It happened today.  Culture shock.  I’ve had a couple of moments where I’ve missed home, wished I spoke the language, or wasn’t sure whether I’d complimented or insulted someone.  Today was different.

I spent the morning largely with Barbara, Deb’s mom, and Andre.  We went for our daily coffee and focaccia at Marino’s shop where we talked about the importance of family and the uncertainty of leaving one’s surroundings.  Barbara had come to Barga as a young woman to be with her husband, Deb’s dad.  We shared our stories of intentional discomfort – her moving to a new country with little knowledge of the language; my decision to take a fundraising job in order to deal with my outright terror of cold calling.

We went shopping, first to a bookstore where I bought another Harry Potter book in Italian, and then to the local grocery store, where I spent a while staring at the shampoo and face soap.  I’ll just say that it’s much less intimidating to buy vegetables and jam, and even order bread from the meat counter, than to figure out what is face soap and what is laundry detergent.  I mean, if I get the wrong bread, Sandra laughs.  If I get the wrong soap, it could be a pretty miserable week.  So, I left with jam and toilet paper, and even dishwashing detergent, but no face soap (I’ll make Deb interpret the bottles later).

When I returned to the studio, I set to work on putting together a website.  I’ve been wrestling with the Italian site for the last week and thought I’d finally worked it out.  I’m very, very close, but not totally there.  After working on my little PC for a couple of hours, I switched to the big, pretty Mac that Ryo had left vacant.  It meant an Ethernet connection instead of the satellite one I’d been using, but it also meant using an unfamiliar operating system – in Italian.

I was able to find the web browser and, after about 15 mins, translate enough of the menu to figure out how to open up additional windows.  Brava!  Unfortunately, however, the internet was not cooperating.  I spent the next couple of hours battling against the computer and the internet, both of which kept giving me error messages in a foreign language.

When Sandra asked me what happened today to put me in such a bad mood, I couldn’t even explain.  “I battled the internet – all day – and it kept winning – in Italian.”  Not surprisingly, it didn’t translate.  So, we ate the fantastic meal that Sandra had prepared, joked about my hair, and, in the end, Tommy and I ended up playing cards.  And I won.  A lot.  In both Italian and English.  And he learned how to shuffle.  And that totally made up for losing to the internet.

Sandra has a problem with mugs. My first night here I noticed this. It’s not like she hides it. When I helped wash dishes my first night here, I spent a good 5 minutes trying to fit all of the mugs onto the little shelf in the kitchen. That was before I noticed the mugs sprinkled across the shelves in the cupboards, displayed decoratively on the bookshelves in the living room, and filling overflowing bags at the studio.

“I like mugs!” she says with a wiley smile.

Tea time was interesting for the first couple of days. “NO, not that mug.” I had assumed that all mugs were equal while preparing our afternoon tea. “That’s Tommy’s, can’t you tell?” “And that one is Snoopy. Don’t touch it. No, it’s very old, don’t even touch it.” “What about this one, Sandra?” She just smiled, and reached into the sink to rinse one that we had used that morning.

I’m getting better. I’ve had some time to watch which mugs she uses in the morning for cappuccino (and which ones Deb uses), and which ones she uses for afternoon tea, versus evening tea. I can anticipate which ones I can use, and which should be left alone. I haven’t had my choice corrected in maybe a week now. Wait. I just realized that might be because the ladies were on a cruise for the last week. Damn.

While they were away, I spent some time with friends in Lucca. We had a couple of day trips to Florence and Viareggio, and several days in the beautiful city of Lucca. Along the way I’d been looking for gifts for Sandra and Deb. It turns out it’s a little difficult to buy gifts for artists I barely know. Their home is filled with many beautiful things – and mugs. I kept finding lovely mugs, but rejected them all out of principle. There are plenty of mugs in the house and I was sure to find something better.

On my last evening, as we made our way to the train station, Giovanna took me to a slightly unexpected place – a Scottish tea house. Nestled in one of the winding backstreets of Lucca was a white-walled shop, lined floor to ceiling with white tins of tea. Gio and I chose a seat in the back of the shop where a great Japanese-style tea house stood. (I have no idea how they got this thing in through the little tunnel connecting the front and back of the shop. Probably piece by piece.)

We spent some time pouring over the tea menu. The shop-owner spent some time talking with us about the differences between Bancha and Sencha, Japanese Sencha and Chinese Sencha, and all manner of tea.

By the time we had finished, there were tea tins littering the little table where we sat, the owner having brought them to us, gently scooping leaves for us to smell. When the tea arrived, it was in lovely little pots with stainless steel covers that sat over the body of the pot. Gio and I wasted no time disassembling the interesting pots. The steel, it turns out, was lined with felt. Sliding smoothly over the white ceramic pots, the liners functioned as built-in tea cozies. Fantastic! I was put in mind of the mismatched teapot that Sandra and Deb use, and how quickly the tea goes cold.

I boarded the train to Fornaci an hour later with my gigantic backpack full of new coats and boots, and a teapot under my arm.

The day Deb and Sandra returned, I tried to make the house nice. I swept, went to the market for bread and flowers, and I actually managed to put all the mugs on the little shelf. It was a triumphant morning. The van arrived and we unloaded the extra bag they’d bought to carry all of their treasures. The dogs were ecstatic to have their moms back. I was happy to have my friends home.

After settling in a little they noticed the box on the table and opened their new teapot. “Bello, bello.”

“We have something for you, too.” They were both grinning. After some serious excavation, a package appeared and was thrust into my hands. How fabulous! A present. Who doesn’t love presents? I pulled apart the wrapping and laughed. A mug.

“Bellissimo!” We all had a good laugh and the mug, along with the teapot, was sent to the kitchen to be washed and put into service. I’ve used my mug about a thousand times in the two days since it appeared. There’s something wonderfully comforting in having it in the kitchen. I know that now I’ll get at least one mug right when making afternoon tea.

Have you read the book “The Alchemist”? Several people have been telling me to read it for a number of years. On my trip home to Idaho before I struck out to Italy, my sister handed it to me. It was one of those rare moments when I decided to do a bit of reading for pleasure. After the first chapter I realized that I’d tried to read the book before.  That time I ended up putting it down somewhere, where it stayed. This time, however, the book grabbed hold, and I spent the next day absorbed in it.

Somewhere toward the end, the boy in the story makes a deal with his heart, that if his heart would stop protecting itself by making him fearful of everything, he would listen to it, and really hear the messages it was sending.

I liked that idea very much, so I made the same deal with my heart. If I could be released from the daily doubts that cluttered my heart, I would listen to the little voice that whispers advice. So far it’s worked fairly well. The crippling self-doubt I’ve felt in the past is, for the most part, gone, and I’m listening and hearing. Sometimes, however, the little voice needs to yell a little to be heard over the excitement that can distract me. Today was one of those days.

My friend Franca , who is the regional secretary for the largest labor union in Italy, invited me to attend the sindacato manifestazione. Best I can tell, it’s a million person rally in Rome for the rights of workers (constitutionally guaranteed). Coolness. But a little voice wasn’t so sure. Damn. Really? But it’s a huge political rally IN ROME! I put in motion plans to go. I asked Franca for details and looked up the train schedule while cooking lunch. I’d meant to ask my friend Frank for his thoughts about the rally, but hadn’t. Maybe I’d do that in a bit…

When you’re tasting tubular pasta to see if it’s done, make sure there’s not scalding hot water hiding inside. This is a good tip, and one I shouldn’t have needed. The hot water shot into my mouth and onto my lip and chin, painting a great red stripe down my face. Damn. That sucked.

The pasta wasn’t done, so while I let it boil a bit more, I went to take care of a stray whisker (yup). I reached into my bag, feeling for the tweezers, and found a razor with its cover askew. What in the world is that doing there? It took a moment for the blood to come to the surface of my knuckle. Looking down at my red thumb I was a little miffed. What the F was going on? (Please pardon my abbreviation.)

I wrapped up my thumb and hurried back to the table to read about the rally on the union website, throwing myself into the chair. SMACK!!! I rammed my kneecap straight into the table leg – hard. Are you joking me about this?

Over the last year I’ve really tried to listen to the cues I’m being given. Today, it seems that the little voice was tired of being ignored. It had gone from an uncomfortable whisper to a full out scream. So I sat back. “What? Just what?” I was a little impatient. “Don’t go.” It wasn’t the answer I wanted. So the rational part of me emailed Frank, my local political expert, to see if I was missing something on the surface of the situation. It was totally unfair to pit him against the little voice, but he had the answer I wanted. And he had an invitation. Come to coffee and meet another writer/political thinker.

I sent a confirmation text to Franca to see if I could crash at her place after the rally, and I grabbed the car keys. I’m really lucky the little voice didn’t crash a meteor into the car on my way to Barga.

Still, I had a nice drive up, found a parking spot and managed to locate the café where Frank and Tom were sitting. It turns out that Tom really is the brilliant political thinker that Frank described. In the 5 minutes I had between Frank’s invite and leaving the house, I was able to do a quick Google search and read a piece Tom had written for the Huffington Post regarding health care. The next hour or so was consumed by rabid discussion of foreign policy, sprinkled with the niceties afforded a stranger. The guys, who clearly walk the same intricate paths they walked today with some sort of regularity, and had to keep each other at bay with “now, wait” and “let me finish,” were generous when it came to listening to the views of a newcomer. They sneered only slightly at the hyper-optimistic policy suggestions I’m prone to give.

When I left the evening it was with an updated understanding of US policy in Afghanistan, a firmed up concept for my next post, and another really interesting contact – something I would have missed out on if I hadn’t emailed Frank to ask his opinion regarding the rally.

And the little voice was quiet again. While I was sitting with Tom and Frank, I’d received a text from Franca. Giovanna’s mom was in town, so there was no place to stay after the rally. We’d have to try for next time. It made me smile.  Now I’ll have the weekend to nurse my face, thumb and knee. And to practice my listening.

There is snow in the mountains. You can see it from the balcony in the morning. My friends in Oregon are starting to talk about the ski season, and my mom is writing with snow updates.

Ryo, Luigi’s father, asked if I’d like to go with him and André, Luigi’s little brother, into the mountains to check out the snow conditions. I’m always up for new terrain, so I put on 4 layers and packed up everything warm that I brought with me to Italy (I came fairly well equipped – we’re talking the Alps here).

We started in Barga and wound our way up from 400 meters to 1500 (I think). Through quiet stands of poplar and along mountain ridges we wound, chatting about Italian driving and life in the mountain towns. The landscape was striking and, at times, startling. It reminded me very much of the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho where I grew up, except that in Idaho, you would have had to hike for an hour or so to reach a mountain ridge like the one we were casually driving along.

André, who is something like 20 months old fell asleep on the ride up the mountain, tranquilly dreaming as we drove.

We reached a village perched astride a steep ridge, and Ryo pulled over. “This is San Pellegrino. Want to have a roam around?” He stayed with the car and the child and I struck out toward an old archway and a sign to the sanctuary.

I stopped inside the church that was tucked inside the rocky tunnel, but missed the mummy (evidently there’s a mummy). I left an offering and took a holy card then headed back down the passageway that lead from the streets of the small town out onto the ridge. I fell in love with the view from the tunnel and spent quite a lot of time trying to capture it.  By the time I emerged, my hands were nearly numb.

I turned to look at a cat sitting in the alpine sun, when a little Dachshund came running up behind me. She sniffed my pants and ran up ahead into the snow on a mission of her own. My attention was captured by a placard that explained the history of the place. I walked over to it and began reading, but was interrupted by a shrill and persistent bark coming from just behind the placard. The little Dachshund was suddenly barking at me and did not appear to have any intention of stopping. Her ears were flapping as she jumped with each bark.

There was nobody around and she was raising quite a racket. So I did the only thing I could think of: I bent down and put my bare hands in the snow, made a snowball and tossed it in the air for her to catch. It was exactly what she was looking for. She ran and jumped and pounced and champed. Ball after ball I threw as the little dog danced around in utter delight. After maybe 5 minutes of this, I said “ciao, ciao” and continued along the path to look at the shrine perched at the furthest point out on the ridge.

I took pictures, admired the scenery and pondered the complex in utter silence and solitude. Until my friend reappeared. She came from below the trail and started barking again. So, my hand finally thawed from our earlier game, I reached back down and started again. She was absolutely transfixed. Every snowball was magical to her, worthy of total exploration and attention. She would thrust her face into the indentation left by a missed catch, searching out every last bit of fun. We played our way back to the arch, me tossing increasingly shorter throws to reel her in, her short legs carrying her through the snow. Before I left she chanced a tentative poke at my hand and then ran a few feet away waiting for another toss.

The cats came over to see what was up and I bid them all “ciao,” heading back through the arch, past the church and out into the town where Ryo and André were both asleep in the car. We stopped for a quick cappu and headed down the mountain to the ski slopes that were our real destination. As soon as we crossed over the ridge at San Pellegrino, there was snow everywhere, the landscape completely transformed.

Down the mountain we wound, the bare tracks of the ski slopes sliding in and out of view as we drove. It became increasingly clear that we would not be skiing this weekend. The parking lot at the bottom of the slopes where we stopped the car for lunch was completely bare, and the tennis courts below were green. Still the trip to the slopes brought us to a lovely place for lunch, where we had pasta frita (fried pasta dough) and gelato with blueberries. Fantastic.

And I learned the valuable lesson: even if the waiter says it’s pasta with funghi, confirm that it’s not also with meat. Bastard meat sneaking in places it doesn’t belong… Anyway, Ryo was kind enough to share, and André liked the meaty mushroom pasta, so it all worked out. Then we headed up the mountain for a hike to check out the snow.

Once again, my Vasque Blur Gore-Tex shoes were awesome, if a bit unnecessary. The snow, at deepest, was about 4 inches – not so good for skiing but just right for a hike and breathtaking scenery.

We headed back, collected ourselves, and started the descent from the parking lot to Barga. Along the way, Ryo brought us to Sasso Rosso , a notoriously beautiful town set into the side of the mountain, and built out of the local, pink rock. It looks like a giant grabbed a hunk of the hill, crushed it and then rearranged the pieces.

On our way from the pink town, André started to melt down. It had been 5 exhausting hours of excitement in the mountains, and he had had enough. We tried singing and little piggies. We tried peek-a-boo and cookies. Nothing worked. Something would hold his attention for a short time bringing a smile to his little face, and then the smile would fall into a tragic, gaping pit of despair, wailing about his boots, always his boots.

André has a pair of yellow wellington boots. They’re perfect for going to the horse arena, or into the mountains. He loves his boots. He loves that they are yellow. “Lello.” He calls them. Today it was:

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!”

There’s something about a child crying – I mean really crying their heart out – that has an effect on people. I think it can go one of two ways, usually. 1. A person will want to comfort the child, in order to make them stop crying. 2. A person will want to kill the child, in order to make them stop crying. When it’s a child I don’t know, it’s a toss-up for me, comfort or kill. When it’s a child I do know, though, I just laugh. I know it’s not helpful to the situation. I know it won’t make them stop. But the honesty with which a child will cry when they are truly melting-down is amazing, and André was crying with complete honesty.

We had taken his boots and socks off when we got in the car. It was warm, he had wanted them off earlier, and there was really no need for them now. Or so we thought. After the initial 5 or so minutes of negotiating about the boots staying off, we thought the situation was solved. He was grumbly and obviously tired, but so was I. We drove, sang, talked. And then it hit. Full on tantrum. It took us at least another 10 minutes to figure out that he was still upset about the boots. After some excellent kiddy translation by Ryo, he reached down, tugged a boot off the floorboards and handed it to André. Quiet. Then “two.” So I reached back, picked up the other and handed it to him.

He clutched the boots to his chest and a great, shuddering sigh came out of his little body. Ryo and I chuckled. There are times to put your foot down with a child, but this was not one of those times. If he wanted his boots, that was totally fine with us. The next 10 minutes was quiet. André flirted with sleep, his boots pulled to his body, his breath coming in great heaving gasps.

Ryo and I looked at each other and smiled.

We were fools.

“ONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONON.” Ryo was first to reach back and pick up one of the fallen boots. He had it on André’s foot in about 2 seconds while maintaining perfect control of the car on a mountain road. “Is he saying ‘on’, or ‘no?’” I asked, fumbling for the other boot. “On, I think.” André was definitely awake, and the presence of the boots was no longer enough. I jammed the other boot on his bare foot thinking how difficult it would be to get it off later.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!!!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!”

I tried to tell him softly that they were his; that nobody would take them from him. I imagined him in therapy years later, clinging to a pair of yellow boots, talking about vague memories of a stranger in aviator glasses taking his most favorite thing in the world and how is dad let it all happen.

“DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY!” “Yes, André, I’m right here.” “DADDY!!!!!”

There was nothing for it. Ryo comforted his son as best he could, and André did his best to scream himself out of the car. I just laughed to myself.

There are times when we can communicate our wants and needs so clearly that, with a single bark, a stranger knows to throw a snowball for us. And there are times when we want something so terribly much that we want to scream ourselves to sleep. Even after we get it, the wanting is so intense that its memory won’t let us go.

When I dropped Ryo and André in Barga on the way back home, I was ready for some quiet. And I was happy for the invite from earlier in the day. “Want to come to dinner tonight?” “Sure, Ryo, that would be great. Thanks. What can I bring?”

Lucca, as well as being a super-cool city, is a stone’s throw from a ton of other cool places. Florence is an hour bus ride away, and Viareggio, on the Mediterranean Sea, is about 15 mins drive. I spent one glorious day and evening in Florence with Giovanna and Franca, and one lovely morning in Viareggio with Gio.

For my last day in Lucca, Giovanna suggested that we make the run to Viareggio, a coastal city that plays host to a range of VIPs. This cloudy day, however, in the middle of the off-season, it had the feel of Coney Island in the movie “Big.” Many shops were closed, the beach vacant, and even the dark-skinned vendors that usually harass passers-by with their umbrellas and counterfeit goods seemed unconcerned with us, busy themselves contemplating the vast, empty beauty of this place.

We headed first to the beach, having to walk some distance to find an entrance between the pay-to-play beach stands that stretch the length of the waterfront. The swimming-pools stood empty and the umbrella stands littered the beach, giving an eerie feeling to this amazing, contrasting landscape.

We spent a fair amount of time walking across the sand, snapping pictures, considering the waves, examining shells.

When we found our way back to the street that runs the length of the beach, we found it equally empty.  Growing up in a tourist town, I understand the concept of slack.  For locals, it’s a time of quiet.  A time to recharge, and to prepare for the coming onslaught of the next season.  The majestic buildings lining the street stood witness to this reality; quiet, waiting, a great exhale seemed to come from the city.

We found a favorite record store of Giovanna’s and picked up a few cds then walked along the great jetty that extends from the city out into the water.  Fishing boats lined the jetty, their masts standing tall against the grey backdrop and giving rise to a stark picture.  The Madonna stood in the harbor, high above all, eternally blessing those who venture out, welcoming those who return.

Outside the protection of the jetty stood another shrine.  One evoking great sadness.  A constant reminder of those who do not return from the sea.

The quietness of the day, the cold sea and distant cranes building naval vessels put me in mind of my grandfather, who survived a perilous morning at Pearl Harbor, and survives quietly, night after night its memory.

—

Then it was back to Lucca for another fantastic meal, scarf-shopping and a train ride back to Fornacci.  Back to the present, back to my adventures – a great exhale in my journey through life.