What I learned in Italy, Part 2

Venice is better on cold, windy days when the water doesn't stink and you can still see the buildings through the tourists.



Always pack extra batteries. Your batteries will run out sooner than you expected, it will be harder to find them than you expected, and when you do find them, you will pay more than you expected. I know, dear, it was my fault. You're a hero for not saying "I told you so." (Picture taken with said expensive batteries.)



Poor taste is not restricted to religious icons. Mind you, they were offering cheaper prices than on nice days. Good day to bargain. (No, we didn't.)



Whenever you are in possession of a clean bathroom, use it, whether you think you need to or not. Public washrooms in Italy - unlike the private ones - are often disgustingly dirty. And for North Americans, bewildering. The entire county seems to be playing an elaborate game of "Guess what novel way of flushing we've come up with for this toilet." (No, I don't have a picture. I forgot. So this is an excuse to throw in an unrelated, but beloved, picture.)



"When in Rome, do as the Romans do" extends to Episcopalian churches. San Paolo dentro le Mure (St. Paul's Within-the-Walls, as opposed to St. Paul's Outside the Walls) was the baby of a Pennsylvanian Episcopalian in the late 1800's. He tried hard to fit in.



Continuation from Part 1.

Technorati tags: Italy, Venice

Deluded internationalists

This quote from Pankaj Mishra's review of Erez Manela's The Wilsonian Moment: Self-Determination and the International Origins of Anti-Colonial Nationalism strikes me with all the force of a sudden spotlight. I have long bemoaned the profound ignorance of global realities among people who should know better (the people who actually hold some geopolitical power), most especially the incredibly naive idea that most of the world wants to become a clone of America. The debacle in Iraq, which is only now beginning to be turned around, is largely attributable to this cultural arrogance. But Mishra says it better:

The victories of the Cold War – and the giddy speculation that history had reached the ideological terminus of liberal democracy – revived illusions of omnipotence among an Anglo-American political and media elite that has always known very little about the modern world it claims to have made. Consequently, almost every event since the end of the Cold War – the rise of radical Islam, of India and China, the assertiveness of oil-rich Russia, Iran and Venezuela – has come as a shock, a rude reminder that the natives of Delhi, Cairo and Beijing have geopolitical ambitions of their own, not to mention a sense of history marked by resentment and suspicion of the metropolitan West. The liberal internationalists persist, trying to revive the Wilsonian moment in places where Anglo-American liberalism has been seen as an especially aggressive form of hypocrisy. Increasingly, however, they expose themselves as the new provincials, dangerously blundering about in a volatile world.

Hat tip to David Akin's On the Hill.

Technorati tags: Pankaj Mishra, Geopolitics, Internationalism

What I learned in Italy, Part 1

I suppose I knew most of these already, but they got hammered home in new ways.

People grow oblivious to the beauty around them. We were soaking up the beauty of my husband's birthplace: rolling green hills topped with historic little towns, fields full of gnarled, silvery olive trees, almond and mimosa trees in full glorious bloom of white and yellow, peach trees inflating their pink buds almost to popping point. The relatives were astonished when we said they were lucky to live surrounded by so much beauty. They hadn't noticed.



If you want to torment people in a small town, walk into the local cafe, look around, greet people in Italian, and leave without telling them who you are. (Come back later and make up.)



Teaching graffiti as a form of artistic expression in university is a really, really bad idea. The only good thing to be said of Italy's graffitti artists is that they seem to restrict their efforts to stucco and concrete surfaces. Historic buildings are mostly unscathed. But some parts of town, particularly around railroad tracks, are nothing but a blur of graffiti.



Speaking of concrete surfaces, I never knew there was such a thing as concrete picket fences.



Starbucks should roll over and die. Seriously. Where did they get the crazy idea they know how to make espresso or cappuccino?

Technorati tags: Italy

Toking up with Lawrence Welk

This clip should come with a beverage alert. Make sure you swallow your coffee before you view it, because you're going to be either spluttering in indignation or howling with laughter.



I led a fortunate childhood. My parents didn't watch Lawrence Welk and I was subjected to him only when I happened to be at my grandmother's house at the wrong time. I much preferred Hymn Sing, trust me. There the content mattered. On the Lawrence Welk Show, content was meaningless and this clip proves it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

But it does leave me wondering: who set him up? There is no way all the young performers on that show were ignorant of the song's real meaning. This was perhaps a bit of a sly wink to all the teenagers who were more or less forced to watch the show.

Hat tip to Tully of Stubborn Facts

Technorati tags: Lawrence Welk

Page 123

Rafique of The Liberal War Journal (and The Stubborn Facts) has tagged me for yet another book meme. He's too likable for me to say no, and at least this one is easy.

Here are the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

There is a full bookcase to the right of the computer (yikes!) but to my great relief there are several books strewn across the surface of the low table to the left and the closest one comes in several inches closer than the bookshelf. It is one of my all-time favourites, My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok.

She sounded frightened. I wondered why she was frightened. She hadn't drawn the Rebbe's face in a Chumash.

This is a magnificent novel about a young ultra-orthodox Jewish boy who is consumed by his gift. From the time he can hold a stubby crayon in his fat little fist, he cannot stop himself from drawing, painting, documenting his life. And it ultimately leads him to paint a crucifixion, although it is not Jesus, but his mother who hangs on the cross formed by the intersection of the living room window panes. Potok explores with his customary compassion and sensitivity the relationships between father and son, mother and son, art and religion, belief and doubt. I don't know if the book is still in print, but if you can get your hands on a copy, do so. And cherish it.

Now that I am "it", I need to tag five others. Mwahaha.

Janna at Something She Wrote, of course (revenge is sweet)
Jared at Total Depravity (despite the name, a blog of great charm)
Greg at Sippican Cottage, essayist extraordinaire
Edward Willett at the misspelled (no I won't give it up, Ed!) Hassenpfeffer
and
Annie at The Superfast Reader

Technorati tags: Memes, Chaim Potok, My Name is Asher Lev

I have got to dye my hair

I don't really want to. Having grey hair really doesn't bother me. Besides, it's such a messy bother to dye your hair at home, and so expensive to do in a beauty salon, but I have been pushed beyond what any reasonable person can be expected to bear.

It's the young people. I blame them. The arrogance of them! I see it in their eyes - they have relegated me to little old lady status. Quite without my permission.

I see it in their outstretched arms, as I clamber over the snowbanks on the sides of the road after last night's storm. The roads - thank goodness and city services - are pretty much clear, but it will be a matter of days before the high ridges lining the roads are carted away to their final resting place.

In the meanwhile, pedestrians and bus riders must perforce be mountain climbers. And all these well-raised young people extend their arms to me, concerned about the poor old bones beneath the hoary head. This, despite the fact that my face is unlined and my bones are entirely up to the challenge of snowbank clambering. So I smile, protest vainly, and take the proffered arms. You have to reward that kind of consideration, no matter how galling.

I have to dye my hair, before I snap at the next solicitous youngster who offers me her seat. What happened to all the churlish young louts I keep hearing about? One can only dream...


Technorati tags: Hair dye, Today's youth, Grumbling

Writers' meme

I have been tagged. By name. And by URL. Someone who I thought was my friend, Janna at Something She Wrote - *sniff* - has left me with no place to hide. I am therefore obliged to come out, fearful and trembling, and participate in this thing. I have been summoned to:

1. Link back to the person who tagged me
2. List three things I believe are necessary to make writing good and powerful
3. Tag five other people via comment

So, at the risk of seeming pretentious, here goes. My advice is worth every penny you paid for it.

1. Face your fears. Are you afraid to start, for fear you won't have enough ideas? Start anyway, and you'll learn where ideas come from. Are you afraid to put your character in certain circumstances because of what it might stir up, both for the character and for you? Do it. You'll find an emotional energy there that you wouldn't by staying safe. Do you feel that anything you write will be pure and utter dreck? Write anyway. When you read back, it is usually difficult to tell which parts were written under "inspiration" and which under "perspiration". Your subjective feelings before you start have little or nothing to do with the quality of what's produced.

2. Be humble. Don't think that the gods speak through your fingers. They don't. Even if you are brimming with talent, there's still a lot to learn. Even if you've published ten books, it is entirely possible to go stale. (It happens all the time.) Be open to constructive criticism, be willing to learn.

3. Don't describe emotions. Put us in the skin of the character so that we feel them. Let the situation call forth the emotions. Don't tell the reader what he/she should be feeling.

I am tagging in return:
David Isaak at Tomorrowville
Edward Willett at Hassenpfeffer
Patricia Wood at Orion
J.M. McDermott at his eponymous blog
Jeffrey Overstreet at The Looking Closer Journal


Technorati tags: Writing, Memes

Thanksgiving memories

Seeing as so many of my American friends are blogging about Thanksgiving, I figured I didn't have to be deprived just because I'm Canadian.

I'm thinking back too many years to my first Thanksgiving after I left home. My roommate was out of town, so I decided that I - yes I - would host the family's Thanksgiving dinner. Seeing as the "family" in town was reduced to my grandmother and one aunt/uncle couple, this wasn't too intimidating a task. Except that I was 18 and making Thanksgiving turkey for my grandmother!

My kitchen was smaller than most walk-in closets nowadays, but I nonetheless produced the traditional feast, roast turkey with home-made stuffing and gravy being the requisite centrepiece. It got quiet during meal-time, always a good sign, and then my grandmother leaned back, heaved a great sigh of contentment, and pronounced her verdict.

"NOW you can get married."

Grandma's long gone, but she still makes me smile after all these years with that crack. Most especially because she wasn't trying to be funny.

Technorati tags: Thanksgiving, Turkey, Grandmothers

Live from the Twilight Zone

Code Name Nora
Life as it is really lived in a retirement home

Octogenarian Nora is blogging live from her senior citizens' home, dubbed the Twilight Zone by the inhabitants. It is sometimes poignant, sometimes hilarious, always interesting. Personally, I see the eventual makings of a book.

In the very youth-centered culture of the Internet, it is refreshing to hear a voice from another perspective, all the more so when that voice is so articulate and entertaining.

The blog is entitled Code Name Nora, and I do hope she's code naming all the other characters too. It gets pretty personal.

Hat tip to Annie at Ambivablog.

Technorati tags: Senior citizens

Poor King Tut

First they take his skull and put it on public display. And then, to add insult to injury, Steve Martin cashes in on the event. OK, so maybe I have my chronology scrambled. Sue me. But Martin's hoary old favourite has found new relevancy with today's news. And it's still funny.



Technorati tags: King Tut, Steve Martin, SNL