topotales

Last weekend, I taught Pnut how to make an anglers cast in our backyard with a fly-fishing rod.  This weekend, we went and bought our state fishing licenses and headed off to a four-season area listed in our fishing guidebook for NJ.  Pnut has done plenty of fishing of his own.  After all, no Venetian islander hasn’t searched for cozze on the beach, sold buckets of mussels to tourists, dunked their hands for eels or dived in the lagoon to spear something.  But watching Pnut discover fly-fishing has been a lot of fun.

I gave him just a teensy bit of advice on his first cast (listen closely to my instructions):

And about two minutes later, this is what he caught:

What you can’t hear Paolo telling me is that the branch is “like a fly cemetery”.  Our little nymph may rest in peace with a nice view of the river and all the fish that shall never have a chance to bite it.

I was pretty much done for the day after this (did you see the SNOW?), and sat in the car with the heat on full blast for another two hours or so while Paolo embedded a few more flies in a few more trees.  And rocks.  And bushes.  When he returned to the car his face was flushed and he was elated.  He hadn’t caught anything we could take home, except Angling Fever.

Fly-fishing doesn’t seem to be a sport with any beginner’s luck quotient, but we did catch this beautiful sunset on our drive home.

sunset

AKA, the post wherein it is revealed that living half one’s life abroad does not make one cool.  But in fact does encourage one to think about the strangest nuances in life.  And wherein I prove once and for all that - alas -I am not eurochic.

Here are some mental readjustments and silly anecdotes from the last month as we adjust to life in America and I experience the prickling sense that I no longer belong.

1A.   Eating and restaurants.  Yesterday, I ordered steak.  Pnut said “Remember when we first used to go to dinner, how you’d cut the the steak up into tiny pieces first, then eat?”.  Yes, like a little child.  Because American diners do this thing that makes them immediately recognizable anywhere: we cut with fork in left hand, knife in right hand.  Then, we lay the knife down and put the fork (tongs up) in our right hand and pick up our food.  Europeans keep the fork (tongs down) in their left hand, knife in right at all times.  They spear the meat and then somehow push veggies, potatoes, or whatever else is on their plate on top of the meat and balance the whole lot to the mouth.  This is a skill that takes several years to master.  However, it is a skill that will allow you to eat dinner peacefully with your European friends, so that they don’t feel compelled to stare, hypnotized, as you juggle your fork from hand to hand.  Fuck.  Do I have to unlearn it now?

1B.  Thank you, god, I will no longer have to act like cutting up a sandwich or hamburger is normal!!!

1C.  Free coffee refills? (Ok, it’s not real coffee, but still, it’s free?).  Free soda refills?  Are you kidding me?  Perhaps I’ve died and gone to caffeine heaven.  And free water?  Really, it’s free?!

1D.  Yes please, a doggie bag.  And you won’t give me the evil eyes?  Even better.

2.  Banking.  I went to the bank.  On a Saturday.  Without an appointment.  They took my money in a friendly fashion.  Belgian bankers, take note!  If you are nice, you get more money.  If somebody wants to give you money, they shouldn’t need an appointment to do so.  And if you are open on Saturdays, it gives you a chance to get even MORE money!

2B.  Uh, somebody please remind me how to write a check so I can teach Pnut?

3.  Social Decorum.  I stand walk down a quiet street, a passerby says “Hiya”.  I stand in a queue and a fellow queuee starts up a conversation about the weather.  I sit at a bar and the guy next to me says “howya doin’”.  Pnut and I go hiking and people we pass say “goodmornin’”.  We go to stores, restaurants, businesses and get friendly service.  I feel like taking all of these strangers faces in my hands and kissing them on the lips.  Thank you Americans, for being NICE.  It may be fake, but it’s just NICE to be NICE.

4.  Language.  Two weeks ago, we went to Burger King.  Paolo looked at the menu, and and asked the woman behind the register: “Uh, yes madam, could I please have a whooper?”.  “You mean a Whopper?” she replied.  “Yes madam, a whooper”.  Then she looked at me, I looked at her, and we both cracked up.  Why does whooper sound like something sexual when an Italian says it?  What is a whooper, anyway?

4B.  My mom and dad took a short holiday from Nashville, where they currently live, and went to Chatanooga for a weekend.  I tried to call my mom’s mobile a few times, but she didn’t pick up.  Paolo’s analysis?  “They must be doing plenty of Yankee-panky”.  When I finally reached my mom, she said “Tell him this is the South, no Yankee-panky here, just hanky-panky”.  “Oh,” said Paolo, “did I say it wrong?”.

5.  Fashion.  At the Grand Place in Brussels, Americans can generally be spotted by their flip-flop wearing ways.  The white-sneakers, of course, are a true give-away as well, but no self-respecting European would dream to wear flip-flops in public.  There being snow on the ground here in Jersey, I haven’t seen any flip-flops yet.  But I have noticed the new fashion in wearing house-slippers in public.  Finally, fashion has caught up to me.  I fully intend to parade around Venice in my houseslippers when we go back for a visit this year.

Did I mention?  I’m in a great mood!  As a matter of fact, I’m… HOOKED ON A FEELING!

Is it real, you wonder?  Why, yes.  It’s The Hasselhoff.  Be afraid.  Be very, very afraid.  And be sure to attend Oktoberfest in Germany next year (he’s always performing there) if you wanna hear the follow-up.

Tiffany, this one goes out to you and Andrew…

It has been hard to start writing again.  To revisit these pages so full of the sordid anguish and heartache of the past year and a half.  It’s not something I ever want to see again, or think about.  My friend Kye once told me that people have these “star-crossed” years in their lives where everything falls apart.  Like an acid coccoon that eats away at your self so that you must emerge a different creature.  I’ve clung to that bit of hope for a long time, but I’ve been hesitant to call the year “over”.  Yesterday I talked to Kye for the first time in over five yeras.  Is it a sign?  It feels so good to have real, true friends in my life again.  So let me declare now the Shitty Year of All Fucking Shit, as it will hereafter be referred to, as OVER.  Or rather, that I am over it.  Whichever.

The important thing is, I am here and Pnut is here.  My mom, dad, my brother and his wife are all doing well.

Jersey?? You ask?  Happily, one of the most under-rated places I have ever been.  Most people think of the Interstate from here to NY.  Truly, I am in agreement.  It is disgusting.  Dirty, full of gutted dead deer and other indistinguishable animal (I hope) remains, traffic backed up for miles and miles, overrun by shopping plazas and strip malls, and thoroughly depressing in that solely Amerikana fashion.  But take an exit, my friend, and you are in small lakeside villages, rolling hills, farmlands and provincial areas where the “townies” hang out in their local pubs, and everybody will tell you exactly what they’re thinking without hesitation.

We didn’t get the house in Dover-Rico, but we are almost finished with the purchase of a beautiful log cabin in the borough of Hopatcong.  It’s one of those cabins that used to be a vacation home, built in the early 1900’s.  Knotty pine walls and a loft space with a bathroom that forces your knees into your ears as you seat yourself upon the throne.  But Pnut and I are used to living small, and we like a space with little privacy so that when our friends are in our home, we can enjoy them as much as possible.  The previous owner fed deer from the deck in back, so there are four-legged visitors a few times per week.  The largest lake in NJ is just a few houses away.  And we’re close to the Gunks… even closer than we were to Fontainebleau from Brussels!

As for school… I am applying.  I am gathering immunization records, SAT and ACT scores from almost a score years ago, transcripts and other odds and ends of paperwork that trail you for the whole of your life though you can never locate them without serious excavation work.  And I hope to start for this spring semester, though it seems unlikely given the timing.  Pnut and I are already planning our visit back to Europe, and our belated honeymoon to either Argentina or Chile later this year.

So it is with some trepidation, but not much, that we start this new life in America.  Once again with just a few suitcases of posessions, but books in transit.  With each other.  And like most people moving to this country - with many hopes and dreams for the coming years.

Spider sang this song (E ti Vengo a Cercare) for us at our wedding in VDM.  It is one of my favorites.  The Battiato version is the original, but this CSI version that holds sticky in my throat and breast.

This is a hard one to post.  I’ve been grieving in silence for my dog.  My psychiatrist said yesterday “yes, it seems some people are strangely attached to animals”.  I wanted to kick him in his balls.  I’m going to skip the whole thing on how Scapi died; how she was sick, etc.  Because it makes me want to throw up and be hysterical every time I let a little bit of it in.  And it’s been almost a month since she’s gone.  I had her eleven years.  I found her under my car muffler in Spain, keeping warm on a cold night.  She was the most loyal, beautiful soul I ever knew.  And she was with me through everything in my entire adult life.  She was my child and my best friend.  I am destroyed.  And it’s not fucking “strange”.

Sick of staying up with me crying all night, Paolo decided it was time I was able to open up a little more of all the abundant love in my heart.  We went to the la croix bleau (animal pound) and got another dog.  He’s a Yorkshire terrier (yes, P picked a granny dog).  We’ve named him Mista Foo (reasons will be obvious once I post a picture with his Foo Man Choo mustache).

I know, this is all out of order - I’m rambling like crazy.  But better to ramble and write than spend another day crying into my sleeping bag, missing my dog, stressing out about moving to fucking New Jersey next month.

The green card paperwork, the bid on the house - these are outside stresses.

My mom’s pathology report came back from the lumpectomy, not good.  It seems she will have to lose the breast.  November 14.  She is a badass, like most of her family.  It’s a good indication of how her side of the family deals with stress to explain that they are calling her “One-tit Charlie” and making fun of her, but taking super-good care that she doesn’t lift a finger.  As I told mom, she should milk it while there’s something left to milk.  Ha.  Ha.  After the mastectomy, I hope to be in Nashville for at least a couple of weeks in case they decide she needs chemo.  I know my mom will be fine.  It’s my dad that I’d like to be there for, so that he doesn’t go to work and stress about my mom home alone.  Not to mention, he’s not the greatest cook unless you like spaghetti and grilled cheese or pork chops every night.

The wedding, you ask?  It was beautiful.  It was my dream wedding, and Paolo’s too.  Hansosan took the most beautiful photos of everything, and I’ll try to find a way to post them in here.  Also, some of the karaoke clips.  Especially Tiffany’s rendition of “You Spin me Right Round”.  I think I’ll be able to talk more about the beauty of the wedding once the sadness of losing Scapi and not having her there has worn off a bit.

In the meantime, thanks to Freia and her mom have convinced me to return to an old joy - horseback riding.  Coming home with the smell of horse sweat and hair and barn on my skin feels so good.  Finding the subtlety of communication with a horse, both mentally and physically is like remembering something from a beautiful dream.  It had been too long for me - almost ten years.  And I used to be a horsewoman.  I suppose I’ll get there again… once I can walk again.

This weekend we will go and spread Scapi’s ashes in Fontainebleau.  I hope she enjoys chasing those lizards and spotting climbers as much as she always has.  Anybody who wishes to come along, or to send me something they’d like me to read is welcome.  One of my best memories of her there is when P and I were bouldering and a young couple with a baby were nearby.  The baby started crying and Scapi could never stand not co comfort a crying person.  She ran to the couple and stood under the mother with her baby, whining for a lick and a try to comfort.  That was my baby.

This year has been full of highs and lows.  More lows than highs, admittedly.  I am trying to find a way to make it through.  I hope you bear with me while I do.  I love all of you so much, my friends.  And I thank you for all of your kind comments and support.

I promise I will start writing again.  It just may take some time.  Right now, we have an empty apartment and green cards and a cros-continental move to organize.  See you all in Jersey, if not before!

• GUESTPOST BY HANSOSAN

  T&P are together on their way to Val di Mello.  Scapi, faithful companion on so many travels, could not complete this journey.  We will all miss this member of the family.  After a life filled with excitement and caring, lazy days grooming on the couch, surviving snake bites, ticks and wasps on the crags, rescuing abandoned cat food, and sharing infinite hugs and kisses with all kind bipeds, especially the sad ones, her time was up.  Charlie and Paolo are there to continue her life’s work - but with such a sudden void, now’s the time for some loving help from all her friends.

  

  Scapi & Topo

  T and her dog : one
  I don’t know what more to say
  Scapi died today

My friend Kye, who was really into astrology, once told me that people pass through particular years of their lives that are full of change - years when the stars and the planets of their astrology are so much in flux that everything changes.  This must be one of those years.  Let me show you:

February: I have a nervous breakdown

March: Pnut doesn’t care that I’m crazy, asks me to marry him anyway.  Appropriately, at carnevale in Venice.

April: Quiet… too quiet!  I am home with various medications, Dad flies in from the US to keep an eye on me.

May: Drugs, more antipsychotic drugs.  The right drugs?  The wrong drugs?  Let’s experiment!  We get Charlie the wonderdog, to keep me company.  Let’s face it, two dogs licking your face makes you happier than one.  Oh yeah, I get lyme disease, too.  Wedding planning for Chicago in June.  Family drama and fighting.  Paperwork.

June: Back to the job I hate but which I may or may not be losing. More family fighting about the wedding. We get married.  Luckily, I have plenty of tranquilizers to go along with the antipsychotics.  Then, the woman I consider my grandmother passes away after kicking a rare leukemia’s ass for over six months.

July:  My mother’s brother, my Uncle Budda dies suddenly of a massive heart attack.  The family dog, Rudy, has to be put to sleep.  Oh… and I lose my job, finally, formally.

August: Plans to move to the US are underway.  Embassy visits, paperwork.  A house-hunting trip to New Jersey!?  Looking at nursing schools and prerequisites and trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to pass math classes.  I attend the memorial service for the woman I consider my grandmother.

September: My mom is diagnosed with a stage one tubular carcinoma in her left breast.  I’ve already been to the US twice this year, and we can’t afford a third trip.  I’ll have to manage my anxiety knowing she’ll be here for my wedding in October two weeks after her lumpectomy.

Paolo lost both of his parents to cancer.  The tumor in his mother’s head made her blind when he was six, and she lost her mind over the following few years.  She passed away when he was twelve.  That was the last time he ever cried.  His father was found to have a metastisized (to the bones) lung cancer when Paolo was eighteen.  He lost him not long after.  Now, he has a brand new family.  A huge, loud, obnoxiously loving and close-knit family.  And the C-word makes it’s appearance not long after.  I hate that fucking word.  I hate it for him, and I hate it for me.

I have led a relatively easy and blessed life.  I’m not sure if knowing or not knowing anxiety and grief make them any easier to live with.  All I know is I fucking hate cancer.  And my mom is one badass little Indian lady.

Pnut and I have decided that instead of giving presents at our wedding (which Europeans think is odd anyhow), we will donate ten euros per guest to the Cancer Research Foundation.

Do you know anybody who fought or is fighting cancer?  Please share your story.

Following the previous conversation about having a baby, Pnut and I had the following exchange.  The thing is, the way thebloggess writes?  That’s how I am in real life.  Seriously.

me: babe,

read this!

http://thebloggess.com/?p=3469

3:35 PM Paolo: oh boy…

me: can we pleeeeaaaase tattoo our baby?

Paolo: what?!?

me: just read it!

3:36 PM Paolo:

me: so? fangs, stripes or turtle?

3:38 PM Paolo: all of them. and maybe a mohonk 3-D tatued on his/her head!

3:39 PM me: her. how small sizes do you think they make combat boots?

Paolo: depends on the size of the machine gun

3:41 PM me: ehm. depends on the size of the baby. I wouldn’t want her firing anything that didn’t outweigh her by at least 5 ounces.

Paolo: fair enough. But she’s gonna be big, you know…

3:42 PM me: ha! she has one quarter little fat indian lady genes.

even the venetians can’t control that.

Paolo: dude. You have no idea….

3:43 PM We owned India, then a stupid Genovese stumbled across america and we got screwed.

3:44 PM If it was for us now Mumbai would be called Rialto.

3:45 PM me: I’m gonna tell my mom you said that.

3:46 PM Paolo: she’ll be probably reply something you won’t understand. Deep inside she knows she can speak Venetian…like 3/4 of the world…

3:47 PM me: vaffanculo, muso da mona!

3:49 PM Paolo: See!

After nine months of putting up with absolute strangers stopping her and saying “you shouldn”t run while pregnant”, “you shouldn’t climb while pregnant”, “you shouldn’t…”, “you shouldn’t”.  The most bad-ass woman I know just gave birth to a beautiful (well, actually he kinda looks like an alien, but considering his genes it won’t last long) baby boy!  Pregnant ladies, don’t let anybody tell you what you can or cannot do; it’s your uterus and your baby, you know your body best.

Everybody, please go over to MAPP’s website and congratulate her and Martin (if you prefer to congratulate them in French or German, go here) on the newest and best-looking addition to their family!!  The “Petite Boule” is now officially known as Malo.  I think I’ll continue to call him PB though.  Or maybe PB&J… either way… watch out future climbers, runners, swimmers, bikers, triathletes… here comes the competition!

Pnut’s first words were “Can we have one?”.  Damn you, Putz family!

(I’m sure MAPP will be updating her blog with pictures and a full account of the birth… RIGHT MAPP!???  No sleep is no excuse honey, I know your fingers run as fast as your feet.)

LOTS OF LOVE FROM PNUT AND TOPO TO MALO, MOM & DAD!

So here is an email I lurked out from under the hansosan this morning.  I post it here because it’s almost exactly how I feel about IKEA (everything except the part about trying to build my own stuff… because even being half a lesbian doesn’t mean my limbs are safe from power tools).  The sad part is, most of the furtniture Pnut and I own comes from IKEA, because (disclaimer!!) it’s the only stuff that broke down into small enough pieces to fit up our hamster-sized elevator.  It’s a matter of hell vs. 8 flights of a (spiral) staircase.  Perhaps the only time IKEA wins, in my book.  If you wish to nay-say, you first need to come over and try moving some shit up our stairs without puking.

Anyway, here’s the ’san’s response to this article by David Pierson; I couldn’t have said it any better:

I HATE IKEA SHOPPING. [The boss] would buy half the store if I let her, and all I can think of in there is how I am going to have to spend the rest of the weekend deciphering Swedish cartoon instructions, yelling to disappearing family members while trying to hold electric screwdrivers
into awkward angles after dropping essential tiny bits into dark corners, just to build something I should have made myself in real wood, if I would have had time to figure out what it was I really wanted and cleaned up my garage to make space to do it… I hate screwing into lousy particle board that will emit carcinogen PU vapors for the next decade, cardboard backs that will sack out of their nail fasteners in just one season, the unrepairable cigarette-paper thin printed fake veneer, drawers that I know will rack apart and lose their bottoms no matter how much extra glue I squeeze into their joints. The most insidious part comes after you’ve put them finally together: the
doors weigh more than the whole cabinet, which requires me to screw the humongous front-heavy blocks (zero fasteners provided for that part of the job!) to my crappy walls if you don’t want to find a family member crushed to death underneath it one day.

The only spot in the shop I liked was the left-over bargain corner where I occasionally picked up some wood to chew up into something else. That cooled a bit after I once picked up a 2 meter long mirror there, and only remembered just in time at the check-out that I came driving our super short and tiny Lupo car, which would have made for some great candid camera shots in the parking lot.

None of this livid aversion has had any effect on what really ends up into our house, because there is not one room left uninvaded. Not a year goes by without another batch making its way into our already overstuffed rooms. From the bunker-like units with sliding glass doors ((heavy!!!) in the bedroom to the fake-leather cardboard boxes on the shelves in the privvy, they’re all silent testimonials of the unwritten conspiracy between the marketing moguls and the real decision power in our home.

Sigh.