The Dance

Many years ago, I traveled for several weeks through Turkey with four guys from Germany. In Izmir, we visited the bazaar as they were eager to buy embroidered sheepskin coats, all the rage at the time for both men and women. But the coats were more expensive than they had been told to expect, so we wandered from stall to stall, window shopping, as it were. After a half hour or so a young man approached us. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the factory.” We looked at each other and shrugged. Why not? There are five of us, one of him, we’re probably safe. Ah, youth.

We followed him out of the bazaar and down a few blocks to a large five or six story building, up several long flights of stairs, and into a vast room where sheepskin coats were indeed being created. We were introduced to a man who seemed to be the owner. All the right biographical questions were asked in all directions, some in German, some in English. We were offered soft drinks and snacks, coffee and tea, as we sat on divans surrounded by hundreds of coats. For almost an hour, nothing was said of our reason for being there.

Then, on an invisible cue, the owner and his associates invited us to try on coats. Several were examined. Prices were quoted in the $250 – $300 range. That was rejected, and my friends began the apologies and shuffles of calling an end to the session. The owner, also most apologetic, began to show us out. Another man came over at a fast pace as if to deliver a message, and said something softly to the owner. “But wait, perhaps we can do something for you after all!” More snacks, more conversation, more drinks at divans. “So, what would you consider a favorable price?” Oh, a lot less than $250. “Well, try more coats, perhaps we will find a number you enjoy.”

This dance continued into the evening. After about four hours of chatting, eating, and trying on coats, my friends all walked out with one of their choosing; the top price paid – $18. The fellow we had met in the bazaar accompanied the five of us, victorious and giddy with our newfound skill at bargaining, down to the street. At the first landing, he drew us close in confidence. “You did okay, these are okay prices. But I am going to tell you a secret. In Turkey, never buy anything the first day. You paid double today what you would have paid tomorrow. You were too eager, and they took advantage of that.”

Orvieto, Italy 2016 is not Izmir, Turkey 1972, but I suspect I would not run afoul of custom were I to bargain at certain stalls at the market in Piazza del Popolo. Instead, as a native Californian anxious to be perceived as agreeable and open, when a price is quoted I say that it is a very good price indeed and pay it. In fact, compared to similar items I’ve bought in the past, the prices generally are good, but I suspect not quite as locked down as I take them to be.

The dance is alive here in other ways, too. An experience I had on the Gran Raccordo Anelare outside of Rome several years ago, still plays in my mind when I think of Italian culture. Something had caused a traffic jam, I forget what. All four lanes were slowed to a crawl. With no apparent signaling or confusion, the four lanes morphed into six, thereby allowing traffic to move at a slightly faster pace. When the source of the problem was reached, the six lanes re-morphed into five, circumvented the inconvenience, and stabilized at four. No panic, no alarm, no hysteria.

As an American Boomer, efforts on my parent’s part to teach me patience were ceaselessly countered by the burgeoning culture of distraction that surrounded me. So while I have always theoretically ascribed to the virtue of patience, its practice has been elusive. When something provokes, surprises, or intimidates me, I am more of the disposition to wade in without consideration for consequences, than I am to weigh in on the best approaches. There is, to be sure, an advantage at a certain point in learning a language, at least, to simply open your mouth and hope for the best. But there is also advantage in acknowledging the dance that is expected to happen, and not short-circuiting those expectations because I believe my view of what should happen to be so obviously “correct.” This applies to everything from buying a frying pan to trying out new words or making new friends. What seems spontaneous and open to me, is often perceived by others as suspiciously abrupt, or just plain odd. What seems like appropriate back and forth to others, feels like dragging of feet to me, or outright rejection.

I didn’t buy a sheepskin coat that day in Izmir because I was traveling with a backpack and had no desire to carry more than I already had. But in the next few months I did find a coat for about thirty-five dollars, though I cannot remember where. It was an affectation to have such a thing in Felton, California, where I lived at the time. Never did I use it for warmth. I wore very light clothes under the coat, left it open, and employed it for grand entrances. I imagine I looked pretty good with my long hair untied, sporting a pair of aviator shades, even at night.

In 1995, desperately missing Italian life, I organized what would become the first of various groups to spend a several weeks vacation or study trip in Italy. Because we were mostly Americans, my very slight blush of Italian usually made of me a group’s designated speaker. Like the coat, it was an affectation, but, also like the coat, an enjoyable one. In the process I picked up habits and words that do not exist outside of my mind.

Today in class, I ventured to use a slang I had heard somewhere (possibly in New Jersey, now that I think of it; not the best place to learn standard Italian) substituting the slightly too-formal word for food, cibo, with the imaginary slang, la mangia. Yes, you may use cose da mangiare as a more casual alternative, but la mangia, while hilarious and amusing, it is not at all useful. An affectation. Such a small thing, but seeing that bit of inaccurate arcana slide into the sea was as painful as it was a relief.

One night, my Felton housemates and I went dancing. I wore the sheepskin coat, and apparently cut quite a figure walking in for someone watching. We hung, had a couple of beers, dancing was done, and when we decided to move on the coat was no longer where I had left it. My friends were outraged. I had the same reaction as today when I lost my imaginary slang – with a dizzying mix of humiliation and relief, I watched as an affectation fell into the sea.

And so it goes in Orvieto. The experience of learning the cultural dance is as much a piecemeal letting go as it is a gradual taking on. I have a house and garden I love, and they are much, much smaller (and manageable) than anything I’ve had to reside in for fifteen years. Sometimes it startles me to be living so simply and precisely, but mostly I feel that once again I can breathe. What was all that acquisition about, anyway? Anything to do with the disquieting roar I keep hearing in the distance? Oh right, that is the sound of affectations crashing into the sea. Happily, I’m told they’re swiftly biodegradable.

Repost: The Point

When I was staying in Firenze in 1975, there was a graffito sprawled across a wall that I passed almost daily. It said “Basta con la violenza dei fascisti! Morte ai tutti fascisti!

“Enough with fascist violence. Death to all fascists.” Was that meant to be ironic or sincere? I’ve wondered now for forty years. Depending on what comes up in the news, or in daily experience, I flip opinions.

I notice that as soon as a thing is written down, even on a wall, I give it credit for nuance far greater than were I to hear the same thing spoken. Is that because when it’s said to me, I can see the person saying it, so if there is no ironic content, its lack can be observed? On a wall, or in a book or a blog post or a comment on Facebook – or sometimes even in a video – it is up to my mood to determine the slant, the implication, the intension.

Or am I just avoiding the obvious?

I was waiting to see Alessandro the immigration expert the other day and fell into a conversation with a woman also waiting. After the customary, and inaccurate, comment of “your Italian is very good” she asked where I was from. I told her and responded in kind. “Moldova.” How long have you been here? “Thirteen years.” Almost an Italian, then. “I hate Italians. Oh, not all Italians of course, Alessandro is a very good man, and so are many, even most, people I know here, but Italians as a whole I don’t like. They’re too dramatic. They generalize, and make a big deal out of everything. I’m calm, I think before I react. None of them do.”

Any irony there?

My creative life today was Trumped. I got fascinated by Facebook. You know, after two or three posts about the peculiar American political shenanigans of the day, I learn nothing further. The rest is repetition in different words. There’s a certain emotional pleasure derived thereby, but that’s it. When I go from an hour of that to a play I’m working on, all my writing looks like crap. Indeed it may be so, but if I wish to continue to write, I need to get past that phase. All rough drafts are crap. They need rewriting. That’s why they’re called rough. That’s why they’re called drafts.

The American Experiment is an ongoing rough draft.

The Italian political evolution is an even rougher draft.

The woman from Moldova is an rough-draft resident, only she doesn’t know it, so every misunderstanding, every unintended slight, every disappointed expectation that some nice American will take her away from all this, looks like crap to her.

After an hour on Facebook I can’t write plays because I want to jump on a soapbox and make my characters say things they have no organic interest in saying. Anything less seems like crap to me. I must save the world single-handedly! And immediately! And I don’t like those other Americans, either, most of them stupid, and all of them “the problem” – they get too excited, too dramatic, while I think everything through carefully before I react as if I didn’t.

That’s not to say there are not genuinely, stupidly, opportunistic people out there entrancing us all, one way or another, but I can’t do what needs to be done if I’m always in a tizzy about them. Being in a tizzy feels too good, feels somehow like I’ve done something just by being in a tizzy, while the crap draft molders in a file, going nowhere.

I keep expecting Trump to reveal that his whole campaign has been performance art, that it has been a send up of what the American electoral system has turned into. Maybe he was masquerading as the woman from Moldova, too. You think?

A friend here asked if I’d heard the rumor that Orvieto was run by the Mafia. I had not. What I have heard people say that the “mafia” (small “m”) has everyone not among their acquaintance as a member; not in so many words, but in essence. The Mafia, however real and expansive, cloaked as the “mafia”, is a wonderful all-purpose enemy that can explain the always unsolvable “problem.” Why did that person sell his restaurant so suddenly? The mafia. Now the conundrum can pass from thought into history, resolved, tied up – and forgotten.

The phrase “stupid people” (or a topical variation) can serve the same function as the “mafia.” Because there are opportunists duping people, as is their wont, does not mean the duped are all stupid. I’ve been duped. I’m not stupid. Most of the time.

No one is “the problem” either. Thinking that “the problem” can be heaped upon a subset of human being is the problem. Individuals who have run amok in their need for attention, however, can themselves be very problematic; pretty astonishingly so. They go forth to dupe and entrance, because that feels at least as good to them as being in a tizzy does to me.

Now, to the point. (pause) I don’t think I have one. If I really had a point here, I wouldn’t be rambling like this. I’d have made my point, attempted to justify it, and been done.

I think instead of a point, I have a question or two. And an anecdote or three. And a hope that the question and anecdote do, in some fashion, relate. And that you (whoever you are reading this) will identify a question, ponder a relationship with some part of this post, and come up with a point. It may not be my point, but that’s okay. I doubt I would have arrived at Ultimate Wisdom in this blog post, even if I had had a point – perhaps especially.

In the meantime, let us accept the obvious crap for what it is and work hard to offer a strong contribution to the next draft. That will make things better. To make yourself ready to work on the next draft of whatever is “rough” in your view of life at the moment, you might want to close Facebook this instant. And use a timer for subsequent visits.

Maybe that’s my point. Even if not, it most certainly is my goal.

Being Nice

non-specific ache has bothered me for several months. Sometimes in my lower right jaw, sometimes upper, sometimes – just to keep the intrigue alive – it showed up in my left jaw. It never lasted long and there were weeks without any ache at all. I asked a dentist in the States about it. He ground a tooth down by less than a millimeter, and said it was nothing to worry about.

Then last Friday at lunch I bit into a delicious slice of hot pizza and discovered, without any ambiguity, the source of pain. As my dentist Giuseppe is in the next street over from where I live, I took myself there, posthaste. I told one of his assistants that I had experienced a sudden pain in a tooth. She clucked and immediately began to call other patients to find one who could change an appointment. Three calls, and she put me down for Monday at noon.

For Friday’s supper at Montanucci with friends, following conventional wisdom for when one has a toothache, I ordered soup. Wrong. The tooth was, as it turned out, not sensitive to pressure but to heat. I poured all the croutons into the soup plate, and after they absorbed the broth was able to finish my meal in relative comfort. On Saturday, sensitivity expanded to include cold and pressure. On Sunday it was better. By Monday morning I was wondering if I had been faking the whole thing, though I was stumped as to what advantage there was in pretending to myself that I have a toothache.

Because things often work that way, my appointment at the questura, or police station, for my permesso di soggiorno was also on Monday – at 10:50. Two things back to back, neither of which I could change or be late for. I had to pay an unanticipated fee for the permesso application, which meant dashing up to the post office after my time at the questura, and back again to prove payment. That I had allowed my anxiety regards time to coax me into an early arrival for my appointment turned out to be a good thing. I had ample leisure to walk home, make a couple of required copies, and take a photo before returning to the questura with my receipt, then strolling on to Giuseppe’s.

As I turned into a cross street, I passed the young man who had waited on me Friday evening. There was a moment of “do we know each other well enough to nod?” We decided to politely respect one another’s privacy.

I arrived in Via Montemarte and rang Giuseppe’s bell. The young man I’d passed a few minutes earlier passed again. I turned to ring just in time to avoid another decision about nodding, but this time it felt not polite, but evasive. I was buzzed into Giuseppe’s newly remodeled waiting room, and took a seat.

After a few minutes, someone else buzzed. I was gazing into a corner, contemplating tight schedules, as the dental assistant who had made the appointment possible came in, perhaps returning from an early lunch. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her greet me, but I was too late in looking up to return it. I have a notion that people here don’t space out much. I don’t much anymore myself, but when I do and miss an opportunity to acknowledge someone’s greeting, I feel bad.

A few minutes later a tall gentlemen of an advanced age strode out of Giuseppe’s office. He had a magisterial quality, was obviously in wonderful health, and physically very graceful. Giuseppe soon followed, looked me in the eye, shook my hand, and invited me into his office. I always feel honored to see him. He’s so utterly competent, focused, and relaxed at the same time (see Dental Health for a more whimsical – though still accurate – description.)

I explained as best I could what had been bothering me. This is stuff I rehearse even in English where I more or less have the vocabulary. When I describe symptoms I always feel like I’m complaining, and even though I can whine and complain with the best of them, I never like myself after I do, so conversations with medical professionals are usually awkward and inadequate. But I got through the basics. Giuseppe poked around a bit, then tapped the suspected tooth with the end of a metal tool. That’s it! He moved in for a closer examination.

“There is an old-style amalgam filling that is falling apart,” he said in Italian, “and a possibility that the tooth is fractured. There may also be an infection, and it may need a root canal.” Oh, boy! “Are you following this?” More or less. “Okay, in English,” and he repeated it all with me helping him out with a word here and there. “I’m sorry for my English.” I’m sorry for my Italian. “I’m trying to learn French so… it… I don’t know how to say it.” They get mixed up? “That’s it.” I wanted to say that the same happens to me, but as there was no third language involved couldn’t figure out how that would work, so remained silent.

“He’s 83 years old.” The man who just left? “Very tall, strong. He was my judo instructor was I was ten.” I hope I’m in as good a shape as he is when I’m seventy. “Oh, yes. I’d be happy to be that healthy now.”

Returning to the tooth, Giuseppe explained that he would remove the filling to better know its condition, then possibly make a hole so that any infection could be dealt with. He donned his gear, his male assistant joined him, and they set to work. The assistant had cleaned my teeth early last March. As he entered the office I missed his acknowledgement, as I had with the female assistant, this time because I assumed he couldn’t possibly remember me. As before, I felt bad for missing his greeting – disconnected. Someday I will learn never to underestimate the memory of an Orvietano.

Giuseppe is noted for his preparedness, and my experience with him bears that out. But this problem called for other more impromptu skills, and I can now attest to his excellence in those, as well. He isolated the tooth with a small rubber blanket and administered a pain killer that did its job without making my face numb. They went to work with such ease and intensity that all I could do is gaze up in admiration. Now and then a stab of pain reminded me that I was there for reasons other than appreciating expertise, but mostly I remained in awe.

After the first few minutes, Giuseppe took up an instrument unfamiliar to me, and said “Look at that.” Me? “Yes.” Where?  He pointed to an LCD screen next to the chair where my x-rays had previously been displayed. The cylinder in his hand was a camera, and the screen switched from shots of zebras and giraffes to one of my tooth. He explained what was what. Because he was wearing a full face mask – like a welder would, or riot police – whatever I might have understood was muffled beyond my ability to grasp, but the picture sure was interesting. I believe the bloodied line to the left was the predicted fracture.

They went back to work: lots of activity, many tools, liquids, routings, and twists. Occasional pain. The energy of their work had nothing in it that was overbearing or trying to prove itself. It was attentive, careful, and necessary. No apologies, no showing off, no rough behavior; just good clean care. I melted back into admiration as I watched their eyes, intensely focused.

At one point about half way through, another man came into the room. I eventually guessed he may have been Giuseppe’s lunch companion. They chatted and joked. Occasionally, when the work was routine, Giuseppe looked away and talked to his friend directly. Other people came and went, the same good energy prevailed. Then Giuseppe said something, detached, and left the final bits to the assistant.

“It was fractured,” he explained after releasing my tooth from its apron. “Giuseppe glued it back together and ground the tooth down so the fracture is less likely to reopen. We’ll check again in a few days, see if that worked. If not, then we’ll go to whatever the next best step might be.” He handed me a prescription for an antibiotic, and was off.

I wandered out to the waiting room. The dental assistant was there with her iPad. “He wants three more appointments, just in case they’re needed.” We found them stretched over the next five weeks. “Va bene, arrivederci.Buona giornata, grazie! I wanted to bow, kiss her hand, and thank everyone in the office for being so wonderful, but they offered no opportunity. They were all off to the next thing, work as usual, and the grateful American was left standing alone surrounded by fresh, white plaster walls.

The real connection is, I guess – here, there, now, and always – between hearts and it is often silent. For this Californiano who grew up feeling that he has to be demonstratively “nice” at all times (no matter how often or how badly he fails) it is a steep lesson to learn that to shut up and be appreciative can be thanks enough.