Milan and Turin

Garbage was strewn all over my apartment this morning. The Sherlock Holmes in me deduced from the tipped over garbage can that Tom Sawyer had struck again. I have a cat who applies Yin and Yang to my life by being both demonic and saintly. A friend was picking me up at 8, so I didn’t have time to clean up the spoils of Tom Sawyer’s midnight garbage raid. I got dressed, and quickly drank some microwaved coffee. Then I broke my mug by trying to set it down without looking and misjudging where the bedside table was. It was my mug from Thessaloniki, thankfully an unessential Starbucks mug, but still, a mug that reminded me of one of my favorite cities. I’ll have to go back and get another one.

Over breakfast, my friend and I talked about our recent travels. I went to Milan, Verona, and Turin. She went to Sri Lanka. We had very different, but equally exciting adventures. She saw elephants and water buffalo, I saw art. She went hiking in nature, I went hiking around museums. Italy was revitalizing. In my normal, day-to-day life, I put pressure on myself to create art, but in Italy I was reminded that just looking at art is a creative act in and of itself. 

In Italy, I drank delicious red wine, ate ravioli stuffed with artichoke, ate tiramisu, and twice had the pleasure of talking with two smart and handsome men. Their names were Jacob, pronounced Yacob in Danish, and Livio. We had delightful conversations about books and traveling. In Turin, I relished the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life. Who knew that pumpkin and gorgonzola would be a match made in heaven? The restaurant is called “Ad Hoc Pizza” in Turin. I must voyage back to that pizza restaurant and, while I’m there, go back to the Cinema Museum, which was the highlight of the trip. Milan was fabulous for the opera and the Brera Museum, but Turin was the homerun I needed to win the game. The Cinema Museum cast a magic spell over me that lasted for days. The spell from the opera, although I’d wanted to go to La Scala for years, wore off after a couple hours. I think if I had gone to a more serious opera, I would have felt differently, but I just went to a silly, comedic opera with an unremarkable storyline: Pervy old man marries chaste young girl who steals all his money. At least the costumes and the flying 50s convertible were cool.

This talk of Italian opera led to another kind of opera: soap opera. My friend and I both feel like we’re stuck in one. People around us create petty drama and try to suck us in. I know I didn’t audition for any soap opera, and what’s more, I can’t act. So how did I get into this mess? I suppose the best course is to avoid all drama. That’s one mess I can successfully ignore. The mess made by my cat is one I had no choice but to clean up. For the rest of the day, I felt lightheaded and sick to my stomach. Apparently, the pollution today was much worse than usual, and it may have taken a toll on my health. I drank tea, slept, and because I don’t feel well enough to do anything else, wrote this blog entry. I will sleep now and hope I feel better in the morning.  

Letter to Juliet

Verona is such a gorgeous city; it's hard to imagine anyone finding reason to quarrel here. Well, unless a couple shoved in front of a hungry American traveler at a busy restaurant and they got seated, not her. That actually happened. Lunch, especially lunch in Italy, should be a time of comfort, a cease-fire situation, but no, today lunch was a battlefield and the pushy couple triumphed. That's probably how the feud between the Montagues and the Capulets got started. The Capulets cut in line at a restaurant and the Montagues said, "Oh, hell no."

Okay, I didn't actually fight the couple for getting between me and my gnocchi, although I did think about it. I actually just left the restaurant, passing the tourist frenzy under Juliet's balcony and went for a quiet walk by myself along the water, away from all the commotion. Tourism is at its peak right now. Restaurants were packed and gelato shops had lines snaking around the block. When I finally found a place where I could sit down and order something to eat, almost everything was sold out. I ate a sub-par panini and thought a day trip to Bologna, a town renowned for its food, might be in order. I can't imagine having my appetite disappointed in Bologna.

Anyway, I know from watching romantic comedies that it's tradition for women to come to Verona and write letters to Juliet. I don't usually ask 13-year-old girls for advice about my love life, or any aspect of my life for that matter. But if I did write a letter, it might go something like this:

Dear Juliet,

I packed light on this trip and didn't bring my laptop. That means I'm currently writing this blog entry on my phone. It's so annoying! How do teenagers use just their thumbs to type? And don't even get me started on autocorrect! I mean, really! You're 13, so maybe you are privy to the thinking of today's teenagers, even though you died young because of some miscommunication and your body has been entombed for hundreds of years. Well, today there was a slight miscommunication and it shook my confidence a little. Confidence is key because I'm going to La Scala tomorrow night and if I'm not confident, I won't enjoy myself as much. So this evening I was on the train heading back to Milan. I asked some unresponsive Europeans if I could sit next to them and when they said nothing, I said, "I'll take that as a yes!" It suddenly occurred to me that they may not have responded because I was a first class interloper. Before I could move to the cheap seats, where I should have been sitting, a conductor came and asked to see my ticket. He made me pay the difference and when he disappeared down the aisle, my head filled with worry. I thought, "I must look poor. That's how he knew I'm not first class. What if my dress isn't suitable for the opera? What if I look like some American slob who stuffed a semi-fancy dress in her carry on luggage?"

Pretty silly, right? I mean, he obviously was just checking the seats that were supposed to be empty. Sometimes my inner monologues sound like the hysterical ramblings of a 13-year-old girl. No offense. Okay, writing on my phone is driving me crazy. I will write more once I have my laptop. I'm pretty sure your advice will be to stop being so class-conscious and to put on my magical confidence cloak before I go to the opera. I will do that.

Sincerely,

Meriwether

Down the Rabbit Hole

Trying to teach full time while taking online classes is like playing the accordion with no musical training. I thought I might accomplish something on par with the Amelie soundtrack and I ended up with pandemonium, aggravation at my habit of biting off more than I can chew, and a tremendous headache. At least online classes have finished and I can take some life lessons from Elwood P. Dowd, the fictional character in one of my favorite plays/films, Harvey. The theater department at my school recently put on their own production of Harvey. The theater teacher asked me to paint a portrait of the student who plays Elwood P. Dowd and his imaginary friend from whom the play derives its name. A substantial part of the play's humor depends on the portrait. I knew this from having watched the film starring Jimmy Stewart, so the great responsibility of my job was not lost on me. I already had so much going on, but I can't say no to painting one of my favorite characters and his imaginary friend rabbit. I think the painting turned out pretty good and the play turned out even better. As I watched the show, I realized that Elwood P. Dowd possesses the most important character trait: kindness. Even in stressful times, even when his own sister tries to commit him to a mental institution, Elwood P. Dowd remains kind and sees the best in everybody. I have to remember to be more like him.

On a side note, I was watching interviews with David Bowie because he is another person I decided to take life lessons from. In one interview he admits to having a large rabbit follow him around. I noticed as he was talking that the design on the wall behind him looks like two rabbit ears. Coincidence? Maybe hallucinating rabbits is the key to happiness.

Do you have a life?

I took one look at the Egyptian flag and pyramid souvenir dangling from the rear-view mirror and with a hint of sarcasm I asked the cab driver where he was from. As he passionately replied, “I’m from Egypt!” I remembered sarcasm doesn’t translate in this part of the world. I let my eyes take in the eclectic taxi décor: the orange shag seat covers, the plastic mats on the floor with colorful flashing lights. Prior to getting into the cab, I had felt a bit woozy and worried I might be carsick. Now the flashing lights added to that anxiety. Everyone all around me seems to be getting sick: students, co-workers, friends, neighbors. So far, I’ve been young and healthy enough to only become briefly and sporadically infected. The taxi driver asked me where I was from and when I answered, “America,” he cheered, perhaps thinking an American woman in the backseat would perk up the atmosphere of his already pimpin’ ride. “Las Vegas!” he added. “I’m not that kind of American,” I told him.

He asked me if I liked music and handed me a thin cable, which I gathered I was supposed to plug into my phone. “I need to listen to your music,” he said intensely, which made me laugh.  I clicked on my “Chill” playlist and Simon and Garfunkel’s “America” came on. The driver managed to politely veil his disappointment. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, trying to ignore the flashing lights that were clashing with my chill vibe. When that song finished, Barbara Lewis’ “Hello Stranger” came on. “So romantic,” the taxi driver commented.

Then he asked me something profound and personal: “Do you have a life?” I laughed again, thinking it was my slow, sentimental taste in music that inspired this question. “I have a small life,” I responded. For the rest of the ride, I pondered if the life I’m currently living truly qualifies as “a life.” I’m working harder than ever. I’m learning a lot. I have sparse time to work on my own creative projects. I ran a 10k last month. Is that a life? Maybe I should invest in some flashing lights and shag carpets.

I went home to put on makeup. I was going to hang out with a male friend. Knowing I had a social engagement made me feel that I did indeed have some semblance of a life. But then he cancelled. He’s sick. Before experiencing my small fleeting flu symptoms, I had been privately mocking all the people whining that they were “sick.” But apparently, there’s a serious bug going around. Let’s hope some other bugs make the rounds, like the “Not working so hard” bug, the “Sleeping through the night” bug, or the “Time to read and write for pleasure” bug. Then I could answer the question, “Do you have a life?” with an emphatic “Abso-(explitive)-lutely.”

If You Build It . . .

I have a running buddy! Getting a running buddy, someone to huff and puff and plod alongside me, seems like just as much of an achievement as the actual running. My running buddy and I ran along the Arabian Gulf today. Her stopwatch beeped every five minutes and then one minute after that, our signal to run and then walk. While running, she told me about something interesting her driver told her. He speculated that the reason Kuwait hasn’t developed its infrastructure as much as Doha, Dubai, or Abu Dhabi is because, until Saddam Hussein was killed, Kuwaitis were always afraid that Iraq might invade again and destroy everything they had built. I’ll have to ask a Kuwaiti if this is true, if that fear of impending doom and having their work erased is etched onto the Kuwaiti psyche. After our lovely run on the waterfront, I walked home and gazed at all the old buildings--buildings that maybe existed before Iraq invaded in 1990. I suddenly felt a connection with Kuwait that I hadn’t felt before, as if deep down we shared some vulnerability.

I’m in a constant state of development, as a teacher, writer, and human being. But I came to Kuwait for a specific kind of development--professional development. I came to receive training and experience teaching the International Baccalaureate Curriculum, also known as IB. Developing ourselves can be daunting, especially if we have or have ever had unsupportive people in our lives. I can say with certainty that there have been people who would take sheer pleasure in toppling any sand castle I created. I’m going to venture a guess that most of us have some version of Saddam Hussein in our heads, something from our past that casts doubt on the durability of whatever we are trying to achieve. It could be some discouraging words heard once that somehow turned into a recording that our brain just decides to play every now and then. It could be a jealous person who tried to sabotage your success, so they could look superior. Whatever the Saddam Hussein demon in our closet is, we need to shoo it away and build. We need to better ourselves. (I’m thinking of Mr. Mushnik in Little Shop of Horrors telling some girls loitering outside his plant shop to better themselves. Their response: “Better ourselves? Mister, when you from Skid Row, ain’t no such thing.” Sometimes we get in these Skid Row mindsets where bettering ourselves seems futile. (In any case, I think we can all agree that Little Shop of Horrors is a great film.) 

I would love it if Kuwait built some overpasses, so I didn’t have to fear for my life while crossing the street. Oh, and a big, used bookstore would be great. That’s all I need. I am happy in my apartment and my school. I’ve decorated my apartment with my framed art, Turkish lamps, Turkish carpets and pillows. I’m currently writing this while sitting on my comfy couch and sipping hot chocolate. I don’t know how long I will stay in Kuwait, at least two years, maybe three, maybe four. That depends on my level of fulfillment, which is still yet to be determined. Even if I don’t stay beyond my two-year contract, I am glad I invested in decorating my apartment and making myself at home. I’ll just go ahead building everything to last, as if everything is durable and nothing can destroy my work. I’ll build my career with new challenges. I’ll build my writing life with ambitious projects that I finish before the nagging voices keep me from reaching the end. My apartment is already complete, and I should probably stop decorating, lest I end up living in a cluttered apartment. But my life can be prolonged with exercise, which I did today. Nothing lasts forever, but let’s not let a fear of an outsider tearing us down keep us from doing what we love to do. 

My cozy living room