My American Soundtrack (winter)

Primarily the sound of asphalt running under the tread of tires. Long stretches of highway and quiet that unwinds as you move through it. I miss it and hate it all at once. So much of our culture stems from cars, highways, the everyday movement of the individual from home to work to play to home again. Gasoline. But isolation too — that is the part I can get into. The small private space between four-doors.

And from this we can hear traffic, brakes, semis going over the line on the interstate. Service station dings and fuel pumping in the car. Auto lock, windshield wipers keeping beat and even if it doesn’t make a sound, we all have a moment of self appraisal in the rear view.

Driving. It has its moments; but the best thing it can do is lead me to the sound I crave — the voices of my family, my friends. The real soundtrack has everyone’s laughter mixed in. Anticipation and cruise control. Soon, soon, soon.

OK, look

I know it has been awhile. But (there is always a but, right?) but, really things have been insanely busy. To start, there was the coughing, nasty, plague-esque illness I had before leaving Italy. Then there was the painful flight back — painful in the sense that upon each descent, my eardrums were being pierced with icepicks and I’m certain they bled (some loss of hearing may have occurred-huh?). Then the reunion with mom and pop. The drive from ATL to the farm. Lori, Daryl, and Zoe arriving for Thanksgiving. Cooking. Laughing. Some drinking. Bad movie watching (can’t recommend Beowulf). Saying bye. Then driving to Miami (I like it, who knew!), visa paperwork dealing, eating too much junk food. And now, here I am. Exhausted.

Here are some things of note: my goddaughter is surely going to run the world one day (in a very charming way); my dear friend Lori is no card shark (best to stick with Trivial Pursuit, carina); there is a cranberry chutney better than the standard cranberry sauce and I never thought I’d say that; my cats are the best in the world; hills exist in South Florida, unfortunately they are trash mounds inhabited by seagulls and buzzards; the Italian Consulate has too much money on their hands; Matt Damon has at long last been recognized as the sexiest man alive; and finally, it’s good to be home (even for  just a bit).

Remind me to write about the soundtrack of America.

in through the out door

It’s cold. Supposedly about 30 degrees this morning. Now I’m at the bookstore hoping no one comes in the door. It is automatic and if anyone moves near it, it keeps opening. My desk it right next to it, so my goal throughout a cold day is to sit here, not move, and wish desperately for no one to walk in and empty what little warmth has accumulated out into the sidewalk. If someone stops to look at our Christmas book display in the window, the door opens. How big of a scrooge would I be to remove the display? And yes, I do understand that in order for me to keep this job, eventually some books need to be sold. However, right now I have a cold and murderous thoughts drift to the window browsers and people just popping in for directions. No more mrs. nice girl — I have a plane to catch on Tuesday and sick is not suiting me.

As for other minor complaints, I found out that one of my closest friends here is leaving. He has been talking about it since he arrived here 1 1\2 years ago, so I began to feel like he would be here forever. Nope. Antonio is headed back home to Canada. I get it, but it still makes me sad. He had become like a little brother to me and he is always willing to meet for a panino or gelato.

OK, some lady just uselessly made my door open! She was smoking a cigarette in the doorway not even pretending to be interested in anything. Grrr. and Brrr. I’m tapping into my inner bear. Don’t worry future greeters; I promise I’ll be in a better mood by the time you all see me.

Books and then some (post-Mailer edit)

Must be a Saturday. Sometimes I remember this is my bibliotecaria site and it makes me miss being an official librarian. And yet, my Saturdays are close to that here at the bookstore. Browsing through the Bookseller I was looking at everything coming out (or already there). Hate that it is an English magazine, but oh well.

Anyway, lots of depressing and interesting stuff. Several books released about autism and parenting. One of which, A Real Boy promises to be a tear jerker. Can’t help but remember Haddon’s fantastic Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. If you haven’t read it, do. Also, a customer brought to my attention Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist, pertinent, sounds good and short-listed for the Booker prize (This year’s winner was The Gathering by Anne Enright.)

 But all of this must wait. I’m now reading a very strange, inter-species, love story by China Miéville, Perdido Street Station. (China turns out is a dude, kind of hot too.) I can’t say I’d recommend this to everyone but if you like bizarre futuristic fantasy that makes the abnormal seem everyday and can stomach some indelicacies, then you should try it. (Thanks Lori for the introduction and mailing expense.) And I’m reading a translation of Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities with Luigi which is simply gorgeous. It is Kublai Kahn hearing Marco Polo’s descriptions of the different cities in his realm. Supposedly they are all Calvino’s interpretation of one city, the city, Venice. Lovely read in bed with some wine. Hate I can’t yet explore it in its native language. One day, one day.

And Lexie (my former roomie) has me tempted by Naomi Wolf’s The End of America: Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot. Obviously political, seems very much something mom and dad would like.

If you’re reading (or just wanting to), let me know what.

Edit: My friend Frank just sent me a message that Norman Mailer died. So, now I think my first reading of him is in order. The Naked and the Dead is calling to me. Any Mailer favorites you’d recommend?

ah, telecom

Sometimes I really do get used to being here. Walking around, understanding only about 60% of what people are saying around me, all the buildings built before the “discovery” of America, cobblestones, etc. You know, it has become very normal to me.

And then, a thing like paying the phone bill makes me go, huh?

Here, in the boot country, you pay utility and phone bills at the post office. That in itself gives me some pause, but I’m going with it. I show up, take a number, patiently wait. P237 is beckoned. I appear before the man with envelope and money in hand. I’m happy to turn over my euros to him.

Him, not so much.

It went something like this (but in Italian of course):

Signora, you can’t pay with just the bill you need a bollettino.

Huh? This is all I have, signor. It’s all that came with the bill. (Luigi walks over sensing my distress).

Could you tell the signora that she needs a bollettino. (Luigi looking at me and asking, where’s your bollettino). Um, look guys, I don’t know what you are talking about, but nothing else was in my envelope.

Some hand gestures later, a bollettino was produced so I’d know what one looked like. We walk away. Dial 187 to ask telecom where is my bollettino.

Telecom is only to happy to help. No bollettino you say. Oh yes, could be, hmm, what to do, what to do. Oh, that’s right. She can just go to the betting office and pay. Again, huh?

Luigi on the phone, his face relieved on my behalf. Yes. Certo. The betting office. Why do I feel strange about all of this? And why did the Telecom dude insist I keep my receipt? Anyway, yes, we walk across the street to the betting office. I produce my bill (sans bollettino) and the guy takes my money and the deed is done.

Of course, I followed the advice and kept my receipt.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be

One of the joys of working in a libreria is getting to browse all of the up-and-coming books that are hitting the stores. The Bookseller had a special issue this week about graphic novels and manga. I’m intrigued by the concept of graphic novels; the artistry, story telling, social implications, etc. Anyway, all of this is to say that I stumbled across:

Yep, Shakespeare is going manga. This particular publisher is selfmadehero. But you can also find the bard done in “comic book treatment” with original text “stiffen the senews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage, then lend the eye a terrible aspect”, or plain text “we must tighten our muscles, stir up our blood and hide our chivalry behind faces of rage. We must give our eyes a terrifying look” and my favorite, quick text “get a fierce look in your eyes.” Available through Classical Comics.

Oh yes, the times are a’changin, but I think ol’will would have to be pleased.

gee, does anyone know someone with a birthday?

Yep, it’s that time of the year again. I have the unique benefit of my two best friends celebrating their birthdays one day apart. (Nov. 5th is Shelby, Nov. 6th is Lori) and normally I’m running around, trying to compose birthday greetings, looking for presents, a little bit stressed because I want to be fair to both. Last year was easy because Lori went up to celebrate Shelby’s 40th in NC (along with a gob of other people). And this year Shelby is headed to Hot’lanta. And, yeah, guess I’m just going to have to call. Not that calling is bad, it’s just not being there. Do you know how much fun I would have in my hometown, with those two, on their birthday weekend? Too much, that I know. The kind of fun I wouldn’t be able to blog about. Prince of Wales for Shelby’s and the Highlander for Lori’s. Tomato mop at one and cheese tater-tots at the other. Life affirming hangovers for both.

Oh well, next year ladies.

Happy (early) birthdays to two of the best people I’ve had the fortune to know, understand, grow with and love. Thank you both for your ears, shoulders, voices and hearts. Now poor a glass of wine and know I’m there, just here.