfresco at a street-side cafe--just what you'd picture. Charming waiter, great pizza, late-night romantic atmosphere, cathedral in the background. It was our second dinner, however, that was the more memorable. We had asked our hotel staff for a recommendation, and they directed us to a tiny restaurant literally around the corner--maybe forty steps away, named Andry. Our dinner began with our waiter presenting us each with a glass of prosecco (and really, isn't that how every meal should begin?). As we perused the menu a small basket of focaccia arrived. We ordered wine. We ordered dinner--crab pasta for Dave, cacio e pepe for me. Mine was divine. There's not much to cacio e pepe, as the name suggests. Pasta, cheese, pepper. That's pretty much it. But if you do it right--deliciozo, and mine was definitely done right. Dave's, unfortunately, was not great. And that might be an understatement. It was downright inedible. Suffice it to say there should not be crab pasta offered if you're down to the dregs of the crab meat. However, the waiter was attentive and noticed that Dave was not eating his dish. He offered that they would make him whatever he wanted to replace it and Dave ended up with a shrimp pasta dish that was not just delicious but beautiful! The shrimp were some special variety that are this vibrant red that honestly neither of us had ever seen in a shrimp before. A feast for the eyes and the appetite. We had a second glass of wine and cleaned our plates. At which point the waiter (and if memory serves we now might have had two waiters attending to our every need) brought us each a limoncello because again, isn't that how every meal should conclude? And just for fun, they then brought us each a meloncello, which is like drinking a shot of creamy cantaloupe with a kick. Just amazing. This is how dinner goes in Italy. It takes a couple of hours, but it's relaxed. It's yummy. It's friendly. No one is trying to get you to eat faster so they can have the table. You can stay all night drinking digestifs and chatting it up with the wait staff, who are all utterly endearing, especially if you are trying to speak Italian with them. Even if you can't really speak Italian.
So that was our night at Andry.
In the next several days in Milan we walked around gazing at the sights and people watching, but again and again we found ourselves at the Duomo. The enormity, the mystery, the beauty--it's like Italy built a church that perfectly proclaims itself.
After a few days of circling the Duomo and enjoying the elegance of Milan, we boarded a train for Genoa.
Before I go any further, a brief word regarding navigating (some) Italian cities with your iPhone.
Ha! Good luck! Your state-of-the-art device may be fantastic for the organized grids of New York City or the planned neighborhoods of San Francisco, but "Maps" will not do you much good in the vexingly narrow vicoli of Genoa.
Genoa rises up from its port into the hills above it by way of a scramble of tiny alleys (vicoli) and streets (vico) called the caruggi. I can't stress this enough--there is no rhyme or reason to this perplexing maze. Street signs don't exist. You might occasionally find the name of a vico or a piazza stenciled onto a building on a corner. But you most likely will not. Ninety degree corners are rare. The most impossibly tiny alleyways (if you raise your arms up on either side of you you're touching the walls) connect to piazzas with, sometimes, nothing, in them.
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| This is the sketchy alley that we had to take to get to our hotel. It's a tad sketchier at night. |
Or they connect to piazzas with still-functioning ninth century churches situated next to the Italian version of CVS. Not kidding. Below is a picture of the piazza in which our hotel was situated. That is the entire piazza, by the way. The designation of piazza has nothing to do with the size of the space--it just denotes a public area. Our hotel is on the left. A tiny cafe that opened at random hours I could never quite figure out is in the middle at the far end. And a church is on the right. The middle area is the piazza.
Our hotel, the Palazzo Grillo, was once one of the many palaces of one of the many royal families of Genoa. Every "palazzo" seemed to have its own piazza with its own church. Here's the carving on the side of our piazza's church:
Pulling from my extensive fluency in Italian, this says that Guido and Oberto built this church in the year 980. 980! And it's still standing. And used for services. And open to the public at no charge. I walked in one afternoon because I saw the door was slightly open. Based on its age and its outside appearance (a relatively small, white marble box with a few columns--nothing fancy or intricate as you can see from the piazza picture above) I was not expecting much. Here's what I found:
That, folks, is the magic of Italy. And this picture doesn't even remotely do the interior justice. It's spectacular. From the murals on the ceilings to the spiral staircase leading to the "royalty seat" (look at the third column from back left) to the intricately carved arches, this is a beautiful church that is well over one-thousand years old. Europeans hadn't even made it to the New World when this church was built. Again, it was twenty feet from the door of our hotel, in a piazza that is not distinguished from any other small piazza. This is just commonplace stuff in Genoa, in Italy. There's beauty and mystery in every little crevice, often times where you would least expect it.
Dave and I had fun exploring Genoa. I was directionally challenged the entire time. The vico and vicoli confused me--they didn't go in straight lines and they were often so tiny I couldn't tell one from another. Dave was masterful at this, however, and always seemed to know how to get where we were going. He was the hero of our first night in Genoa for two reasons: first, he got us to the restaurant which had been recommended to us by the nice man who ran the cafe outside our hotel door, and second because he got us home from the restaurant after several glasses of wine and a couple shots of limoncello, each. (And incidentally, in my opinion, the streets of Genoa are much less frustrating and way more fun when you're several drinks into it...)
The restaurant our first night in Genoa was called Antico Osterio di Vico Palla. Memorable. In all of the very best ways. Very difficult to find, but unforgettable once you get there.
We were quite Italian that night in that I believe we sat down for dinner around 9pm (again, getting there was not easy). Our waiter handed us the chalkboard with the menu, which was 100% in Italian. I can translate basics, but I was at a loss for most of what was on that board. The head waiter, quite graciously, went through the entire menu with us. It was not a short menu. He was very kind.
We ate a lot of food that night. And every. single. bite. of it was good. One of their specialties was sautéed octopus. Not squid. Actual octopus. We shared it as an appetizer and it arrived looking like a lot of octopus tentacles, which was a little disconcerting.
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| Side note: I did not take this picture. It's from the Vico di Palla website. |
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| Again, not my photograph but this is what my pesto looked like. |
The pesto itself was amazing, but the noodle added to its glory. Fresh and herby and velvety, the pesto covered very thin sheets of house-made pasta that were shaped like lasagna noodles but wider. This is starting to sound like a restaurant review instead of the tales of our adventures, but in my defense the food on this trip should have a blog of its own.
Contributing to the magic of this dinner was the wait staff, who were all outfitted in t-shirts with various Italian "sayings". I asked our waiter what his said, and he was hesitant to tell me, giving me the "no, no, you don't want to know" signal. I persisted, telling him that there is nothing he could say that would offend me, and I was rewarded with him telling us that his shirt reads, "You cannot suck and blow at the same time." No joke! And this is a family restaurant! Everyone in there, tiny tikes included, could read his shirt. I just love that. I asked our busboy what his shirt said and he blushed and ran away so quickly that I had to again ask our waiter for a translation. "If your pee pee is small, don't worry about the women and just start drinking."
I don't think I can adequately convey the fun we had at Vico di Pallo, from start to finish. It is most definitely a local restaurant, not a tourist hangout, and yet we were treated like we were family. Our meal concluded, as was clearly the tradition and who are we to buck tradition, with shots of limoncello. Two, to be exact. Each. At the bar as we paid our bill, we were gifted with a literal parting shot of some raspberry liqueur that we have yet to identify but was quite delicious (I mean, what's NOT delicious after two glasses of wine and two shots of limoncello). And as I mentioned earlier, Dave was the hero of the night for somehow getting us back to our hotel. Honestly, he's a hero just for remembering the name of our hotel. It was a fun night.
Genoa is such an interesting city, so unlike any other Italian city I had ever visited. It has a very gritty vibe to it--not in a bad way. It is an ancient city, a working-class city, a port city that once was home to royalty, religious and political leaders. It's a city of contrasts. We walked to Piazza Ferrari to see the beautiful modern fountain, and found that it is right at the foot of what is considered the first bank in Genoa, which was founded in the early 1400's.
We took a funicular (which was crazy hard to find) up a hillside to get a breathtaking view of Genoa. The city is just crammed together--a jumble of buildings so crammed together you can't really see between them. But it is spectacular.
And just like that it was time to eat dinner again! We asked the young man at the front desk of our hotel if he had a recommendation for somewhere we could go that was where he would take his grandmother, and first on his list was Vico di Pallo. We were in good hands, clearly. His second recommendation was a place called Il Genovese, which he said was a very old place frequented by locals and had not only great pesto (my request) but also he told us we had to try the specialty, "salsa di noci". We set out across the city to find Il Genovese.
The tiny little alleys and vicoli are fascinating, but not particularly beautiful. There are parts of Genoa, however, that are breathtaking, and we walked right through one on our way to dinner. Via XX Settembre looks as if it's a movie set rather than an actual working boulevard with wide, covered sidewalks.
Above is one section of the covered shop entrances on one side of Via XX Settembre. Below is another section of the SIDEWALK on Via XX Settembre. Note the mosaic floors and beautiful ceilings, along with the striped marble work of the arches. This area was built in the late 1800's but looks as if it's a thousand years old in terms of its style. It's just stunning. We had a lovely walk to and from Il Genovese.
We arrived at Il Genovese after a nice half hour brisk walk only to find that we should have made a "prenotazione" (reservation). The place was packed--almost an hour wait! It was already almost 8pm but we decided it looked like it was going to be worth the wait so we put our name on the list and decided to walk down the street to have a drink while we waited. If you've been to Italy you know that "apertivo" is similar to cocktail hour, except in Italy you pay for the drink and they bring you a somewhat astonishing amount of really good (free) food just because you ordered a drink. It's designed to open up your appetite, but if you're not careful you can mistakenly make a meal of apertivo only to then have a fabulous meal presented to you and even though you're already full you feel the need to eat the fresh pasta and drink the house wine and the waiter says the tiramisu is not to be missed and before you know it you're a carafe and three courses in and it's late at night and once again you have to find your way back to your hotel.
I'm just saying this could happen to you. If you're not careful.
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| We begin the long walk back after Il Genovese. |
We met Federico after breakfast down in the Porto Antico, which is right along the water and has a long strand of covered shops and food establishments housed in seemingly ancient buildings. Our first stop was to a tiny, and famous according to Federico, fish market where we each were handed a paper cone full of freshly deep-fried anchovies and squid. Not that you can't start your day with fried anchovies. You can. We did. For some reason I had it in my head that we would begin our culinary excursion with a cornizzi (Italian croissant) or a pastry. Fried anchovy was just unexpected and honestly, I had never eaten an anchovy, fried or otherwise, in my entire life. But it was deliciozo. Truly. We learned a little history of Genoa as we walked through the caruggi and up Via San Lorenzo toward our second stop, which was a focaccia bakery where we ate the single best piece of focaccia I have ever had. It was so good I tried to make it last by employing that whole Zeno's Paradox thing, thinking that if every time I unwrapped my piece I ate half then theoretically I would never eat it all and it would last forever. I'm pretty sure I disproved a major physics concept by actually finishing my focaccia.
We then ended up in another type of bakery that specialized in flatbreads called farinata (made with chickpea flour). This doesn't sound appealing, but they were amazing. Some were covered with caramelized onions, some with cheeses and herbs--they had at least seven varieties and I think between Dave and I we tasted them all. At this point we were only three stops in on a five stop walk, and we were already stuffed. Which absolutely did not stop us from sitting down at the next stop for a FULL LUNCH. It's about two hours in and we have already had fried fish, focaccia and seven kinds of flatbread, and Federico walks us up a hill right to the ancient wall that used to surround Genoa and tucked right next to it is Locanda Tortuga, where we proceeded to eat more focaccia, plates of pasta, and an entire plate of various pizza slices. There may have also been something fried thrown in there somewhere. I honestly can't remember. It was so much more than we were able to eat. Federico knew the owner, who was a young(ish) man with a huge personality and about as good a grasp of English as I have of Italian. I asked him, in Italian, for his mama's focaccia recipe. He laughed at me. He asked us where we were from and told us that if he visited California he would stay with us. We laughed but also, hey, that would be really fun! The food was good, but sitting and chatting with Federico and finding out about his schooling and his plans, and chatting with Bernardo (the owner) while he threw focaccia dough was the best part of the afternoon.
We still had one stop to go. Gelato. At this point we were so full that we contemplated calling it a day but I mean, gelato. So no. There is no throwing in the towel when you're in Italy and about to have what your tour guide says is the best Gelato in Genoa. You persevere. You endure. As Wesley says in The Princess Bride, "To the pain!" Luckily it was about a twenty minute walk to get to the gelateria so by the time we arrived we were able to make a go of it, though we did order "piccola" (small) servings. (Incidentally, while you'd practically trip over a gelateria every 100 feet in Milan, in Genoa they were not nearly as prevalent; you really just had to stumble upon one, full well knowing if you did that you'd never be able to retrace your steps and find it ever again no matter how hard you tried.)
We had such fun with Federico on our walking food tour. We learned about Genoa, we learned about Federico, and we ate copious, ridiculous amounts of food. I'm pretty sure we went back to the hotel and fell into food comas for a few hours. And if I recall correctly we skipped dinner.
I'm realizing there might be a theme going here--Italy is full of gorgeous, delicious food. Eat it. Enjoy it. Linger over it. Take in the atmosphere. There's no room for regret in Italy. That's part of the magic.
On to Rapallo!
If you've never heard of Rapallo... have you heard of Cinque Terre? Rapallo is on the same coastline, just a tad north of the Cinque Terre towns. It has all of the beauty, considerably fewer tourists and a fraction of the cost.
I love Rapallo for countless reasons, this chief among them. This is the view out the window from our hotel, down to a tiny park below.
It's trampolines. Six of them. Teenagers would show up in the early evening and jump for about half an hour. WITHOUT ADULT SUPERVISION! I love this to no end. Kids being kids. Hanging out. Having fun. Trusted to not break all the bones in their body. Imagine.
That was fun to watch--a great view. This, also, was our view (you can just see the trampolines in the lower center under the canopy of trees). Not bad. Not bad at all.
There really isn't much to do in Rapallo. Thankfully. By the time we arrived we were ready to marinate in the atmosphere (and the Aperol) and kick back. This was the perfect town. We spent a day at one of the beach clubs, sunning ourselves on lounge chairs and taking a dip in the Ligurian Sea. We made use of the free bikes at our hotel and pedaled around town, winding our way through neighborhoods and down the beautiful waterfront. We contemplated taking a funicular up one of the hillsides to get a better view but decided against it because we really couldn't imagine the view getting much better. We were perfectly content.
I had researched a few restaurants before we got to Rapallo and Sole seemed to be on everyone's "eat here!" list, and for good reason it turned out. We spent a lovely, languid evening on Sole's outdoor terrace, beginning the night with by far the most extensive and most delicious apertivo we had the entire trip served to us by yet another charming young waiter (are there any other kind of waiters in Italy?).
You order two drinks and voila! Do NOT let the potato chips fool you. This was a plate of delicious food, and was followed by an equally delicious dinner (so good we came back on our last night). Sitting outside, watching the sun set over the ancient Castello (castle), sipping cocktails, savoring the cuisine... those are hours well spent. I may have mentioned this earlier, but Italy is not a country made for regret.
Side note: There are Italian supercars everywhere in Rapallo. Dave pointed out to me that the Alfa Romeo logo is a snake eating a baby. That's all. Just wanted to pass that little tidbit of crazy along.
After three quite restful days in Rapallo, we got back on TrenItalia once again and headed south to Lucca.
I'm not even sure where to begin describing Lucca because I love this city. I love every. single. thing. about this city. Let's start with it was founded in the third century BC and was the chosen location for Julius Caesar, Crassus and Pompey to reaffirm their triumvirate alliance. The composer Puccini was born and lived in Lucca. So, you know, history and all.
Also, Lucca has this wall around it-- a wall so big there are entire events held on various sections of the wall. There are restaurants on the wall. ON TOP OF THE WALL! You can walk the three mile wall or bicycle around it, which Dave and I did. Twice. It gives you this gorgeous view of the city inside and immerses you in the people of Lucca. One afternoon we were walking the wall and sat down on a bench to just watch. We sat next to an older gentleman who was waiting for his wife. I know this because Dave nudged me to try to talk to the man in Italian, so I did, and over about ten probably very excruciating minutes for that poor man, he spoke and responded to me slowly in Italian, asking about our travels and our lives and gently helping me find my words. He was very kind, and that will forever stay with me.
The day we arrived in Lucca we checked in to our hotel, and while Dave kicked it for a bit I went out to wander. I could hear what sounded like loud drumming, so I began winding my way towards the sound. It wasn't very long before I turned a corner and...
This picture doesn't quite show the enormity of what was going on. There were hundreds of people dressed in period costumes, all parading behind these drummers towards... I didn't know what. Was this an everyday occurrence for the benefit of tourists? A special festival (the Italians have a LOT of festivals)? I was curious so I followed. The group marched from this piazza to the next, about a three minute walk, at which point they all gathered behind an odd looking contraption set up with barricades around it. I had no idea what it was, but things became clearer as two costumed men set up crossbows onto the structure. A shooting competition! Have you ever seen authentic crossbows? They are enormous, first of all. If you try to picture men attempting to stop invading armies with these things it seems unlikely considering the time it takes to set them up, aim, and actually shoot.
This was pretty fun to watch and the crowd was quite enthusiastic. The pair of archers took a few shots, the crowd cheered, and then the whole group reassembled and moved on to the next piazza, where it turns out there was to be a large contest with dozens of crossbow clubs from throughout Italy, again in full costume, ready to compete. The dedication to the cause was impressive. I tried to imagine a sporting competition in the United States where trained groups come from throughout the nation to compete. In full period costume. Nothing sprang to mind. I know there are groups in the US that do battle re-enactments and the like, but that is not what this was. This was a serious competition amongst established crossbow organizations, but put on as if it was happening in the 1500's. Entire families were dressed to be a part of this--teenagers included! There were archers, knights, cooks, scullery maids, royalty, soldiers, ladies in waiting... how could I not fall in love with this immersive town?
What comes to mind when I picture Lucca: churches (dozens of them inside this tiny city), bell towers (again, dozens of them), piazzas, outdoor ristorantes, a friendly waiter who not only remembered us when we returned for dinner a second night but also remembered what we ordered and served us complimentary cappuccinos after dinner, biking the wall, pizza at Alice's (pronounced uh-leech-ays), the beautiful necklace Dave bought for me to remember Lucca, and the Museo della Tortura (yes, exactly what you think it is). So let me explain...
Ok, well, I don't really know how to explain. We were wandering the streets, taking in the people and the shops and the relaxed atmosphere. We walked right by it at first, but I noticed the very small sign and we doubled back. Torture Museum. Come on. How do you not go in? In our defense we didn't spend much time in there, but also in our defense it was pretty interesting and considering the fact that we were walking around a medieval city it was pretty relevant. Also gross. But fascinating. Horrifying. And gripping. All of the devices in it were authentic and part of a "private collection". Which begs the question, who amasses torture apparatuses as a hobby? I do not have the answer to that question. I tried looking it up, but it turns out that if your thing is medieval torture devices you don't want your name necessarily attached to that fact.
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| Just admit it. You want to enlarge this, don't you? |
I want to go back (to Italy, not to the Museo Torturo). Anywhere in Italy would be fine--north, south, mountains, lakes, islands--doesn't matter. I love the country. I love the language. I love the people. Italy sparkles. It twinkles. It's spellbinding. I just want to soak it up.
Milan, Genoa, Rapallo and Lucca--all so different, each with its own distinct personality. It seems like every Italian city I've been to somehow captures the enchantment that overtakes me in Italy and makes me want to return again and again.
Thinking about going back to ride that wall again...
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
How Did This Happen?
We are currently a nation divided.
I guess that's not news, really. We have been divided for a while. I can't remember the date, or the time, or the exact cause, but I know with 100% certainty that a divide arose.
We lost America, the Beautiful and became Democrats vs. Republicans.
And I get it, to a point. There are serious differences.
One says "trickle down" and the other says the trickle stops at the top.
One says "healthcare for all" and the other screams socialism.
One says "pro life" and the other says "pro choice".
It started as a divide. It is now a chasm.
But there is one area that I am particularly disheartened to note. It seems we are now divided, by party, concerning the veracity of women who come forward to tell their experiences of sexual abuse. Just yesterday our president openly mocked Dr. Christine Blasey Ford's testimony to the Senate. He began by pointing out that she did not remember the exact date. And to crescendoing cheers and applause at one of his "rallies", he continued to ridicule her lapses in detail. He repeated over and over "I don't know" as if it was the punchline of a joke, and not the achingly wrenching answer given by a woman reliving a trauma that has haunted her to the extent that she installed two entrances to her home to ensure there would always be a way out.
Can we truly not all agree that Dr. Christine Blasey Ford should not be ridiculed? Is that too much to ask? It's a very narrow standard. One woman. One morning's worth of attestations. Left alone.
But apparently it's too much for our president. After a national avalanche of #MeToo's, and seventeen women coming forward to accuse him personally of sexual crimes and misdemeanors, he's more worried about the boys and the men who might potentially be falsely accused than he is about the women who have survived assault. He's concerned about men being treated unfairly. Repeat that last sentence to yourself, slowly.
This same man took out full page ads in the New York Times in 1989 to demand the reinstatement of the death penalty so that the young black/latino men accused of raping a woman in Central Park could be executed. When their convictions were vacated due to DNA evidence and the CONFESSION of a serial rapist, Trump did not back down. He did not apologize. He had a story and he stuck to it. He was not so concerned about false accusations back then. Especially if they didn't impact white men.
That was then.
This is now.
I keep hearing that our nation is "having a moment". Dear god I sincerely hope that this is not just a fleeting moment. I hope that this is the beginning of a new era, one in which women stop feeling guilty and stop being made to feel guilty for the reprehensible behavior of some men. I hope it is a new era, one in which women feel they can come forward and unburden themselves of traumas without being further humiliated by those with power.
I hope we are entering an era of compassion.
And I hope that being able to exhibit and extend compassion does not rely on one's political party.
I guess that's not news, really. We have been divided for a while. I can't remember the date, or the time, or the exact cause, but I know with 100% certainty that a divide arose.
We lost America, the Beautiful and became Democrats vs. Republicans.
And I get it, to a point. There are serious differences.
One says "trickle down" and the other says the trickle stops at the top.
One says "healthcare for all" and the other screams socialism.
One says "pro life" and the other says "pro choice".
It started as a divide. It is now a chasm.
But there is one area that I am particularly disheartened to note. It seems we are now divided, by party, concerning the veracity of women who come forward to tell their experiences of sexual abuse. Just yesterday our president openly mocked Dr. Christine Blasey Ford's testimony to the Senate. He began by pointing out that she did not remember the exact date. And to crescendoing cheers and applause at one of his "rallies", he continued to ridicule her lapses in detail. He repeated over and over "I don't know" as if it was the punchline of a joke, and not the achingly wrenching answer given by a woman reliving a trauma that has haunted her to the extent that she installed two entrances to her home to ensure there would always be a way out.
Can we truly not all agree that Dr. Christine Blasey Ford should not be ridiculed? Is that too much to ask? It's a very narrow standard. One woman. One morning's worth of attestations. Left alone.
But apparently it's too much for our president. After a national avalanche of #MeToo's, and seventeen women coming forward to accuse him personally of sexual crimes and misdemeanors, he's more worried about the boys and the men who might potentially be falsely accused than he is about the women who have survived assault. He's concerned about men being treated unfairly. Repeat that last sentence to yourself, slowly.
This same man took out full page ads in the New York Times in 1989 to demand the reinstatement of the death penalty so that the young black/latino men accused of raping a woman in Central Park could be executed. When their convictions were vacated due to DNA evidence and the CONFESSION of a serial rapist, Trump did not back down. He did not apologize. He had a story and he stuck to it. He was not so concerned about false accusations back then. Especially if they didn't impact white men.
That was then.
This is now.
I keep hearing that our nation is "having a moment". Dear god I sincerely hope that this is not just a fleeting moment. I hope that this is the beginning of a new era, one in which women stop feeling guilty and stop being made to feel guilty for the reprehensible behavior of some men. I hope it is a new era, one in which women feel they can come forward and unburden themselves of traumas without being further humiliated by those with power.
I hope we are entering an era of compassion.
And I hope that being able to exhibit and extend compassion does not rely on one's political party.
Friday, August 31, 2018
Right Now
What is the definition of the word "best"?
Dave and I were at dinner tonight. We were dining al fresco (albeit under cover) in a thunder and lightning storm in Milan. Fantastic. If you can manage to arrange that, I highly recommend it.
Anyway, our waiter comes to the table to take our drink order. Dave orders a glass of chianti. I order a glass of chardonnay (not your typical order in Italy). Dave says to me, "Say in Italian that you're going to drink the whole bottle!" The waiter smiles. I say, "I don't know how to say all that, but I can say bevo la bottiglia..." (I drink the bottle) and I look at the waiter. He smiles this gigantic smile and says, "tutta!" Which means all.
Thereby completing two tasks at once: the waiter knows I can speak a limited amount of Italian, and he knows to ask if I'd like a second (and third...) glass of wine. And it makes our dinner so much more fun because now the waiter is trying to speak Italian to me, and I can't really understand most of what he's saying but I can figure out just enough to keep the conversation going. Our waiter has family from New Jersey, by the way, but he's never been there and he has no interest in going to New York. He likes Milan. And he knows some English because he taught himself and he works with people who speak English. I think. That's how I interpreted what he said.
Fast-forward to an hour (and only ONE glass of wine, thank you very much) later. We have finished our pizzas (Dave ordered a prosciutto and funghi pizza--ham and mushroom, and I ordered a vegetarian pizza--melanzana and zucchini. I say, "I seriously think that was the best pizza I've ever had!" And thus starts a conversation regarding the definition of "best".
I initially offer that the word best implies that there has never been a better one. Seems logical. Superlatives and all that.
Dave suggests that it is a relative term. He thinks that perhaps it means the "most" of something in that particular moment. Not necessarily ever. Apples and oranges and all that.
Which is an interesting idea (to me), because what you can't remember--does it count? It happened. You know it did. But if you can't remember the details, if it's just sort of a fuzzy gray image, can it really have been the very best? Maybe it was at the time. And now it's just back there in your memories. You remember that you thought it was the best at one time, but you can't remember why. So it was the best back then. At that moment, in that situation.
But is now better than then? CAN now be better than then, if now and then have different circumstances?
But right now. Here in Milan. At this table. With the man of my dreams. With this waiter teaching me how to say, "I drink the whole bottle." Lightning and thunder creating a spectacular ambiance. Pizza with eggplant and zucchini and just the right amount of the right cheese and not too much sauce and the perfect, crunchy crust... I know exactly why this is the best pizza I've ever had.
Dave and I were at dinner tonight. We were dining al fresco (albeit under cover) in a thunder and lightning storm in Milan. Fantastic. If you can manage to arrange that, I highly recommend it.
Anyway, our waiter comes to the table to take our drink order. Dave orders a glass of chianti. I order a glass of chardonnay (not your typical order in Italy). Dave says to me, "Say in Italian that you're going to drink the whole bottle!" The waiter smiles. I say, "I don't know how to say all that, but I can say bevo la bottiglia..." (I drink the bottle) and I look at the waiter. He smiles this gigantic smile and says, "tutta!" Which means all.
Thereby completing two tasks at once: the waiter knows I can speak a limited amount of Italian, and he knows to ask if I'd like a second (and third...) glass of wine. And it makes our dinner so much more fun because now the waiter is trying to speak Italian to me, and I can't really understand most of what he's saying but I can figure out just enough to keep the conversation going. Our waiter has family from New Jersey, by the way, but he's never been there and he has no interest in going to New York. He likes Milan. And he knows some English because he taught himself and he works with people who speak English. I think. That's how I interpreted what he said.
Fast-forward to an hour (and only ONE glass of wine, thank you very much) later. We have finished our pizzas (Dave ordered a prosciutto and funghi pizza--ham and mushroom, and I ordered a vegetarian pizza--melanzana and zucchini. I say, "I seriously think that was the best pizza I've ever had!" And thus starts a conversation regarding the definition of "best".
I initially offer that the word best implies that there has never been a better one. Seems logical. Superlatives and all that.
Dave suggests that it is a relative term. He thinks that perhaps it means the "most" of something in that particular moment. Not necessarily ever. Apples and oranges and all that.
Which is an interesting idea (to me), because what you can't remember--does it count? It happened. You know it did. But if you can't remember the details, if it's just sort of a fuzzy gray image, can it really have been the very best? Maybe it was at the time. And now it's just back there in your memories. You remember that you thought it was the best at one time, but you can't remember why. So it was the best back then. At that moment, in that situation.
But is now better than then? CAN now be better than then, if now and then have different circumstances?
But right now. Here in Milan. At this table. With the man of my dreams. With this waiter teaching me how to say, "I drink the whole bottle." Lightning and thunder creating a spectacular ambiance. Pizza with eggplant and zucchini and just the right amount of the right cheese and not too much sauce and the perfect, crunchy crust... I know exactly why this is the best pizza I've ever had.
Una Domanda (a question)
Okay, maybe more than one...
We've been in Milan for about 36 hours. We have, in those short 36 hours, caught an express train to the city center, wound our way through the streets to find our hotel, wandered the streets to explore, visited the Scienza museum (to see the Leonardo da Vinci models made from his sketches), stopped at a tiny cafe and had cappuccini and a biscotto, and visited the Milan Cathedral's rooftop.
Just for fun, here's a snapshot of my brain during 36 hours of Milan:
Is the express train actually faster than the regular train, speed-wise, or does it just not stop at as many stations? Does AppleDirections have ALL of the little alleys and walkways in a city like Milan, or just the streets that a car can fit down--because there are a LOT of alleys that no car would be able to drive, but they are ideal for walking? Why keep cobblestones on some streets but not on others? Do people actually still use bidets, and if yes, why? Do Italian restaurants give free shots of limoncello and meloncello to everyone, or just us (this has happened more than once to us)? What fruit CAN'T you ferment, and who had the unhappy task of figuring that out? What is the gelateria to people ratio in Milan? Does smoking cause as much disease in Europeans, or are they so relaxed that the statistics are completely different? How does one person (daVinci) think of so many ideas, in such detail, before any of them are even general concepts? Was daVinci a product of his time, or way ahead of his time? What could he have accomplished if he lived in a different era? Do you leave a tip in a cafe if you've sat down at a table just to have coffee? Do you tip if there is a "cuperto" (cover charge) on the bill? How do you build a cathedral (I realize that's a broad question, but come on... how DO you build a cathedral? Where do you even start?) How did the builders get the statues, which I'm sure weigh hundreds of pounds if not thousands, up to their perches? How many carvers did it take to carve all the carved things on the cathedral? Did one carver do an entire row of flowers (see picture below), or was it like an assembly line, with each carver doing his part? Is carver the correct term, or is it chiseler or sculptor? How do you replace a broken part that's way high up in the spires? How do you replace a part if it's breaking and it's load-bearing? How did people first figure out that the ugly rock is really marble if you polish it? What prompted someone to polish the rock in the first place? How did they transport literal tons of huge marble chunks hundreds/thousands of miles in the 1200's? How do you get giant sheets of marble off of a mountain? If you go up on the Cathedral ascensore (elevator), why does the elevator operator have to check your ticket for you to come down--I mean, you got up there, you have to come down, right? Does eating gelato while you are walking affect your perception of time and space, because it seems like you can go farther, faster while eating gelato? Is an Aperol spritz the ideal evening drink regardless of anything?
Sorry about that. My mind is a cluttered place.
And that's a lot of questions. I'm a curious person. I don't ever want to not be a curious person. Curiosity, to me, is a sign of an engaged mind. Engaged minds, to me, indicate life. Clearly I am full of life. Just as an aside, here's how the idea for this particular blog entry came to mind:
I was thinking to myself, as we got off the ascensore at the Cathedral, why the attendant had to check our ticket to go down when clearly we had gotten up in the first place? And by the time we had exited the elevator I had answered my own question: you don't get to ride the elevator down unless you rode the elevator up (as opposed to walking the stairs up). Which caused me to think, maybe don't ask all my questions out loud initially, because if I try, I think maybe I can sometimes figure out the answers.
So moral of the story (or the blog): Give yourself a chance to figure things out before you toss the questions out into the universe.
Taking my own advice, it turns out I didn't need to ask all of those questions. I've already solved the last one. Yes, the Aperol spritz IS the ideal evening drink regardless of anything.
(This is a snapshot from when we went to the top of the cathedral in Milan. For perspective, look in the middle of the picture at the tiny blotch of turquoise. That's a person. That's how immense this building is. And look at the detail. How DID they build this?)
We've been in Milan for about 36 hours. We have, in those short 36 hours, caught an express train to the city center, wound our way through the streets to find our hotel, wandered the streets to explore, visited the Scienza museum (to see the Leonardo da Vinci models made from his sketches), stopped at a tiny cafe and had cappuccini and a biscotto, and visited the Milan Cathedral's rooftop.
Just for fun, here's a snapshot of my brain during 36 hours of Milan:
Is the express train actually faster than the regular train, speed-wise, or does it just not stop at as many stations? Does AppleDirections have ALL of the little alleys and walkways in a city like Milan, or just the streets that a car can fit down--because there are a LOT of alleys that no car would be able to drive, but they are ideal for walking? Why keep cobblestones on some streets but not on others? Do people actually still use bidets, and if yes, why? Do Italian restaurants give free shots of limoncello and meloncello to everyone, or just us (this has happened more than once to us)? What fruit CAN'T you ferment, and who had the unhappy task of figuring that out? What is the gelateria to people ratio in Milan? Does smoking cause as much disease in Europeans, or are they so relaxed that the statistics are completely different? How does one person (daVinci) think of so many ideas, in such detail, before any of them are even general concepts? Was daVinci a product of his time, or way ahead of his time? What could he have accomplished if he lived in a different era? Do you leave a tip in a cafe if you've sat down at a table just to have coffee? Do you tip if there is a "cuperto" (cover charge) on the bill? How do you build a cathedral (I realize that's a broad question, but come on... how DO you build a cathedral? Where do you even start?) How did the builders get the statues, which I'm sure weigh hundreds of pounds if not thousands, up to their perches? How many carvers did it take to carve all the carved things on the cathedral? Did one carver do an entire row of flowers (see picture below), or was it like an assembly line, with each carver doing his part? Is carver the correct term, or is it chiseler or sculptor? How do you replace a broken part that's way high up in the spires? How do you replace a part if it's breaking and it's load-bearing? How did people first figure out that the ugly rock is really marble if you polish it? What prompted someone to polish the rock in the first place? How did they transport literal tons of huge marble chunks hundreds/thousands of miles in the 1200's? How do you get giant sheets of marble off of a mountain? If you go up on the Cathedral ascensore (elevator), why does the elevator operator have to check your ticket for you to come down--I mean, you got up there, you have to come down, right? Does eating gelato while you are walking affect your perception of time and space, because it seems like you can go farther, faster while eating gelato? Is an Aperol spritz the ideal evening drink regardless of anything?
Sorry about that. My mind is a cluttered place.
And that's a lot of questions. I'm a curious person. I don't ever want to not be a curious person. Curiosity, to me, is a sign of an engaged mind. Engaged minds, to me, indicate life. Clearly I am full of life. Just as an aside, here's how the idea for this particular blog entry came to mind:
I was thinking to myself, as we got off the ascensore at the Cathedral, why the attendant had to check our ticket to go down when clearly we had gotten up in the first place? And by the time we had exited the elevator I had answered my own question: you don't get to ride the elevator down unless you rode the elevator up (as opposed to walking the stairs up). Which caused me to think, maybe don't ask all my questions out loud initially, because if I try, I think maybe I can sometimes figure out the answers.
So moral of the story (or the blog): Give yourself a chance to figure things out before you toss the questions out into the universe.
Taking my own advice, it turns out I didn't need to ask all of those questions. I've already solved the last one. Yes, the Aperol spritz IS the ideal evening drink regardless of anything.
Monday, August 13, 2018
Get off my lawn VS Why are you on my lawn in the first place?
When did I get old?
And just stop right there, missy, because the correct response to that question should involve no thought whatsoever on your part but rather a vigorously delivered, "You're not even close to old!"
Okay, now that we've got that out of the way.
When did I get old, by which I mean when did I start getting annoyed by little things that I used to be able to shake off? I feel a little like I might be a good candidate to stand outside my house and yell "Get off my lawn" to the school kids walking home.
Generally speaking I think I'm pretty zen. Or I used to be. I could let things go. Or, more accurately, I really didn't notice the things that would fall into the category of "just let it go".
Repetitive noises? What noises?
People pulling their checkbooks (CHECKBOOKS?!) out to pay only after all their groceries have been bagged? It's cool. I'm not in a hurry.
You're going to deliver my newspaper to the very bottom of my driveway every morning, rain or shine? Ok, I guess. I don't quite understand why you used to throw the paper on my porch until one seemingly random day when you decided you weren't going to anymore, but I can adjust.
That used to be me. Now, I'm more like...
Oh dear god how can a dog bark that much and not get hoarse? Seriously, how does it even have any bark left? And come on, man, can you not hear your dog?
Wait, you're paying with a CHECK? Do stores even take checks anymore? And you're going to make everyone wait while you enter the amount into your check register and do that math to get your new balance? Two words for you: debit card.
Fold the paper. Rubber band it. Drive around. Throw papers on porch. PORCH. Is that not part of the job description anymore? Or now does it just read, "And then throw the paper anywhere on the customer's property. They'll find it if they really want to."
See what I mean? Can't you just picture me yelling, "Get off my lawn!"?
So is it just age? When you're over 50 does everything just morph from tolerable to unbearable?
That was my thinking for a while, but I've reconsidered. And I have the answer (for me, anyway--probably not for you). The answer is: create an explanation that does not annoy me.
I like to write, so this is pretty fun for me. So when these annoying things happen, after hurling expletives and raising my voice and asking rhetorical questions--
"oh my god dog shut the F up! you've been barking for half an hour straight--do you know how little effort it would take for me to wrap a vicodin in a piece of ham and huck it over the fence?" (all of this is in my head, by the way--I would never actually curse or yell at a dog and I probably would not wrap vicodin in ham and throw it over the fence)
--then I write a back-story in my head that explains away the situation in a manner that allows me to be ok with the annoying part. So, for example, in the case of the dog that belongs to the people behind us who like to leave it alone outside for hours on end when they go to church on Sundays, I might think to myself, "I bet that dog is barking out of instinct just to get some attention and is probably pretty tired of barking and would really love a vicodin." No, I'm kidding. I really have never done that. I promise.
Let me give a different example. So the little old lady who likes to write checks at the supermarket while telling the checker all about her week, all the while writing slowly and occasionally stopping writing altogether to wave her pen and make a point--yes, she makes the line go very slowly, there's no escaping that. But then I think that maybe, just maybe, she doesn't have anyone at home to talk to. Maybe she's all by herself most of the time, with the TV on for company. Her kids and grandkids don't live in town, and going to the store and seeing people and chatting is a high point in her day. And maybe she just can't remember a PIN number for her ATM card, so she writes checks. It's hard to be mad at that. I may be completely wrong and she's just a crazy woman who doesn't care how many people are standing behind her. But given the fact that I don't know the facts, I can make up my own set of facts and then it's not that hard to have a little empathy for her.
Since I know you are thinking to yourself that I did not satisfactorily explain how I can ignore the neighbor's dog (I admit I haven't figured that one out yet), let me explain how I have come to grips with the newspaper at the bottom of our driveway. The carrier used to throw it on our porch. That stopped without warning and with no explanation. Annoying, yes. Lazy? Possibly. But, I know it's a married couple who delivers our paper (they give their customers a little Christmas card every year). Delivering newspapers cannot possibly pay the cost of living for a couple, much less a family. Maybe, just maybe, they added more houses to their route to try to increase their income. To get through them all, maybe they don't stop at each house to throw the paper onto the porch. Maybe they have to continue driving and just throw onto the driveway to get all the way through by the end of the delivery window, at which point it's only 7am and they probably both have a second job to go to. This may or may not be true. But again, I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt in the absence of facts. They are a couple delivering newspapers at 4:30am (possibly in a beat up old Chevy that's barely running). Any way you cut it, that is not an easy life.
Yes, I get more easily annoyed than I used to. But I think that's on me, not on the world. I'm sure I do things that annoy people. I can name things that I do that I am positive are annoying, because frankly I annoy myself when I do them. I try hard to not do them. Sometimes it works. Sometimes not. So the next time I cut you off mid-sentence and don't let you finish your thought, be kind as you invent why it is that I do that. I don't have to be an arrogant jerk who only likes to hear her own voice (though that does sound like a fun story that could get better and better the more you let me interrupt you). It could be that I'm so damn excited about what you're saying that I just can't wait to tell you my thoughts (not quite as exciting as the previous explanation, but it makes me look good so it'll do).
I'm not 25 anymore. I cannot, as Taylor Swift would have me, "Shake it off. Shake it off. Sh Sh shake it off."
But I can, using my imagination, write it off.
And just stop right there, missy, because the correct response to that question should involve no thought whatsoever on your part but rather a vigorously delivered, "You're not even close to old!"
Okay, now that we've got that out of the way.
When did I get old, by which I mean when did I start getting annoyed by little things that I used to be able to shake off? I feel a little like I might be a good candidate to stand outside my house and yell "Get off my lawn" to the school kids walking home.
Generally speaking I think I'm pretty zen. Or I used to be. I could let things go. Or, more accurately, I really didn't notice the things that would fall into the category of "just let it go".
Repetitive noises? What noises?
People pulling their checkbooks (CHECKBOOKS?!) out to pay only after all their groceries have been bagged? It's cool. I'm not in a hurry.
You're going to deliver my newspaper to the very bottom of my driveway every morning, rain or shine? Ok, I guess. I don't quite understand why you used to throw the paper on my porch until one seemingly random day when you decided you weren't going to anymore, but I can adjust.
That used to be me. Now, I'm more like...
Oh dear god how can a dog bark that much and not get hoarse? Seriously, how does it even have any bark left? And come on, man, can you not hear your dog?
Wait, you're paying with a CHECK? Do stores even take checks anymore? And you're going to make everyone wait while you enter the amount into your check register and do that math to get your new balance? Two words for you: debit card.
Fold the paper. Rubber band it. Drive around. Throw papers on porch. PORCH. Is that not part of the job description anymore? Or now does it just read, "And then throw the paper anywhere on the customer's property. They'll find it if they really want to."
See what I mean? Can't you just picture me yelling, "Get off my lawn!"?
So is it just age? When you're over 50 does everything just morph from tolerable to unbearable?
That was my thinking for a while, but I've reconsidered. And I have the answer (for me, anyway--probably not for you). The answer is: create an explanation that does not annoy me.
I like to write, so this is pretty fun for me. So when these annoying things happen, after hurling expletives and raising my voice and asking rhetorical questions--
"oh my god dog shut the F up! you've been barking for half an hour straight--do you know how little effort it would take for me to wrap a vicodin in a piece of ham and huck it over the fence?" (all of this is in my head, by the way--I would never actually curse or yell at a dog and I probably would not wrap vicodin in ham and throw it over the fence)
--then I write a back-story in my head that explains away the situation in a manner that allows me to be ok with the annoying part. So, for example, in the case of the dog that belongs to the people behind us who like to leave it alone outside for hours on end when they go to church on Sundays, I might think to myself, "I bet that dog is barking out of instinct just to get some attention and is probably pretty tired of barking and would really love a vicodin." No, I'm kidding. I really have never done that. I promise.
Let me give a different example. So the little old lady who likes to write checks at the supermarket while telling the checker all about her week, all the while writing slowly and occasionally stopping writing altogether to wave her pen and make a point--yes, she makes the line go very slowly, there's no escaping that. But then I think that maybe, just maybe, she doesn't have anyone at home to talk to. Maybe she's all by herself most of the time, with the TV on for company. Her kids and grandkids don't live in town, and going to the store and seeing people and chatting is a high point in her day. And maybe she just can't remember a PIN number for her ATM card, so she writes checks. It's hard to be mad at that. I may be completely wrong and she's just a crazy woman who doesn't care how many people are standing behind her. But given the fact that I don't know the facts, I can make up my own set of facts and then it's not that hard to have a little empathy for her.
Since I know you are thinking to yourself that I did not satisfactorily explain how I can ignore the neighbor's dog (I admit I haven't figured that one out yet), let me explain how I have come to grips with the newspaper at the bottom of our driveway. The carrier used to throw it on our porch. That stopped without warning and with no explanation. Annoying, yes. Lazy? Possibly. But, I know it's a married couple who delivers our paper (they give their customers a little Christmas card every year). Delivering newspapers cannot possibly pay the cost of living for a couple, much less a family. Maybe, just maybe, they added more houses to their route to try to increase their income. To get through them all, maybe they don't stop at each house to throw the paper onto the porch. Maybe they have to continue driving and just throw onto the driveway to get all the way through by the end of the delivery window, at which point it's only 7am and they probably both have a second job to go to. This may or may not be true. But again, I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt in the absence of facts. They are a couple delivering newspapers at 4:30am (possibly in a beat up old Chevy that's barely running). Any way you cut it, that is not an easy life.
Yes, I get more easily annoyed than I used to. But I think that's on me, not on the world. I'm sure I do things that annoy people. I can name things that I do that I am positive are annoying, because frankly I annoy myself when I do them. I try hard to not do them. Sometimes it works. Sometimes not. So the next time I cut you off mid-sentence and don't let you finish your thought, be kind as you invent why it is that I do that. I don't have to be an arrogant jerk who only likes to hear her own voice (though that does sound like a fun story that could get better and better the more you let me interrupt you). It could be that I'm so damn excited about what you're saying that I just can't wait to tell you my thoughts (not quite as exciting as the previous explanation, but it makes me look good so it'll do).
I'm not 25 anymore. I cannot, as Taylor Swift would have me, "Shake it off. Shake it off. Sh Sh shake it off."
But I can, using my imagination, write it off.
Sunday, August 12, 2018
The Burdensome Life of the Asterisk
This blog is not about Trump (***).
Poor asterisk.
It looks so light-hearted and joyful--all snowflake shaped and seeming like it should be equally useful both as punctuation and Christmas decoration.
I'm sure once, long ago, the asterisk was a reputable, stand-up piece of glyph. So named because it looks like a star, its job was to simply allow you to read all the way through a sentence without getting all mucked up in gobbledygook. The gobbledygook would be indicated by the asterisk, and would be readily available for your perusal at the bottom of the page, at your leisure. It was a small sign to indicate that there was further explanation should you want or need it. And if you sought out the asterisk at the bottom of the page to find out what it had to add, you'd read it, nod your head, and continue on. Good stuff. Pat yourself on the back, asterisk.
But then something happened. I don't know when or why or who started it. But our cute little asterisk somehow started denoting lengthy paragraphs of legalese. You want a credit card? We have got a great (*) one for you--low interest rate and no yearly fee, but (*) please note that if you miss a payment we will be coming to collect your firstborn (and twenty more sentences having to do with APR percentages and late fees...).
And THEN... poor little guy... tiny snowflake... he became the symbol of outright lies (completely against his will, I'm sure).
Let me illustrate for you the burdensome life of the asterisk:
US Postal Service: Flat Rate Box
Concept: If it fits inside--we ship it for a flat fee! (*)
(*unless it weighs more than we want it to, in which case we will charge you extra; also, if you want it to go somewhere that we say isn't "anywhere", we will charge you more).
WTF, USPS?
And the postal service is by no means alone. Businesses these days just say what sounds good, put an asterisk in at the end of their pithy slogan, and then use the asterisk to completely disavow that pithy slogan. If you see an asterisk in an advertisement, just assume that it means "except we're totally lying and we don't really mean what we just said."
Another example: deli meats. Check the labels. NO ADDED NITRATES OR NITRITES!*
(*except those which occur in celery juice, which we are adding in copious amounts to the meat and which, SURPRISE! have significantly high naturally occurring levels of nitrates. So, yeah, added nitrates).
I feel about asterisks kind of the same way I feel about cell phones: they are an excuse to not do what you say you are going to do (you know you've received that text from someone who was supposed to meet you at a certain time and then texts you to tell you they're going to be half an hour late; I posit that if they didn't have that cell phone and couldn't text you, they likely would have been on time).
So anyway. Asterisks.
In a nutshell, it just seems like they are now the literal symbol representing lies.
And we are now in the midst of an administration that really, really could work our little emblem to death. Just think of it...
"It was the biggest inaugural crowd in history!" (*)
*except for the one right before it
"I have passed the biggest tax cuts in history!" (*)
*except for seven other bigger ones
"I predict I will probably pay more under my tax plan than I'm paying right now."(*)
*I will release my taxes to show you how much more I'm paying.(**)
**except I won't, ever, ever, ever release my taxes
Regarding Russia and voting interference:
"My people came to me and they think it's Russia."(*)
*"I have President Putin; he just said it's not Russia. I will say this: I don't see any reason why it would be."(**)
**The sentence should have been, I don't see any reason why it wouldn't be Russia, sort of a double negative. So you can put that in and I think that probably clarifies things pretty good.
Honestly, they don't make fonts small enough for this president to eventually clarify what he's talking about.
My poor little asterisk.
I propose that we keep the asterisk's innocence and original purpose which, remember, was to help clarify the reading of ideas.
I suggest that from now on, in advertising and in politics, if there is a need to further explain what is being lied talked about, a small icon of Donald Trump's head should be used. Because he is the embodiment, the physical representation, of the spewing of lies, untruths, alternative facts. His fabrications should be indicated not by an innocent little snowflake, but by the ugly, orange combover that is so closely associated with him.
Phew! I can feel the asterisk's relief already, the burden lifting.
***okay, maybe it is about Trump
Monday, July 30, 2018
That Young, Cocky Guy
I"ll just get this out of the way: I'm not really a Tom Cruise fan.
I mean, it's not that I don't like his movies. I like some of them. Risky Business was a fun romp of a flick. Top Gun was ridiculously stupid but also ridiculously fun. The Mission Impossible franchise has its moments, though I think they may have to come up with a new plot at some point because I'm fairly certain the synopsis for the past four of them reads, "The team has to find and stop rogue terrorists from detonating black market nuclear bombs." (And they always do find and stop those rogue terrorists! They're very good at their job!)
And clearly the man is talented--I'll freely admit that. While I don't see him receiving an Academy Award (maybe an honorary one?), he's a decent actor, and his stunt work is phenomenal (okay, maybe that's where his Oscar will come from).
He's got great genetics and I'm assuming an equally great plastic surgeon on speed dial. The man does not age.
My girlfriends love him. In that regard, he's just not my type. Not even close. Give me Colin Firth any day-- tall and lanky, an English accent, able to pull off serious and snarky with equal effect, and an alum of the greatest movie ever made, Love Actually (yeah, that's right Olivia, I'm challenging your Hercules assertion).
I digress.
Not a huge Tom Cruise fan. I think it's because, to me, he plays the same role, over and over and over again.
Risky Business--check out this new star who plays a young, cocky guy!
All the Right Moves--check out Cruise as a young, cocky football player!
Top Gun--check out Tom Cruise as he plays a young, cocky guy in the Navy!
The Color of Money--Tom Cruise plays a young, cocky pool hustler with Paul Newman!
Rain Man--showing his serious acting chops, Tom Cruise plays a young, cocky guy who discovers he has a heart!
Days of Thunder--Tom meets his future wife Nicole Kidman in this movie where he plays a young, cocky racing car driver!
Mission Impossible (1 through 15)--Cruise plays Ethan Hunt, a cocky (though not so young anymore) special agent who saves the world!
Spot the trend...
He's great at what he does. It's just that he does it a lot. I mean A LOT!
Not that Tom Cruise is looking for advice from me (I'm not positive of this but I'm fairly certain he doesn't know who I am), but if I may: stretch yourself, Tom. Make yourself uncomfortable. You were great in The Last Samurai. It may not have been box office gold, but you were superb. Not every role has to show off your impressive physical capabilities.You do your own stunts. We get it.
I want to like Tom. I do. It would probably help if he stopped all the Scientology nonsense, but I get the impression he's not willing to give that up in order to impress me.
So I'm left with hoping that Tom will find a script--I know it's out there-- that will allow him to more heavily rely on what are probably some decent dramatic skills.
He plays fearless quite convincingly in the Mission Impossible series. He just needs to get a little more fearless with his acting endeavors. He can emulate my guy, Colin Firth, who who has attempted both a stuttering King of England leading a nation through war as well as an awkward gay man who bursts into terrible songs and awful dancing with a cast including Meryl Steep and Cher! (One of those is way better than the other, but he tried (twice!) and he looks like he's having a great time doing it).
That's all I'm suggesting, I guess. Just try, Tom. Do something daring.
My suggestion: Tom plays the Richard Burton part in a remake of Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf? And it would be phenomenal if Nicole Kidman plays the Elizabeth Taylor part. There's got to be some residual anger there that could help them both dig into the parts.
I want to be a Tom Cruise fan. Help me help you make me a fan, Tom.
And please, under no circumstances, should there be a Top Gun sequel.
I mean, it's not that I don't like his movies. I like some of them. Risky Business was a fun romp of a flick. Top Gun was ridiculously stupid but also ridiculously fun. The Mission Impossible franchise has its moments, though I think they may have to come up with a new plot at some point because I'm fairly certain the synopsis for the past four of them reads, "The team has to find and stop rogue terrorists from detonating black market nuclear bombs." (And they always do find and stop those rogue terrorists! They're very good at their job!)
And clearly the man is talented--I'll freely admit that. While I don't see him receiving an Academy Award (maybe an honorary one?), he's a decent actor, and his stunt work is phenomenal (okay, maybe that's where his Oscar will come from).
He's got great genetics and I'm assuming an equally great plastic surgeon on speed dial. The man does not age.
My girlfriends love him. In that regard, he's just not my type. Not even close. Give me Colin Firth any day-- tall and lanky, an English accent, able to pull off serious and snarky with equal effect, and an alum of the greatest movie ever made, Love Actually (yeah, that's right Olivia, I'm challenging your Hercules assertion).
I digress.
Not a huge Tom Cruise fan. I think it's because, to me, he plays the same role, over and over and over again.
Risky Business--check out this new star who plays a young, cocky guy!
All the Right Moves--check out Cruise as a young, cocky football player!
Top Gun--check out Tom Cruise as he plays a young, cocky guy in the Navy!
The Color of Money--Tom Cruise plays a young, cocky pool hustler with Paul Newman!
Rain Man--showing his serious acting chops, Tom Cruise plays a young, cocky guy who discovers he has a heart!
Days of Thunder--Tom meets his future wife Nicole Kidman in this movie where he plays a young, cocky racing car driver!
Mission Impossible (1 through 15)--Cruise plays Ethan Hunt, a cocky (though not so young anymore) special agent who saves the world!
Spot the trend...
He's great at what he does. It's just that he does it a lot. I mean A LOT!
Not that Tom Cruise is looking for advice from me (I'm not positive of this but I'm fairly certain he doesn't know who I am), but if I may: stretch yourself, Tom. Make yourself uncomfortable. You were great in The Last Samurai. It may not have been box office gold, but you were superb. Not every role has to show off your impressive physical capabilities.You do your own stunts. We get it.
I want to like Tom. I do. It would probably help if he stopped all the Scientology nonsense, but I get the impression he's not willing to give that up in order to impress me.
So I'm left with hoping that Tom will find a script--I know it's out there-- that will allow him to more heavily rely on what are probably some decent dramatic skills.
He plays fearless quite convincingly in the Mission Impossible series. He just needs to get a little more fearless with his acting endeavors. He can emulate my guy, Colin Firth, who who has attempted both a stuttering King of England leading a nation through war as well as an awkward gay man who bursts into terrible songs and awful dancing with a cast including Meryl Steep and Cher! (One of those is way better than the other, but he tried (twice!) and he looks like he's having a great time doing it).
That's all I'm suggesting, I guess. Just try, Tom. Do something daring.
My suggestion: Tom plays the Richard Burton part in a remake of Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf? And it would be phenomenal if Nicole Kidman plays the Elizabeth Taylor part. There's got to be some residual anger there that could help them both dig into the parts.
I want to be a Tom Cruise fan. Help me help you make me a fan, Tom.
And please, under no circumstances, should there be a Top Gun sequel.
Sunday, June 17, 2018
"Journey" My Ass!
Last August we took Olivia to the airport to begin her semester abroad in Prague, Czech Republic. She was so excited. We were so excited for her. We encouraged and supported this journey, but even so I did cry a little on the drive home after we dropped her off, because I knew how much we were going to miss her. And also because I absolutely knew that Olivia would return home a changed person. That's what journeys do--they present you with new obstacles to overcome, unfamiliar terrain to conquer, fresh perspectives to consider, unaccustomed situations to work through. Olivia's time abroad, her journey, would reshape her way of thinking about the world and her place in it.
Ok, stay with me here. The next couple sentences seem unrelated, but if you stick with me I think you'll find the segue.
I've tried pretty hard to avoid writing much about my "journey" this past year. Mostly because I live it every day, so adding another dimension to it just seemed excessive.
(As an aside, I just don't get why so many people refer to having cancer as a "journey." I think it would be more accurately described as a deep dive into Hell. Nobody wants to go on that trip. If my travel agent had booked this "journey" for me I would post a scorchingly bad Yelp review.)
Anyway, I am finding that while this is not a "journey" I would have chosen to take (I like Olivia's journey much, much better), I nonetheless am a changed person because of it. My way of looking at the world, and my place in it, has shifted.
I found out that I need help. Not "Call 911!" kind of help. Just everyday life help. We ALL need help. But don't you find that there are lots of times when you won't ask for it because that would mean you think that you couldn't get the job done by yourself? I did a million things by myself for no reason other than I really enjoyed congratulating myself on what a great job I did all by myself. But this past year, there were things I couldn't do. Really basic things, like getting out of bed, or more recently riding a bike. When did we start thinking that doing something alone is a greater accomplishment than doing something with help from others? Asking for or accepting help is not a sign of weakness. It's a sign of being human. I've learned to ask for it when I need it, and accept it when it's offered.
Also, if I see something positive, I try to say something positive. Example #1: a young woman walking toward me was wearing a t-shirt that read, "You can sit with us." I love that. That is a message of inclusivity in an age of bullying. So as I passed her I said, "I love your shirt." She smiled and said thank you. No big deal. Not hard to do. And she got some support for being supportive. Example #2: the other morning I was at the gym, sitting on a recumbent bike wishing I was able to run. Kind of feeling sorry for myself. I started watching this petite woman doing TRX pull-ups and pushups. Then she would do them sideways on one arm. And then she got into a pushup formation but instead of doing pushups she did a running motion with her legs. WHILE SHE WAS IN PUSHUP FORMATION! If you can't picture this, let me help you:
Okay, so pretty damn impressive. If I tried this--well let's be honest, I wouldn't even be able to get into this position because I would do a face plant as my legs would be swinging wildly out of control. So again, pretty damn impressive. As I walked from my pity party on the recumbent bike over to my post-pity party on the sit-up bench, I paused briefly at the TRX bands and said to the woman, "You are a badass." She looked around and then at me and said, "Me?" I repeated, "You are a badass! That is so hard to do and you're making it look so easy." She almost started crying. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I've just had such a terrible year and my anxiety... anyway, you just made my day. Thank you." A year ago I would have watched her and thought to myself, I bet I could do that if I tried (which would have been me deluding myself, by the way). And that would have been the end of it. I likely never would have given her a second thought. These days I'm happy to share my admiration. I make a point of it.
And people are being quite lovely about sharing their happiness for me.
One more story about me at the gym. Dave and I have been going to the gym almost every day since he retired. But then BLAMMO! I'm not at the gym for months. Then I'm back at the gym a couple of days a week, bald, in a hip/knee brace and on crutches. I'm super self-conscious, and I have to figure out what I am able to do (because it's definitely not the elliptical that I used to do). Fast forward a few months and I'm going almost every day with just crutches. And then... TA DAH! I'm back at the gym daily with no external apparatus whatsoever (and hair on my head!). During that whole transition at the gym, I didn't talk to many people. If I saw someone I knew, I tried to avoid them. I thought I did a pretty good job of going about my business and going unnoticed. Funny thing, though, is that people had noticed me, and they were rooting for me. Every time I showed up with one less piece of equipment, someone I didn't know would congratulate me. A man who I recognized because he was always working out at the same time as me but whom I had never spoken to stopped me to say how happy he was for me and ask me if I was feeling better without my spica brace. Another man who was always sitting on a bike near mine said he noticed I was off my crutches and that I was moving just great! Those are just two of the probably five or six people who made a point of telling me how well they thought I was doing and how they could see how hard I was working. I guess all of this could have made me feel self-conscious, but it did the opposite, because people kind of sounded like they were truly sharing in the excitement of my victories.
I have my days, my moments, of course, that are hard. My "journey" (aka my crappy crapfest) has physically impacted me greatly in ways that are still hard to come to terms with. Running was my zen, my path to attaining challenging goals. Admitting that running may not be in the cards is hard. But that's all I'm willing to commit to at this point--that it MAY not happen. Because even though my crappy crapfest of a journey has changed me, as journeys do, I'm still stubbornly hanging on to the parts of me that have gotten me to this point.
I think most of all this crappy crapfest of a year has turned me into someone who notices and appreciates life's little moments and victories. And conversely, I care less about things that might have previously agitated me. If I notice that your hair looks nice, I'm going to tell you. If a driver cuts me off in the parking lot, I'm not wasting any energy on it. If there's a speck of good in the "woe-is-me" story you're telling, that's where I'm steering the conversation.
My place in the world is firmly rooted where there is ample light and silver linings.
Ok, stay with me here. The next couple sentences seem unrelated, but if you stick with me I think you'll find the segue.
I've tried pretty hard to avoid writing much about my "journey" this past year. Mostly because I live it every day, so adding another dimension to it just seemed excessive.
(As an aside, I just don't get why so many people refer to having cancer as a "journey." I think it would be more accurately described as a deep dive into Hell. Nobody wants to go on that trip. If my travel agent had booked this "journey" for me I would post a scorchingly bad Yelp review.)
Anyway, I am finding that while this is not a "journey" I would have chosen to take (I like Olivia's journey much, much better), I nonetheless am a changed person because of it. My way of looking at the world, and my place in it, has shifted.
I found out that I need help. Not "Call 911!" kind of help. Just everyday life help. We ALL need help. But don't you find that there are lots of times when you won't ask for it because that would mean you think that you couldn't get the job done by yourself? I did a million things by myself for no reason other than I really enjoyed congratulating myself on what a great job I did all by myself. But this past year, there were things I couldn't do. Really basic things, like getting out of bed, or more recently riding a bike. When did we start thinking that doing something alone is a greater accomplishment than doing something with help from others? Asking for or accepting help is not a sign of weakness. It's a sign of being human. I've learned to ask for it when I need it, and accept it when it's offered.
Also, if I see something positive, I try to say something positive. Example #1: a young woman walking toward me was wearing a t-shirt that read, "You can sit with us." I love that. That is a message of inclusivity in an age of bullying. So as I passed her I said, "I love your shirt." She smiled and said thank you. No big deal. Not hard to do. And she got some support for being supportive. Example #2: the other morning I was at the gym, sitting on a recumbent bike wishing I was able to run. Kind of feeling sorry for myself. I started watching this petite woman doing TRX pull-ups and pushups. Then she would do them sideways on one arm. And then she got into a pushup formation but instead of doing pushups she did a running motion with her legs. WHILE SHE WAS IN PUSHUP FORMATION! If you can't picture this, let me help you:
Okay, so pretty damn impressive. If I tried this--well let's be honest, I wouldn't even be able to get into this position because I would do a face plant as my legs would be swinging wildly out of control. So again, pretty damn impressive. As I walked from my pity party on the recumbent bike over to my post-pity party on the sit-up bench, I paused briefly at the TRX bands and said to the woman, "You are a badass." She looked around and then at me and said, "Me?" I repeated, "You are a badass! That is so hard to do and you're making it look so easy." She almost started crying. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I've just had such a terrible year and my anxiety... anyway, you just made my day. Thank you." A year ago I would have watched her and thought to myself, I bet I could do that if I tried (which would have been me deluding myself, by the way). And that would have been the end of it. I likely never would have given her a second thought. These days I'm happy to share my admiration. I make a point of it.
And people are being quite lovely about sharing their happiness for me.
One more story about me at the gym. Dave and I have been going to the gym almost every day since he retired. But then BLAMMO! I'm not at the gym for months. Then I'm back at the gym a couple of days a week, bald, in a hip/knee brace and on crutches. I'm super self-conscious, and I have to figure out what I am able to do (because it's definitely not the elliptical that I used to do). Fast forward a few months and I'm going almost every day with just crutches. And then... TA DAH! I'm back at the gym daily with no external apparatus whatsoever (and hair on my head!). During that whole transition at the gym, I didn't talk to many people. If I saw someone I knew, I tried to avoid them. I thought I did a pretty good job of going about my business and going unnoticed. Funny thing, though, is that people had noticed me, and they were rooting for me. Every time I showed up with one less piece of equipment, someone I didn't know would congratulate me. A man who I recognized because he was always working out at the same time as me but whom I had never spoken to stopped me to say how happy he was for me and ask me if I was feeling better without my spica brace. Another man who was always sitting on a bike near mine said he noticed I was off my crutches and that I was moving just great! Those are just two of the probably five or six people who made a point of telling me how well they thought I was doing and how they could see how hard I was working. I guess all of this could have made me feel self-conscious, but it did the opposite, because people kind of sounded like they were truly sharing in the excitement of my victories.
I have my days, my moments, of course, that are hard. My "journey" (aka my crappy crapfest) has physically impacted me greatly in ways that are still hard to come to terms with. Running was my zen, my path to attaining challenging goals. Admitting that running may not be in the cards is hard. But that's all I'm willing to commit to at this point--that it MAY not happen. Because even though my crappy crapfest of a journey has changed me, as journeys do, I'm still stubbornly hanging on to the parts of me that have gotten me to this point.
I think most of all this crappy crapfest of a year has turned me into someone who notices and appreciates life's little moments and victories. And conversely, I care less about things that might have previously agitated me. If I notice that your hair looks nice, I'm going to tell you. If a driver cuts me off in the parking lot, I'm not wasting any energy on it. If there's a speck of good in the "woe-is-me" story you're telling, that's where I'm steering the conversation.
My place in the world is firmly rooted where there is ample light and silver linings.
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
I Call Bullshit
It happened. A few days ago I was reading the newspaper in the morning, like I do every morning. But that day, I read through the entire front page section and when I got to the back page, there it was-- a story about the latest school shooting. On the back page.
Apparently school shootings do not merit front page coverage anymore. No wonder. There have been twenty-three school shootings in 2018--and it's only June 5. TWENTY-THREE! That's approximately one school shooting per week.
Last week there was an official who blamed school shootings on all of the following: ritalin, the number of doors schools have, and godlessness. But not guns. Seriously.
A friend of mine who is an artist created a piece that has stuck with me. She made it in the wake of Trump's election. At the top of the work are the words 'What Now?' Underneath the words is an outline of the United States, and it is filled in with comments written by people attending the SF Women's March, which was days after Trump's inauguration.
What now, indeed.
I think it is safe to say that our country is in crisis. We have kids being shot by their classmates. Weekly. And nothing is being done. The shootings are horrible. The inaction is inexcusable.
I watched a press conference a few days ago at which a young man (probably twelve years old) described to Sarah Sanders the fear that he and other kids feel going to school with so many school shootings happening, and unable to control her emotion, she somewhat tearfully apologized to the boy, saying that school should be a place where kids feel safe every day, and she feels awful that he feels afraid. But then she followed that up with the statement that the Trump administration is doing everything in its power to solve the problem. Tell me, Sarah, what exactly is the Trump administration doing? As Emma Gonzalez says, I call bullshit.
Twenty years have passed since Columbine.
Who would have thought that event was just the beginning? That very first school shooting brought to light the issues of students being bullied, mental illness, semi-automatic weapons, and kids having access to guns.
Twenty years have passed since Columbine.
This country has quite literally done nothing to address three out of those four problems. And while credit is due for bullying being brought out into the open and identified as a serious matter, in the time it's taken to do that social media has blown up and bullying has morphed into something that now occurs 24/7 for some kids.
We have done nothing noteworthy on the mental illness front.
We have undone what progress was made regarding the availability of semi-automatic weapons.
We have done nothing significant about kids having access to guns.
Why? Why have we not solved--no, I'm not going to finish that sentence. I'm going to restart it.
Why can't we at least agree on what the problems are?
Apparently school shootings do not merit front page coverage anymore. No wonder. There have been twenty-three school shootings in 2018--and it's only June 5. TWENTY-THREE! That's approximately one school shooting per week.
Last week there was an official who blamed school shootings on all of the following: ritalin, the number of doors schools have, and godlessness. But not guns. Seriously.
A friend of mine who is an artist created a piece that has stuck with me. She made it in the wake of Trump's election. At the top of the work are the words 'What Now?' Underneath the words is an outline of the United States, and it is filled in with comments written by people attending the SF Women's March, which was days after Trump's inauguration.
What now, indeed.
I think it is safe to say that our country is in crisis. We have kids being shot by their classmates. Weekly. And nothing is being done. The shootings are horrible. The inaction is inexcusable.
I watched a press conference a few days ago at which a young man (probably twelve years old) described to Sarah Sanders the fear that he and other kids feel going to school with so many school shootings happening, and unable to control her emotion, she somewhat tearfully apologized to the boy, saying that school should be a place where kids feel safe every day, and she feels awful that he feels afraid. But then she followed that up with the statement that the Trump administration is doing everything in its power to solve the problem. Tell me, Sarah, what exactly is the Trump administration doing? As Emma Gonzalez says, I call bullshit.
Twenty years have passed since Columbine.
Who would have thought that event was just the beginning? That very first school shooting brought to light the issues of students being bullied, mental illness, semi-automatic weapons, and kids having access to guns.
Twenty years have passed since Columbine.
This country has quite literally done nothing to address three out of those four problems. And while credit is due for bullying being brought out into the open and identified as a serious matter, in the time it's taken to do that social media has blown up and bullying has morphed into something that now occurs 24/7 for some kids.
We have done nothing noteworthy on the mental illness front.
We have undone what progress was made regarding the availability of semi-automatic weapons.
We have done nothing significant about kids having access to guns.
Why? Why have we not solved--no, I'm not going to finish that sentence. I'm going to restart it.
Why can't we at least agree on what the problems are?
Friday, May 25, 2018
Will someone please explain...
Okay, so the idea here is that I'm going to make a list of things I don't understand.
Not science-y or math-y stuff, of which I understand relatively nothing and am never really expecting that to change.
These are things I see that must have some logic-based solution that completely escapes me. So here goes:
1. WHY oh why are razorblade refills so flippin' expensive that they are kept in locked cases in the store? If someone could help me out with every single nonsensical part of this I would be eternally grateful. Please don't say they're locked up because they are a frequently shoplifted item. That would only explain half of my conundrum. I still need to know why a refill pack of four razorblades is $20. I'm just finding it hard to believe that there's mind-boggling new R & D technology that makes each blade worth a whopping five dollars! Perhaps they are one of the more shoplifted items because they are SO FLIPPIN' EXPENSIVE!
2. When a ballpoint pen seems to not work, why does writing on your hand seem to make it work? Anyone else ever do that? I don't get it. What magic properties does my skin have?
3. How come hotel shower faucets are so confusing? It's like a brain teaser--to get hot water you have to pull out on the handle, turn it clockwise to the 3 o'clock position, push it in halfway and then look for the lever that makes it a shower instead of a bath. And they're all different! So when you finally figure one out it's not useful information at all the next time you stay in a hotel.
4. Picture this: you're sitting at your computer. You open up your browser--let's say Safari. You single click in the search bar, which then brings up a box with all of your bookmarks... and randomly maybe your frequently visited sites. But sometimes not your frequently visited sites. Why do they come up sometimes and not other times? Why not always? Or never? Someone please explain to me what it is I'm doing that makes the frequently visited sites either show up or not show up.
5. Why do sodas taste better through a McDonald's-sized straw? It seems to have something to do with the width of the opening to me (as opposed to the length of the straw), but I"m not positive. And I don't know why the width would make a difference. But it does.
6. How come none of us ever know the name of the drummer in a band (exceptions made for Ringo Starr, John Bonham and Don Henley)? Do you know who the drummer is in Maroon 5? Metallica? U2? Coldplay? Pearl Jam? Me neither.
7. Someone explain the process of determining state postal codes. If Alabama is AL and Alaska is AK, why is Alaska AK? If it's because Alabama came first in the alphabet, then riddle me this Batman: why is Arizona AZ and Arkansas is AR? Shouldn't Arizona get the AR because it's alphabetically before Arkansas? Shouldn't Arkansas be AN or AS?
8. Why do some people care so much about whether the toilet paper comes up from under or over the top of the roll?
9. If you're in the "C" boarding group on a Southwest flight, why are you even trying to bring a carry-on bag aboard? There's not going to be room. You're going to have to gate check it. You're just holding up the departure of the plane. What are you doing, man?
I think that's it for now. I'll start my list anew now that this one has been released out into the wild. I'm not really expecting anyone to answer these questions for me, but it feels a little cathartic to put them out there, just in case I'm notinsane unique and other people wonder about these things, too.
Not science-y or math-y stuff, of which I understand relatively nothing and am never really expecting that to change.
These are things I see that must have some logic-based solution that completely escapes me. So here goes:
1. WHY oh why are razorblade refills so flippin' expensive that they are kept in locked cases in the store? If someone could help me out with every single nonsensical part of this I would be eternally grateful. Please don't say they're locked up because they are a frequently shoplifted item. That would only explain half of my conundrum. I still need to know why a refill pack of four razorblades is $20. I'm just finding it hard to believe that there's mind-boggling new R & D technology that makes each blade worth a whopping five dollars! Perhaps they are one of the more shoplifted items because they are SO FLIPPIN' EXPENSIVE!
2. When a ballpoint pen seems to not work, why does writing on your hand seem to make it work? Anyone else ever do that? I don't get it. What magic properties does my skin have?
3. How come hotel shower faucets are so confusing? It's like a brain teaser--to get hot water you have to pull out on the handle, turn it clockwise to the 3 o'clock position, push it in halfway and then look for the lever that makes it a shower instead of a bath. And they're all different! So when you finally figure one out it's not useful information at all the next time you stay in a hotel.
4. Picture this: you're sitting at your computer. You open up your browser--let's say Safari. You single click in the search bar, which then brings up a box with all of your bookmarks... and randomly maybe your frequently visited sites. But sometimes not your frequently visited sites. Why do they come up sometimes and not other times? Why not always? Or never? Someone please explain to me what it is I'm doing that makes the frequently visited sites either show up or not show up.
5. Why do sodas taste better through a McDonald's-sized straw? It seems to have something to do with the width of the opening to me (as opposed to the length of the straw), but I"m not positive. And I don't know why the width would make a difference. But it does.
6. How come none of us ever know the name of the drummer in a band (exceptions made for Ringo Starr, John Bonham and Don Henley)? Do you know who the drummer is in Maroon 5? Metallica? U2? Coldplay? Pearl Jam? Me neither.
7. Someone explain the process of determining state postal codes. If Alabama is AL and Alaska is AK, why is Alaska AK? If it's because Alabama came first in the alphabet, then riddle me this Batman: why is Arizona AZ and Arkansas is AR? Shouldn't Arizona get the AR because it's alphabetically before Arkansas? Shouldn't Arkansas be AN or AS?
8. Why do some people care so much about whether the toilet paper comes up from under or over the top of the roll?
9. If you're in the "C" boarding group on a Southwest flight, why are you even trying to bring a carry-on bag aboard? There's not going to be room. You're going to have to gate check it. You're just holding up the departure of the plane. What are you doing, man?
I think that's it for now. I'll start my list anew now that this one has been released out into the wild. I'm not really expecting anyone to answer these questions for me, but it feels a little cathartic to put them out there, just in case I'm not
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