Random Thoughts, Part IV... Grams & Mom

Liberata e Donato Berarducci, mei nonni italiani

“It’s important to honor your ancestors. 

Bringing in a piece of furniture or an object 

you’ve inherited from a loved one not only 

honors the person who has passed but also 

brings the warmth of happy memories. . .”

~ Jeffrey A Wands

I have nothing of my grandmother's possessions to hold. I wish I had something—a frying pan, a scarf, a handkerchief, a scrap of fabric from her cotton dress. I was too young when she passed to know that 40 years later, I would crave a physical piece of her.  When my mom passed almost nine years ago, I hoarded bits of her life. Sometimes, I take out the notebooks in which she wrote recipes, stare at the writing, and run my hand along the pages in hopes that a bit of her DNA is still there.
Of Grams, though, I have only the memories of what she told me, and those are, in the end, even more important.


Many of my adult friends assume that all four of my grandparents were Italian. My answer that my father's side was definitely not Italian always leads to further comments and/or questions.

"What else are you then?"

"Why don't you write about your father and his parents?"

"You'll probably start researching them at some point."

I'm Italian.
I have my reasons.
I won't be doing any research into them.

I won't get into specifics here as I'm addressing it in the book, but suffice to say that my paternal grandparents—especially my grandmother—were not nice people.  They hated my mother because she was Italian, and since we were *her* children, they hated my brother and me. I imagine that my cousins on that side would describe them differently, and that is their reality.  My brother and I experienced a different life with them.

Truthfully, neither my father nor his parents really ever shared much with us. I can write in one sentence what my father told me about their background. I did google my maiden name once, found something on a few sites, and discovered that what I thought I knew was not quite right.  (In all honesty, what I uncovered about my beloved Grams was different from what she, my mom, and my aunts/uncles always told us. More on that eventually.)


Going back to Grams and Mom and the others. . . I hope I can honor them with my words.  That, I think, is essential.

By the way, I'm three days out. It's time to start pre-packing.  ;-)

Random Thoughts & Another Secret, Part II (or III...I lost count)

“Courage to me is doing something daring, no matter how afraid, 

 insecure, intimidated, alone, unworthy, incapable, ridiculed 

or whatever other paralyzing emotion you might feel. 

Courage is taking action.....no matter what.  So you're 

afraid?  Be afraid.  Be scared silly to the point you're 

trembling and nauseous, but do it anyway!” 

~ Richelle E Goodrich

I said before that I'm not sure that I'm courageous simply because I'm going to live in Italy by myself for seven weeks. My grandmother and the millions of others who left the only life they knew to come to this unknown and different place were courageous. Those men and women who conquered the wilderness that was America and civilized it were courageous. Those brave souls who worked so hard so that we might have it easier were courageous.  I'm, well, fortunate I can do this.

I'll let you in on another secret:  I'm anxious right now.  (anx•ious... [ˈaNG(k)SHəs/]... adjective ...  experiencing worry, unease, or nervousness, typically about an imminent event)


"Are you getting excited?" Mike asked me last night.

"I'm anxious, " I replied. "I'm starting to think maybe I'm a little crazy to do this."

"You have insurance," he said after a few seconds. "You could cancel."  

"Only for illness." I think maybe I answered a little too quickly (And, I'll admit that the short exchange did make me feel a little guilty for leaving him and Riley to fend for themselves for a bit. However, I cooked and froze a bunch of meals.).

Truthfully, anxiety overtakes me no matter where I travel and no matter whether I go by myself or with him or someone else. (It's another one of those great qualities that I inherited from my mother, the worrier.)  Once I step into the airport, though, I should be fine.  Of course, spending almost 10 hours crammed next to someone I don't know as we hurtle through the night sky toward London might be a little challenging.

Did you ever see the Seinfeld episode in which Jerry and Elaine are flying home with Jerry in first class, and Elaine is stuck in economy between a gum chomper and a slob who carried on half of his worldly goods.  The slob is sleeping and Elaine has to go to the bathroom. She worries that her kidneys will burst and debates waking the guy up while the  passenger on the other side of her continues cracking her gum very loudly.  It's true life, I tell you. True life.

A few years ago, I was flying home to Nashville on a sold-out Southwest flight. A man sat in the seat next to me, and I had a loooonnnngggg ride home. I ended up writing a poem about the experience.  (You can read it here.)  I've also sat next to a tall guy who decided he had the right to rest his knees on mine (moving to the far left did me no good).... in front of a kid who repeatedly kicked my seat even when I asked him to stop and then asked his dad to make him stop... in the row in front of a guy so drunk I got a little high from the fumes.... next to a guy who spent three hours constantly moving in his seat.... in front of a gal who brought a very stinky dinner with her.

At any rate, I think I'm going to write a list essay about my flight experiences. Maybe I'll start while I'm on the plane next Wednesday. It should kill a few hours if I can't sleep.

 T-minus six days...

Random Thoughts & a Secret or 2

Same photo. Different Thought.

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes

the whole world around you because the

greatest secrets are always hidden in the

most unlikely places. Those who don't believe

in magic will never find it.”

~ Roald Dahl

"Are you getting excited about leaving?" a number of friends ask me almost every day.  I'm never quite sure how to answer that question.

"No," I usually lie. They usually blink at me in confusion, and I usually reply that I'm getting there.

If you know me very well, you know that I keep most emotions pretty close.  (Side note: It's heredity, I tell you.  Remember the Murphy Brown episode in which Frank gave his parents a big party, and they complained?

"You're never happy," he moaned.  "I buy you a Cadillac, you complain because it's too big. If I bought you a smaller car, you'd complain because it's too small.  You didn't want a party, but if I hadn't given it, you'd complain.  I give you a surprise party, and you complain because it's not a big blow out. I give up!"

"We're Italian! We're Catholic!" his father snaps back. "You act too happy, God will take it all back."  

That explains my mother, I tell you. It rubbed off on me.)

At any rate, the truth of the matter is that I'm very excited, and I'm very anxious.

But let me tell you a little secret:  If I had the nerve, I would dance. Dance. Fling my head back. Throw my arms out. Spin around. Do cartwheels. Jump in the air and touch my toes.

Something in me makes me hold back, though. If you look at the photo at the top of this post, you can see it.  Yes, I flung out the old arms and was at the start of a twirl, but I look pained.  Instead of flying through the air, my hands and fingers are in a tight ball. Good grief. I look like I have indigestion.

Secret#2:  I worry that I'd look like a fool, so I hold it in. 

But, I'm letting go in my head.  Does that count?

8 days, by the way....

Random Thoughts

Moi freezing in Paris last April

“Never did the world make a queen of a girl
who hides in houses and dreams without traveling.”

~ Roman Payne

 
Two acquaintances called me this afternoon as they both just heard that I'm going to Italy soon.

"When are you two leaving?" Friend #1 asked.

"I'm leaving July 30," I replied. There was silence on the other end for a few seconds.

"You're going by yourself?" she asked.  "Without Mike?"

"Yes." There wasn't much more for me to add, so it got quiet again.

"I guess you'll be staying with your family?" She sounded a little confused.

"Nope," I replied. "I'm renting an apartment in Bologna for six weeks."  Silence.

The second conversation went much like the first, although the guy who called that time knew I was going alone but thought it was for six days, not weeks.

"I think Friend #1 and Friend #2 are surprised I'm going to Italy alone," I said to Mike after the second call. 

"I think most people are surprised," Mike answered. "They only think you're crazy. I know you are."

My dear husband always says the right thing.

At any rate, with the end of July barreling down on me, I'm trying to finalize a few minor details before I leave. I have all of the major things—apartments, trains, transport— aligned, I continue to work on the small things.

August is vacation month in Europe, and many stores and restaurants close as their owners take off and head to the beach or somewhere else to relax. (Personally, I think they do it to avoid the hordes of tourists [Americans] who descend on them annually.) I'm not too worried about that as long as the main markets remain open, the bars (aka coffee shops) are open, and the train runs.

I'm taking an intensive Italian class for two weeks, and I'm looking into taking a cooking class.  In doing the research, I found that there are over 20 Italian cooking schools in Bologna and, believe it or not, one gelato university (Check it out here.)  Most of the classes at the university are longer than one day, but someone is offering a one-day, five-hour class for 200 euro. I guess I'll just be buying the gelato. I can get about 2 gelati per day for that same 200 euro. You do the math. ;-)

I have Skype, but I've been trying to figure out which international text app to download. Whatapp and Viber seem to be most popular, so I guess I'll check those out a little more before I decide. From what I can tell, all I need to do is download them and use them when I'm in a wi-fi zone.

This afternoon, I discovered that Bologna offers free wi-fi throughout the historic center.  Most importantly, it is free to residents and tourists as of a few months ago. Previously, tourists had to go through a huge rigamarole to be able to connect at most public wi-fi spots. A new law, however, has done away with the loopholes. Of course, since I have wi-fi in the flat, public wi-fi in the entire city is not as important as it would have been even last year.

And you know what? Free wi-fi means that I can use my iPhone to find the closest gelateria and avoid expensive data charges.  How cool is that?

"Are you making a list of what you need to do next week?" Mike asked me earlier this evening.

No, Dude, I haven't. I'm too busy worrying about the kind of gelato I'm going to eat first.


T-minus 10 . .  . . . .

"Tempo al Tempo" (All is good time)

The kitchen & terrace from the living room

“I'm not making any plans. I'm just 

going to let the universe surprise me.” 

~John Cusack

"It's time to start planning the packing," my good friend, Bob, mentioned to me today.
"I started that a few weeks ago," I replied. It probably shocked him as "Procrastination" is my middle name.

(Side note: I actually have a theory about that procrastination thing. My mother said I was due in late February, but I wasn't born until March 19. I've always figured that, a) I was holding out because I didn't want to be born in winter; and, b) The procrastination has been with me since before birth, so why start fighting it now? It makes sense to me...But I digress.)

While I probably won't start packing until the day I leave, I have decided that I have to start planning a bit because I hate over-packing as much as I hate under-packing. Since I have a lot to take with me in one carry-on and one personal item, I need to maximize space. Luckily, the apartment has a washer and dryer (which, if you've been to Europe, you know is simply a rack over which one hangs clothes to dry), so I can be a little skimpy on clothing.

"You can probably make it with two pairs of shorts, a pair of good slacks, and three tops," my dear husband said yesterday. I rolled my eyes (which hurt like anything since I'm still recovering from surgery).

"I packed more than that last year," I flipped back, "and it was winter. Think double that."  I think he rolled his eyes. Mike has this plan that we are someday going to travel somewhere with little or nothing in our suitcases and buy what we need when we get where we're going. He also has this plan to bring old clothes and throw them out before we come home. He hasn't convinced me to do either yet.

The bedroom

I do have to figure out how to take all my technology with me. The purpose of this trip is to write, so my laptop, iPad, camera and all the charging devices that go with them have to go somewhere. As small as the devices get these days, you'd think they'd figure out how to make the cables smaller, too. 


Oh, well.  I'll survive.

By the way,  I've included photos of the apartment kitchen and bedroom with this post.  Lovely little place, isn't it? Note that there's a Nespresso machine on the counter in the kitchen.  What more do I need? 

T-minus 22 days....

What About Mike?

It is very difficult to generalise. 

Everyone’s adventure is original. 

– Bernard Pivot

"What is Mike going to do if you're gone so long?" my dear friend, Bob, asked me recently. He's not the only one. Almost everyone is worried about how Mike, and I constantly hear,  "What about Mike?" and "What's Mike going to do?"

No offense, people, but Mike is a big boy. He's older than I am.  He's so involved in HOA and OLLI business that he probably won't notice I'm gone until dinner time.

"Are you going to cook and freeze enough meals for me?" my loving husband queried the other day.

See what I mean?

I'll be honest. I'm partially to blame for this because I've spoiled the man.  He never learned to cook (That's his mother's fault.), although he can do a mean heat-up in the microwave. Anytime I travel for a few days, I cook and freeze food for him so all he has to do is nuke it. I will admit, though, that even microwaving has caused Mike a few, well, problems. Please allow me to explain.

Whenever I travel without him, I cook and freeze meals that always include some kind of roast, soup, and lasagna.  They are not only easy to freeze but also easy to heat.  No matter how many times I've done this, however, he always calls me to ask how long to microwave something. "How long should I heat the soup?" he asks.  "Do I microwave the lasagna for two (three, four, five) minutes?"  He called me one time when I was sitting a cruise ship balcony to ask how long to heat a pork chop. That was not the worst, however.

When I was in graduate school at Murray State, he called me one night to let me know that he was on his way home from work. I was, at the time, on the way to a mandatory event. The writer that evening was reading a short story from a newly published book.

"I'll call you when I get back to the hotel," I told him.

About 15 minutes later, I was in the gallery listening to the program director introduce the speaker.  all of us in the audience applauded after the introduction, and the speaker walked to the podium. He greeted us, opened his book, and started to read.

"I WAS BORN IN THE USA.... I WAS BORN IN THE USA...."  I had forgotten to silence my cell phone.  Fortunately, I was able to quiet Bruce before he got beyond the second line. Unfortunately, I noticed that the number on the caller ID was my husband's.

Being as I'm a worrier, I immediately started to stress over why he was calling me again so soon after our previous conversation.  He knew I had to attend the reading and that I couldn't leave the gallery, I thought that there was an emergency. Maybe he'd had an accident. Maybe our son had had an accident. Maybe something happened to one of my dogs. Maybe my cousin (ill with cancer) had passed away. Maybe something happened to my brother or sister-in-law or a niece or nephew. Maybe our house burned down. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I heard nothing that the writer read. I spent the entire hour fidgeting and worrying. When the event was over, I crawled over the people sitting between me and the door and ran to the lobby. I called my husband.

"What did you need?" I asked him as soon as he answered.  I was trying to stay calm. "Did something happen?"

"I just wanted to know how long to heat up the soup," he replied. "I figured it out." 


Bologna is nine hours ahead of Las Vegas. Anyone want to volunteer your phone number for emergency microwave calls?

PS  T-minus 35 days...

Taking Chances

"Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway."
~ John Wayne 

I don't know that being scared to death of going off on a crazy journey by myself constitutes being courageous, but maybe it does.  All I know is that everything seemed to fall into place this week, and I'm suddenly going to live, study, and write in Italy for a few months.

While I'm not scared to death, I am a bit nervous.  Well, actually, I'm a lot nervous because people keep asking me if I'm sure I can do it (Yes.), if I'm sure I can be safe (Yes.), and, mostly, if I'm out of my mind (Hmmm.... Maybe.). 

As I said, though, the stars aligned at the right time last week.  The guy from whom we rented last year is giving me a phenomenal deal to stay in a one-bedroom apartment that has everything I need (including washing machine and internet). The Italian language school offered me two weeks in the intensive class for the price of one. My plane ticket (by far the most expensive part of this entire adventure) dropped $50 the other day. And, most importantly,  Mike will join me mid-September for a festival in Barcelona.

The great deals I'm getting helped me decide to stay in Bologna rather than my beloved Sulmona, but there was more involved in the decision. First, the train connections are much better in Bologna. While Sulmona does have a central train station, to get anywhere from there takes so much longer because of the transfers involved.  From Bologna, I can travel to Milan, Florence, Rome, Venice, Ferrara, Ravenna, Modena, Verona, Padova, Parma, and more in less than two hours. In addition, there is no language school in Sulmona, and while I can speak and understand a little Italian, I really want to learn the language.

Another consideration for me is the fact that Bologna, while larger than Sulmona, is not *that* big and is a very walkable city.  The apartment is in the historic center, and I can reach the university, Piazza Maggiore, mercato, shopping district, and museums in no more than 15 minutes.  My favorite piazza is two blocks down the street, and there are always people walking through, sitting, reading, playing music, and playing with dogs (You knew that would come out, didn't you?).  Getting away from distractions will be good for my personal writing.  I know I probably sound very selfish, but I do need the quiet.

Giovanni, owner of the apartment, told me that August in Bologna is hot. I investigated and found the average temperature is in the mid 80s. I think I'll be fine.

So, 48 days and counting.....