...so what comes next?

Lemon Slushee is falling from the sky!

Wouldn't that be cool?

It's snowing outside, the first of the season, and since I wrote the first line, it's gone from slush to almost real snow.  It was an ice cold rain when Heidi went out a half hour ago, then morphed into slush, and now is gradually solidifying into fluff...weird since, usually isn't it the other way around?  But I digress.

I've been neglecting the blog.  When I think back to how incredibly supportive those who have been reading along with me have been, leaving me notes here or making real life comments in the land beyond the internet, I feel guilty for not keeping it up more consistently.  I think now as I've faced the milestone (and kind of scary one) of 30, it's time for what's next.

'Why does she harp on about 30, it's no big deal,' you ask.  But for someone who had expectations far greater than their present circumstances describe, 30 is the first evaluation point, the forced stop where all of this is judged.  And to be honest I've had some difficulty facing it.  Having fallen into a crazy fortunate situation I've not done badly, but I wanted more from myself, and it's hard to excuse that when I was such an over-achiever in my academic years prior to this wonderful chapter.  I wouldn't change anything about my life; I would, however, like to change the me in the middle of it.  I'm 30.  I can no longer hang onto the mentality that I've still got time, I'm in my 20's!  I don't have to grow up yet, it's not time to look at the next part of life, I'm in my 20's!  Because I'm not and it IS time to grow up a teensy bit more and face life's next chapter.  And whereas I'm excited to move into that next part, it's always scary leaving the familiar for the unknown.  Will I make something of my writing?  Will I fail and have to face that maybe writing, this part of who I am, is not what I should be doing?  Will we start a family?  Holy crap, and be somebody's parents?!  Making their decisions for them (which, I must admit, as a control freak sounds lovely at first), and hoping we're not screwing them up from the get-go?  And then not save them when they make the wrong decisions for themselves, but let them get hurt instead?  And then watch them grow up and go out and get their own lives and leave me behind like I didn't birth them from my own womb!

I get ahead of myself.  This is something I do, which overwhelms me back into a state of paralysis and not-doing, something out of which I need to grow.  Maybe that starts now.  Because here's the kick-start I may have been waiting for, the psychological punch to get me moving.  I do want to make something of my writing, and I do want to be a mother.  I want to do good things and contribute where I can.  But none of this even sets into motion until I make some changes, some commitments, and pour some super glue between me and them.

I'm not sure what will become of this blog, but I feel it might be ready to grow with me, and that's exciting for me.  What has thus far been a kind of sounding board for all that bounces around my head, a place to recount trips and visits, and a blank canvas ready for whatever I feel like splashing across it, might be in store for some morphing of its own.  I don't know yet, though, what I want it to be.  Many successful bloggers become that way by finding what makes them stand out in the blogosphere, a reason to be sought out among the masses.  A niche.  So what's mine?  Because once you define your niche, don't you have to stay there in all you write?  I don't think just me and my voice are unique enough to carry me to the next phase, as much as my ego would be delighted to think so.  So this is something I have to figure out, and perhaps a new blog will come of it, something more defined.  I'll let you know.

The snow has lightened up; I can see across the hills now.  Heidi has gone back upstairs to bed, but it's 8:30 in the morning and I have blogged something!  And it's something I think I needed to work out through my fingers, to see in typed words across my screen and know has been said.

After this, my focus will be on a new story I've been working on, something a little light-hearted, not my usual kind of short story.  We all need to step outside our comfort zones from time to time to see what's possible, right?

Thanks for reading.  I promise not to let so much time pass next time.

The Big 3-0

It's happening.  I'm officially stepping out of my 20's and into the next decade of life - but not till next weekend!  The party was Saturday and it was fantastic, thanks to some truly amazing friends.  

Farrah in Barbara Walters mode - me with a mouthful already

The night was a celebration of the 80's, with appropriate games and music to complement the Ghostbusters and Goonies posters hanging on the walls.  Farrah came armed with delicious mac 'n cheese to pay homage to a childhood favorite, as well as a list of trivia questions from the year 1980.  Though I do believe I surprised them all with my fabulous knowledge of my birth year, by the end I was three shots of green apple vodka and about six pieces of Bubblicious gum in the wrong.  You see, for each incorrect response I was forced to choose between a piece of gum and a shot.  I think the massive wad of sugar did more to me than the vodka!

Check out this wad!

Chris and I tried our hands at homemade pizza to celebrate my favorite food from the teen years, and for my 20's, Ashley provided mudslides all around.  I was extremely lucky to have friends willing to take over many of the responsibilities I first set out to conquer all on my own, since I decided long ago that I wanted a party for this milestone birthday.  Thanks to Angela and Diane, there were '30s' strung around the house, balloons in every corner, birthday confetti, candles, and everything needed for food, drinks, and cake in coordinating colors.  Diane also sneakily coordinated with my mom Stateside to obtain a slew of childhood pictures that were fantastic to see again, and stood about the room for everyone to see.  The pigtails, the spiral perm in the 4th grade, the snaggle-toothed grin and hair-sprayed bangs...it was great.

Diane, me, & Angela

After a while, Sara called everyone's attention to a challenging game of 'Name That Tune' that she organized, which stumped everybody at some point.  With plenty of food all around for munching and dipping (thanks to Diane and Farrah for the help), one might have scoffed at the idea of adding cake to this food fest.

Perhaps any other cake, but not this one, made by my friend Amy, who designed it, baked it, and graciously accepted the praise from every party guest as we dug into this chocolate-peanut-butter ecstasy.  I loved the book on top so much (it's made of cake, too!!!), I'm saving it to enjoy on the 13th (my actual birthday), if I can leave it alone till then!

In true Lindsey fashion I wrote a toast, and as I'm incapable of being brief, it stretched the length of one of those super long steno pads.  Here is what I subjected my guests to before rewarding them with champagne...

Thirty.  It probably seems silly to fear this number - after all, you've all already surpassed this particular milestone :)   I've been hanging out in my 20's for so long, what's wrong with staying there and holding onto that college age mentality that says it's not quite time to grow up yet?  But as all things do, life progresses, and instead of just planning where we're going next summer, I'm starting to plan for a family - though NOT YET.  I'm thinking more about hand moisturizer, the threat of wrinkles, and how the hell do I already have grey hairs?!  And just as I'm about to stomp my foot in protest and demand for all this to stop, I have to consider how kind life has been to me so far.  And this getting older doesn't seem so bad because I'm so excited to see what comes next.

I celebrated my 20th with Chris at the Roadhouse Grill in Gainesville, FL ten years ago, and how lucky am I to be ringing in my 30th with him still.  What I love most about this birthday is not only do I get to celebrate in this beautiful place with my best friend, I also get to do so surrounded by wonderful friends.  I'm lucky to have you all, and grateful for the friendship and for the opportunity to know each one of you.  As we're discovering more and more, it's the people connections that really make an experience, so thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for making mine.

To what comes next.

Back: Chris Cole, Amy  (the fabulous baker), Chris L., Angela and Chad, Farrah and Brian, Ashley and Sean, Diane, Josh, and Scott
Front, from one arm of the couch to the other:  Peter, Suzanne, Heidi, me, Kristen, and Wayne
Floor-dwellers:  Sara and Rick

Germany Welcomes Kelly

Back in July my best friend came for a visit.  For her first overseas venture, Kelly would be spending three solid weeks between Germany, Italy, and France.  We were both as excited as a couple of pre-adolescents with tickets to see Justin Bieber, since 1. we hadn't lived under the same roof for more than 5 days since we shared an apartment in college, and 2. Kelly had never visited me in my post-college grown-up life.  When you can live with a person and still love them to no end, that's a relationship that'll last, so I had no worries about the length of Kelly's stay.  Living together had worked well for us; we were good for each other.  Like we've both said before, had one of us been born a man, it would have been the perfect marriage :)

After actually jumping up and down when we saw each other through the glass security wall that separates passengers gathering their luggage and the people waiting for them at the Stuttgart Airport, it was all hugs and smiles and stories of creepy men on the flight.  For the first week, we took it pretty easy, as jet lag is least kind to first-timers.  Kelly and I spent time wandering around Tubingen, a charming university town nearby, and Strasbourg, France, as well.  The real first treat of the trip, however, awaited us on her first Saturday in Germany.

every one welcome!

fun for all ages

I toyed with the idea of not telling Kelly the reason for Saturday's big parade in downtown Stuttgart, slightly concerned she might not want to go.  Mean, I know.  But in the end I felt honesty was the best policy so I let her in on the details, and thankfully, she was up for it.  Who doesn't like a parade?




You see, although we have mounds of things in common, I might be a tad more liberal than my dear best friend, but she kept her jaw-dropping in check and, I believe, had a fantastic time.  How could you not?  The Christopher Street Parade is an annual demonstration of freedom and pride for the area's gay/lesbian/bi/transsexual community and with the outrageous costumes, open trucks packed with candy (and condom) throwing celebrators, music, and dancing, it was a massive good time for the whole family.  The day was gorgeous and the spirits high as we watched the parade, then walked behind it through town, smiling and moving to the music blaring in the streets.

Ra-ra-relly!  Yea, it's Kelly!

 Really, could Kelly have had a better welcome party?

Submission

I'm finally realizing that no one reads what I don't share.  What, you already knew this? 

When I began this blog it was to work myself through the fear of sharing my writing, establish some kind of discipline, and explore myself through different means.  I've done the daily blogging thing, the travel blog thing, the random thoughts thing...it's time to actually start not only sharing, but pushing for attention.  As is often true of writers, I'm more comfortable behind the page - or the monitor - but if anything is to HAPPEN with regards to this love of mine, I've got to DO something more.  So I've been spending time looking over old short stories, snipping and polishing, organizing and trashing, looking for something worthy of submitting for publication.  The problem is nothing ever seems done, because you can usually add more, or shorten, or rake through one last time to sharpen things up.  Letting go of something into which you've woven a little bit of yourself is a little terrifying, because letting go of that baby so that it can fly out into the world invites criticism and rejection.  I'm no sadist, so this naturally makes me nervous.  But without letting go of our darlings, as creative pieces are often called, we rob them of the opportunity to return to us in another form, preferably, published in my case.  

I've searched writers' websites, scoured the internet and bookmarked like mad.  I've started subscribing and reading to get a taste for each publication that called out to me, and I've carefully read over each one's submission guidelines.  I have a stack of note cards on my desk, each one detailing one literary journal, magazine, or e-zine for quick accessibility, and this week I submitted to two of them already.  By the time I hear from either of them I will likely have forgotten I'd even sent anything in, but no matter, because there are many to which I'd like to submit, but a lack of finished material to send.

One literary journal is all food related, though the stories need not be about eating.  Since Chris and I enjoy so very much the experience of new and sometimes scary-sounding food whenever we travel, I bookmarked Alimentum.  A few are travel-oriented, like the Literary Bohemian, but instead of travel pieces, per se, they're looking for quality stories that really transport the reader to another place.  This feels familiar, so onto the bookmark list it went.  Given the opportunity to travel I have, an international readership is attractive, so there are a few of those, plus the regular American big name magazines like the New Yorker, Cimarron Review, and Glimmer Train.  I've also got an all woman journal in the mix and a few that seem a little dark in nature, both showcasing sides of myself.  So a good list, I've got.  Now I just need some new material.

I thought about posting some short pieces here, in hopes of getting some feedback.  Would anyone read it and feel like offering some constructive criticism?  I'm not sure, but it's a thought.  I'm still (slowly) learning the ways of blogs, and am hoping to add more dimensions to this one.  Like a section for fiction writing.

As I've been bad lately, NOT blogging regularly, this is me trying to get back in the habit without the pressure I've put on myself to recount life since July in order.  This, I have little doubt, is the reason for my hiatus, but I'm working on getting over that.  Thanks for stopping back in.

The Coffee House

This morning I found my way to a small coffee shop very close to the gym where my friend Sara is now kicking my behind four times a week, or will be starting today.  My new commitment to a healthier me includes a 6am spin class and then a 9:30am Body Pump class to keep me sore.  I like that her classes have fallen on the same day as one another, as this makes for a serious workout at least twice a week.  Since my employment has shape-shifted again this school year, I’m without a consistent daily schedule to make sure I get to the gym otherwise, so this is something I plan to cling to, nails dug in.

Ten months ago, Sara decided she wanted to be a fitness instructor and after some classes, exams, and waiting for the paperwork to settle, she’s doing a superior job.  It doesn’t hurt that she’s in crazy good shape and perky in a very non-annoying, if not kind of inspiring way.  And let me tell you, that’s a hard thing to pull off when you’re leading a huffing spin class at six in the morning. 

Having successfully gotten through this morning’s spin without the embarrassment of vomiting on my handlebars, here I sit in this cute little coffee shop, positioned next to a wall with an outlet for my laptop, facing the door so I can do a little people-watching while I enjoy my cappuccino.  I told a member of the staff that this would likely be a twice-weekly occurrence, me setting up for a couple hours between classes, if they didn’t mind.  It doesn’t make much sense to go home, only to turn around and come back a little while later.  I’d rather be stuck somewhere because being stuck means there’s nothing I can do except that which I can do sitting around.  Sure, I could run errands, but the amount of sweating one does in the typical spin class is not conducive to being around other people.  It’s safer for everyone if I pick a spot and stay put to keep my moving around to a minimum, thus containing my area of possible air contamination.  I like my little corner and I think this is going to be a great chance twice a week to sit down and write.

When I talked to one of the staff of the shop about making this visit a habit, it was after she handed me a flyer for this weekend’s artist exhibition where local artists will be showcasing their work.  She’s an artist, she told me, and will have a stand there.  I’d already planned to go and am really looking forward to it.  I have a deep respect for people who not only create art, but share it, which is why this blog ever came to be.  I would absolutely love to have a body of work good enough and complete enough to put on display, and even more to give it to people who actually want to give me money in return.  I am an artist at heart, but even though one would assume the part of the brain that handles creative writing would likely also handle visual art, I have a very hard time focusing on both at once.  As I’ve repeatedly admitted, I’m not a great multi-tasker, not even a good one, but it still surprises me that I can’t work on a story and a photo project at the same time.  My brain makes a noticeable shift when I move from one to the other, so I guess this is just a limitation I have to learn to work with.  Another detail that factors into my lack of creative aggression is the sheer amount of things I’d like to do.  Again, too many choices is paralyzing.  When my mind starts making a list of items I need to work on, and that I’d like to work on, writing for my blog, writing and editing short stories, submitting said short stories for publication, and doing work for Klett Publishing are quickly joined by experimenting with photography in a mixed-media piece, attempting to combine writing with visual art, and working on putting together a photo book of our time living in Italy.  And then I just sit there, blank.  Unmoving.  Chris is great and listens to my rambling concerns every time, and he actually asks if there’s anything he can do.  Really?  I have all these ideas, the luxury of having the time and opportunity to do something about it, AND a supportive cluster of people around waiting to help?  And I still have the ability to sit still?  Shameful.

So I’ll visit other artists’ exhibitions and appreciate their efforts, because not only is this fun for me, it’s a chance to soak up some of their creative energy for my own use.  Tonight I’ll be attending the official opening of 'The Turning,' a photographic and literary exhibition in downtown Stuttgart at the Deutsch-Amerikaner Zentrum.  Jim and Tiffany from the Writers group have collaborated to put on this fall-inspired showing and I can’t wait to see it.  It’s important to support your fellow artists because I doing so you’re not only strengthening their conviction in what they’re doing, but you boost your own need and ability to create.  I’ll be getting quite a dose of creativity from other people in the next couple of days, and am so happy about it. 

The coffee shop was experiencing a small rush when I came in close to seven this morning but it soon calmed down and eventually emptied out.  The next rush was at eight, and now it’s 8:45 and the place is full again with people placing their orders, joking with the staff, and chatting about work and the sharp cold outside.  The sweat has almost completely dried from my clothes and it’s nearly time to walk back over to the gym for Sara’s next booty-kicking session via Body Pump.  I’m quite sore from Tuesday’s class, but looking forward to round two.

***************************************************

What is it about sore muscles that feels to good?  I think for me it's a reminder that they're in there somewhere, waiting for me to pay attention to them again.  Nurture them.  Thanks, Sara, for 2 hours of pain today :)

Proud to be an American?

There's something I need to fess up to today, something that's been growing inside for a while now but wasn't completely obvious to me until Saturday.  I am guilty of being somewhat of a self-loathing American.  I don't mean this in the literal sense, only that ever since we left life in the US, my perspective has grown and changed in a way that has actually brought me to lie about my nationality on more than one occasion.  Coming into contact with so many different people from just as many places has deepened my criticism for my own country, and already having a critical outlook as it is, my view of my homeland began taking on a tint of embarrassment.  Do we really need a fast food restaurant every three and a half feet?  Is it really necessary to have everything delivered?  And do you really need to shop at Walmart at four in the morning?  I have developed an aversion to excess in some ways, but I believe one incident, in particular, is partly to blame for this larger shift in attitude.

We were visiting Ireland with a couple of friends our first fall living overseas, when upon asking in which direction could we find the town center, we were faced with a rather rambunctious local demanding to know where our "I Love Bush" T-shirts were and why we weren't carrying around little American flags.  What was this guy's problem?  This was my first encounter with someone stereotyping me because of my nationality, and I had to hold back from arguing with him that I hadn't even voted for Bush, because honestly, it didn't matter.  Living in a place where some people used graffiti to tell me to go home nudged along my desire to disassociate myself with the "typical" American and blend in as much as I could.  This is where it began, my attempt to de-Americanize myself, if you will.  Am I proud of this? Absolutely not, but I think in attempts to show other people, mostly European but not all, that I am not, in fact, the loud, arrogant, entitled, and spoiled American that has earned us such a reputation, I started to look at where I come from in a different light, one that included some shame.  You think just because I'm an American I expect to be catered to?  I'll show you!  I'll clean up my own mess, and yours, too!

It is necessary to say, however, that I have never forgotten the fact that I am endlessly fortunate to have been born in the United States of America, especially given that I am female.  There are sadly few places in the world where a woman can pursue higher education, career, and family if she wants, and with the freedom to walk about without fear of persecution for it.  I'm aware of how lucky I am to be from a nation that symbolizes freedom and opportunity, but I'm not naive enough to believe that's all the US is.  There is corruption everywhere.  I consider myself a realist, able to appreciate that which should make a citizen proud of their birthplace, and a little disappointed with its shortcomings at the same time.  There are people all over the world who still dream of visiting America, as I've learned most people call the US outside of it, and this has got to say something about where we stand in the world, short-comings and all.  

The problem seemed to be that I allowed my focus to linger far too long on the parts of being an American of which I am not proud, and have actually found myself in conversations where a non-American was telling ME why America is so wonderful.  Had I really gotten this bad?  Had I been so worried about embodying the stereotype that I'd become ashamed of part of who I am?  (Am I really putting this out there?)

We went to Frankfurt this past weekend for the International Book Fair held there annually.  What was during the week a trade fair for all things books, a meet market for publishers and artists, alike, turned into a public show on the weekend.  Author interviews, readings and discussions, and new technology demonstrations accompanied the rows and rows, halls and halls, floors and buildings of books for everyone and everything under the sun.  We went, we looked, and we bought books.  It was heaven, especially when we discovered Hall 8, an airplane hanger-sized hall full of English language books and materials.  But the most interesting few hours we spent at the Frankfurt Book Fair happened over coffee inside Hall 4.1 beside the non-book vendor stalls where we had been browsing through things like notebooks, journals, and various book accessories.  What began as an excited gesture on my part when another woman was looking at her purchase, a gorgeous hand-made leather journal I had just been drooling over, soon turned into a lengthy and invigorating discussion.  At first she just looked at me, perhaps a little confused, and smiled.  It became clear to the entire table beside the drink stand what I'd been gesturing about when Chris handed me my very own gorgeous-hand-made-leather-journal, secretly purchased while I ordered our coffees.  I think I kind of squealed before kissing him thank you, and the people around kind of laughed.  So that's how our conversation began, two strangers excited over a couple of books.  

And so we began talking, we three, and even though the seats around us emptied and refilled with new people several times over, nobody realized just how fantastic a conversation we were having.  When four hours can pass by without anyone noticing, THAT'S a great talk.  They did, we didn't, and it was.

Her name is Nicola and she's a PhD student living near Frankfurt, though she comes from a smaller town in the country.  A simple chat about where everyone comes from and the differences between Germans from different regions easily flowed into a discussion of attitudes toward foreigners, learning new languages, living as foreigners in Germany, and the degree of truth in most stereotypes.  Nicola has yet to visit the States, but has hopes of doing so in connection with her studies, and later, profession.  Her sister has traveled to a few places Stateside and brought home with her stories of people who weren't sure if Germans had phones and microwaves, let alone where it's located.  This was several years ago, but I'm fairly certain there are places in the States where the knowledge of places beyond our national borders doesn't exist.  Although the world seems to be growing ever smaller and more accessible, not everyone cares to know about other cultures, and most don't have the resources to visit them, anyway, so why bother?  I like the idea of learning about other places, trying to understand foreign customs, and tasting life elsewhere; this is why we are so appreciative of our ability to travel.  I don't understand the kind of thinking that prevents people from wanting to explore, given the opportunity, and I'm actually related to a few.  One part of travel Chris and I have been noticing more and more is the human connections we make along the way, and this, too, was one topic we discussed with Nicola, of many.

As is common among Europeans, when there is talk of war or military of any kind, the conversation invariably revisits WWII.  And why shouldn't it, I suppose, since 70 years isn't so long ago when you live in a place with a history that stretches beyond America's young 200 years?  Many of the scars left by that era are still sore, and understandably so, but it's in talking to the younger generations who live only in its wake that conversations such as this can roll out across a table with such an eager desire to learn from the mistakes from the past.  I imagine this might be more difficult for someone who lives with personal memories of something so awful as WWII was, but what do I know.  While my mind was already preparing to shake my finger at my own country, Nicola talked about how Germany wouldn't be what it is today had it not been for the USA's involvement in WWII.  If it's going to be between the US, Russia, and China, she said she's glad it was the US.  She told us about an elderly neighbor of hers who's told her stories of his encounters with American soldiers during the war.  Upon his capture, the man was sent to live and work in a camp quite unlike those Hitler had built around Europe.  Those captured and brought here were fed and given shelter, but what surprised him the most were the parties.  Soldiers and for lack of a better word, prisoners eating and drinking beer together, laughing and relaxing like friends - this was unheard of.  He said one evening a high ranking officer walked into one such gathering and asked what was going on.  Instead of unloading on his soldiers and kicking the prisoners back to their barracks, he sat right down and grabbed a beer for himself.  What a thing!  

Friendliness, hospitality, and a willingness, if not eagerness to help is apparently very American, and as I thought about this notion I realized how true it tends to be.  Images of Katrina flashed through my mind, as well as those from the Indian Ocean tsunami in 2004.  Whereas Nicola's experience as a German has always been that people are hesitant to talk to you until they know your status (title ranks higher than money), I know most Americans to be rather curious about people from other places, which tends to carry with it an openness and friendly touch.  (Of course introducing fear into it changes things.)  I hadn't thought of such qualities as being typically American, but the more I talk to non-Americans about their interactions and views of my people, the more I realize I've been rather hard on them.  Perhaps it's my need to beat one to the punch, to make the joke first to prove I get it so there's no question.  This habit goes right long with my secret need to prove I'm intelligent, the source of my self-esteem as a kid.  Regardless of the why, I'm realizing now that Americans aren't just known for wearing athletic shoes and baseball caps while chewing gum (there's one stereotype), or behaving obnoxiously and expecting to be catered to (there's another); we're also known for our kindness and friendliness.  The United States is a place where someone can seek political or religious asylum, or where a person of absolutely no means really can do anything given they work hard enough for it.  This isn't something many countries can boast.

I guess what I find the most interesting about all this is that it's taken the perspective of other people not from the States to remind me of what I have to be proud about.  There will always be things about the culture of the States I don't like, policies with which I do not agree, and decisions behind which I cannot stand, but what remains the same is that I'm free to my thoughts and opinions, and I have the privilege of keeping them.  So maybe I need to stop focusing on how I don't want others to see me because I'm an American, and start focusing on demonstrating the great diverse pool of experiences, perspectives, opinions, and belief systems that is the United States of America.  It may not be perfect, but there is a lot of good going on, and plenty for which to be grateful.

Thanks, Nicola.

Alberto, part 2

It was the Tuesday of our one week Tuscan vacation this past September, and there had been very little discussion of how we would be spending it: Tirrenia.  The old neighborhood, our first real home together.  And as it was only the first week of September, the summer market was still hanging on, and this meant not only could we do a little stall browsing, there'd be the chance of running into some old friends.  Guy was one, a Senegalese street vendor with whom I formed a kind of friendship with, who returned to Tirrenia every summer for market season on his sales route through Europe.  Him, I'll get to in another post, as he'd already moved on to Pisa by this time.  Another was Alberto, aka, the Grumpy Old Man of Via dei Biancospini.  This one is for him.

One of my very first posts to this blog was about Alberto, a neighbor of ours while living in Tirrenia.  (Want a refresher?  See http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.com/2010/02/vita-italiana-in-beginning.html )  Reading over it now fills my chest with emotion because he really was an important part of My Italy then, and always.  After Chris and I moved to San Piero a Grado ten minutes away to a bigger and better-maintained house, I usually ran into Alberto on Tuesdays in the summertime at the morning market.  He liked to buy a rotisserie chicken from the roasting van that always set up there in case anyone dropped by over the weekend.  He told me he liked to have something tasty ready to go, to share.  Once or twice he treated me to a cappuccino and we chatted a while at the small cafe at the back of the loop where the market sets up.  He refused to let me pay him back, so one time I treated him to a cafe AND a pastry, playfully ignoring his protests and attempts to reimburse me.  Running into him was my favorite part of the Tuesday market.

The last time I saw Alberto before this trip was at the Italian American Carnival held every July on the American base nearby.  It would be our last summer living in Italy and we decided to finally attend this annual event.  I spotted him walking in front of us, then took off from Chris and a couple of our friends to catch up, calling out his name.  He turned and opened his arms to receive me, smiling and kind of chuckling at me.  We kissed our hellos and spoke for a minute; he loved attending this carnival each year.  That was two years ago now.  I'd always regretted not going back by the old neighborhood before we moved to tell him goodbye, and to thank him for all he'd meant to me.  Which brings us back to the Tuesday that began this piece, Sept. 7, 2010.

We'd walked the aisles of the market with friends, but no Alberto.  We walked up to the beach to talk lunch with some from the group who'd spent the morning in the sand with the kids, before heading back to the center to meet up with an American friend living in Tirrenia for pizza and pasta.  And though I'm tempted to follow this tangent, I'll have to save Jim for another post, as well.  After a nice, long, Italian lunch (close to 3 hours, including the stroll towards Jim's house and our car) Chris and I drove up to his old office to visit a few old colleagues before they left for the day.  By the time we left there, it was six o'clock.  Marcella at the office assured us an unannounced visit at this hour was perfectly acceptable, so we returned to Tirrenia to knock on an old friend's door.

Although we'd lived beside him for two and a half years and knew very well where Alberto and his wife lived, I questioned myself as Chris and I walked up the drive that lead around to their half of the house.  Was this it?  Chris didn't know, but I did so why so nervous?  Part of me worried he wouldn't remember me.  It should be said that last I'd seen Alberto his wife was in the hospital for her heart, and both of them were pretty advanced in years.  Maybe they didn't live here anymore.  Or maybe... so I rang the bell at the side of the gate and held my breath.  A loud and sudden buzz made me jump and the gate swung inward.  I stepped cautiously in and followed a short stone path around the gate.  Just then, Alberto opened the patio doors and looked out at me.  His expression went from neutral curiosity of who was ringing his bell to a wide-eyed kind of surprise, immediately followed by a great, big smile.  He stepped out and raised his hands, almost shouting hello, and I walked swiftly to him, embracing him and matching his smile.  "You remember me?" I asked.  "Of course, how are you?" he replied.  My heart was bursting; it was almost like seeing my grandfather again.

Teresa and the fattest cat ever

Alberto didn't let Chris get away without a warm embrace, too, and he called his wife, Teresa out of the house to say hello.  I'd never met her before, but had listened to Alberto worry over her health in the past.  She looked radiant to me, and we all kissed hello and sat together at their patio table talking for the next two and a  half hours.  After refusing cafe, cappuccino, wine, water, and a shot of some kind of liquor, we finally accepted a small glass of beer to put our old neighbors at ease.  We toasted to old friends and talked about life.  They have the fattest cat I've ever seen, and we laughed over his girth and looked at a photo album they'd kept of him since kittenhood.  They showed us pictures of their kids, all grown, and their beautiful lone granddaughter.  Alberto talked about his daughter's dog he often walks, and asked about Heidi.  When I mentioned how I never saw him without a pipe in his hand or in his mouth, he promptly retrieved pictures of his extensive pipe collection at their apartment in Florence.  There are many things Alberto had in common with my own Papa.  Conversation was a little bumpy since Alberto's English is limited and my Italian is quite rusty, but we managed just fine.  There was a moment when Alberto disappeared into the house suddenly, emerging with an Italian-English dictionary to help us avoid confusion.  It was sweet, and I was so glad we decided to stop by.

Before announcing my intention of getting pictures of and with them, I took a moment to clumsily stumble through something I very much wanted Alberto to understand.  I explained how it had been difficult for me in the beginning, living here in Italy far from home and family, alone most of the time and struggling to make being a foreigner regular life.  I talked about how I first saw him, this grumpy man passing by each day, grumbling at Heidi on his way to the dumpster, pipe in mouth.  And then I told them both how much it had meant to me when we finally started talking, and how Alberto had become an important part of my day, becoming a source of comfort and familiarity, something I needed very much at that time.  They listened and I said as much of it as I could in bad Italian, feeling very self-conscious all of a sudden.  And then I thanked him for his friendship and he squeezed my hands until they hurt.

They tried to feed us dinner, as anybody would around here, but not wanting to put them out but also not wanting to insult them, we lied and said we were meeting up with friends.  We took some pictures in their garden and I embraced Teresa goodbye, so glad to have finally met her.  We exchanged mailing addresses with promises of writing and sending pictures, and Alberto walked us to our car out on the street.  I was filled with such happiness that we'd come, that they'd been home, and that we were able to spend some time with Alberto and Teresa.  On the street Alberto squeezed my hands in his again, pulling them right up into his chest, and we kissed goodbye, right cheek, left cheek.  He grabbed a hold of Chris, gripped his shoulders, and kissed him the same farewell.  Then before we got into the car, he grabbed my hands and held them a minute one last time.  I didn't mind that he squeezed the blood from my fingers, because the dampness in his eyes looked like love.  He's a part of my Italian family, after all.

A couple days later we had dinner at Lo Squalo, a great ristorante down in the center of Tirrenia, owned and run by another pair of old neighbors from Biancospini.  When it was time to pay, we finally said hello to Christian, the owner, having not wanted to disturb him during dinner rush.  He spoke briefly of how everyone was and where we were living now, and it was nice to be remembered.  But the best thing Christian said was that Alberto had told him about us stopping by.  He said we had really surprised them, and it had meant a lot to him to see us again.

When we left Tirrenia that night to return to the villa in Lucca, I whispered goodnight to Tirrenia, and to everyone who made that place mean something to me.  This trip to Tuscany with such good friends would be filled with so much, but Tuesday evening at Alberto's will always be my favorite part.