Meet the Cast

Meet the Cast:

This week I am including three entries in addition to this one, each of which gives a taste of my life in Italy and introduces you to the incredible characters I’m meeting here: Benedicte (and the adventure of the missing cookies), the owner (and the current residents of) Piazza San Francesco #4 , and Laura and Marina.  As I introduce each person or group, I am including country of origin.  For a professor of cross-cultural education, this is heaven! 

By the way, I don’t use the term incredible lightly:  I chose to come here for the year because I truly believe there are places in the world with a special ability to draw together important energies for healing, whatever form those energies might take.  Siena is one of those places.  I’ve never been anywhere so likely to inspire me to pray, to nourish myself with books and poetry, to move me to tears with its beauty, to shake me into laughter with its absurdities.  People who “get” Siena stop in their tracks to stare at the shade of the light reflecting on the brick or fall silent staring at the night’s first stars.  The other day on my evening walk I looked over the city wall and there was this silver glow in the olive trees backed by a rosy pink sky.  It’s no coincidence that going to Tuscany to heal has almost become a cliché; it’s not that the place is perfect – there are many, many problems here, like any place where people work and spend their lives – but there is also power to heal.  As I wrote one of the entries, I was sitting in the Piazza del Duomo on a marble bench pockmarked by hundreds of years of rain.  Maybe this photo can show you what I mean by magic – and this is WITHOUT the sun shining on the façade. 

Benedicte

Benedicte (France)

No one can stop a pushy Italian driver like a Parisian girl.  I swear, Benedicte, the first of my new friends, shifts from quirky to cold in an instant on Sienese streets.  She can stop a Fiat in its tracks from yards away.   Benedicte was the first arrival in Piazza San Francesco, joining Jack and me after a week.  We were nervous about a new housemate – we were really enjoying the quiet nights of study and wine – but Benedicte brought humor, compassion, and a complete dedication to the city of Siena with her.  It was Benedicte who joined me on my evening walks every day, Benedicte who discovered the violinist who plays each night in the Piazza del Duomo, and Benedicte who shared her wisdom over the course of her days with us.  She is a study in contentment.  Lots of days she spent the entire afternoon with her bag, searching for the ingredients to a perfect meal.  Other days, she shopped for nothing but sweets, eating her way through the city with the greatest of pleasure.  Benedicte’s passion for Italian food, especially sweets (somehow she manages to eat them from dawn until dusk and stay enviably thin) created a mystery it took all three of us to solve.  Here’s the timeline:

Day 1:  Benedicte arrives at home with a pack of delicious, delicious ricciarelli, the lemony crunchy-chewy powdered sugar covered cookie no one can resist.  But we do resist them, at least at dinner.  After dinner, someone (me) sneaks back into the kitchen and steals one, or two. 

Day 2:  The evidence of my thievery is immediately noticeable as powdered sugar covers the floor by the cookies.  Jack shouts, “La evidenza! (The evidence!)”   Busted.  I confess, and we move on.

Day 3:  More sugar on the floor, but I have not stolen additional cookies… Knowing it’s not me this time, I shout, “Guarda la evidenza! (Look at the evidence!)”  Jack confesses and we move on.

Day 4:  Additional sugar on the floor.  No one confesses.  Nervously, we move on.

Day 5:  A man’s footprint in the sugar.  More evidence, but no thief.  What’s going on?

Day 6 (Saturday):  So much sugar on the floor that now I am leaving my bare footprint every time I go in the kitchen.

Our landlord, Pino, arrives for his weekly visit.  We show him the evidence, and PINO confesses (told you no one can resist)…during his morning check-ins (he worries that we will leave the gas on), he’s been stealing cookies.  Pino!  We share a drink and later he brings a bottle of prosecco.  Best landlord ever.

Benedicte left a week after Jack.  I miss her a lot: no more long talks in Italian at the table in our homey kitchen, no more jokes with stabbing motions and terrible punchlines.  But the bright side is that she’s returning in November to visit and I will travel to Paris in the Springtime.  I have sister now.

Piazza San Francesco, #4

Life at Number 4, Piazza St. Francesco

Life here is always interesting.  For one thing, the cast of characters is always changing, and with them, life at the apartment changes. The first few weeks there were three of us:  Jack Zerbe (a colleague from Guilford), Benedicte, and myself.  The three of us were, as the Italians would say, molto simpatico, with only one house rule:  always speak Italian.  

During Benedicte’s final week, a new couple, Karin and Jean Pierre, arrived from Switzerland.  They are very clean and wipe every surface several times a day.  The house has never looked better:  all the food from previous tenants is gone, the stove shines, and we have new dishcloths.  I’m trying to stick to the “Italian only” rule, but it’s difficult when Jean Pierre will only speak French or English. 

  

 Last weekend, two new folks, Anina from Switzerland and Fabio from Brazil, came to stay.  I’m starting to feel like the crazy American who lives under the stairs as I emerge to meet the new arrivals (my room is affectionately called the Harry Potter room for its interesting location.  The roof isn’t slanted or anything, and I do have a key, it’s just the whole staircase thing…did I mention that the new Harry Potter movie is here, dubbed in Italian?).  So now we are five.

We all like to cook.  Last night, by happy coincidence, we each came to the table with just enough to share.  Fabio made bruschetta with fresh tomatoes and garlic, Jean Pierre and Karin had a prosciutto pastry, and I supplied the (three guesses) prosecco.  So good!

The one constant, a man I feel like I can count on for anything from prosecco to a lesson in Italian wisdom, is Pino, our landlord.  Pino has a special gift for making a person feel welcome.  I don’t think there’s a person he’s met who he hasn’t charmed.  He arrives every Saturday with pastries and coffee for anyone who’s interested and always has time for a chat or the sensitivity to excuse himself from a conversation.  He spent his boyhood in the apartment and tells the stories of every room.  I thought I would feel invaded by having a landlord who is in the apartment so often, but instead I feel looked-out-for, knowing the gas will never be left on, no strangers will have wandered in, and that someone is close by to help when my door gets stuck.

Everyone left today, leaving Fabio and me alone in the apartment.  I’m looking forward to the potential of having a little true alone time (my room is great, but it’s even better to enjoy the solitude of the terrace or the kitchen) and I’m a little sad.  Laura left yesterday, Marina’s in Assisi and I’m feeling a bit bereft. 

On the other hand, who knows who might show up next week in Piazza San Francesco?  

Laura and Marina

Laura (USA) and Marina (Cuba/USA)

Last night was lyrical in the most literal sense.  A dinner “date” with two amazing women, Laura and Marina, became a way-too-much-information conversation (i.e., why deodorant doesn’t work as well here, whether telling someone there’s something in their nose is more intimate than telling them there’s something in their teeth, international waxing techniques, etc) over pasta and a bottle of red wine.  Afterward, in Piazza Del Campo drinking prosecco, under a velvety blue sky deepening to black, Marina gave us a reading of her spoken-word poetry.  I’ve rarely been so moved. 

It takes a lot for me to be intimidated by another woman, especially since I hate the idea that we are in competition to be anything but ourselves – and not even a competition in that, but I have to admit that when I met Marina, she got to me.  I felt every inch of my 5’2” curvy frame and flyaway hair. A successful business owner, Marina is over six feet tall, a bilingual former model/current actress who is working on her Ph.D.  She’s poetry enough without being a talented writer.  She knows exactly how she looks and the impact she has on people around her, but she talks about her beauty like an accessory she has to wear.  She compares her workouts to trials of a chef who has to be on his feet all day:  it sucks, but it’s part of the job.  And then there’s the other side of Marina (and I’m sharing this with her permission), the one so hurt by her divorce that for a year she could barely breathe without physical and psychic pain.  She kept a blog about finding her way through it one small contentment at a time.  When she first started writing, she couldn’t find one good thing to write about – she measured her relief in seconds, in minutes, in hours, then in days.  She’s a prayerful woman, full of faith and compassion (as well as a love of salsa dancing), but the thing I love most about Marina is that her joy is as raw as her grief.  

Except for her equal intelligence, humor, and beauty, Laura (of “badass in your boots” fame) is nearly the exact opposite of Marina.  A 5’2” blonde self-described tomboy, Laura has all the strength and kindness of the teacher that she is.  Laura left the States to teach in the Philappines for two years and now teaches English in an American high school in Milan.  I love Laura for her humor and grace, but also for her unexpected lapses into potty talk, not potty mouth, potty talk (remember the conversation about deodorant, boogers and waxing).   She has such an innocent face, it’s always unexpected.  The girl can eat, too…she’s impossibly thin and fit, but I’ve never seen a plate she hasn’t licked.

The cool thing about Laura and Marina is that after a very short time, it became clear that we each held a piece of another’s puzzle.  Each of us has something we’re insecure about where the other has a strength, or the wisdom to give us strength.  Not only have we laughed until we literally had tears running down our faces (and I discovered that both of my lovely friends snort), we shared stories that brought the other kinds of crying.  Laura took a great picture of Marina and me in our sunglasses with noses that looked like we were the love children of Rudolph the Reindeer and Pinocchio.  But we were so chic in our sunglasses I’m sure no one noticed.  I’ll stick to the funny ones for sharing:

Marina clearly does sexy far better than I do…but I do sleepy pretty well…

By the end of the night, Teacher Laura and Professor Anna were really tired, but Miami Marina had plenty of energy left…so we decided we’d start a girl band and call it Marina and the Nonnas.  Instead, we finshed our evening by writing a group poem, taking turns in our new journals (thank you, Marina) to write a verse in someone else’s.  The last line I wrote was, “each of us luminous in her own way.”  Wouldn’t you agree?

Progress

Progress

Last year at the writing workshop in Assisi, Dorothy Allison talked about writing as a way (I’m working from memory here, so I’m paraphrasing) to tell the truth, to tell your truth, to - as she says - “bury my dead.”   She taught us that it’s also a way to say “there is glory in the world and I am here to bear witness to it.”  I trust Dorothy Allison in a way I trust few other people.  She’s been to hell.  While she was there she painted a picture with her words, then made a good life without ever really coming back.  She has the unaccountable ability to describe murder, take you to the funeral, and leave you believing in redemption.   Bury our dead or bear witness to glory…as if it’s really a choice. 

If you read the earlier entries, you know I came here to study and write and mostly “to heal.”  The first two are pretty simple to put into practice, but “healing” is more than a little vague.  I’ve been stuck in my pain so long I don’t even know how to read the signs I might be making progress, but I think I’m catching on.

The horse trainer returned (sort of). Starting the week after I got here, I had the phone calls, the declarations of a true heart, the assertions that “It is very important to me, we must talk, we must talk faccia a faccia.”   Three canceled dates later, since he can never get away from work, he asked me to please come and ride with him, told me he was sending a friend to get me.  Why I, a tenured professor and former chair of a Women’s Studies department, would once again be intrigued by the lines of a man who couldn’t decide between me and his poodle (who told him he had to choose?) is question enough.  But why I, a fairly savvy woman who is striving to be both fierce and strong, would walk through a busy city in 90 degree heat wearing riding clothes (with makeup) and wait in the sun for an hour checking my phone (cue Phil Collins:  there must be some misunderstanding) while looking for a man in a red Ford Festiva (there must be some kind of mistake) is a complete mystery.  I’m sure this wasn’t what I had in mind when I said “full of love.”

But here’s the important thing, the sign to read:  When he didn’t show up, for once I got angry, and not just at myself.   I charged home, changed clothes, walked out to the Piazza Del Campo with my journal and drank a glass of prosecco.  I must have looked upset because wonderful Pino stopped to tell me that whatever was wrong, I should focus on the beautiful things in life.  I finished my drink, having literally written until my pen ran out of ink, bought myself a good distracting murder mystery in English and read myself to sleep.

When I told the story to my friend Lara she commented, “I’ll bet you looked like a badass in your boots.”  

I almost didn’t post this entry: it’s personal and it’s potentially embarrassing but it’s important.  Yes I cried, but I’m not paralyzed anymore.  I realized that when I was with this man – and in other, more critical situations - I forgot some important part of who I am, a part I’m remembering now.  I’m laughing (mostly) at my badass self in riding boots and make-up, I’m angry like I haven’t been in a good long while and, looking out at the walls of the Basilica of St. Frances in the glow of a luminous moon, I think I’ve just borne witness to a little bit of glory.  

I’m still not sure exactly how, but it’s time to bury my dead and move on.

Lessons Learned

Last week was the Palio, one of the world’s greatest horse races and the center of Sienese culture.  I will write to you about the August Palio, but this time a horse was killed in one of the warm-ups and I didn’t have the heart.  If you want to see amazing pics, though, go to Jack Zerbe’s blog, Travels with Jack (google the phrase and it will show up).  I was standing next to him for many of the pictures. 

Right now it's Sunday morning and I am at a bar (what they call the coffee shops here) next to San Domenico, the church where St. Catherine’s finger and head are kept.  I’m listening to the church bells and zooming on two cups of espresso and a morning walk – wheeeeee!  I’m finally finding my feet and learning lots of entertaining lessons, not all of them having to do with Italy.  For example, did you know it’s possible to put your laptop in a bag and pull it out with the disk drive full of pennies?  It’s true.  This is where strategically manipulated hairpins can work their magic.  Some things are truly multicultural.

I’ve been here just long enough to need to replace a few things.  Last weekend I realized that I left my ipod charger at home.  I wondered if this was a sign from the travel gods that I need to unplug or a gauntlet being thrown down to challenge my baby Italian.  I decided it’s the latter and went to the electronics store (on foot, way down the hill out of town) to work on replacing the charger.  I’m positive my question sounded something like, “Is possible here to buy ipod classic electricity?”  but the kind man at the store knew exactly what I meant.  One down.  On to the drug store.

In Italy, one doesn’t go into the Farmacia (the pharmacy) and pick out anything medical.  One goes to the pharmacist, describes what she needs, and allows the pharmacist to make the decision for her.  Last year I spent an entertaining half an hour being prescribed ibuprofen by an Italian pharmacist after I rode a horse for six hours and could barely walk (since I basically had to pantomime my symptoms it was probably pretty entertaining for him too).  He had a delighted “AHA!” moment as he reached for the box of six pills and carefully described their use.  I nodded and smiled a lot.  This week I needed contact lens solution:  Here I went again:  “Is possible to buy liquid for the eyes to clean the lens?” The pharmacist brought out Visine.  Nope, for the lens (I pantomimed taking out a contact).  She let out a shout of concern and leaned in.  I think she thought I had something in my eye.  No, no, for my vision…And another delighted cry.  Oh!  Contatto!  And here was a simple bottle of soft lens solution.  Ahhhh.

I do have enough vocabulary now to conduct short conversations or beg forgiveness.  I’m finding that a smile and the phrase, “Mi dispiace, il mio Italiano e non troppo bene”  (I’m sorry, my Italian is not too good) goes a long way.  Even the grouchy older women smile and then apologize for their English when I use this phrase.  Everyone here is a teacher.  Anytime I go into a shop, I explain that I’m just beginning my Italian study and would prefer to try speaking in Italian.  There’s a lot of Sienese pride in speaking the most “pure” Italian in the country, so I can’t get away with any grammatical mistakes.  Even the man working at the bar near the school has taken to checking my homework in the mornings.  He doesn’t tell me the answers, just leans over my shoulder wagging his finger, “ah, ah, ah, numero diece” and I know to fix it.  

I’ll share one final lesson for the week.  I have dinner plans with friends tonight.  I’m in Italy, so naturally I want to wear high heels.  I have this great pair of 3-4” blue heels (about average height here) and a quarter mile walk to dinner instead of the American voyage across a parking lot.  Keep in mind that Siena is paved in cobblestones and built on steep hills, so there is only one thing for it:  practice.  Yes, practice.  Yesterday I spent the day tottering around, first traversing the flat Piazza di San Francesco and progressing to the rolling Via Dei Rossi.  I think I’ve got it now, that look of casual confidence worn by Italian women on their ubiquitous stilts.  Vediamo (We will see).  I’m just hoping that my next entry isn’t “Negotiating an Italian hospital.” 

Be well.

Anna