My Great Tuscan Adventure, Day II
Buongiorno! It's my first morning waking up in Rome. I slept like a foolish man, as I heard said in Ghana, which is to say very, deeply and soundly, without even getting up once to pee (and I always get up at least once to pee.)
Okay, that's probably TMI - Too Much Information - right out of the chute but, you know, I am discovering that this is The City of Too Much Information.
Italians have to explain EVERYTHING in great detail - and with their eyes and their faces as well as their hands - especially when they think they've done something that you think is wrong, but they KNOW isn't and they have to tell you why.
I've got an example with the door to my hotel room - it's not the key, and no, I haven't kept it near my cell phone, and look, even your night housekeeping staff can't get in without jimmying and jiggling so something obviously needs to be filed down or drilled or adjusted - but, instead, I want to tell you about breakfast this morning.
First, as you have already surmised, I love food. I love it enough to respect it and my body. But aging is neither a gentle nor kind process so I eat a little more strategically these days. I try to portion and more evenly distribute my fats, sugar, and carbs throughout the two or three meals I eat a day.
This was my breakfast: scrambled eggs and a lovely cappuccino. What decaf? Decaf? Who drinks decaf? Impossible! And 2% milk? What fresh hell is that? Do you think the gods drink decaf coffee with skim milk in heaven? Are you out of your mind?
When the lovely young lady came to bring me my cappuccino, she looked at my plate and frowned. "Did you need some toast?" She inquired. No, thank you I smiled, admiring her heart-shaped frothy handiwork on the cappuccino.
"No?" she responded, looking as if I had just admitted that I thought matricide was acceptable in certain circumstances. "Ah, then meat? Would senora like me to bring some meat?"
Let me explain here that "meat" in many European countries - as it apparently does here, as well - means "sausage" but is actually a hot dog; or bacon which is grossly under-cooked, sort of browned fat with thin strips of meat throughout and dripping and glistening with grease.
No, I said, smiling. Grazie.
For half a second she registered the same look of shocked surprise mixed with confusion she had when I had turned down the bread but quickly recovered with a cute, sweet Gina Lollobrigida pout.
"American, yes?" she said, probably picking up on my accent. "You eat bacon, eh?"
Of course, I said, to her instant smile, but no, not today.
She shook her head as if I had three heads and one was flopping, probably muttering to herself, "Go figure with these people!"
I had finished my eggs and was halfway through my cappuccino when I decided some fruit was definitely in order, so I put my napkin on my plate, left my phone and my sweater (it's presently 67 degrees and rainy), and got up to return to the buffet in the area next to my table.
When I returned - it was 3 maybe 4 minutes later - everything was gone. My empty dish. My lovely 1/2 cup of cappuccino, my sweater and . . . gasp and gulp! - my phone!!!
Italian pickpockets are one thing, I thought, but Jeeze Louise, my phone!!! Are you serious right now?
I flew out of the room and ran into my server. "My phone!" I said, sounding every bit like an emotional Italian. "My phone!" I said slowly and a bit louder than I intended but in that embarrassing way one speaks to another for whom English is not their Mother Tongue.
"Yes, yes . . ." she said, trying to calm me down with her hands and her face as well as her voice, "Reception. Reception ... ermm ... desk. I put. Reception desk. Phone and sweater."
But, I was not finished! I said. Again, loudly. I... I... and then I sighed loudly, threw up my hands like a proper Italian, and ran toward the Reception-ermm-desk, with the kind of out-of-proportion anger melting into relief that follows anxiety.
The manager, looking up at my face coming toward him, held up my phone and then looked down to return to his work. I surmised this must happen at least six times during breakfast. He had that look of bored distraction Italian/Mediterranean men have with women when they just don't want to engage. (Don't say you haven't seen it because you have. Just watch Di Niro sometime.)
When I returned to the breakfast room, the young woman was waiting for me, full of apologies. Good Lord, was she ever filled with apologies!
And that's when I got the Italian TMI. Full on. Hard press.
I have no real memory of all she said. Something about they have a lot of guests right now and they need to make sure everyone has a seat and that it is clean and that . . . . blah, blah, blah-ditty-blah-blah.
I had my phone. And, my sweater. I wanted my fruit. And, another cappuccino. I waited for a moment when she would catch her breath and I could stop her with, "Cappuccino? Yes? Per favore?"
She stopped right in the middle of her next explanation and snapped to attention. "Yes, of course, senora!" in that tone one uses when royalty has given a command to an underling servant, adding, "Right away. I fix especial for you. And, your fruit. I bring you a nice dish of fruit."
Which then made me feel bad. I slumped back into my seat, aware that the people in my little sitting area were looking at me. I looked up at them and they were smiling at me. Their faces said, "We tried but there was no stopping her." And, "Good for you!"
I have only been in Rome a full 24 hours. I'm afraid I may be coming to a stereotype but I'm trying to develop a coping mechanism to get me through the next few days before I'm off to Tuscany which, I could be wrong but I strongly suspect will be much different than here, in Rome. Well, okay. Different.
I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a country, to occupy a space you call 'home', which is so steeped with thousands of centuries of history and exquisite art and music and deeply admired culture and copied and coveted clothing that you feel simultaneously proud and personally insignificant.
I think it leads to two things, I think. One, that you feel you must constantly explain things to 'outsiders' because, how can we know or understand, really? Except to understand - especially as Americans - that we can not ever fully understand what it must be like to be Roman and Italian?
This leads to the posture of TMI which I experienced with the young Gina Lollobrigida in the Breakfast Room as well as the detached boredom which is easily confused with arrogance from the Robert Di Niro at the Reception Desk (I suspect it may be part of the job as a hotel manager but the attitude is Italian).
I have so much to learn about people. The more I learn, the more I know that I need to learn more. In other words, part of what I love about travel is that I learn just how limited I am and how much more I need to grow.
This is the part of my travels when I realize that I need to slow down. Take a breath. Intentionally skip a few beats. Know my place. Understand my identity and role here. I am a guest. I am a lifelong student, engaged in the ongoing study of the human enterprise and the appreciative inquiry of the various cultural and ethnic and racial and class experiences of being human.
Being here is not about me. If I'm going to more fully enjoy my time here, I've got to get out of my own way. As I learned in Thailand, I have to stop asking, "Why do they do that?" Instead, I need to start asking, "Hmm... why do I do what I do when they do that?"
This is about being curious about others, and learning from them so that I might be a better human being. It's about appreciating the rich history of being American so that I can appreciate the rich history of being Italian, upon which a great deal of being American is also all about.
And, to know that, in the end, Fr. Kourmranian, my Armenian priest mentor in Lowell, MA, was absolutely right, "God is God and people is people."
So, off I go, then to experience more of Rome. It's stopped raining but it's presently 72. Air quality is reportedly poor, so I need to make sure to adjust my walking pace to "saunter". I'm headed over to the Colosseum and will probably get in a good 5-8 mile walk, stopping, of course, for a light lunch around 2 or 3 PM, before everything shuts down around 4 PM. Except, of course, pizza (which is square).
I don't know if it's possible to be addicted to salad but, well, Hi, my name is Elizabeth . . . . .
Or, as I'm called here, Eee-leesss-a-bet. Lovely, init? I sound like somebody else. Someone young and sexy and . . . Oh, shut up! Let a girl have her moment of fantasy, will ya?
Oh, was that TMI?
Today's prayer for Israel and Palestine comes from the United Anglican Dioceses of Dublin and Glendalough, which operates the al–Ahli Arab Hospital in Gaza.
I offer today's prayer especially mindful that Israel ordered the evacuation of more than a million civilians from the entire northern half of Gaza. Egypt has refused to accept Palestinian refugees, unofficially acknowledging that Israel would never allow them to return to their homeland and refusing to do their work for them. The UN said the order would lead to “devastating humanitarian consequences,” and Gazan officials have told Palestinians not to comply.
Oh, Lord, hear our prayer:
"God of light and salvation, our refuge and our strength, we pray for the people of Israel and Palestine amid the escalating violence taking place in these days. We pray for those killed and injured by rockets from Gaza in southern Israel. May your rod and staff comfort them. We pray for those who are grieving and fearful. We pray for protection over those who have been taken hostage in Gaza.
Oh God, we call on you this day to change hearts, bring an end to this current violence, and protect the people living in this land that is so precious and dear to your heart. Amen."
Buona giornata! Ciao!
Buongiorno! It's my first morning waking up in Rome. I slept like a foolish man, as I heard said in Ghana, which is to say very, deeply and soundly, without even getting up once to pee (and I always get up at least once to pee.)
Okay, that's probably TMI - Too Much Information - right out of the chute but, you know, I am discovering that this is The City of Too Much Information.
Italians have to explain EVERYTHING in great detail - and with their eyes and their faces as well as their hands - especially when they think they've done something that you think is wrong, but they KNOW isn't and they have to tell you why.
I've got an example with the door to my hotel room - it's not the key, and no, I haven't kept it near my cell phone, and look, even your night housekeeping staff can't get in without jimmying and jiggling so something obviously needs to be filed down or drilled or adjusted - but, instead, I want to tell you about breakfast this morning.
First, as you have already surmised, I love food. I love it enough to respect it and my body. But aging is neither a gentle nor kind process so I eat a little more strategically these days. I try to portion and more evenly distribute my fats, sugar, and carbs throughout the two or three meals I eat a day.
This was my breakfast: scrambled eggs and a lovely cappuccino. What decaf? Decaf? Who drinks decaf? Impossible! And 2% milk? What fresh hell is that? Do you think the gods drink decaf coffee with skim milk in heaven? Are you out of your mind?
When the lovely young lady came to bring me my cappuccino, she looked at my plate and frowned. "Did you need some toast?" She inquired. No, thank you I smiled, admiring her heart-shaped frothy handiwork on the cappuccino.
"No?" she responded, looking as if I had just admitted that I thought matricide was acceptable in certain circumstances. "Ah, then meat? Would senora like me to bring some meat?"
Let me explain here that "meat" in many European countries - as it apparently does here, as well - means "sausage" but is actually a hot dog; or bacon which is grossly under-cooked, sort of browned fat with thin strips of meat throughout and dripping and glistening with grease.
No, I said, smiling. Grazie.
For half a second she registered the same look of shocked surprise mixed with confusion she had when I had turned down the bread but quickly recovered with a cute, sweet Gina Lollobrigida pout.
"American, yes?" she said, probably picking up on my accent. "You eat bacon, eh?"
Of course, I said, to her instant smile, but no, not today.
She shook her head as if I had three heads and one was flopping, probably muttering to herself, "Go figure with these people!"
I had finished my eggs and was halfway through my cappuccino when I decided some fruit was definitely in order, so I put my napkin on my plate, left my phone and my sweater (it's presently 67 degrees and rainy), and got up to return to the buffet in the area next to my table.
When I returned - it was 3 maybe 4 minutes later - everything was gone. My empty dish. My lovely 1/2 cup of cappuccino, my sweater and . . . gasp and gulp! - my phone!!!
Italian pickpockets are one thing, I thought, but Jeeze Louise, my phone!!! Are you serious right now?
I flew out of the room and ran into my server. "My phone!" I said, sounding every bit like an emotional Italian. "My phone!" I said slowly and a bit louder than I intended but in that embarrassing way one speaks to another for whom English is not their Mother Tongue.
"Yes, yes . . ." she said, trying to calm me down with her hands and her face as well as her voice, "Reception. Reception ... ermm ... desk. I put. Reception desk. Phone and sweater."
But, I was not finished! I said. Again, loudly. I... I... and then I sighed loudly, threw up my hands like a proper Italian, and ran toward the Reception-ermm-desk, with the kind of out-of-proportion anger melting into relief that follows anxiety.
The manager, looking up at my face coming toward him, held up my phone and then looked down to return to his work. I surmised this must happen at least six times during breakfast. He had that look of bored distraction Italian/Mediterranean men have with women when they just don't want to engage. (Don't say you haven't seen it because you have. Just watch Di Niro sometime.)
When I returned to the breakfast room, the young woman was waiting for me, full of apologies. Good Lord, was she ever filled with apologies!
And that's when I got the Italian TMI. Full on. Hard press.
I have no real memory of all she said. Something about they have a lot of guests right now and they need to make sure everyone has a seat and that it is clean and that . . . . blah, blah, blah-ditty-blah-blah.
I had my phone. And, my sweater. I wanted my fruit. And, another cappuccino. I waited for a moment when she would catch her breath and I could stop her with, "Cappuccino? Yes? Per favore?"
She stopped right in the middle of her next explanation and snapped to attention. "Yes, of course, senora!" in that tone one uses when royalty has given a command to an underling servant, adding, "Right away. I fix especial for you. And, your fruit. I bring you a nice dish of fruit."
Which then made me feel bad. I slumped back into my seat, aware that the people in my little sitting area were looking at me. I looked up at them and they were smiling at me. Their faces said, "We tried but there was no stopping her." And, "Good for you!"
I have only been in Rome a full 24 hours. I'm afraid I may be coming to a stereotype but I'm trying to develop a coping mechanism to get me through the next few days before I'm off to Tuscany which, I could be wrong but I strongly suspect will be much different than here, in Rome. Well, okay. Different.
I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a country, to occupy a space you call 'home', which is so steeped with thousands of centuries of history and exquisite art and music and deeply admired culture and copied and coveted clothing that you feel simultaneously proud and personally insignificant.
I think it leads to two things, I think. One, that you feel you must constantly explain things to 'outsiders' because, how can we know or understand, really? Except to understand - especially as Americans - that we can not ever fully understand what it must be like to be Roman and Italian?
This leads to the posture of TMI which I experienced with the young Gina Lollobrigida in the Breakfast Room as well as the detached boredom which is easily confused with arrogance from the Robert Di Niro at the Reception Desk (I suspect it may be part of the job as a hotel manager but the attitude is Italian).
I have so much to learn about people. The more I learn, the more I know that I need to learn more. In other words, part of what I love about travel is that I learn just how limited I am and how much more I need to grow.
This is the part of my travels when I realize that I need to slow down. Take a breath. Intentionally skip a few beats. Know my place. Understand my identity and role here. I am a guest. I am a lifelong student, engaged in the ongoing study of the human enterprise and the appreciative inquiry of the various cultural and ethnic and racial and class experiences of being human.
Being here is not about me. If I'm going to more fully enjoy my time here, I've got to get out of my own way. As I learned in Thailand, I have to stop asking, "Why do they do that?" Instead, I need to start asking, "Hmm... why do I do what I do when they do that?"
This is about being curious about others, and learning from them so that I might be a better human being. It's about appreciating the rich history of being American so that I can appreciate the rich history of being Italian, upon which a great deal of being American is also all about.
And, to know that, in the end, Fr. Kourmranian, my Armenian priest mentor in Lowell, MA, was absolutely right, "God is God and people is people."
So, off I go, then to experience more of Rome. It's stopped raining but it's presently 72. Air quality is reportedly poor, so I need to make sure to adjust my walking pace to "saunter". I'm headed over to the Colosseum and will probably get in a good 5-8 mile walk, stopping, of course, for a light lunch around 2 or 3 PM, before everything shuts down around 4 PM. Except, of course, pizza (which is square).
I don't know if it's possible to be addicted to salad but, well, Hi, my name is Elizabeth . . . . .
Or, as I'm called here, Eee-leesss-a-bet. Lovely, init? I sound like somebody else. Someone young and sexy and . . . Oh, shut up! Let a girl have her moment of fantasy, will ya?
Oh, was that TMI?
Today's prayer for Israel and Palestine comes from the United Anglican Dioceses of Dublin and Glendalough, which operates the al–Ahli Arab Hospital in Gaza.
I offer today's prayer especially mindful that Israel ordered the evacuation of more than a million civilians from the entire northern half of Gaza. Egypt has refused to accept Palestinian refugees, unofficially acknowledging that Israel would never allow them to return to their homeland and refusing to do their work for them. The UN said the order would lead to “devastating humanitarian consequences,” and Gazan officials have told Palestinians not to comply.
Oh, Lord, hear our prayer:
"God of light and salvation, our refuge and our strength, we pray for the people of Israel and Palestine amid the escalating violence taking place in these days. We pray for those killed and injured by rockets from Gaza in southern Israel. May your rod and staff comfort them. We pray for those who are grieving and fearful. We pray for protection over those who have been taken hostage in Gaza.
Oh God, we call on you this day to change hearts, bring an end to this current violence, and protect the people living in this land that is so precious and dear to your heart. Amen."
Buona giornata! Ciao!
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