Tuesday, May 28, 2013
"'The time has come,' the Walrus said, 'To speak of many things.:'"
Soon I will be kissing Rome upon the right cheek and the left as I return to America for the summer. And while I will be happy to join the Italians who flee the heat and the hordes for Ferragosto, I am hoping that I am able to bring much of my Italian life to the U.S.
I want to continue to live slowly. It can sometimes take an entire day to complete just one task and for me, this translates to a much nicer pace. I arrived here as a person who multi-tasks to the point that I often get nothing done but still have an oppressive need to try and do even more. And with that marvelous clarity of hindsight, I no longer recall what I was spending so much time doing, leading me to suspect that I wasn't really doing anything. I don't have to rush and rush and rush some more on my hamster wheel. I want to stay in the present and refuse to feel guilty for sitting on the balcony and watch people pretend to pick-up after their dogs. I want to sit and do nothing but notice the color of the underside of a leaf as the wind blows.
I want to continue to exercise without realizing that I am. I haven't had access to a gym for nearly a year and yet I work out every day. I walk for miles. I climb six flights of stairs every time I leave the house. I have to pause when I unfurl the canopies on our balconies because my arms burn in a way that I can't achieve by lifting weights. I am in constant purposeful motion. Like a farmer. Or the Amish. Or my friend Shelly.
I want to continue to live in a consumer vacuum. (Consumerless vacuum?) Because I have little to no access to advertisements, I don't know what the latest, greatest, bestest, must-have products are. And even if I did, I have no way of obtaining them here. And even if I could, I have no place to put them. And so I have gone from someone with an obsessive need to pop into Targetat least once a day um, occasionally, to someone who pretty much has no idea what I am living without.
I want to shop the little roadside stands and farmers markets, or at the very least, the outer ring at the grocery store. Because prepared foods here are few and far between. And the time it takes to prepare everything from scratch more than pays for itself in flavor.
And combining all of the above: I can't believe what I live without and yet do not miss. We've been in Rome for a year and we just bought a vacuum cleaner. (And Holy Guacamole does that thing make cleaning the floor easier!)We are like Gilligan's Island here: no clothes dryer, no toaster, no microwave, no dishwasher, no ice maker, no food processor, no electric mixer, no phone, no lights, no motor car, not a single luxury, like Robinson Crusoe, it's primitive as can be. Yet somehow, this all contributes to our slower-paced, more relaxed life. I'm not claiming that everyone here lives without these things; I'm just saying that we do and I am pleasantly surprised at how little it matters.
I want to bring to America the part of me that I have developed here: the part that manages to live in a country where I can't speak the language (and yes, learning Italian is my number one priority when I return in the fall); the part that can start lane number three on a one-lane road while driving; the part that can walk up to strangers puzzling over their bigliettis on the metro and offer to help; the part that is bigger and braver and stronger than I could have ever guessed.
I want to extend myself like the Italians I encounter. I want to remember to go out of my way to help people who are struggling to speak and/or read English. I want to be the person (this part will obviously be metaphoric) who leaves their shop unattended to walk a stranger to the corner in order to give better directions. Because I have been the recipient of so many random acts of kindness that it makes my throat tight with gratitude just to think of it.
I want to keep the TV turned off (unless The Walking Dead is having a special summer season). I don't miss the mindless, inane shows that I used to have on as background noise. I have discovered how much I enjoy listening to music or podcasts of This American Life or the sounds of the neighborhood around me while I chop vegetables. I want to remember that so many things just don't matter. Long lines and traffic and inefficiency is a way of life here and you either accept it or go mad.
For instance:
In the U.S., I always used the self check-out line because the slowness of the cashier and incorrect bagging of the official grocery bagger ( Cold goes with cold! Heavy things go on the bottom! Don't mess up my stuff--I have it sorted by cabinet!) could make my blood pulse with annoyance. And here? First of all, no one is going to bag your groceries, so I had to get off my high horse right there. And no excuses for forgetting my cloth bags because you will have to buy every single plastic bag you didn't bring into the store. And is it too much of a bother to return your cart to the store? Is there not a place in the parking lot to half-heartedly push your cart near? Is it raining? Oh poor me. One, there are no parking lots. Two, you "rent" your grocery cart here, so if you want back that euro, you'd better return that cart. Three, it's a city. I had to accept that I don't have the luxury of being annoyed about the weather. I walk the same amount of miles in the rain or I can't leave my house.
The lone cashier at the store sits on a stool behind the counter and talks at length with a customer despite the line of 27 people waiting to check out. And if anyone cares, I certainly can't tell. It's common practice that no matter how long the line, you can put your basket of goods down to hold your place and no one will argue. In fact, chances are high that they will insist you return to your former spot even if you leave the line to grab something you forgot. And if you have been waiting for 32 minutes and finally it is your turn in line but someone appears with only a couple of items, of course you let that person go before you. Because that is the way it is. I've learned to let go and not only accept it, but to embrace it. It's a nice way to live and I am grateful to experience it. I no longer am annoyed that places are closed for several hours in the middle of the day. Because it's pretty awesome to live in a culture that values time over money. Because by extension, this way of life means that the whole family walks to my son's bus stop in the morning and we all sit down to eat dinner together every single night and my husband no longer has to bring his laptop on vacations or drop everything to go to work on a Saturday afternoon. We have the gift of time. And until we had it, I didn't realize how much we were missing it.
Some of things I will miss are things that I can't bring with me, but I appreciate nonetheless. Even if it sometimes makes my eardrums ring, I love that the Italians hold children in such high regard that their happiness takes precedence over everything. I love that all children are met with a "Ciao bello/a!" The first concert at my son's school still says it all: a child was screeching so loudly that the performance couldn't be heard and all the ex-pats (myself included) looking around in annoyance, waiting for the child's parents to take him out of the room. And yet the Italians were clucking in loving sympathy and murmuring to each other about the poor child who must be so hungry from having to sit still for so long. We were silently begging someone to come and remove the noise from our presence and they were begging someone to let the poor suffering boy run around untethered or give him a cookie.
I like that I feel safe here. Rumor has it that the only place in America with as low a crime rate as Rome is Plano, Texas. Yes, there are pickpockets and non-violent crimes, but I can walk around freely without being harassed or feel like I need pepper spray to take the dogs out at night. I don't have to cross the street in hopes of avoiding hostile people. I like reading the newspaper and not tripping over stories of violence against children or animals. I like that life here is filled with occurrences like teenage boys stopping to help an elderly person in need, or the most unexpected people offering their seats to pregnant women on the metro.
With all this love for Italy flowing over me, what makes me excited to return to the States? The obvious of course is all the people that I love who live there. FaceTime and e-mail and texting are Godsends for remaining a part of each other's lives, but nothing compares to actually being together with my family and family of friends. I have a nephew who was born just as I was returning to Rome after Christmas and I can't wait to hear him giggle and smell his sweet baby head.
And books! I can't wait for real books. I always swore that as long as there was someone still publishing books on paper, I would never use an electronic device to read. Living where accessing books in English is next to impossible, I have caved. But that hasn't diminished my love for Real Books and my disdain for the coldness of e-books. So far, I have read 78 books while living here, and out of that, only three are tangible items sitting on our bookshelves. I wish I had each and every one stacked here in their natural state, ready to be picked-up and re-read at any time.
And I'm not going to lie: I'm psyched to cart around a giant take-out iced coffee from Starbucks rather than stand at a counter downing a short of espresso. Or have more than two choices of yogurt flavors at the grocery store. Or not have to calculate recipes from the imperial to metric system or the temperature from Fahrenheit to Celsius. Or know exactly what o.t.c. medicine I'm purchasing at the drugstore. And the smoking laws! I can't wait to live where smoking is illegal and shameful and I don't have to smell it or breathe it or remove an ashtray from my table. And oh, driving on country back roads and see lightening bugs twinkling like tiny fairies in the corn and have cook-outs and roast marshmallows over fire pits; I look forward to it all. And it will be awesome to finally get the dog hair off our socks and not have to iron everything because I'm using a clothes dryer.
But the towels? The rough, sun-dried towels that seem to absorb the water so much better than those fluffed in a clothes dryer? The towels I'm still hanging out to dry and kicking it Italian style.
I want to continue to live slowly. It can sometimes take an entire day to complete just one task and for me, this translates to a much nicer pace. I arrived here as a person who multi-tasks to the point that I often get nothing done but still have an oppressive need to try and do even more. And with that marvelous clarity of hindsight, I no longer recall what I was spending so much time doing, leading me to suspect that I wasn't really doing anything. I don't have to rush and rush and rush some more on my hamster wheel. I want to stay in the present and refuse to feel guilty for sitting on the balcony and watch people pretend to pick-up after their dogs. I want to sit and do nothing but notice the color of the underside of a leaf as the wind blows.
I want to continue to exercise without realizing that I am. I haven't had access to a gym for nearly a year and yet I work out every day. I walk for miles. I climb six flights of stairs every time I leave the house. I have to pause when I unfurl the canopies on our balconies because my arms burn in a way that I can't achieve by lifting weights. I am in constant purposeful motion. Like a farmer. Or the Amish. Or my friend Shelly.
I want to continue to live in a consumer vacuum. (Consumerless vacuum?) Because I have little to no access to advertisements, I don't know what the latest, greatest, bestest, must-have products are. And even if I did, I have no way of obtaining them here. And even if I could, I have no place to put them. And so I have gone from someone with an obsessive need to pop into Target
I want to shop the little roadside stands and farmers markets, or at the very least, the outer ring at the grocery store. Because prepared foods here are few and far between. And the time it takes to prepare everything from scratch more than pays for itself in flavor.
And combining all of the above: I can't believe what I live without and yet do not miss. We've been in Rome for a year and we just bought a vacuum cleaner. (And Holy Guacamole does that thing make cleaning the floor easier!)We are like Gilligan's Island here: no clothes dryer, no toaster, no microwave, no dishwasher, no ice maker, no food processor, no electric mixer, no phone, no lights, no motor car, not a single luxury, like Robinson Crusoe, it's primitive as can be. Yet somehow, this all contributes to our slower-paced, more relaxed life. I'm not claiming that everyone here lives without these things; I'm just saying that we do and I am pleasantly surprised at how little it matters.
I want to bring to America the part of me that I have developed here: the part that manages to live in a country where I can't speak the language (and yes, learning Italian is my number one priority when I return in the fall); the part that can start lane number three on a one-lane road while driving; the part that can walk up to strangers puzzling over their bigliettis on the metro and offer to help; the part that is bigger and braver and stronger than I could have ever guessed.
I want to extend myself like the Italians I encounter. I want to remember to go out of my way to help people who are struggling to speak and/or read English. I want to be the person (this part will obviously be metaphoric) who leaves their shop unattended to walk a stranger to the corner in order to give better directions. Because I have been the recipient of so many random acts of kindness that it makes my throat tight with gratitude just to think of it.
I want to keep the TV turned off (unless The Walking Dead is having a special summer season). I don't miss the mindless, inane shows that I used to have on as background noise. I have discovered how much I enjoy listening to music or podcasts of This American Life or the sounds of the neighborhood around me while I chop vegetables. I want to remember that so many things just don't matter. Long lines and traffic and inefficiency is a way of life here and you either accept it or go mad.
For instance:
In the U.S., I always used the self check-out line because the slowness of the cashier and incorrect bagging of the official grocery bagger ( Cold goes with cold! Heavy things go on the bottom! Don't mess up my stuff--I have it sorted by cabinet!) could make my blood pulse with annoyance. And here? First of all, no one is going to bag your groceries, so I had to get off my high horse right there. And no excuses for forgetting my cloth bags because you will have to buy every single plastic bag you didn't bring into the store. And is it too much of a bother to return your cart to the store? Is there not a place in the parking lot to half-heartedly push your cart near? Is it raining? Oh poor me. One, there are no parking lots. Two, you "rent" your grocery cart here, so if you want back that euro, you'd better return that cart. Three, it's a city. I had to accept that I don't have the luxury of being annoyed about the weather. I walk the same amount of miles in the rain or I can't leave my house.
The lone cashier at the store sits on a stool behind the counter and talks at length with a customer despite the line of 27 people waiting to check out. And if anyone cares, I certainly can't tell. It's common practice that no matter how long the line, you can put your basket of goods down to hold your place and no one will argue. In fact, chances are high that they will insist you return to your former spot even if you leave the line to grab something you forgot. And if you have been waiting for 32 minutes and finally it is your turn in line but someone appears with only a couple of items, of course you let that person go before you. Because that is the way it is. I've learned to let go and not only accept it, but to embrace it. It's a nice way to live and I am grateful to experience it. I no longer am annoyed that places are closed for several hours in the middle of the day. Because it's pretty awesome to live in a culture that values time over money. Because by extension, this way of life means that the whole family walks to my son's bus stop in the morning and we all sit down to eat dinner together every single night and my husband no longer has to bring his laptop on vacations or drop everything to go to work on a Saturday afternoon. We have the gift of time. And until we had it, I didn't realize how much we were missing it.
Some of things I will miss are things that I can't bring with me, but I appreciate nonetheless. Even if it sometimes makes my eardrums ring, I love that the Italians hold children in such high regard that their happiness takes precedence over everything. I love that all children are met with a "Ciao bello/a!" The first concert at my son's school still says it all: a child was screeching so loudly that the performance couldn't be heard and all the ex-pats (myself included) looking around in annoyance, waiting for the child's parents to take him out of the room. And yet the Italians were clucking in loving sympathy and murmuring to each other about the poor child who must be so hungry from having to sit still for so long. We were silently begging someone to come and remove the noise from our presence and they were begging someone to let the poor suffering boy run around untethered or give him a cookie.
I like that I feel safe here. Rumor has it that the only place in America with as low a crime rate as Rome is Plano, Texas. Yes, there are pickpockets and non-violent crimes, but I can walk around freely without being harassed or feel like I need pepper spray to take the dogs out at night. I don't have to cross the street in hopes of avoiding hostile people. I like reading the newspaper and not tripping over stories of violence against children or animals. I like that life here is filled with occurrences like teenage boys stopping to help an elderly person in need, or the most unexpected people offering their seats to pregnant women on the metro.
With all this love for Italy flowing over me, what makes me excited to return to the States? The obvious of course is all the people that I love who live there. FaceTime and e-mail and texting are Godsends for remaining a part of each other's lives, but nothing compares to actually being together with my family and family of friends. I have a nephew who was born just as I was returning to Rome after Christmas and I can't wait to hear him giggle and smell his sweet baby head.
And books! I can't wait for real books. I always swore that as long as there was someone still publishing books on paper, I would never use an electronic device to read. Living where accessing books in English is next to impossible, I have caved. But that hasn't diminished my love for Real Books and my disdain for the coldness of e-books. So far, I have read 78 books while living here, and out of that, only three are tangible items sitting on our bookshelves. I wish I had each and every one stacked here in their natural state, ready to be picked-up and re-read at any time.
And I'm not going to lie: I'm psyched to cart around a giant take-out iced coffee from Starbucks rather than stand at a counter downing a short of espresso. Or have more than two choices of yogurt flavors at the grocery store. Or not have to calculate recipes from the imperial to metric system or the temperature from Fahrenheit to Celsius. Or know exactly what o.t.c. medicine I'm purchasing at the drugstore. And the smoking laws! I can't wait to live where smoking is illegal and shameful and I don't have to smell it or breathe it or remove an ashtray from my table. And oh, driving on country back roads and see lightening bugs twinkling like tiny fairies in the corn and have cook-outs and roast marshmallows over fire pits; I look forward to it all. And it will be awesome to finally get the dog hair off our socks and not have to iron everything because I'm using a clothes dryer.
But the towels? The rough, sun-dried towels that seem to absorb the water so much better than those fluffed in a clothes dryer? The towels I'm still hanging out to dry and kicking it Italian style.
Saturday, May 04, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Rome turns 2,766
And so today, during the celebration of Rome's 2,766th birthday, it finally happened: I fell prey to a thief.
The irony, of course, being that I am extra cautious as it is tourist season and the streets are filled with groups being herded along by a female tour guide carrying an unopened red umbrella. While no one is immune to pickpockets, I recognize that my tendency to speak English makes me seem like an easy mark, as recently demonstrated by a cab driver who heard me speaking on my phone and suddenly failed to make even one green light until I angrily told him the the fastest way to my house.
Just because I can't gracefully swing off my motorcycle, long black hair gleaming, wearing a skintight white turtleneck, skintight white pants and black boots and not have one speck of dirt on my white clothes doesn't mean you can pee on my leg and tell me it's raining. Although it does point to a case of hopeless insecurity and bafflement as to how Italian women can achieve such a feat.
But I digress. There were amazing parades and music and gladiators and senators of yore and pomp and circumstance and processions, all of which I needed to photograph. My camera bag was secured across my body, my wallet facing inward beneath its zippered pouch, within another zippered pouch and beneath a buckled cover. I was growing warm in the sun so before I steeled myself to push my way to the front of the crowd, I tied my sweater around my waist and looped my scarf around the strap of my camera bag three times, each time securing it with a knot, and finally adding a triple knot at the end for good measure. Not for safety: simply because my scarf was long and I didn't want it to become undone and get stepped on. So I got caught up in fighting the masses for a spot to take pictures and got into a groove, focusing on the images through my lens. And 664 pictures later, I came up for air and rejoined my family and lo and behold, I no longer had a scarf.
Had I not taken such care in twisting and tying knots in the scarf to avoid it falling to the ground, I would have assumed it was lying somewhere near my feet, undoubtedly disgusting and possibly beyond repair. But that wasn't the case. My scarf was nowhere to be found, even though I had been in the same spot, completely oblivious, for the past 45 minutes.
So someone stole my scarf. Not such a big deal compared to the things others have stolen in the crowds of Rome. I'm not even creeped out by the thought that someone was that close to me without my noticing for some period of time. I'm MAD. Because it was a new scarf and therefore my current favorite. And seriously, what a lame thing to steal. Good luck selling it for 2 euros. Of for all I know, someone took it because they liked it or because I Italian-ed my way to the front of the camera line and cut them off.
Luckily we went to a truly phenomenal gelato place--a real, for-real, no chains, no artificial flavors or colors gelato place: Fatamorgana. Because they make all their own gelato, the flavors were off the hook and had combos I have never before seen. I had a "safe" cone of chocolate orange, white chocolate and eggnog. The chocolate orange had real chunks of oranges in it. um. hello!!!
We all so enjoyed our gelato that we decided to have another round. This time I had a flavor that was apples (real chunks of apples!), cinnamon, and pecans and it tasted like apple pie. Even the person in my family who will eat only vanilla ice cream thought it was good.
So while I mourn the loss of the coolest scarf I owned, it will soon be way too hot for a scarf anyway, so there scarf stealer!
Hopefully a couple good pictures to post soon.
The irony, of course, being that I am extra cautious as it is tourist season and the streets are filled with groups being herded along by a female tour guide carrying an unopened red umbrella. While no one is immune to pickpockets, I recognize that my tendency to speak English makes me seem like an easy mark, as recently demonstrated by a cab driver who heard me speaking on my phone and suddenly failed to make even one green light until I angrily told him the the fastest way to my house.
Just because I can't gracefully swing off my motorcycle, long black hair gleaming, wearing a skintight white turtleneck, skintight white pants and black boots and not have one speck of dirt on my white clothes doesn't mean you can pee on my leg and tell me it's raining. Although it does point to a case of hopeless insecurity and bafflement as to how Italian women can achieve such a feat.
But I digress. There were amazing parades and music and gladiators and senators of yore and pomp and circumstance and processions, all of which I needed to photograph. My camera bag was secured across my body, my wallet facing inward beneath its zippered pouch, within another zippered pouch and beneath a buckled cover. I was growing warm in the sun so before I steeled myself to push my way to the front of the crowd, I tied my sweater around my waist and looped my scarf around the strap of my camera bag three times, each time securing it with a knot, and finally adding a triple knot at the end for good measure. Not for safety: simply because my scarf was long and I didn't want it to become undone and get stepped on. So I got caught up in fighting the masses for a spot to take pictures and got into a groove, focusing on the images through my lens. And 664 pictures later, I came up for air and rejoined my family and lo and behold, I no longer had a scarf.
Had I not taken such care in twisting and tying knots in the scarf to avoid it falling to the ground, I would have assumed it was lying somewhere near my feet, undoubtedly disgusting and possibly beyond repair. But that wasn't the case. My scarf was nowhere to be found, even though I had been in the same spot, completely oblivious, for the past 45 minutes.
So someone stole my scarf. Not such a big deal compared to the things others have stolen in the crowds of Rome. I'm not even creeped out by the thought that someone was that close to me without my noticing for some period of time. I'm MAD. Because it was a new scarf and therefore my current favorite. And seriously, what a lame thing to steal. Good luck selling it for 2 euros. Of for all I know, someone took it because they liked it or because I Italian-ed my way to the front of the camera line and cut them off.
Luckily we went to a truly phenomenal gelato place--a real, for-real, no chains, no artificial flavors or colors gelato place: Fatamorgana. Because they make all their own gelato, the flavors were off the hook and had combos I have never before seen. I had a "safe" cone of chocolate orange, white chocolate and eggnog. The chocolate orange had real chunks of oranges in it. um. hello!!!
We all so enjoyed our gelato that we decided to have another round. This time I had a flavor that was apples (real chunks of apples!), cinnamon, and pecans and it tasted like apple pie. Even the person in my family who will eat only vanilla ice cream thought it was good.
So while I mourn the loss of the coolest scarf I owned, it will soon be way too hot for a scarf anyway, so there scarf stealer!
Hopefully a couple good pictures to post soon.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Spring in Italy is enough to wash away the 134 days of winter rain
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| sperlonga |
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| sperlonga |
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| sperlonga |
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| sperlonga |
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| villa d'Este |
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| villa d'Este |
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| villa d'Este |
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| villa d'Este |
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| villa d'Este |
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| pienza |
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| sant' antimo abbey |
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| vineyard of montalciano |
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| montepulciana |
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| sant'antimo abbey |
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| arco di constantino |
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| villa d'Este |
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| looking for love in the biparco, villa borghese |
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| bioparco |
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| bioparco |
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| amelia the baby bactrian camel |
Friday, March 22, 2013
a day in the life.
Yesterday I worked a bake sale to raise money for the library at my son's elementary school (although quite frankly, it is the most well-stocked, unbelievable library I have ever encountered, and just like Carrie Bradshaw--Sex and the City, too old of a reference?-- knew her shoes, I know my libraries).
In America, my son went to an excellent public school in which the parents and surrounding community were extremely involved and invested. So although I am what amounts to a professional school volunteer, nothing, not even three years of working the Secret Santa Shop, could have prepared me for a bake sale at a private school.
Had anything been set-up the night prior? Had anyone brought napkins, plates, forks, bags? Had a rotating schedule of volunteers and arrival of individual classrooms been established? Had prices been determined? Was there a deadline for the arrival of baked goods? Had a system of any sort been in place? The answer is no. No to all of the above.
I would like to point out that all the women and staff I worked with could not have been lovelier or more hard-working. So we had that in our favor.
I won't even bother going into all the mundane details it took to get this thing underway, but instead I will jump ahead to the part where a highly ranked administrator walked by and expressed pleasure at "how American" it looked, "like an American bake sale."
Now, being the only American present, I didn't want to be the one to burst their bubble or rain on their parade, but where I come from, the volunteering moms and PTO would have seen that bake sale and raised you a full-blown carnival with petting zoo in the same amount of time for less money.Please don't get me wrong,it was a great bake sale. But y'know how in America we have a plethora of oversized SUVs and in Italy they have tiny cars that you can park sideways? It was like that.
By chance (mm-hmm) the President of fill in blank of small country(at least I think it's small. I'm not great with geography.) was going to be visiting the school and it was determined that the "American-style" bake sale would be an excellent photo op. I was only slated to volunteer for three hours, so I wasn't sure if I was supposed to stick around for that or what, seeing as again, I was the only American at our American-style bake sale. And I know America is a melting pot and all but no one would mistake the darkly-tanned, cigarette-smoking, fur-coat-wearing Italian moms for an American. I'm just saying.
So at one point, all the volunteers had to leave, and none of our three replacements had shown-up. Although I had to leave as well, as a professional mom volunteer, I couldn't do it. I couldn't be a deserter. (Bake sale/dessert-er, get it?) And it came down to just me, a temping array of baked goods and the entire third, fourth and fifth grades and various waves of teens wanting to purchase as many items as possible (I am not kidding, some of those kids were waving 50 euro notes). Of course all the children with large bills cringed in fear as they told me they only had a 20 or a 10 even though they were only spending 3 or 4 euro. They had already resigned themselves to the fact that their lack of correct change meant they wouldn't be able to purchase anything and/or I would yell at them (because that's how they roll here with the correct change stuff, yo). But I turned those frowns upside down with my background in good old-fashioned American retail and astonished those kids when I said, "No problem!" and quickly made change. Their eyes were as round as if they had just entered the home of Willy Wonka. Now I can't be certain it was correct change, because my math skills are spotty, but it was still change. And that is all that matters.
At this school they have some rules: whoever handles the food cannot handle the money (germs) and whoever handles the food must wear gloves (germs). And I was the only person there. So I was whipping off one glove and putting it back on and forgetting to take off my glove and touching the money and then having to throw out that glove and grab a new one ( and of course the gloves stuck together like plastic bags at a grocery store) but I still loved it. Because I love volunteering at school. I love all the kids, I love helping.
And even faced with a table of delights, these were the most polite, well-mannered children I have ever encountered.
Okay, well, to be perfectly honest, there was an obnoxious group of third-grade Italian boys who tried to shove and yell over the smaller, quieter, more polite children who were in line in front of them. But Good Lord above, sometime being a Mom and getting to dole out justice is just so sweet. I used my Mom powers and calmly explained to the boys that the the other children had been here first and then proceeded to serve only the polite children who were being pushed around by the boys. And I then decided to ignore the rude boys yelling their demands and finger-snapping-at-the-waitstaff and served all the shy and nervous children waiting all around them as well. Am I petty? You bet your sweet a#s I am. Today the meek shall eat their baked goods first!
And dang if it didn't work. The boys finally figured out that pushing those smaller than themselves and yelling at me wasn't producing the desired results and transformed themselves into a group of, "Excuse me, miss, may I have..." and I felt my work here had been done.
Other than those boys, however, every child I encountered in every grade, even the teenagers, said please and thank-you. They said excuse me. They said may I. They took turns. They bought things for each other. A random high school girl walked by, bought a Rice Krispie treat and handed it to a little girl who had been staring hungrily at them and continued on her way. Quite frankly, I was flabbergasted. Is this a European thing? Because up until last week, I still wasn't as thoughtful and mature and well-mannered as these kids.
Oh, and yeah, about the Rice Krispie treats. I too wondered where the hell these marshmallows had been found and where they could be purchased. I asked questions. I may have made some threats. Same old, same old: only the Americans connected with the American Embassy can get them. So America, please write to your Congressperson and demand that Americans living abroad all have access to the same food choices as the Embassy workers. Thank-you.
And so eventually some 5th graders (I kid you not) were sent out to help me handle the baked good masses and the President of ___________ still hadn't arrived and I really had to leave, so I did.
But I shouldn't have bothered because a 40 minute car ride(during which I was rear-ended at a red light, but our car was fine because the Smart car that hit me couldn't stand up to fine German engineering untainted by the Swatch watch company and didn't even manage to shake any of the dirt off the back of our car) and 9 metro stops later, I received a call from the school nurse telling me that my son had split his forehead open and needed stitches.
So we got to visit the Italian emergency room.
And how was your day?