Advice from an Italian mother

Barbara, mother of the three boys I care for over here is pretty hilarious.  She has a very good sense of humor about her "little monsters," as she calls them, but also about everything else.  I wanted to share some of her more memorable quotes:

On motherhood:

"Poo! I love poo! I get up every morning, and I say to myself 'how much poo will I be able to clean today?  I cannot wait to change the poo for all my little monsters!'"

On people getting mad about others breaking rules:

"Don't they know where they are?  This is Italy, the place where laws go to die."

On infant Samuel:

"Crying, pooping, eating . . . sometimes all at once . . . that would wear me out too.  No wonder he sleeps all the time."

On make-up:

"Like most things women do, they think it's for the men, but the men don't really notice."

Advice to a couple pregnant with their first child:

"Sleep now.  You will never sleep again."

Needless to say, it's been an enlightening experience over here in more ways than one.

Bad Travellin', Part II

My trip to Porto Fino was on the other side of ‘get up and go’ coin.  The town is about an hour’s boat ride north of Sestri and the boat trip is supposed to include a 45-minute stop at the town on the other side of peninsula from Porto Fino, called San Fruttuoso.  San Fruttuoso is home to “Il Cristo degli Abissi” or “The Christ of the Abyss.”  The story is that over a century ago a boat that was trying to dock in San Fruttuoso’s small bay crashed and sank.  The statue of Jesus was part of the cargo, but instead of fishing it out of the bay, the residents left it as it was.*  It’s not possible to see the statue from the boat, but it apparently can be easily seen if you swim out and dive down a little.  There is a festival every year celebrating “Il Cristo degli Abissi” the last Sunday of every July.  Alas, I could not attend. 

Turns out I should have taken a clue from the fate of the ship in the story.  I didn’t find this out until later, but if the sea is anything but completely calm, the boat won’t make the stop in San Fruttuoso.  All we did was go around the peninsula and look at the bay from the boat.  I also got to hear the captain announce, “San Fruttuoso: il interno degli Cristo degli Abissi.” Thanks.  Because I wasn’t aware of that when I bought the ticket.

My hopes to see a crazy Jesus statue dashed, I was excited to get more than the allotted hour’s time to walk around Porto Fino.  “It’s beautiful,” my employers told me, “You could look at the yachts all day if you wanted.”  Porto Fino is where the ultra-rich go to vacation.  And not just rich Italians.  Everything there was translated into German, French and English as well as Italian (I was told George Clooney has a house and a yacht there? I don’t know if this is true).  So at the very least I figured I was in for some pretty architecture and good views.  The rich have to want those things right?

There’s a scene in Pride and Prejudice in which Lizzy is traveling with her aunt and uncle and they want to go to Pemberly to which Lizzy objects.  In reality, she wishes to avoid Pemberly because she wishes to avoid Mr. Darcy, but as she cannot explain the situation to her relatives, her stated reason for disliking Mr. Darcy (and therefore his estate) is because “he’s so . . . rich.”  I am Lizzy Bennett without the loved-but-rejected suitor behind my words.  I should have known Porto Fino would annoy me.  The first yacht I saw looked as if it could have crossed the Atlantic unscathed and its owner had christened it Limitless.  Oh, I thought, so he thinks he’s God.  There was also the more crude option, but I’ll leave that in case any of my readers are naïve enough not to think of it.

It didn’t get much better once we got to port.  I had an hour and a half to explore, but it was far too long.  You see, as a traveling philosopher-nanny, I’m quite poor.  I like to go places to see what else there is in this world, not to buy things. There was really nothing but the latter option in Porto Fino.  Lots and lots of shops where I could drop a month’s rent without batting an eye.  No, I’d prefer to have a roof over my head for thirty days rather than have this nice shirt.  Thanks for the option though.

But, as this is OVRP, I should be able to at least write about the town’s church, correct?  I mean, this is why I’m generally drawn to churches – unless it’s a huge cathedral, entrance is free, and it’s where most of the best art (at least in Italy) is anyway.  One of the only perks about getting off Sundays, on which most things in Italy are closed, is that the churches are open all day long.  It seems, however, the ultra-rich don’t care much for mass.  There was only one parish (which for Italy is insignificant), and the church was not open.  I noticed there was only one mass per Sunday.

My last resort was to get some gelato. I paid €4 for a small cone, which is a bit outrageous.  It wasn’t even good.

Lest you think I’m complaining about my terrible life in Italy where I get to ride boats to mountains and stay on the beach, I’ll just say that compared to the week before (and the weeks after) the Porto Fino trip was a bust.  The bad traveler got her comeuppance.

*This story is false.  It's just what the residents like to say what happened.  They actually put the statue there themselves in 1954.  Not as fun though, right?

No Voglio

There is a kiddie-ride here in Sestri that I think is the bane of most parents’ existence; it is called il Bruco Gnam.  If that means something, I don’t know the translation, but the ride is familiar to anyone who has been to carnivals – it’s a child version of a roller coaster, with only three little hills and usually the cars are decorated to be some kind of animal; I’ve seen dragons most of the time, but here it’s a caterpillar.   Very route, but the kids here go crazy for the ride because of an addition I’d never seen before – there is a small lion with a detachable tail hanging above them that this guy who runs the ride pulls up and down while the kids try and get it.  It’s rigged—he tries to be very democratic about which child wins—but if the children know it, they don’t care because their main goal in life at that point is to catch the coda and win a free ride. 

It’s not the ride that interests me so much, but the guy who runs it.  This isn’t like a carnival where employees hired by the bigger company run the ride – no, I’m almost positive this guy, who my employers lovingly call Signor Bruco, owns the ride and this is his living.

Signor Bruco looks to be in his mid-fifties and he sits in the small controller box all day long chain-smoking, with sunglasses on no matter what time of day it is.  He is the man who controls the fate of the children and whether or not they will be able to win this time around.  As I stated above, Signor Bruco is very fair so no complaints there, but while he’s pulling the rope that controls the lion, he always adds comments.  The comments themselves are relatively harmless, “occhio” (look), “prendilo” (grab it), “sedute” (sit down, for all those children about to kill themselves trying to get the coda), are his favorites.  It’s just the way Signor Bruco says these things that weirds me out a bit.  You’d think the delivery would be along the same lines of carnival workers—like the really annoying moms at U8 soccer games—but no, Signor Bruco’s diction is like that of Barry White.  I doubt he has much control over his deep voice, but “occhio” doesn’t have to be pronounced as if he’s about to sex up his girlfriend.  Prendilo is the worst of the bunch, not only because he draws it out the longest (PRENdiiiilooooooo), but because I know what he’s saying.

Perhaps I am just over-sensitive, or my American prudishness is coming out.  That may be, but I have more reasons to be strangely fascinated by Signor Bruco, and that is the music that is playing at his ride.  Rather, the diversity of music.  One of the first times I noticed the music at the ride, the album Slow Train Coming by Bob Dylan was blazing out of the speakers.  Delighted as I was, I couldn’t help thinking huh, strange choice for a kiddie ride.  Still, I shrugged it off and figured that if I was stuck doing this all day every day, I would play whatever I wanted too.

And play whatever he wants he does.  I now wish I had been keeping a more thorough list along the way, but the strangest ones have stuck with me.  I have heard techno, Snoop D-O-double G, Maroon 5, some jazz that I’m pretty sure was Miles Davis, and, I shit you not, KC and the Sunshine Band’s Greatest Hits. 

I can only formulate questions.  What?  How does one person like all of these genres enough to listen to them for entire days?  And how does a middle-aged Italian man even know of Snoop Dogg, let alone play the music at a kiddie-ride?

 

I’m afraid my question will go unanswered.  I’m too nervous to strike up a conversation, for fear of him saying to me, “PRENdiloooooo”.

Bad Travellin', Part I

In a lot of ways, I'm a really terrible traveller. I never plan ahead: my packing is generally done frantically the night before, I never research the town or area I'm heading to beforehand - in short, I just figure out where and when I'm going and then get on the plane and go. This leads to what a lot of people would see as wasted time. Days I could have spent sight-seeing or puddle-jumping to other places are spent instead getting my bearings and becoming familiar with my surroundings. I wish I could say this is indicative of the way I live the rest of my life, but travelling is really the only occaision in which I dive head first and then once I'm chest deep figure out the consequences. Going in blind no doubt causes pain along the way, but it also helps me avoid preconceieved notions. It's all about being flexible and I've always found stretching much easier when I start from an open position than when my body is already set.

So, when my first day off was coming up and I asked my hosts what I should do, it was my surprise and pleasure to find out Sestri Levante is about an hour north of the Cinque Terre and just under an hour south og Porto Fino, both by boat. After look at a couple of maps, I see I could have easily figured this out on my own, but in the end it didn't matter on who's suggestion I went. I headed out early last Sunday morning for the Cinque Terre. My boat trip was only to take me to two of the five - Vernazza for one hour and Portovenere for three.

I was in for an awesome surprise; my time on the boat alone was worth everything I paid. We travelled southy from Sestri with the coast in view the entire time. Most of this part of Italy, I found, does not end in beaches (and thus, of course, no beach towns), but in sheer mountain cliffs. They were largely uninhabited, but here and there I could see a house in a position so precarious I wondered how it got built and its inhabitants travelled to and from. These places looked as if they had been stuck on the sides of the mountains by Godhimself. The mountains themselves were breathtaking, but I find I have a difficult time putting to words how these are different than any others I've encountered in the past. The only thing I noticed was that while not being rounded off like the Appalachains I know from home, they are just as green. Sort of like a mix of the former-named and the Swiss Alps.

Vernazza is a tiny town with what seemed to me, a lot of life. Its harbor, if one can call it that, consists of a big jetti which blocks the full focese of the sea from the small patch of sand behind it. The "beach" is essentially a wading pool, but I don't think one goes to Vernazza to hang out on the beach. The town is built into the sides of the mountains that surround it and as soon as I got off the boat I started searching for the road that would lerad me as high as I could go. There's something alluring about altitude.

The houses I found were small, but every bit of available land was filled with olive trees and grape vones. And almost every single house had its own wine vat in the backyard (sidenote: it is now one of my lifegoals to have the same thing in backyard, along side of the chicken coup I wish for). There was a house stuck to the side of the mountain that seemed to defy the laws of physics that I was trying to get to, but I stopped searching for a path when I found a small track with a two motorized seats and a couple of baskets attached that I could see ran straight to the house. The whole town was very quiet, especially the further up I went, but I almost died when, while negotiating some particularly steep and narrow steps, the church bells, which happened to be exactly next to me, rang loud and proud to mark noon. The bells, in a way, accomplished their purpose by bringing the name of that man for whom all church bells toll to my lips.

Portovenere was in most ways opposite Vernazza. A sprawling city, busy and noisy with a lot to see -- there's a reason we were given three times the time to explore. The first thought to strike me as we approached the bay was "this must have been a favorite naval spot for the Romans". A small island protects the coast from the sea, but the space between the island and the mainland is big enough for two rather large ships to pass each other. Sure enough, one of the first structures we passed was the remains of what must have been a very large lighthouse, which, if I interpreted what our guide said correctly, was built early during the Roman Empire's life.

Military stronghold it may have been, Portovenere now seems to be a vacation spot for all stripes. Its port is littered with tourist souveneir shops--a sign that says "Produtto Tipici" is almost guaranteed to give you bad food and cheap product, something I learned in Rome. Per usual, though, I looked for the highest point and started walking.

The highest spot, as so often happens, was a church, named for St. Peter. The edifice is situated on a cliff overlooking both the open sea and the city's port, is was extremely old and very small, and if I was reading and translating correctly, has a very rich history. It was built in 1125, partially destroyed by the barbarians during the 11th century, rebuilt in the 12th, stoof for a long time untouched, and then taken over by Napolean and used as a sort of headquarters until his defeat (the first time). Partially destroyed again by fire in the 19th century, I was now standing in the latest rebuilding, which was finished in the 1920s. A crucifix hung above the altar and one statue of St. Peter is its only adornment. It doesn't need much besides its view.

As I was exploring the area around it, I found an inscription on a rock face telling me that lord Byron was inspired to write his poetry because of Portovenere. So obviously Italy is responsible for all the good he produced in the world.*

The rest of the city was lively and fun - I saw many little children running around yelling in the back streets I was exploring. I got lost in a labyrinth of alleys and was very close to missing my boat because of it. Luckily, I made it in time and boarded to the captin yelling at me for making him late. He then proceeded to have a 10 minute long conversation with another ship's captain.

The ride back was just as beautiful, but I was exhausted and layed down in the ship's bow. As we pulled into Sestri, the sun was setting. Not a bad day for the bad traveler.

Next up, Porto Fino.

*On a tour of Pompeii in my previous foray into Italy, the tour guide said while pointing at some painting, quite spitefully, I might add, "See, look at this. This is the first demonstration of perspective in painting. The French claim they invented it, but it was really the Italians."

I always found this funny, and make a joke of how Italians claim all that is good in this world was made by them.

I knew something was wrong when he asked "Susie, how does it flush?"

Reason #17 bidets are annoying:

They confuse the potty-training set.

Bear with me on this one

Chapter 15 of Robert Soklowski's Phenomenology of the Human Person, which I finished last week, is dedicated to wishing and its forms. Sokolowski's reasons for writing an entire chapter on such a topic is that wishing is a peculiarly human activity. "Plants need certain things", he says, like light, water, etc -- indeed, "need is associated with life."

One step up the metaphysical chain we have animals, which in addition to needing things, also want. "Animals might overeat because they enjoy eating, but plants do not overindulge . . . they have no motivation to do so."

Then there are human beings, who have a trait besides needing and wanting. Sokolowski states,

Of course like plants and animals, human beings do need some things--food, shelter, company, assistance--and like animals they also consciously want some things, but their wanting can give rise to new forms of desire. Besides needing and wanting, human beings can wish for certain things. Wanting is conscious desire, but wishing is intelligent desire.

Sokolowski distinguishes between wishing and wanting through the category of distance; "if we could achieve [the wished for action] immediately," he asserts, " we would not wish for it, we would just do it." Deliberation, then, is the material of a wish. Sokolowski clarifies with an example: "if my ear itches, I raise my hand and scratch it. There is no distinction between means and purposes in this performance." In contrast, a full-scale wish--for example, the wish to get in shape--requires the deliberation and then insertion of something between the purpose and myself--to continue the example, lifting weights, running, etc.

As I was reading, although agreeing for the most part, I found myself raising a few objections. First of all, Sokolowski asserts that there is nothing analogous to needs, wants and wishes in nonliving matter; "atoms and molecules as such do not try and maintain their identities", and again, "when an atom emits a particle, nothing has really been lost. Nonliving things are indifferent to such changes."

Perhaps my countless lab hours in undergrad have caused me to anthropomorphize atoms, molecules and compounds, but I don't think I fully agree with this. Atoms tend toward lowest energy states; it's how molecules and ions--and thus most structures of complexity--are formed. And when an atom emits a particle, something is definitively lost, that is, energy. As this chapter is located in the section of the book entitled "The Body and Human Action", the first chapter of which is dedicated to explaining how the different types of energy in the world impress upon us and cause us to percieve, react, and concept, I have to believe that the emitting of a particle is pretty big deal for all parties involved. In any case, I have to think more about this (and probably consult a chemist and/or physicist).

My other objection is more vague; less an argument against than a feeling of discomfort with the idea. I very much liked the first statement Sokolowski makes about us, that is, "human beings go beyond both needing and wanting" (emphasis mine), but then he seems to backtrack a bit on this when he draws out the distinction between a want and a wish in humans. The categories of needing, wanting and wishing seem to fit nicely with Thomas Aquinas' explanation of different souls: the vegetative, the sensitive, and the rational. But the sensitive soul is not merely the vegetative soul + 1, and more to the point, that rational soul is not the vegetative soul + the sensitive soul + 1. Rather, each higher step takes up the previous and forms something wholly new--albeit with the powers of the former type. It seems to me the activity of wishing would take up within it and transform needing and wanting, because humans do not need and want the same way plants and animals do. Do we not always do something freely because we wish it? Where does a sensory-act in response to a want end and a logical-deliberation-act in reponse to a wish begin? Ultimately, I suspect Sokolowski is right, and that I need to go back, reread and reflect, but right now, it's not clear.

Yesterday, though, as I was feeding infant Samuel, my ear started to itch. With one hand supporting the infant and the other holding his needed source of nourishment, my inner response was only this: I really fucking wish I could scratch my ear.






And just in case you're interested:

Phenomenology of the Human Person, Robert Sokolowski. Cambridge University Press, (New York, 2008).

On Italian Men

During undergrad I had a crazy (that term applies to both her intelligence and her mental status) Spanish philosophy professor who left after my sophomore year, but with whom I had a good relationship and still see on occaision. We met the summer after I returned from Rome and she made this unexpected remark: "Don't you just love Italian men and their compliments?"

I replied that I rather did not enjoy being cat-called while walking down the street, no matter in what country.

My esteemed professor then told me that Italian men compliment women differently than American men; Italian men are complimenting beauty while not being sexual, and I could not appreciate it because (and with this, I whole-heartedly agree) "All Americans are prudes."

However, concerning her main point:



I remain unconvinced.

In Between

Last Friday was the big move from Basel to Sestri. With two cars, two grandparents, two parents, three car seats and six weeks' worth of everyone's luggage there was not room enough for me so I got to take the train. My trip consisted of two legs: from Basel to Milan and then from Milan to Sestri Levante.

The Basel SBB train, being Swiss, was orderly, quiet, clean and early to most stops. Our route was through the Alps and I could not have asked better scenery. Small Swiss towns dotted the sides of the moutains and I could occaisionally see little blonde children playing in the fields. It was right out of a story book. My eyes were led from snows covered caps to the green sides of the mountains by steeps rivers rushing downwards. Absolutely breathtaking.

I scheduled myself a four hour layover in Milan so when I arrived at Stazione Centrale I hurried off the train to look for the metro. With a whopping six lines, Milan's metro is 3x the size of Rome's. I searched for the yellow line, went four stops west and emerged from underground to one of the most awesome sights in my travels: Milan's Duomo.

The front of the Duomo has recently been cleaned, so its white sand stone contrasts starkly with the brown tones of the buildings surrounding its massive square. It's topped by a gold statue of Mary, which at the time was shining brilliantly under the incredibly hot sun. The buildiong's copper doors are now oxidized darkened green, but at common points where people touch you can see thge metallic sheen. And the doors, oh what doors! Four sets of double doors lead into the church, each set depicting different sections of Chrstian history: the Old Testament, the Gospels, the rest of the New Testament and one is dedicated to the martyrs. I could have stood for hours just looking at those doors.

As I only had about three hours though, I entered the Church. The juxtaposition of the stark white exteriors with the very dark interior blinds you while your eyes adjust, but once they do they dart around because there is so much to take in. I find I always have to control myself in churches like this one - I have to reign in the urge to say "ooh, that looks interesting and7or beautiful, I'll run over and look at that!" I attacked St. Peter's in Rome this way the first time I entered and wound up darting back and forth between chapels and not really taking anything in. So I was very methodical at the Duomo, going down the left, circling around the altar and coming back up the right aisle.

The whole route took me most of my three hours, and the greater part of that time was spent looking at the three great stained glass window collages at the back of the church. As far as I could tell, the first set tells the story of the Torah pictorially, the second the story of Jesus' life, death and resurrection, and the third depicts the lives of assorted saints. Each set must have been made up of at least one hundrer 2' x 2' windows. I cannot imagine how much labor was invested in the endeavor.

When I exited the Duomo I decided to get a gelatro and study the doors once more with my remaining fifteen minutes. As I was standing there, cone in hand, I unbelievably saw a familiar face - one of my classmates from back in the States. He was stopping off in Milan for two hours and we both happned to be in the right place at the right time. We said hi, marveled at our meeting, and then I had to reented the metro to make my way back to Centrale.

Centrale is a bit frenetic and very dirty, but it has beautiful architecture and serves its purpose, so one can't complain. As I was staring at the ticker board, I saw a train to Rome that left five minutes after mine and for a good 10 seconds I seriously considered boarding that one and letting my employers keep the luggage they were transporting for me. But I thought better of it and with unquenched nostalgia I boarded my two and half hour train to Sestri.

The Trenitalia train, being Italian, was hectic, dirty, crowded, and late to almost every station. I found out I didn't have seat, so I popped a squat on some steps and hung out near a bathroom for most of the trip. It was actually more comfortable than a tiny train seat and my position privvied me to all sorts of characters boarding, exiting and travelling throuh the train cars, including one fellow who locked himself in the bathroom in an attempt to ride for free. His plan was thwarted after one passenger tried to use the toilet three times and finally notified one of the conductors. The carabinieri were then summoned and the would-be free-rider was kicked off the train at the next stop.

The rest of the ride was relatively unevenful and I claimed a spot on the sea-side of the train after we reached Genova. I was content to stand and look at the Adriatic for the hour that remained until I reached Sestri.

Danielus Arianicus: A Play in Three Acts

Act 1

Back in Basel upon first meeting shy David, one of the first things I suggested to him was that we play with the baskets full of legos in the boys' playroom. As a nanny, I love legos, especially for little boys. The male sex seems to take special pleasure in entropy at work and this inclination for destruction begins well before the age of reason. Luckily at this point in their development any harm done is a on a very small scale and there is no love lost. Legos are perfect for this purpose. I cannot express how manty hours I spent in Basel building towers of blocks only to watch Daniel and David knock them down with glee. And because of this, whenever I arrived at his flat, David usual greeting was not "Ciao!" but, "Play Lego?"

In a terrible oversight, I failed to make sure some legos were brought with us to Sestri. David's ever-present question to me had to be answered each time with "I'm sorry David, but we don't have any legos here." His facial expression reminded me of those times when my family vacationed at the shore when my father prevented my younger brother from destroying the sandcastles I had just spent hours laboring over - that is, utter dissapointment. Except this time, I feel badly.

Act 2

Wednesday however, was David's birthday, It was a joyous occaision and both sets of his grandparents celebrated with us (which made for another extrememly interesting linguistic experience as neither set of grandparents knows English, the parents' common language). David recieved a book from me, shoes from his Italian grandparents, a puzzle from his parents, and ecco! a set of legos--enough to build a small train, conductor included--from his German grandparents. He held the box high above his head and yelled "Susie! Susie! Play lego!" It was a triumphant moment for the young boy.

Later that day, after repasso, David wanted to 'play lego'. I of course obliged, but was also preoccupied watching Daniel the Arian destroyer. Fulfilling his duties as a younger brother, Daniel only wanted to play with David's new legos and not any of the plethora of other toys I placed in front of him. David finally decided to placate the "pest" (his word, not mine) by giving him the conductor to the train. None of us could scarcely guess his fate.

Daniel, finally appeased, was playing quietly within my eyesight so I turned my attention to David - it was his birthday after all. While I was figuring out which side of the lego train car to place the lego whistle on to make the model look exactly the same as its counterpart pictured on the packaging, I heard a distinctive crack. I looked at Daniel: his lips were pursed together and he had the distinctive look of risibility on his face that only comes with a naughty act (incidentally, the Italians have a word for this that I like very much: furbo. It translates as 'clever', and has devilish undertones, but its connotation remains positive). I began to look around for what the young child had broken.

And then, I saw him.

The headless body of lego-man-train-conductor gripped by Daniel's right hand.

Nanny instincts kicked in and I quickly removed the aforementioned's head from the mouth of the young Arian. David, understandably so, was not happy. "Don't worry, I can fix this," I assured him and retrieved superglue from one of the kitchen drawers. After a small operation and a minute of recovery time lego-man-train-conductor was revived and peace remained between the two brothers.

Act 3

Thursday morning I awoke and found David playing with his legos, in which he genially invited me to participate. To his credit, he had again given his brother lego-man-train-conductor; perhaps all had been forgiven or forgotten. In any case, all was well as I began to make myself some coffee.

It was a beautiful day and as such the boys' mother had the doors that lead out to the small balcony of our second storey flat wide open. The balcony has a grate around it with spaces between the bars large enough to allow my hand through, but not anything larger. The boys like to go out and watch the sea so when Daniel wandered out I thought nothing of it.

I really should learn from my mistakes.

Just as the caffeine was kicking in and the fog lifting from my mind, I hear Daniel yelling and pointing at something on the street below. I crossed the room to the balcony, looked below and just barely saw a little piece of yellow plastic with a face on it. I squinted and saw that the yellow plastic face also has an orange conductor's hat. Then I saw a red torso with one arm attached . . . and then another arm . . . and then black plastic legs. Lego-man-train-conductor had been quartered. His crime, the same as mine--trusting an 18th month old Arian--but his punishment, well beyond what I will have to pay.

The worst of my transgressions though remained yet to come. I did not collect what left of lego-man-train-conductor as I saw the street cleaning crew approaching. He had a nameless mass burial with countless other fallen toys.

Last of all, I have not informed David of his loss. He remains, to my knowledge, blissfully unaware. I shall keep Daniel's secret forever with me and now pass it on to you.

Coming and Going

I left Switzerland last Friday morning and I need to reflect more on my experiences there before I write on Basel as a whole. I have to admit it is somewhat shocking to live in the phenomenon I've studied and read about but never seen firsthand, that is, post-Christian Europe. My time there was relatively short, but I will return at the tail-end of my trip and so will most likely write on the city between two countries when I return to the States.

I now reside in Sestri Levante, Italy (decidedly not post-Christian), a small beach city on the northwest coast of the good ol' boot, where the internet is an endangered species and no one but me speaks English. This will be my home for the next 5 weeks and I can't say I'm unhappy about it.

Sestri is a small mushroom shaped peninsula and as such is known as 'La città de due mare' or 'the city of two seas'. Because of its shape, there are two bays on either side and at some points the land is narrow enough that you can turn your head right and look at one and turn your head left and look at the other without ever moving your feet. The northwest Italian coast is also dotted with mountains so when I leave the beach my vista is the low green mountains of the Alps. Not a bad way to live.

There's not too much to the city - sort of your typical slow and layed-back beach town. I have found a couple of places I really enjoy already though; one is called 'Baia del Silenzio' or 'Bay of Silence', but I think it sounds much nicer in Italian. It's the smaller less populated bay and you can hike up to a point on the mainland where you can see the peninsula of Sestri and across it to the other bay. No one goes up there because it's quite a steep climb, but the view is worth it. I stay up up there and read when I get a chance to go in the daytime or just take in the moon's reflection on the Adriatic if I go up after the sun has set. Not exactly the best way to practice my Italian, but now that I'm living with the Levis, a silent moment is difficult to find.

And speaking of the Levis, next time I will write the tail of Daniel and the lego man. It qualifies as a Shakesperian tragedy.

Out of the Office

I feel like I'm talking to the wind here, but in case anyone out there is awaiting updates, I just thought I'd let you know they will be even fewere and farther between now.

I'm in Sestri Levante Italy where there is no such thing as WiFi and only two internet points exist in the entire town. Because Italians understand what lesiure is, the internet points are closed from 12-3:30, which is most of the time I have off. They also close at 7:30.

I think what I'm going to start doing is writing free hand and coming here and transcribing some updates, but as I have not yet done this - no updates for now. Soon though.

These are my friends

The (hilarious) response of my friend Brian to 'the experiment' post below:

I love hearing about your young ward, although I'm afraid that, as a red-blooded American, I cannot support his existence. Three languages in as many years? The Germans' breeding of highly intelligent children cannot go unchecked; otherwise, America might actually have to start investing money in education, and I AIN'T HAVING IT. It is your patriotic duty as an American to level the playing field.

Smother the children, Derkins. Democracy demands it.

Do your country proud. If the parents complain, simply give them a German Shepard puppy or two. They should be in abundance over there, and just as bloodthirsty as German children.

That is all.  You may continue you day now.

Watch out the world's behind you

I love Sunday mornings.

In my experience, to get to know a city in its proper context the best time to go out and explore is Saturday morning - Saturday afternoon.  Stores are open on Saturdays and you can usually find an open market or two just by wandering, and the streets are wonderfully void of business types just out to grab lunch.  Best of all, there's a harmonious mix of wide-eyed tourists walking around with their heads pointed upwards trying to take in everything and relaxed locals just out to either do some shopping or grab a cup of coffee on their free day.  It's a good time to get a feel for a city and its flow.

A Sunday morning is about 180˚ from the hurried-but-pleasant atmosphere of its Saturday counterpart.  Store fronts, normally with doors wide open inviting you in, are closed and dark.  The streets are mostly empty and there's an unsettling quiet.  Locals are sleeping in and the only tourists on the streets at this time are the ones with the really huge back packs who just want to get a picture of themselves in front of a monument and move on.  

But I like Sunday mornings.  They show a different side of a city and its citizenry.  I like the quiet.  I like that the only people I see out are extremely motivated tourists or senior citizens up to go to mass.  I like that I can hear church bells more clearly than on any other day because there aren't enough cars out yet to dampen the music.

Sunday mornings bring streets littered with the remnants of Saturday nights before Monday morning's cleaning crews can get to them: cigarette butts, plastic water bottles, crushed beer cans, an occasional club flyer.  And they bring the odd balls - those that don't quite follow the exact rhythm of their neighbors.  It's a different way of getting to know a city.

The three year old philological experiment

Though I am sure there is some common etymologic ancestry, to my untrained English ear German and Italian have absolutely nothing in common.  This, combined with the fact that both languages are spoken at the Levi home rapidly, one after another and sometimes simultaneously, is making it difficult for me to pick up as much German as I had hoped, but it does provide some extremely comedic scenarios.

Young David (older brother of Daniel, who inspired this blog's first post), already has quite the linguistic background.  His mother and grandparents, all natives of Milan, speak Italian to David and his younger brother.  His father, from Berlin, speaks to them in German.  David attends English language daycare and I am to speak to him in English as well.  The child is not yet three years old and speaking in three different languages.  Needless to say, I'm a bit envious.  David usually does a pretty good job of knowing in what language to respond to whom, but he's also developed his own vocabulary for some every day items that are combinations of the languages.  For David, "te" means milk - his parents figure this must come from the Italian word for milk, that is, latte (German for milk is milch).  One of my favorite mash-ups is "pish-e", or fish - a combination of pesce in Italian and either the English or German word (in German: fische).

It's actually quite interesting from a philological standpoint; I'm currently reading Robert Sokolowski's Phenomenology of the Human Person and at the end of the fourth chapter he strikes off on an extended tangent about what happens in communication when two groups of people who have no common language are forced to live together and make a life.  The first generation speaks pidgin, one form of protolanguage, which Sokolowski partially defines as when common words are created for concrete things, but there is no grammar and no syntax.  In short, it is protolanguage because nothing past, future or abstract can ever be expressed, and nothing can ever be expressed in a complex fashion.  The second generation of this hypothetical group produces creole - a combination of the two languages not only with its own  vocabulary but also with its own very complex grammatical and syntactical structure.  Italian, Spanish and French all began as creole - Latin combined with with whatever native dialect existed in the geographical region before the Romans came around.  Sokolowski also identifies the language of toddlers as protolanguage; they can point to concrete ideas, but do not yet have the facilities to express the abstract.

All of this is just a really long way of saying that watching a three year old deal with three different languages is watching this play out in real time.  Listening to David is really fascinating once I'm able to get past the fact that he's whining or yelling because he's not getting his way.

As I mentioned above the multilingual environment in which I currently reside is not only educational but also hilarious.  Last night at dinner when Mrs. Levi suggested that she and her husband go see "Van Gogh" (as in the big exhibit that is in town) today, Mr. Levi gave her the weirdest look, which neither the Mrs. nor I could figure out until he explained that he thought she suggested they go to "Bangkok".  My favorite situations, however, come from David when he is excited because not only does he combine languages, but he also forgets to pronounce the entire word.  Several times a week this leads to confused stares from one adult to another as if to communicate "what in THE HELL did he just say??".  Yesterday when I arrived he was extremely excited and said to me "OK! Now we'll go and play legos and read books in the living room, OK?!"  This is of course not what David actually said, and I will leave you with that phrase and subsequent mental translation now:

"OK! Jetz we go joc leg and ree buch in sala. jetz! k?!"

(Jetz = jetzt = now in German; joc = jocare = play in Italian; leg = legos; ree = read; buch = bücher = books in German, sala = living room in Italian).

My answer: "OK!"

Sheep and Goats

One of the nicest parts of my time spent in Basel is that I get to leave while the children are taking repasso (Italians insist that this is different from the Spanish siesta, though I'm still not clear on why or how).  This means that every weekday, I have the chance to roam the city if I so desire.  I'd be lying if I claimed to have never frittered away any of these hours either sleeping or on the internet, but I think for the most part I've taken advantage of my time.  The city of Basel is not all that large, and as a result of these semi-daily walks, I've come to know the city pretty well.  I try to go to different places every day, but there's a path that I generally take through the town.  St. Jakob's-Strasse-Freie Strasse is sort of the main thoroughfare of GroßBasel (literally, 'Big Basel'), leading me past Tinguely Fountain to Barfüsserplatz, at which I take a right, go past the many cafés and shops on Falknerstrasse and am led to Marktplatz.  Marktplatz is the place for fresh food and homemade goods from every kind of vendor each morning and it is also the residence of Basel's bright red city hall, always catching the eye amidst all the neutral shades of the surrounding buildings.  The Rhine is just a stone throw away from Marktplatz.  Elisabethenkirche can be seen at most any point during this walk; its massive gothic cathedral with bells that ring every fifteen minutes -  a beautiful but also somewhat obtrusive sound that never quite fades into the din of the city.  The entire walk takes me about 20 minutes at a leisurely pace.

I've walked through several spots in Basel, but the place my feet lead me to again and again is Münster - what Basel calls its cathedral, what I call its old cathedral.  I make this distinction because it no longer functions as a church, but is instead a small museum dedicated to the city and its history.  Whatever its capacity, Münster is a sight to behold.  The church stands high above the Rhine and is easily recognized from its colorful - green, yellow and red concentric diamonds - roof alone.  It stands in a square--Münsterplatz--with what used to be the bishop's residence and what are now very beautiful office buildings.  The church, like so many others, was built in stages, but its earliest outer walls date back to 8th century.  In 1019 it was consecrated Heinrich Münster in the presence of King Heinrich II,  but was destroyed in a fire sixty-five years later.  It was rebuilt and destroyed again in a earthquake.  In 1363 it was re-rebuilt in the now-standing Gothic style.  There was another fire in the 15th century that only affected the inside of the church and that was rebuilt in a Roman style, which makes for a visually interesting transition when entering or exiting the cathedral.  It used to be Catholic, was made Reformed, and is now a museum.

After becoming Reformed, the lower church in Münster was dedicated to Brother Klaus and his wife Dorothy Wyss, two exceptionally holy German peasants.  After marrying Dorothy and raising ten children with her, Brother Klaus obtained her permission to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and become a monk.  He never actually made it, and the story goes that he met an angel on the way who told him to go back to his family, for that was where he was needed.  Still, Dorothy must have been like, the best wife ever.

The upper church is home to many who have passed from the land of the living, but the most notable is Erasmus of Rotterdam, a great thinker and a great Catholic.  He left the city of Basel during the tumultuous years following the Reformation, but returned at the request and under the protection of the mayor of Basel himself and died shortly thereafter.  Catholic though he was, those decent Reformers buried him in their cathedral anyway.

My favorite part of Münster is actually its courtyard.  Looking over its walls to the right the rolling green hills of Germany can be seen; look left and there's France.  Not to mention KleinBasel's ('small Basel') horizon right across the Rhine and the Messeturm sticking out like a modern sore thumb.  The courtyard is always filled with people; there are always some Baslers just lunching there and enjoying the view, as well as tourists coming to explore the Cathedral.  I think I've heard every language but English spoken up there.  It's a great place to read, and I have on occasion sprawled out on one of the benches and slept in the sunshine, listening to the street musicians who tend to congregate in Münsterplatz.

Yesterday as I was leaving, I passed the side of Münster that has the scene starting at Matthew 25:31 carved into its walls.  A small family of street musicians had set up right underneath of it and were all playing guitars.  I had fallen asleep earlier and was awoken to their singing.   It's the first time I regretted not having a camera, though now I'm glad I didn't have the option.  I listened for a while to the father and his two children harmonize and then I threw what money I had in their case and walked on.

The Strange Allure of Pink

My knowledge of pop music/music on the radio decreases every year.  Not owning a car is a factor, but by and large it's because most music on the radio is terrible.  When I watched this, I had to ask a friend what songs they were parodying (thereby introducing me to the entity known as Lady GaGa).

Most days, after young David is finished watching Dora die Explorer and goes to daycare in the morning, his grandfather changes the channel to an obscure MTV station that plays videos all day long.  At first I thought this was a thoughtful, if misguided, attempt at making me feel welcome, but after I replied no when asked if I enjoyed "this MTV music" and the channel was still on, I realized the grandfather likes listening to and watching the videos.  I've become increasingly more appalled by the videos I see, but luckily little Daniel has no interest in television and I'm usually in a different room with him, preventing serious injury.

Today Daniel was extra-tired and taking a mid-morning nap, so I sat down on the couch to read while music videos were playing in the background.  A video for a song that I didn't know existed began to play - Pink's "Please Don't Leave Me."  When I looked up to see the title, I had a hard time taking my eyes off the screen because the video actually has a an old Greek drama vibe to it.  Then, the grandfather walks into the room and says "ah yes . . . I lika da videos from diss, ah, Pink lady.   Dey are always-a very peculiar".  So we sat together and watched the strange scene below:

Feierbendkonzerte

Last night I attended a Feierbendkonzerte (evening recital) at Leonhardskirche.  In 1118 the collegiate church was consecrated, but the crypt is the only part remaining from that time.  The inner church dates from about 1135 and everything else dates from about the 15th century.  Like most churches in Basel, it was originally Catholic and then after Luther was Reformed.  Unlike most churches in Basel, however, it still holds services.

Leonhardskirche is unassuming from the outside.  It stands on the Upper Rhine and I happened upon its square while wandering around Barfüsserplatz and deciding to see where some steps in one of the little alleys lead (incidentally, this tactic, while I don't think very intelligent in most of the US cities I've been to, has always served me well in Europe).  Leonhardskircheplatz doesn't have a very good view of anything except the tops of building, and the church is surrounded by other very large modern looking buildings, but I'm a sucker for churches so I walked inside.

The first thing that strikes me about the church is its lectern, which looks like it's all been hand carved.  You can see it in the picture I linked above, but not close enough to see the detail.  The bottom consists of a pedestal with eight arms of ivy to support the base, which has more intricacies than it was possible for me to take in at one time.  The top of the lectern is shorter and wider, and its designs mirror its base.  If the rest of the church had been decorated in this fashion it would have been rococo, but alone against a relatively plain backdrop it's breathtaking. 

There were plaques all along the walls commemorating one important person in the church's history or another.  The plaques about the priests and bishops were in Latin, and thus I understood most of it, but I was hopeless when it came to the plaques in German.  I understand hardly any German as it is, but the typography was flowery and ornate, so I had no chance.  I think they were about patrons of the church.  Every single plaque however, had a unicorn and a bee on it, and I have not yet been able to figure out what they symbolize.  Perhaps St. Leonhard's crest?

I'm sure this is a more modern addition, but there are small lights throughout the church that hang down on utility wire and they look like they're floating.  It really is quite beautiful.

The musician, Magdalena Hasibeder, played on the church's 1718 Silbermann organ.  She played Bach's "Ach was soll ich Sünder machen", BWV 770, Homilius' Trio: "Komm, Heileger Geist, Herre Gott", and ended with Bach's Präludium und Fuge e-mol, BWV 548.  I sat in front of the lectern and let my eyes wander over the carvings while she played.  Bach's Präludium was my favorite.  As the music got closer to its crescendo, the pillars of the church transformed from structures that hold the arched ceiling in place, into paths to the heavens.

A Confession

Daniel is the 18 month old I take care of most of the day.  He has the blondest hair and the bluest eyes I've ever seen; his mother is a Greek/Italian, so obviously those Arian genes he inherited from his father really are dominant.  Daniel, like (I hope) most other children his age is interminably curious and always wants what he cannot/should not have.  Perhaps I should not think something so devious of someone so young, but I believe he feigns injury so that I will pick him up and he can then get his fair little hands on things at adult eye-level.  Complicating this matter is the fact that the apartment Daniel and his family lives in is not baby-proofed, which leads to my following him around and taking from him the things which could inevitably lead to injury and possible death.  In the past two weeks this has included but is not limited to pens, magnets, coins, a hairdryer, utensils of all shapes and sizes, and those really heavy fake Chinese relaxation balls with chimes in them.  Daniel's parents think this is funny and cute.  Daniel's parents are not his primary caregivers.

One day last week Daniel started taking books off the lower level shelves in the family room.  Finally! I thought, something that won't kill him.  I let him take the books off the shelves and flip through the pages.  He seemed fairly interested, so I figured I had a good ten minutes before he got bored and waddled into the next room.  After about forty-five seconds, however, Daniel's grandfather and namesake walked into the room, said to Daniel "Nein! No! No librettos per Daniel."  He then looked at me and said "He destroy books."

I was a bit taken aback, given that the grandfather sits around all day and reads novels (we had a halting conversation in Italio-English about A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court the other day) while his wife and I chase the little ones around -- surely he wants to instill a love of books in his grandchild?  What better way to kill this nascent curiosity than to disallow any encounters with the material of a book itself?  It's half the fun, I dare say.  The musty smell and worn-in spines of old books, the crisp, stuck-together pages of new books that have a spine so straight it seems like they are resistant to letting you read them.  These are experiences a child Daniel's age can appreciate, even if the letters on the page mean nothing!  

So, I must admit, I have been letting Daniel take books off the shelves and play with them - under my watchful eye of course.  If he even looks like he is about to tear a cover, crinkle a page, or place the spine in his mouth (the tool of choice for curious toddlers), the book gets taken away, along with an explanation of why.  For with a love of books and their form, I want to also instill respect.  Daniel and I had a breakthrough the other day with a small English-Italian dictionary when he got it out, thumbed through the pages, and then placed it back on the shelf exactly as it had been.  "Bravo Daniel!" I cried and clapped my hands.  He smiled.  I thought I had gotten through to him.

This, however, is not my confession.

Back at the end of May when I was haphazardly packing all of my belongings to move to a house a mere seven spaces down on the same street, I almost forgot that a friend and former roommate has asked me to be temporally responsible for one box of books belonging to her.  Around 11:00 pm of the night before I was to leave the city, I remembered the forgotten books in the basement, ran down, and began placing the books in one of the empty boxes of another roommate who has not yet begun her arduous process of packing.  This operation should have taken five minutes tops, but with a toddler-like curiosity I examined each of the thirty or so books before putting them away.  Most of the books I had heard of, many I had read or at least read parts of, but one entitled Life in Macondo I never knew had even been written.  As the last new novel I read had been 100 Years of Solitude, on the recommendation of the roommate who owned the books, I was quite interested.  I tossed Life in Macondo in my own bag, finished packing up the rest of the books, figured my roommate would be nonethewiser, and I could tell her after I finished it that it was a handling fee.

Daniel Levi had not yet entered my life.

Yesterday, as Daniel was playing with books on his parents' bookshelves, I walked out of the room to check on his lunch.  At sixty seconds, I was obviously out of the room for far too long and got suddenly nervous when I didn't hear the child.  I ran back into the room only to discover that Daniel had taken my purse down from a high shelf and gotten the book I am currently reading out of my purse, that is, Life in Macondo.  A half second of triumph (out of all the things in my purse, he chose the book!) was followed by horror as I realized he had torn the dilapidated cover clear off the collection of short stories.  I could no longer tell my roommate, who shares my love of books, that borrowing her book was a handling fee.  Life in Macondo has been sacrificed to the gods of curiosity at the hands of an 18-month-old Arian.  Would Márquez approve?