Glorious Italy: Adventures andT Misadventures

I just got back from a wonderful trip to Italy. I could write about the beauty of Tuscany’s rolling hills, soldier-straight cypresses, and misty mornings. I could write about Italy’s fabulous food – the tang of real parmesan cheese, the perfect bite of pasta, and the joy of a country that serves Nutella-slathered pastries for breakfast. I could even venture into the literary territory of trying to describe the spectacular mosaics of San Marco in Venice, the exquisite frescoes of Giotto in the Scrovegni Chapel, or the architecture of jaw-dropping cathedrals.

Beautiful, rain-soaked San Marco Basilica, Venice

But I’m not going to write about any of those things. I want to write about the ugly side of travel. The mishaps and misadventures, the fatigue at the end of a day spent on one’s feet, the scary feeling of unfamiliarity. Travel is all about beauty and experiencing something new and seeing the world. But it’s also about feeling vulnerable and out of control. It’s about missing trains and being frustrated at not being able to express ourselves. It’s about making dumb mistakes . . . and paying for them.

You would think these misadventures would be enough to kill the travel bug. But that’s not the case. In fact, these experiences might feed it.

We had a lot of mishaps on this trip, perhaps more than usual. I don’t know why. I went on this trip with seasoned traveler friends, Richard and Melody Manwaring, and my two sisters, who have also donned their travel shoes quite a few times. You’d think we would know that you have to scoot down to get off the train when they call the stop so we wouldn’t end up in a tiny town that a tourist has never seen. You’d think we’d remember to validate train tickets, so we wouldn’t be fined. You’d think we wouldn’t get lost or forget to pay a hotel bill or lose sight of fellow travelers or end up paying more for something than we’d planned.

But all of those things happened. I asked myself, are we too old to travel? Have we lost the touch? Was our group too unwieldy?

Nope. None of those things. We were traveling.  Stuff happens when you travel. Period.

The ironic thing is that travel mishaps often end up being the best memories of the trip. For example, when we missed our train stop and ended up in the tiny, dark town? We discovered a restaurant that apparently was the hot spot for the entire community. We ate calzones as big as our heads, while we observed enormous tables of men gesturing wildly, talking animatedly, laughing and clearly enjoying each other’s company. It seemed a familiar ritual. We watched them as we tried bruschetta twelve ways – not only the traditional tomatoes and olive oil, but also topped with salt cod, offal, sugar-coated pancetta, briny olives, and other unidentifiable pastes and pates. We agreed this was the best food we’d eaten during the entire trip, and the people welcomed us, like we were one of the party.

Of course, not every travel adventure has a happy ending. The last time I went to Italy, I went home with a broken arm. That wasn’t fun. But it’s all part of the journey . . . and it makes a good story.

If I wanted to avoid risk, I’d stay home and never leave my house . . . and never see the world.

Nah, I don’t think so. I’ll take my chances.  

The Ponte Vecchio in Florence - No mishaps here, just the best gelato we had in Italy      

Melody Manwaring, Bonnie Kennan, Leanna Crockett, Lisa Turner

Singing Puccini arias outside the Puccini museum in Lucca. The head of the Puccini Foundation heard us singing and came out and told us all about Puccini and his importance to Italians. A bit of travel serendipity!

Merry Christmas.

Except it doesn’t feel so merry yet. Last week I had dental surgery, to the tune of $6,000. Robert has come home from work today . . . with Shingles. Grandma wants to die and talks about it incessantly. A plumber is upstairs right this minute completing a $700 repair. Last week we had to buy a new dishwasher.  

Sigh. Life happens, even three days before Christmas.

Still, there is balance, even when the scales tilt. After a stressful preparatory season, the choir program at church was beautiful. They sang well and the listeners seemed moved. The singers watched me and responded to what my hands were trying to communicate. We made music together. That alone is a minor miracle.

Other events might not be called miraculous, but they are joyful. While eating dinner last night with friends, a group of carolers stopped by. What could be better than smells of spiced yams wafting through the kitchen while listening to “Silent Night” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” And did I mention we join together as friends and family every week for Sunday dinner? Laughing, discussing, solving the world’s problems.

Then yesterday I had lunch with some of my favorite women in the world. We call it therapy lunch, because we have a tacit agreement to talk about anything and share each others' lives in a unique way.

And I can’t forget the gift delivered by my neighbor. After having the tooth procedure last week, my post-surgical instructions said I shouldn’t have carbonated sodas. I called the dentist’s office, and the receptionist told me I should refrain for two weeks. Really? Two weeks? That seemed like a long time.

On Sunday morning, I asked a dentist in the choir about this (who also happens to be an excellent tenor). He said that didn’t sound right and mentioned that his instructions said nothing about carbonated beverages. Later that day, he came to my door with a brown paper bag wrapped in a red ribbon. Inside . . . a can of diet Coke. It may be my favorite present of the year.

So . . . even though life is messy, bills never end, and health can be fragile, the little joys of life and minor miracles are enough. Merry? Maybe not. But Christmas always brings the promise of better things ahead.

Merry Christmas.  

Work, Life, and Goofing Off

I like work. I like earning paychecks and having someplace to go and meeting the challenges that come with a job.  I’ve never wanted not to work.

And yet … now I have retired friends. And they’re happy.

I’ve been contemplating work for the past few weeks and asking myself questions about it. Would I be happy if I didn’t work? Would I like endless flexibility to have lunch with friends? Would my house be cleaner if I didn’t work? (The answer to that one is easy: NO.) If I didn’t work, would I finally finish the scarf I’ve been knitting since July? Would I make it to the mountains more often to snowshoe? Would I hang out in the Denver Art Museum on weekday afternoons?

Or would I start wearing pink Snuggies while bonding with the couch and bags of almond M&Ms? Would I rattle around my quiet house, jumping when the phone rang? Would I become intimately acquainted with NetFlix?

The answer to these questions is not clear … except that one about the clean house. I don’t know the answers because I have always worked in some way.  

I came by it honestly. I remember the lectures my dad used to give me about the nobility of work. Frustrated by my lack of desire to clean my bedroom, he’d pontificate about how good it feels to work hard and earn one’s keep. How work brings rewards. How success is the result of hard work.

I thought he was crazy. I was 10 … and 12, 13, etc. Work was tedious; chasing boys and goofing off was fun. But now I’ve turned into my dad.

He was right about the rewards. Last week I got an e-mail from a student. She told me that she’d been in the university for several years and had never had an instructor “who was completely prepared, ready to teach, and quite as caring as [I] have been.” She went on to say that she left my classes excited and fulfilled. All teachers get these kinds of notes – my point is not to self-aggrandize, but to make the point that this note was a better payday than the check I received for teaching that course. It’s the kind of enrichment that is hard to find outside of doing a job that I love, and working hard to do it well.

So I’ll keep working. Honestly, I don’t have a choice unless I want to drastically alter my lifestyle (and I don’t). I still want to pay the light bill, buy groceries, and have money to travel. But I also need to feel like I’m offering something to the world. And to myself. I want the energy and stimulation of doing my best and meeting new challenges. I guess that pink Snuggie is going to have to wait … 

Congratulations!

Graduation ceremonies are an exercise in endurance. They last for hours. The rhetoric is overblown, the regalia stuffy, the speakers pompous.  

I go to a graduation ceremony every year. And I love it.

As a faculty member at the niversity of Phoenix, part of my job is attending the annual graduation ceremony.  

By now, the routines are familiar. This year was no different. Before the ceremony, the faculty lined up on both sides of the convention center hallway. We chatted about everyday things – the classes we were teaching, where we’d eat lunch after the ceremony, and how to fasten those mortarboards on our heads. We complained about the hot robes and admired a fellow instructor’s floral-spicy perfume. We tried unsuccessfully to straighten the velvet hoods that hung down our backs in a rainbow of colors. Some of us wished we’d worn more comfortable shoes.

While we waited to march in, the students paraded down the middle of the hallway, getting in place for their procession.  They looked fantastic, in inky black robes with scarlet satin stoles, tassels swishing back and forth from their caps. Some wore gold honor cords. Some tottered on six-inch stilettos while others sported bejeweled mortarboards.

As faculty members, we turned into cheerleaders. We high-fived students. We screamed out, “Congratulations! You did it!”  We hollered and whooped as if we were at a hockey game.

The cheers were sincere. It is thrilling to see a student wearing that cap and gown, when you’ve seen that student struggle with APA guidelines or thesis statements. It’s exciting to see a student who’s attended class every week, even during a tough pregnancy or while taking care of a terminally ill parent. It’s exciting to see a student in that line who’s spent time in rehab or been wounded in Afghanistan. It’s exciting to see a student graduate when you know he is a single father to a handicapped child.

Teaching adult students is a unique privilege, because we teach students who have real-life problems and challenges. We get to see them overcome those problems and succeed. So we clapped for them. And cheered. And fist-bumped and high-fived and hugged.

The students lined up at the door into the theater. Now it was our turn to march, down the long aisle, to the strains of Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance.” As we walked past the students, they returned the favor of cheering and clapping. They shouted out, “Thank you!” They waved and smiled.

“Pomp and Circumstance” played on, as students, faculty, and staff filed into the theater, its tune familiar and stately. I knew the pompous speeches were coming, along with corny jokes and clichés. I knew the list of graduates would be long. I also knew why I love to teach. I straightened my mortarboard and headed down the long stairway to the front of the room.

Love and Marriage

It’s a girl! Well, actually, a beautiful young woman, but “it’s a woman!” doesn’t quite have the same ring. The point is, there is a new girl … er, woman … in the Turner family.

Ethan and Andrea married on May 10, 2014. They dated for four years, so this wasn’t exactly unexpected. But definitely welcome.

The wedding was joyful. The groom was handsome; the bride was beautiful. The weather was sunny and warm - the snow waited until the next day. (Yep, snow in May.) Lots of family members attended, and we had a fantastic time talking, laughing, eating, and sharing memories. The food was great (did I mention both Ethan and Andrea are foodies?) and the flowers elegant (did I mention Andrea has a way with decorating).

Weddings are filled with family, flowers, food, along with a few tears, mishaps, and surprises.  Even butterflies in this case. Of course, it helps when the reception is held at the Butterfly Pavilion. Happy couple, happy family. What more can you ask?

Andrea is a welcome addition to our family. She is lovely and soft-spoken (not the norm in our family). She’s an awesome cook. She is smart and talented. And she loves my son.

Congratulations, Ethan and Andrea! 

Music, the Universal Language?

          Music is not the universal language. You know this if you’ve ever listened to another culture’s music, wrinkled your nose, and said, “I don’t get it.” (I have the same response when I listen to some of my own culture’s popular music, but that’s a separate issue.) But a few months ago, I had an experience where music blurred the cultural lines.         

         I was in Barcelona, Spain. We wanted to see the Palace of Catalan Music, a stunning concert hall and showpiece of Modernista architecture. The best way to see it? A concert.

          I chose a cobla concert. I’d never heard of a cobla. It’s an ensemble that plays traditional Catalan music. The back row of the ensemble looks familiar – eight brass instruments, including trumpets and trombones. The front row is less recognizable. The instruments, called shawms, look vaguely familiar – like oboes or clarinets – but their sound is somewhere between a reedy oboe and a kazoo. The oddest instrument is a flabio. The musician plays it with the left hand, while beating a drum with her right hand. Oh, and by the way, the drum is attached to her left elbow. Talk about coordination. Coblas play the music for the sardana dance, a nationalistic dance done by the Catalonian people.

          I’d read my guidebook so I knew that nationalism is rampant in Catalonia. In fact, Catalonia doesn’t want to be part of Spain at all. The quarrel between Catalonia and Spain has existed for a long time, pretty much since the two countries were joined with the marriage of Isabella and Ferdinand in the fifteenth century. Evidence of this nationalistic fervor fluttered throughout Barcelona – red and yellow-striped Catalonian flags waving from tiny apartments, palatial buildings, and homes.

          With this knowledge, I sat back in the Palace of Catalan Music. At first, I just gazed at the beautiful, bold concert hall. This place is an architecture masterpiece, with opulent sculptures, a massive stained glass skylight that spills rich color throughout the hall, and intricate mosaic pillars.         

The concert began, and the sound surprised me. Was it harsh? Or was it an ancient sound? Just what were those instruments anyway? I decided to sit back and enjoy, like the rest of the audience, who perched on the edges of their seats.

          Then, after intermission, a choir came onto stage. Ah, something familiar. Choirs I understand. The singers began a rousing chorus. Of course, I couldn’t understand the words, but it sounded like a cross between a folk song and a national anthem.

In truth, the choir was just okay. The balance was a little off, and the intonation wasn’t perfect. These were clearly not professionals. I tried to read the program (written entirely in Catalan) and figured out – I think – that this was a community choir, comprised of choirs from several communities.

          As the songs continued, audience members began singing along with the chorus. Nobody seemed to care about the so-so balance or the predictable melodies. The audience cheered like they were at the World Cup. Some wept openly during some of the more plaintive songs, and before long, out came the familiar red and yellow-striped flags. Some audience members waved them demurely from their seats. Others stood proudly in the aisles. One chubby woman pounced on top of her seat and held the flag proudly above her head.  

          Well, when in Barcelona … I started singing too. Of course, I didn’t know the words, but I faked it. I stood and cheered with the Barcelonians and wished I had a flag to wave. Right then, music was a universal language, and I could understand the fervor of these people and feel the love they had for their country.

          I still don’t think music is the universal language. But that chilly night in Barcelonia, for a couple of hours, the cliché became reality and it was.      

Counting down. 

My son, Devon, is getting married in two days. He is marrying a wonderful woman, Kristine McAllister. They met a decade ago, as freshmen in college, remained in touch throughout the years, and now … they’re ready for the big day.

          I thought it would be strange to have a child get married. I thought I would have conflicted feelings about my son growing up, complete with misty visions of the smiling baby with honey-sweet skin and a velvet-soft head who I’d held in my arms, the infant who’d put me through mothering school.  

I thought I’d fret about that adage about “A son’s a son until he takes a wife; a daughter’s a daughter all of her life.” I’ve always hated that saying, by the way, and recoiled at the sexism inherent in it. Still do.

I also worried about getting a daughter-in-law. I watched some of my friends struggle with theirs, and I worried.

          Now that the time is here, none of these things is coming true. Devon’s marriage feels absolutely right. He is ready. He is mature. He’s found the love of his life. And, one thing is certain: it’s far worse to have a child who doesn’t grow up than one who does. No conflict here. I’m thrilled.

          I also am thrilled about getting a daughter-in-law. Kristine is a delight. She is fun and has a wicked sense of humor. I knew she’d fit well into our family once when we were discussing a murderer who had walked into a church service and shot the bishop. Straightfaced, she said, “Couldn’t he have waited until after the service?”

Kristine is confident and is absolutely her own person. I asked her one time if she’d ever gone on a diet. (Disclaimer: she’s willowy and thin and does not need to diet. It was just a passing question.) Her reply: “I tried it once and I didn’t like it, so I’ve never done it again.” A young woman secure enough not to diet? That is someone who’s comfortable in her own skin.

So, casting these insecurities aside, I’ve been able to focus on the important details of the wedding. Finding a dress that doesn’t drown me in matronly chiffon. Choosing the right desserts for the wedding luncheon (chocolate? lemon? Yes!). Making travel plans (fly or drive?).   

And now we’re ready to go. We are ready for a trip from Colorado to Utah. Devon and Kristine are getting ready for the journey of a lifetime.