Ciao y’all,
NOTE: I came to upload this using the internet at the school and just realized that my computer battery is almost dead...so, I'm uploading the text, but come back to read a second time - MORE PICS SOON TO FOLLOW!
Today I’m writing from the heated bar where I spend every Saturday afternoon. I mention the heat because there’s a law in Italy that private homes can’t turn on the heat before November 1 and Fall weather has finally arrived. Last night no matter what I did I couldn’t get the window in my bedroom to close – and my room is still FREEZING. But here in the coffee-scented bar, all is well, toasty and warm.
As promised, here are a couple of the entries I wrote earlier. Some of them are edited for brevity, others have been pretty much left alone ‘cause I like them the way I wrote them in the first place. Enjoy the photos, some of them are pretty silly. And write sometime, I’d love to hear from you.
Sick
I’m sick. I’ve been getting sick for two weeks and this week, my body finally gave in: bronchitis with a solid case of chills and fever. My little bed is comfortable but kind of boring, so I’m trying to write to keep myself occupied. The doctor says I shouldn’t leave the apartment for a few days. So what is there to write about? Why, cultural differences in how one treats bronchitis, of course!
So, first of all, there was the trip to the doctor. I have insurance but not a private doctor, so I went to the Misericordia. And what is the Misericordia, you might ask? There are records of St. Catherine performing miracles at the Misericordia building during the plague. Today, the Misericordia provides ambulances, training for volunteer medics, transportation for the poor and disabled, and - most importantly – public assistance doctors for the poor and i stranieri (foreigners). The school gave me the address and hours of the doctor and I was set to go, coughing my way through the streets of Siena.
With just a little hesitation and the help of a kind ambulance driver who was on his way to work, I found the building. Stepping in the door, I saw two things that immediately caught my attention: a display of antique “ambulances” (if I passed out in the street is this what they would use to come get me?) and a statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by electric candles: a euro per prayer, either for healing or expressing gratitude. I remembered the thousands who had died in this very building – 2/3 of the population of Siena was killed in the plague – and feared I’d need the miracles St. Catherine provided.
It's feeling a little medieval in here...
Office hours started at nine and I waited outside the doctor’s double doors under the arches that support the seven hundred year old building, staring at the speckled 70’s style tiles on the floor and trying not to think about the potential of some latent virus lurking in the crumbling ceiling frescoes. Admittedly, I was getting a little paranoid. How would I explain my symptoms if the doctor had questions? Would I be able to tell him I have an allergy to penicillin and sulfa drugs? Would he listen? At the appointed hour, the doors swung open and out stepped the doctor – and he was as unintimidating as he could possibly have been: in his sixties, my height (5’2”), and nearly completely round with warm brown eyes and a polite smile. My fears evaporated as I realized he speaks English – and that my coughing had already told him why I was here.
He was as professional and as Italian as anyone I’ve ever met. By that I mean he gave me a thorough exam with a clear diagnosis (bronchitis, possibly fluid starting pneumonia in one lung, fever, blood pressure normal, etc) and talked to me about everything and nothing. He even read my palm as well as writing me a prescription. He’s a retired gynecologist, so I guess I shouldn’t blame him for his obsessive warnings that the antibiotics would interfere with my birth control despite my telling him repeatedly that a) I’m not using birth control because b) I’m single. Aside from that, it was one of the most pleasant and entertaining doctor visits I’ve ever had.
I walked home after my visit, stopping at the Farmacia along the way. I’m happy to report that I am now more than capable of communicating with the pharmacist, which is a nice change of pace. I got home, took my medicine, and climbed into bed. Oh, the peace and quiet. A few hours later, there was a knock on my door. Pino, my landlord, of course. During his daily visit, my roommates told him I was sick, and boy was he mad: I hadn’t called him, I went to the doctor by myself – walked with bronchitis no less – and was wrapped up in bed with my winter coat instead of more blankets. Pino is a father to everyone he meets, I think, because within minutes, I had a down comforter, he’d taken my temperature and he’d insisted that I wear two pairs of socks and my slippers. Then he went on his way. How strange, I thought, I haven’t been checked on like that since I lived with my mom. But it was only the beginning.
Next day, Pino called on the phone, checked in on my temperature, then showed up with honey and milk. He brought Theraflu and said I had to take it every six hours, especially before bed. The milk and honey were really good, I have to admit, but the Theraflu…ugh. I feel about eight years old and I should probably resent the constant checking in, but you know what? It’s really nice to feel like someone cares, even if it’s because he doesn’t want me to die on him in his apartment – what an insurance and logistical nightmare that would be! No, Pino is like a brother to me and to everyone he knows – he’s been known to loan money to his tenants, drive them to the cell phone store, translate at the bank, dispense good advice, and pick up stranded tenants at the airport. He’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.
So, here I am, sick in a foreign country, getting the best care I’ve had in years. For all my determination and sometimes pessimistic reciting of the mantra that I don’t need anything or anyone (hey, it got me through a long and difficult time), more than anything I value the connections we humans have to each other. Maybe asking for help or accepting a little nurturing outside of my family is a good thing. It’s strange to be on the receiving end of this kind of care; it’s certainly something I’m not in the habit of doing. But I don’t want to be too introspective right now – I’m just happy that I don’t have the plague and that I do have this beautiful jar of honey…and kindhearted people that seem to be more kindhearted as I get to know them. What a gift. This warm milk thing makes me kind of sleepy. But before I go to sleep, I do want to tell you that I paid my Euro and turned on one of Mary’s candles in gratitude. Nighty night.
Cleaning House (An Important Lesson)
They’re staying. In a recent conversation I mentioned that the house will close for Christmas and the husband said, “I guess we’ll have to be gone by then.” S#*t. I thought they were leaving at the end of October. The kitchen continued to stay covered in crumbs, the stove covered in coffee and food stains, the sink full of bits of wet food, the table in abandoned dishes and school books, the cabinets in empty water bottles, their bag of sugar, their bottle of olive oil, their dirty cutting board, a butter wrapper, dirty pots and pans on the draining board beside the sink, clean pots on every eye of the stove. You get the picture: a kitchen not fit to cook or eat in. The strategy of eating in my room on my own dishes was fine while I thought the couple were temporary house mates. I haven’t cooked in a month: salads, yogurt and take-out are my staples. Okay, so the take-out’s no hardship: grilled veggies, roast chicken and/or handmade pasta for 4 or 5 euros? I might have done this anyway. But if they’re staying, it’s no way to live. No more Ms. Nice Gal. It’s time to clean house.
But here’s the problem: For lots of good reasons and in lots of places in my life, I’ve spent the last eight years or so gradually learning not to make waves anywhere, to the point where I’m almost afraid to speak my mind about anything. Or if I do, I end up crying because I’m scared and angry, apologizing later, and basically letting my fear undermine any real contribution I could have made. I’ve lived with and created so much fear for myself that being even reasonably assertive feels like a tremendous risk with unforeseeable and often disproportionate consequences. But you know what? I don’t like being a doormat. It’s not my natural disposition. But how do you engage in an uncomfortable conversation when you know you’ll be living with someone for at least two more months and don’t want tension in the house?
A door opened when Joe, a two-week roommate from the school’s Dolce Vita program, walked into the kitchen after Veronica finished cleaning, looked at the husband, then down at the stove:
“It’s really clean, isn’t it?” he said.
The husband nodded.
“I guess that will change now that you’re in here.”
I like Joe.
The next day, I walked in to heat water for tea (Did I mention that I’m sick? Could there be a connection to the state of the kitchen? You be the judge.) and couldn’t find a space to A) put my cup down on the cabinet, and B) put a pot on the stove. I couldn’t even move their pots off of the stove because the cabinets and table were covered with their mess, too. The husband walked in to find me with one of their pots in my hand, looking for a place to put it down. I put it away. He started to apologize, “The kitchen isn’t clean? Um…” then screamed for his wife. I looked at him and said quietly, “Don’t blame her. I haven’t cooked in a month. It’s been like this since you moved in.” Then I lost my nerve and walked out of the kitchen.
Apparently they made a nominal effort to clean up, because when I walked back into the kitchen there was at least an available eye to heat my water and the dirty pots on the stove were now clean pots on the stove. I feel a little crazy when my living space is cluttered, so I started to clean. Again, the husband walked in to find me picking up their glasses and plates from the table to the sink, taking out paper towels and cleaner, and starting to scrub. Keep in mind this is the day after the house was cleaned. He watched me scrubbing the stove and didn’t say anything for a minute. He saw that their pots were put away, he watched me move their empty bottles and start scrubbing the cabinet. He started talking to me, picked up a sponge and gave a swipe to the edge of the sink. The swipe moved coffee grounds from one end of the cabinet to the other. I looked at him, down at the coffee grounds, and wiped them away. He kept talking but started cleaning, too, doing the dishes. Then he helped me put the covers back on the eyes of the stove. Two days later and yes, there’s still spilled coffee on the stove, but no more crumbs and so far, no more dishes, pots and pans. A quiet victory.
At the same time I was celebrating the literal cleansing, there was one more cleansing that needed to happen: the husband’s blatant and unapologetic sexism which, along with his self-confessed elitism, make him nearly impossible to like even when he’s being friendly. I try to address the elitism in teacher mode, i.e., asking questions for clarity or sharing statistics from reliable research. It’s hard, though, when he walks into the kitchen and says things like, “You know I’m an elitist, so I want to ask you something so I can get the point of view of the masses.” The masses. And no, I’m not exaggerating. That’s a direct quote. I do entertain myself by making up answers like, “I can’t speak for any group of people, but I can say that from my point of view, you are a complete – censoring myself here– jerk.” But I don’t say them.
So anyway, the sexism: his wife’s choice to put up with it is hers, but I don’t want to hear it. One day he walked into my room to share some psychological research that posits that women who are battered and stay with their husbands are a result of so many women being kidnapped for marriage in the past. As this logic goes, there’s some genetic reason that women get stuck in dangerous situations. “I’m concerned that this is the genetic pattern of who reproduces,” said the husband. “It’s dangerous.”
I answered, “What’s dangerous to me is that if this kind of research is true, then we’ve selected for the most aggressive men. That seems like more of a risk to humanity to me.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m more concerned about the women. The men are fine.”
Okey dokey. He can believe what he wants about what is, I’m guessing, research that won’t be particularly important in the long run. But then came the conversation in the kitchen during which he was complaining that the Italians complain too much without doing anything about it. “It’s like when housewives complain verses when men complain.”
Um. All housewives, all men. I said, “I can’t let you make a blanket statement like that.”
His charming answer was, “You know what I mean, when housewives…”
I interrupted, “Blanket statements like that still aren’t acceptable.”
Again, the eye rolling. He started to laugh, put his hands up and said, “Okay, okay, so I’m a sexist pig.” In that moment, I realized that if the intellectual elitist wanted to play intellectual elite games, I had to respond in a way that both engaged his intellect and took him out of perceived superiority. These moments are why I’m so grateful for my training in critical race, feminist and other social liberation theory – I forgot to be afraid he wouldn’t like me or would hurt me I and knew I had the intellectual guns to back myself up. A long lost feeling of confidence welled up as I said the first words that came to mind:
“According to critical race and other social liberation theory, deflection is one of the first and most predictable responses of someone who doesn’t want to take responsibility for his words. In this case you’ve belittled the concerns of the other by making a joke out of them and claiming the accusations as truth even as you deny their impact. It’s normally an effective but not particularly original way to deflect the attention from your beliefs to the ‘humorless’ response of the other. But I won’t fall for it.”
Thus spoke the humorless feminist bitch. Damn, I’ve missed her. I knew she was still in there somewhere.
And you know what? Ever since, the house has been a tranquil place. He looked surprised in the immediate moment and started to walk out of the room (the wife fled), but I pulled out a chair and we talked for an hour or so. He’s treated me with respect in every way since then. He’s asked my opinion about lots of interesting questions, come by my room to talk about trips they’ve taken, and stopped burping in my face (again, no exaggeration. He asked me something about a month ago and when I didn’t know, he belched and said, “wrong answer.”). The wife has been friendly and even chatty sometimes, we’ve talked about Italian class and plans for the future. We watched and translated the Amanda Knox verdict on Italian TV. It’s a really nice change. The kitchen remains clean two weeks later, our relationship is based on respect and even real humor. In all honesty, I might be a little sad when they leave.
I’m not “there” yet, but I’m finding the Anna who doesn’t have to cry to make here opinion known, who believes she has just as much right to take up emotional and physical space as the others do, who has the confidence to use what she knows to make positive changes. No, I wouldn’t talk to most people in the tone and with the language I used with the husband. I hate sounding like that, even in an intellectual setting. But I am learning to use my voice again, to be okay with not pleasing other people when there’s a clear problem or I have a clear opinion (and honestly, why I would want to please someone who has belched in my face is a mystery; if I couldn’t stand up to that, then I’ve got more issues than I thought). I’m remembering the important skills of staying calm and present in tense situations. Most importantly I’m remembering to keep my integrity while, as always, I stay open to reconciliation or change – but I’m putting my integrity before someone else’s comfort.
Not half bad for one day’s cleaning.
Gone Ridin’ – or Tryin’ To Be:
So ever since the departure of the horse trainer, I’ve needed a place to be with horses here in Siena. When my roommate David arrived, he was determined to find a place we could ride together. He’s an avid rider in Australia, so he wanted to ride here. The only problem is that the only place that will pick you up is the place where the horse trainer works: and that is a problem, just because it is. I mean, you know, after you get stood up, you don’t exactly want to show up unannounced at the place you were trying to go when you were stood up. Especially when the person who stood you up is the only guide. Especially when that’s where you met him and spent your vacation galloping through the Chianti vineyards as his guest – which I’m sure will someday be a sickeningly romantic memory but currently is tinged with a distinct flavor of bitterness. Capische?
Anyway, after calling around to farm after farm after farm, we were getting a little desperate – a cab would cost as much as or more than the riding itself. But, as often happens, at the last minute (the Friday before David left on Monday), the fantastic scuola posted an advertisement for a farm just outside Siena. No, they don’t provide transportation, but they are really close to Buonconvento, which is easily reachable by train. We decided to take the train and then catch a cab for the last four kilometers to the farm. A perfect plan. We thought.
We set off optimistically, and the train ride went exactly as planned – we were a little giddy, as you can see:
When we got to Buonconvento, we didn’t see any cabs, but we were happily surprised to see a beautiful little town. David looks pretty happy, doesn’t he?
We took some time touring around, had lunch, played around with the camera a bit, then decided to go on to the farm so we’d have some extra time to look around. It’s a good thing we did because there’s only one taxi in Buonconvento. And its one driver, Malcolm (a very Italian name, don’t you think?) was busy. Did you get that? Malcolm was busy.
As always, the people at the information office were very helpful and drew us a map to the farm – hey, four kilometers, each kilometer is 2/3 or a mile, just a couple mile walk. And away we go…We got lost for a few minutes in the Saturday market, came around the corner, and finally saw the sign for the farm – and, um, the road that apparently went straight up the side of a mountain to get there.
Dammit, we are determined people, so off we went – thank goodness David is the type of person who rolls with whatever comes along. As we walked, I realized my perception was correct – uphill all the way. I have to say it’s a little unfair to be assaulted by continual traffic of Vespas heading down hill. In my opinion, they should either have to give me the Vespa or let me walk downhill.
As we walked, I started to realize this walk could have been the highlight of the trip. I’m not kidding, we were in the Crete Senese, the clay hills of Siena, with the countryside opening up beside us. As I sweated my way up the hill, I started thinking that I’m one of the luckiest people in the world.
We crested the hill, stopped for pictures, came around a curve…and there was another hill. Yep, another one. I decided to go back down. Just kidding.
We kept going, up and up and up, until we got to the farm/resort. So beautiful! Pool with a view anyone?
When we sweated our way into the reception area, chatting about how the walk wasn’t all that bad, me still in my skirt and sandles (I planned to change for riding), I joked that the barn was probably another kilometer away, straight uphill.
Never make a joke like that, okay? ‘Nuff said.
Still, the extra walk was worth it, if not just because this sign is so great: Beauty Farm: what do they grow there?
David thought maybe he could use a visit...what do you think?
When we finally got to the farm, a perfect day. I've been back now and bought a block of ten hours just so I could play some more - what a beautiful relief.
And a final thought:
So, my roommate, the husband, stopped me in the street yesterday and gave me something in the vicinity of a compliment: he said I looked as close to a real Italian as an American woman could. He said I just didn't have the sexy part down. No way to really respond to that, but...
I have to say, I've lost some weight here, I'm in much better shape, and I feel pretty good. I realized that last year I actually dressed to punish myself as if I couldn't wear what I wanted because I'd made to many mistakes in my life. So strange but I remember the feeling really well. It's progress to say that I actually like getting dressed in the morning because I have more energy...and in my opinion, nothing is sexier than good health and a smile on your face that comes from your heart. Ciao, ya'll. More soon.
To feel better (and to cheer up the other three single women I live with here), I just went out and ordered a cake topped by a cute little blonde pudgy Cupid stabbed to death with his own arrow. We’ll spend the evening eating it and drinking prosecco, not so bad. I’m sure I will work, even without Joe’s Apartment, my traditional Valentine’s Day standby (My fellow Americans! Get out there and download it – the best singing and dancing cockroach movie ever filmed!). 
