HOW DO YOU SAY

Feelin' pretty good about all the recent national discussion about sexual assault on college campuses. Good because it's happening. As ever, some of the things said will be constructive. Some won't. I want to take issue with a common sentiment:  that boys and young men should be operating on a "no means no" policy, should be taught that this is the appropriate method of determining whether consent is present. I say nope. Nope to "no means no." It's not enough--it's a starting point. A mind-numbingly obvious starting point which, even if one obeys, does not bring our culture out of its predatory funk. When a person says no, whatever activity he or she is declining should stop immediately. That's a given. How long will it take for everyone to understand that? Dear jeebus, I hope not much longer. But there's more to it. Women should not have to be gatekeepers. The absence of no is not an invitation. On the street, at a bar, in the bed...

[In order to put this out into the world, I have to write a sort of prelude: I haven't read the books, and I haven't seen enough of the show to have an assured, totally informed opinion about it. What I know is that being a woman is really freaking hard sometimes, and that there are triggers which suddenly overwhelm me with all that difficulty. This show is one. It makes me reel at all the sexist bullshit that is embedded in my life--in friendships, relationships, interactions and non-interactions with strangers and coworkers--and it begins to feel insurmountable. It's people I love, it's me, perpetuating this stuff. To be fair, when I first saw GoT, I was in the pits--self-esteem was crashing and burning; I'd recently been shown a diagram by a nurse which depicted (no lie) cookie-cutter cutouts of a woman with her "heart" in her chest and a man with his "heart" in his dick; and while working in a bar, I was experiencing way more ogling and hara...

The thing about living alone is that it isn’t.  You’re not.  You dance, but you want to draw the curtains first. You shuffle, but it’s with a lightness. Sure, there’s nobody waiting for the bathroom or bothered by your dishes. But there’s the clicking claws of the Australian shepherd upstairs (want. one.), the lilt of the Dubliner landlady’s evening phone calls. Some rooms you avoid because of the dimness. You’re accumulating lamps at a disturbing rate. You never used to hit your car’s panic button except now, now that you are returning, late, past the neighbors’ bedtime: a flurry of whispered curses. The hallway seems long when it’s just you to walk it. Cold stone. But then conversations carry in both directions, under doors and through the cracks of ceilings. You get to know voices. You are alone, but no, you are not. You never are. Breakfast at the round kitchen table on a rainy Monday morning with just the pipe’s rushing water for company is just what you need. Comin...

I want to jump in the car and drive down the one lane highway some cool sunny morning, just as the mist is burning off.  I want to be hot by the side of the corn field, see the roadkill’s progress, startle a groundhog, disappear into the woods like I used to do instead of class. To linger on the hill by the big tree in the dark, under the moon, over the river.  The big sky. The smoke cloud around me.

I don't get mad often. I mean, I'll make a show every once in a while, mock exasperation, but it's usually just that: entertainment for my friends.  I get it off my chest with a laugh and it's gone. However. There are some deeper currents.  I'm at the most solid place in my life that I've ever been--I have a fulfilling job, awesome friends and family who support me, a fun relationship, good health--which throws into focus the areas that continue to stagnate.  I can't fathom the toxic junk that I've been holding onto, and for how long. At this point, it's purely self-punishment.  I ruined some relationships--friendships, screw-arounds, people who expected more or less from me than I wanted to give them--before I learned how to give myself.  Or rather, that was my beginning.  I'm still beginning.  Because here's the kicker: I am currently in the midst of a seething rage at myself for allowing myself to be vulnerable.  Vulnerable in the ...

TW: eating disorders Food is the conscious center of my life. I spend more time thinking about food than anything or anyone else.  Food in relation to hunger, to comfort, to my body.  Maybe it's the same for everyone?  Or I am a ravenous lunatic?  But really.  I grew up with a Paris-trained chef for a mother who had the education and the privilege to put time and work and love into everything she makes.  And salt.  Lots of salt.  From an early age I trained as a runner, which allowed me (as a teenager) to consume whole boxes of pasta in one sitting and not look like an amorphous blob.  I took food for granted until college, where I promptly became very sad and very lonely and very anxious and discovered that food is a powerful drug. By the time I noticed that I'd ballooned out of control, it was too late. I panicked. Started counting calories, restricting and bingeing, restricting and bingeing.  I had a constant running total in m...

How's this for proof that libraries are not dying: on a cold, snowy Tuesday morning on which pretty much everywhere else in the county had decided to close, the library was open. And not only was it open--it was packed. The thought process must go something like "Oh shit, snow. Must panic until toilet paper and library books are acquired." Although it's more than that. I didn't fully realize the impact that libraries have on communities, despite being a semi-regular library patron for all of my reading life. In just a few weeks, I've helped a man apply for a job; showed some elderly women how to send and receive text messages; introduced a kid to a series I loved as a kid; walked a lady through the basics of downloading books to her new eReader. The library sometimes stays open as a "warming center" for the homeless and those without heat. Parents and grandparents use the library as a sort of daycare center for not-too-young children. Thanks to lib...

I don't know what this is going to be about, but based on previous experience I can promise that it will be harrowing and bewildering. Perhaps, at turns, entertaining. A couple things we should consider: 1. This blog needs a new name. And I can't take the pressure, man. I'm sure my friends could help because they're all linguistic geniuses--just in the last few days I have been dubbed a "mythical Banshee of the Lake" (new boyfriend, drunk) and "a lightning rod for awesometude" (best friend). Whoops, guess I just inserted my own rave reviews. I'll think of something, but I care too much so it might take a while. 2. This blog is an immigrant. All it has ever known is being a lonely stranger in Italy. Please be patient as it gets its footing in a place where everything is familiar and expected and people do supremely ridiculous or baffling things less often than one would hope. We're not in Italy anymore, Dorothy. Ah, culture. Haven't ...

Wake up in the middle of the night to a loud wailing, think it must be wind but notice the shutters aren't banging.  Fall asleep, wake early, before everyone else, and drink yesterday's cold espresso before lacing up your running shoes and running all the way up the biggest hill, the one you never made it up all those other times, because this is your first and last chance.  Reach the top, feel your fists clenching.  Take your second to last shower and wonder when's the next time you'll count things like showers.  Visit the city and notice the visitor in you is gone.  Notice how the sun feels in your hair, your spine.  Buy stockings because the old one's holes have stretched too far.  Come home and hear someone mention the earthquake last night and inwardly say "oh."  Say "oh" about a lot of things.  About how mental landscapes change.  About how every place you've ever been has been breathtaking, when you think about it.  About how...

Was flipping through a cookbook and came across a photo of what I thought was a scrumptious-looking chocolate tart; scanned over to the recipe, found that the first ingredient is pig blood.  So I'm translating the recipe for y'all and the first person to make me a pig blood chocolate tart wins.  The three black circles next to "difficolta" indicate that this will be no easy feat, but then probably 2.5 of those circles represent the task of procuring pig blood.  Or maybe I'm a total ignoramus and pig blood is really out there, outside of pigs, in abundance?  Like, maybe at Whole Foods, next to the molasses?  Anyway, here you go.  Get on it.  You might have to go make friends with a butcher. Migliaccio alla romagnola   (a traditional dessert made for Carnival, according to the internet; migliaccio actually means pudding) Time: 3 hours Oven temperature: 180 C Ingredients: 300 gr pig blood - 200 gr honey - 100 gr almonds - 100 gr chocolate - 10...

So I found myself at the top of the world yesterday, lost in fields of yellow.  Nearly fell down the hill when I realized there were figs on the trees; nearly fell again, in a more tragic manner, when I realized they weren't ripe (tasted to make sure, flung the unripe fig carcass with appropriate drama).  Also to my dismay, I was writing feverishly in my head as it all whirled around me, the wind and the empty meadow and the blossoms, so I told myself to shut up and forgot all the pretty words that were bludgeoning me and just looked, breathed.  Blew the last of my camera battery on photos of yellow fields and my stupid face before I got to the fig orchard and the dark green slant of San Luca's hill and the dusty sunlight over it all.  Thus camera-less and thoughtless, was overcome with joy, sweat, clear air, and sunburn, and felt a smug pleasure that I didn't have to worry about documenting it anymore. I almost didn't even write this post.  Because it was min...

Mussolini's Republic fell 68 years ago today.  What this means for me: Italy's probably less messed up than it could've been (?); work's out, school's out, allowing for sibling war in the morning in addition to afternoon and evening; more hotshot bikers and ladies with designer fanny packs (gold, with matching shoes) than usual on my morning run; decadent lunch at Nonna's, which, somewhere between rich pasta, red wine, and salame dolce al cioccolato (omg yum), made me serenely happy and brimming with love for the whole world, including my little family of weirdos as they shouted about the mafia and the TV remote and whatever else. Passed a monk on the street this afternoon, his white robes flowing and prayer beads in hand.  My initial reaction: "'sup."  And then, a bit later: wait, were you a monk?  What were you?  Too young to be a bishop.  Probably not the pope, by the same logic.  Oh, priests are a thing, right?  Just gonna call you a monk be...

I saw Bellini's "La Norma" last night, in a gorgeous old theater in downtown Bologna.  Nonna was glammed up like a movie star--sunglasses and big jewelry and elegant shawl--as were most of the other opera-goers.  We had a box all to ourselves, with a great view of the orchestra pit and close to the stage.  This opera is reputed to be one of the most difficult to perform, and as I spent a significant amount of time concerned that someone's vocal chords were going to snap, I'd say that sounds correct.  Favorite part was either the Roman soldiers battling in slow-motion behind a dream-like translucent screen, or the end with all its clashing and the gold curtain fluttering down, death-by-fire, which did, yes, bring tears to my eyes.  Or the moon-worship.  There were also, via the Romanesque costumes, several almost-but-not-quite wardrobe malfunctions involving breasts and long robes that get caught on things.  Nonna and I carried on light but cordial conv...

This afternoon Beppe asked if I wanted to go see some "Buddha relics" that were on display downtown.  I said sure, not knowing what that entailed but sticking to my "yes" policy.  We go by bike, he said.  Be careful, because I don't have insurance for you, and it's dangerous.  Yup, I said, attempting to suppress the death-visions that popped into my head at the thought of riding one of his vintage bikes over Roman-era cobblestones alongside Italian drivers. I got the bright red bike from Amsterdam which I'd date around 1975--a single-speed with questionable brakes, complete with red basket and a bell that rings like a church.  It rattled and groaned as we careened through throngs of people.  I was holding on to the handlebars for dear life.  Think my bones are still faintly vibrating, actually.  I was already lightheaded from a long run this morning, so I still don't understand how I didn't hit anyone, or how that bus didn't hit me, but we...

Apologies for my absence this past week...it's been a strange one. Went to the Museo della Storia di Bologna, which was rather fascinating and even at one point required 3D glasses.  Then got chocolate and hazelnut gelato and hung out in the piazza with my gals and my guy (Ginni, her friend, Franci, moi). Sun was playing hide and seek today, so I captured the blossoming fields but not the sunny hills, which reappeared as soon as my camera was safely tucked into my bag.  Was in a weird mood and no one was around, so sat on a bench and wrote things and took a selfie. Ginni just discovered that Google translate will talk if you ask it to, and this has provided hours of entertainment for her, me, and really anyone in the vicinity of her giggling.

Nonna knocked on my door this morning while I was drying my hair and asked if I'd like to see an opera with her later in April, so I hopped on that bus and went to buy my ticket.  Only 20 euro?  I'm not sure if I'm missing something there or if I'm just incredibly lucky to get an opera seat that cheap.  Hehe I'm going to see an opera in Italy!  Okay yes, I am lucky. On Sunday the sun poked its head out for the first time in a million years and created a morning so spectacular that I thought about Jesus for a minute.  Easter was a quiet affair in this family; a chocolate bunny or four circulated the house, the boys went off to the countryside to visit Beppe's mother, and the gals had lunch at Nonna's apartment.  Pasta alla bolognese, all manner of delicately fried delicacies, and a traditional Neapolitan cake called pasticcera (Nonna and Vale are from the south--this is why they shout a lot).  Afterward I wanted to curl up in the fetal position, fall ...

Welp, I have to hand it to the universe: I did not expect to ever hear "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore while thrift shopping.  But it happened, and it gave me distinct pleasure, and I may have had to suppress a little dance.  And I am listening to it again now because it's catchy and it's been awhile.  This afternoon, Vale and Ginni decided it was a good time for us to go try on some discount designer clothes, or more specifically, to find "vestiti belli e buffi" for "la Julia" (note: I will answer to "la Julia" upon my return), aka I was going to be their doll and be at the mercy of their fashionable whims.  And so I was.  I pulled some truly marvelous and horrifying creations over my head.  Was intimidated at first by shopping with real live Italian ladies who instinctively know what is hot and what is not, because there is no telling (if you're me) when their faces will contort with disgust as you pull it off the rack (and then immedia...

Decided to read a passage from one of my books to F, and realized with horror that people use WAY too many adjectives, adverbs, and idioms.*  I can't translate this shit--and why should I?  Imma get me some Hemingway and read it to this boy!  Nouns and verbs, baby.  All we need. A typical stumbling block: I'm translating sentences with Ginni, and as I watch her wrinkle her nose at one of my beautiful sentences, I remember that the concept of "eating dinner" is nonsensical to Italians.  Facepalm.  Of course Italians don't "eat dinner."  That would be ridiculous.  No--Italians  dine . Beppe decided to take a photo of me and Ginni yesterday, and ACK, it is super cool to be photographed by a photographer, even if it is with an iPad.  He told us to look at him but not to smile, which is very legit and also very difficult, and also I tend to look like a deranged monster when I don't smile.  This photo made it onto Instagram with a cap...

I'm supposed to get out of my head when I feel like this but that's not what blogs are for so here's (some of) what's inside: Forgot that I rely on dryers for my clothes to fit.  Belts aren't good enough, people!  My pants are falling off, and I am not getting any thinner! Washing your underwear in the sink is not so bad.  You form a strong bond with your intimates. When you try and try to walk slow but find yourself again and again walking fast even though you aren't going anywhere--what is that?  I don't like it. Q: How many months does it take for a crap umbrella to break if you use it very carefully and are willing to say fuck it and get soaked when there's a little wind? A: Eleven. I get creeped out by the smiling strangers in America and I get creeped out by the stone-faced strangers in Italia.  Grass is always greener. Too much rain makes rain in my head, maybe. Foods I did not used to like at some point in my life but now eat with pleasu...

On a whim decided to go to Palm Sunday mass with Beppe and Franci.  'Cause hey, when's the last time I went to mass?  Oh right: never.  Except that this didn't end up happening, exactly; we dropped Franci off at the local church, then headed downtown to another church for which Beppe feels more affinity, I guess.  On the way, Beppe asked if I wanted to go to confession, and my heart literally skipped a beat.  I think he was joking, but in those two seconds before my chosen response (nervous laughter): how do you...?  what would I even...?  where would I begin?  We got to the church just as the bell tolled noon, but we didn't stick around for mass, we just wandered through and got ourselves our olive tree branches, and I watched as Beppe crossed himself repeatedly while contemplating the falsity and insincerity of such a gesture were it ever performed by me and hoping that my blatant heathen-presence--dress too short? looks like I just went swimmi...