Jan Peppler HOME
Exploring Our Connection to People and Place
Some things are the same
I’ve had a headache for 2 days. Maybe three. Time is a bit of a blur, marked only by the light outside.
I can’t tell if it’s tension or sinus. Probably both. Ibuprofen doesn’t touch it. Yoga feels great but doesn’t bring relief. Nor does acupressure. No doubt too much sugar and not enough magnesium. I’ve been rationing my magnesium. It wasn’t really enough to get me through six full weeks and now it needs to last… (how long??)
I tried buying vitamins from the farmacia (local drug store). Yeah, okay, so this is how that went: Fiber is vanilla flavored psyllium. The kind you mix with water and try to chug before it reaches the consistency of sand sludge. Yuck yuck yuck. (My 3-year old screams, “YUUUCK!!!”) But I’m an adult, so I bought it. Then I asked for Vit D, which came in a single dose liquid of 50,000 IU. For 8 euros. I bought that too. Finally, Vitamin A. Only comes in suppositories. I declined.
So… I got online and ordered from VitaCost. An extra $29 for FedEx shipping seemed like a small price to pay. It was. Then came the phone call from customs in Italy, and the emails. Eight pages of completed forms were required, along with another 40 euros. At least the customs man was very nice. Even when I only paid .40 euros – whoops!! Was pretty sure as of yesterday that my package would be with me today. Nope. This morning FedEx texted me. I need to pay another 29 euros. I haven’t responded. I will. Just need a moment.
I made a video two days ago to assure you that I am fine, still positive, still smiling. Only I can’t get it to load to Facebook or to my blog. I still can’t get my blog to look right. My federal tax return, received electronically by the Feds on 2/14, is still being processed. AT&T failed to provide me international service (causing me to purchase a TIM card instead), but still charged me and won’t stop charging me until I’m back in the States. I’m accustomed to using chemical-free products, sans artificial scents (dish soap, hand soap, detergent…), which I can’t find here. And yes, despite loving solitude, I’m going a bit stir-crazy. So yeah, just like you, I’ve got frustrations.
I wish I had oatmeal. Funny, because I’ve never liked oatmeal. But I found a bag in one of the empty apartments (a bit like Goldilocks) and I’ve eaten it every day. The perfect comfort food. I figured out how to make it without it becoming gummy and gooey. Topped with banana and strawberries, a dollop of honey, and a milk floater on top. SO good! It became the perfect way to start my day. Only, now, I’m out. And the stores don’t carry it. I’ve been to five. Also wish I had mint tea, kale (yes, kale), my zoodle maker, and my hand blender for making pureed soup. And turmeric and ginger. Ah, the luxuries of my life in the States!
Do I have any reason to complain about any of this? Absolutely not. It is what it is, and I’ll get through it. As will you. The bulk of my frustrations? Same as always. The same things for which I am grateful and typically take for granted: technology, bureaucracy, having what I want when I want it. First world problems. (Not that I’m grateful for bureaucracy, but I do appreciate government and providers of services – when they work properly. And can we really call this first world problems? These are the frustrations of the privileged, wherever you live.)
I can’t imagine that you’re interested in any of this, but you’ve been asking, so I’m sharing. Maybe it helps to know I’m going through the same things you are. We’re all in this together.
The sun is still shining up in the sky, behind the clouds. A man just drove by with gloves on, texting on his phone. Oranges are still sweet and satisfying.
Some things, my friends, are still the same. Wherever you are.
More than Statistics
I don’t know how to write this post. I’ve been sad all weekend. My heart is heavy.
It’s a bit surreal to be in Italy when the numbers of infection are rising in the States. The numbers have now surpassed Italy. Significantly. Exponentially. Over 142,000 cases in America; over 98,000 in Italy.
Three weeks ago, you were all so very worried about me. Ten days ago, I decided to stay in the heart of the epidemic, rather than risk returning home. I still believe staying was the right thing to do. It is safer for me to stay put. I knew this virus was coming to the States. And it has. The first wave has arrived. You’re in the thick of it now. Everyone I know is in quarantine. Some of you still have the ability to take a ride in your car or on your bike or stroll on the streets. Seriously – I’m not kidding – my chest contracts every time I hear this or see your photos. I’m glad you’re able to still enjoy these privileges. At the same time … at the same time… I really want you to stay home. It’s like watching a Halloween horror film when you know Jason is waiting but the other characters have no clue. Only this isn’t a movie and you aren’t actors. This is real. And it’s about to get worse.
You know how you know something intellectually and so you think you know it? Goodness, that has happened so many times in my life. And then something happens, and suddenly you know that thing viscerally. It’s no longer a knowing in your head. Now you know it in your body. Now it’s a physical knowing. Very different. Very, very, different. If this has ever happened to you, you know what I mean. If it hasn’t, I can’t explain it.
I knew the virus would hit the States and it was going to be awful. But honestly, it didn’t occur to me that people I know would die. It all seemed, somehow, very analytical. Matter of fact. Devoid of any emotion except concern. Statistical.
No longer. My former home, where I lived for 14 years, a place I love dearly, filled with people who are so special to me, is now a hot spot.
People I love are going to die.
Friends of mine are already mourning friends.
I think maybe I’m in a premature mourning. Premature, yes, that’s what I’ve been thinking. Yes, I’ve read the articles about grief at this time in history. Yes, I’ve been looking at my emotions analytically, through my dreams, and more. That’s why I finally decided to post these thoughts to the blog: it’s one way for me to own these feelings. To sit with them, uncomfortable and messy as they are. Even if they are socially unfavorable. Let’s face it: no one wants to talk about death.
Again, there are so many things I could say. How death isn’t a stranger to me. Actually, I know it pretty damn well. And I honestly believe nothing – no one, no living thing – ever dies. We merely change form. But you know what? It never gets easier. You think it will, but it doesn’t. Not if every death is personal, not if you allow yourself to connect. If it’s statistical, sure, that’s a bit better. It’s still a sucker punch, particularly in larger numbers. But when it’s personal… My heart is bleeding for every medical worker on the front lines right now. Every nurse, every doctor, every EMT – every single person who is dealing with this face to face every single day. Man, I was there during HIV/AIDS. That was brutal. But this – I never thought I’d say this, could never imagine having a reason to say this – this is worse.
And I won’t be there. I won’t be in my country.
And if I were in the states, what good could I do? I would still be at a distance. Unable to be with the people I love. Sadly, that’s the truth of it. For the first time, I truly feel so very far away. More than that, I feel like a traitor. Like I traded my own safety to be here alone instead of being there with you. It didn’t matter to me when it was just about me. Of course I’m fine alone. Yes, I’m riding waves of emotions, but that’s not new to me. Only, now I am no longer an observer. I am no longer an American trying to understand what is happening in Italy. I am an American separated from my friends. Now it’s about us. Am I in this with you or not?
Early this morning someone very dear to me wrote and told me how she is unbelievably fatigued. So inexplicably tired. From the news, she thinks. Yes, I think she is right. And then suddenly I remember.
The last time I felt this way was when Princess Diana died. And then, a few days later, Mother Teresa. It was an odd thing, this collective grief. A vibrational wailing, echoing across oceans. Different from anything else, different even from AIDS. The grief from AIDS was staggering. The grief from the passing of two great women was penetrating. Like a light had been blown out. And still, it was not this.
Now all the grief in Italy catches up to me. The photos of caskets filling churches. Obituaries filling page after page. The fear. Like an unexpected wind, fiercely pushing against my body, I am struggling to stay erect as I straddle between two countries. My eyes are wet and facing west.
What I thought was premature is, in fact, here. We are all mourning. Each of us. In various stages. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Some even still in denial. What will acceptance feel like, I wonder?
A new world. A new beginning.
But I’m not there yet. And I suspect, neither are you.
Who’s in Charge in This Crisis?
In the wee hours of the morning, I had a dream that something had happened and the President was no longer in charge. I was in the middle of learning something – trying to learn something – when it was announced on TV that __?___ was taking the presidential oath of office. Who? I didn’t catch the name. It wasn’t the Vice President or Nancy Pelosi, no, in fact it was someone like 6 levels down on the chain. I woke up, scribbled down this much that I could remember, and then wrote, “What the hell is going on? Who’s in charge?”
There’s a lot of us asking that question these days. We’re having trouble sleeping. Anxiety is running high.
This isn’t about supplies. Last week when there was a nationwide run on toilet paper, I noted what seemed like an obvious metaphor: our panic could be an indicator that collectively and individually we are afraid that everything is going to shit. Sure, that may sound funny. Only, it’s not. The fear is real. Buying tp was our only form of control, our way of doing the one thing we could do to be prepared.
Now that most of our normal activities have stopped and we are sheltering in place, many of us alone, the anxiety is only increasing. The term “social distancing” isn’t helping. It amplifies our isolation, both real and perceived.
Those who are doubling down on “everything is ok, people are over-reacting” are possibly the most afraid. Their response is just another way of trying to control something so clearly out of control. This is human nature. We all do it, in some form or another. Some of us are baking bread, a metaphor for nourishment, providing that which can sustain us. Others are praying, believing in something greater than ourselves to intervene.
We’re looking for answers. For trust-worthy information. For assurances we’re going to be okay. All the while a voice inside is screaming, “What the hell is going on? Who’s in charge?”
The Jungian approach to dream analysis is to consider every character in the dream as an aspect of our self. So, who is the 6th line of succession to the president? The Secretary of Defense. Now that’s kinda interesting, don’t you think? At least in relation to my dream. Who’s in charge? Who’s taking the presidential oath to lead me and the country during this pandemic? The one who’s job it is to protect our nation from harm. If that’s an aspect of myself, then I am calling on my own innate ability as a defense leader to protect myself and others; to protect and lead our country.
In my dream, this news flash occurred as I was trying to learn something. What? It wasn’t clear, I couldn’t remember when I awoke. Maybe it was this: the lesson was learning to be a leader.
Here’s the final bit that I find so very interesting: in numerology, the number 6 is associated with home. Not only the dwelling and all corresponding aesthetics, but also family. Family is always another aspect of home. Six is home and family wrapped up together in harmony, beauty, and interdependence. The person being called to lead in my dream is the one in charge of protecting the most important place to me, the place where I reside, where love resides. (Now for any militia pro-gun enthusiasts, I can only say this: home is the dwelling place of the soul. It’s more than the place or people or things. Soul cannot be protected with guns. And a virus can’t be killed with a bullet.)
Here we are, quarantined in our homes. Safe in our homes. Our homes are presently the best line of defense against this epidemic.
So, who’s in charge? We are. Each of us.
We are protecting not only ourselves but each other and our country when we stay home. We are being called into service, asked to take the highest oath in this land, one of leadership and defense, to ensure we all get through this crisis safely.
Some of us won’t. There are going to be casualties. There are already and the numbers are growing.
I implore you. Embrace the wise and calm leader within. Do the right thing. Take the oath and stay home. You’re in charge. What kind of leader are you going to be?
Now That We’re All Home and Cooking
I ate an entire box of cookies today. To my credit, it wasn’t all in one sitting. It took me a good 7 hours to go through that box. That’s reasonable, right? Ok, so I also had three Ferrero Rocher chocolates and two glasses of wine during the same 7 hours. And dinner. I did make dinner. From scratch. Not that that’s saying a lot. (Or maybe it is.)
I’ve been thinking a lot about food these days. Probably most of us are. Once you got past the panic of whether you had enough toilet paper to last you through quarantine, you probably started wondering if you had enough food. I’ve seen some fun posts about clearing out your pantries and trying to figure out what you can make with an excess of beans. I laughed at a friend who binge-shopped frozen entrees (filling his entire freezer) just before I left the states. He was way ahead of the curve on this apocalypse and I’m definitely not laughing at him now. And then there’s another friend who has finally used his stove after living in his home for… two years. He’s making hard boiled eggs, which is always a good place to start after learning how to boil water. 😉 All jokes aside, I think we’re ALL in a completely new relationship with food these days.
Ah, but in Italy, food is practically a religion. Some of you know I was once married to an Italian. And my mother-in-law (or more accurately, mother-in-love) was a typical (meaning, great) Italian cook. Only, I couldn’t fully appreciate her cooking because I was a vegetarian then. Twelve years of being a vegetarian and family dinners were rough. I suffered through a LOT of ribbing. But there were two recipes that have always stayed with me and if anyone in the Nania family is reading this blog, I want to say thank you.
The first is spaghetti noodles tossed with ample (and equal) amounts of butter and olive oil. Then sautéed mushrooms, garlic, and broccolini. Season with black pepper and freshly grated parmesan. So simple. And so yummy.
Simpler still: pancake eggs. I was told all those years ago that this was a Depression-era recipe, but I’ve learned since being here that all Italians once ate much more simply. Pasta with ragu (what Americans now consider typical spaghetti) wasn’t common, it was too time consuming and called for too many ingredients. It was saved for special occasions. Noodles and butter and salt, now that was a staple. It was also pretty cheap. As are pancake eggs.
Crack an egg, add some water and whisk well. Then add some flour. Hard to say how much. About a tablespoon, maybe a bit more, but just a little at a time. Keep whisking to get out the clumps. Pour into a pan with melted butter. Cook until the sides curl and it resembles a pancake, then flip it over and sprinkle salt on top. Just like a pancake, you can pretty much tell when it’s done. Flip it again as you transfer it to your plate and add more salt. Prego! Pancake egg. So simple. Surprisingly tasty. And a good way to stretch valuable eggs.
I have a dozen brown eggs in my fridge right now. Gluten-free pasta on the counter with several bulbs of garlic. Plus oatmeal and honey in my cupboard. This all means I’m probably good for two weeks, or at least until this rain subsides, which is forecasted for the next 8 days. As for cookies, at the rate that I’m going, I’m out of luck in less than two. Then it’s back to sticking my finger in the Nutella jar.
So tell me, what are you eating?
My friend Dayle followed my instructions and sent this photo. Said it’s her new favorite thing! 🙂
Blustery Winds, Wet Floors, and a Very Fine Breakfast
My landlord told me high winds were coming. He told me to close and latch the shutters. I didn’t. Not until it was too late.
This morning, out of eggs and running very low on cheese and produce, I made a quick run to the stores. Laden down with bags while trying to maneuver a fragile umbrella, my lower legs wet from cars splashing as they drove by, and my eye glasses foggy from breathing through a rather damp face mask, it occurred to me that shopping in a small Italian town is far more gratifying when the weather is warm and the sun is shining.
Finally home, stripped of my shopping clothes and all my purchases washed by hand (Covid-19 guidelines), freshly showered and my hair carefully dried, I set to the task of breakfast.
Fresh strawberries, ripe bananas, and a bottle of honey in hand, I made myself oatmeal. And then the added delight, the perfect Italian compliment: I made myself espresso. My first espresso in an Italian Moka pot. Now, I must tell you, I don’t drink coffee. Well, rarely, and not much when I do. Decaf mostly, maybe a dollop of caffeine. Here in Italy, however, I’ve imbibed. How can one visit this country and not? And asking for decaf seems a sacrilege. Honestly, I’m not sure it’s even available. So, when I kept bumping into the Moka pot in my cupboard, I almost moved it to a hidden spot. I wouldn’t need it. Ah, but there in the grocery store, with five others waiting in the rain for me to finish my shopping, the coffee called out to me and I couldn’t resist.
Sitting down to this delightful breakfast, all cozy and content, I suddenly realized: there was a puddle the length of my living room. My landlord was right. This building is lovely. And, like most buildings in Italy, it is old. Time to close the shutters. In 43mph winds. Amused at myself, I managed. But not before my hair and my clothes took a beating. Towel-dried and sporting a fresh shirt, I sat down to finish my now cold breakfast. And then I saw it. Another large puddle in the kitchen. Same routine: me hanging out the window, battling the wind to unhook the shutters and pull them tightly closed. Another change of shirt. As for the hair: forget it.
Lesson learned. Always listen to the landlord.
Now it’s dinner time. The wind is relentless. I have a large beach towel propped along the doors of the balcony and another in the kitchen. It’s time for a glass of wine. Tomorrow morning I’ll try again. And maybe, regardless of the weather, I’ll feel a bit more like Goldlilocks with warm porridge in my belly, ready for noonday nap. Because after all, when in Italy, under quarantine…
Coronavirus in Italy, Part 2: Death, Age, and Identity
“These are our great elderly who are dying. That they should go like this, it’s deeply unjust.” [1]
According to statista.com, as of last night there are now almost 60,000 reported cases of Covid-19 in Italy. 74% of those infected are over the age of 50. Read that again. Let that sink in. Almost three-fourths are age 51 or older. 36% are over the age of 70.
“These are our great elderly who are dying.”
Meanwhile, in the United States, there’s a new coronavirus hashtag trending: #BoomerRemover. Young people are making light of people 55 and over dying. Another post I read said, “Well at least this will help our Social Security!”
I can only hang my head.
In the States, we hide our elderly. We are embarrassed by them. We’re embarrassed for them. That they should have the great misfortune of growing old, and before that, looking old, well, that’s… so sad. We are a nation of Dorian Grays. We don’t want to be reminded of aging. We equate aging with death. We avoid it. We run the other way. We put the aged in homes. Others, in better shape, are encouraged to enjoy retirement communities. Keep them together, the thinking goes, and they’re better off, among their peers. With professionals to care for them, in case something should happen, call us only in an emergency.
Age has everything to do with our national identity, both in Italy and in the United States. Americans are young. Our concept of beauty is the innocent child, the pubescent girl, stripped of hips and pubic hair, with pouty lips and an unbrushed mane. But in Italy, a nation of adults, children are pretty and woman are beautiful. It is the adult woman that is idealized: her beautiful curves, full breasts, thick legs, a little paunch in her belly. Bikinis are not just for “perfect” bodies, they are for every body, thick and thin, large and small, young and old. Age is beautiful. The best things in Italy are old. The art, the music, the literature. The churches, the buildings, the ruins. Life is built upon the long lives of others. The beauty of the past is the beauty of the present. Age connects us to the future; it is the reward of more to come.
In the States, we tear down buildings regularly. In Italy, they repurpose. They embrace their past with pride. Structures stand empty and crumbling between others housing families and shops. Layers exposed underneath modern facades are part of their charm. The colors come from the weathering of time: shades of brown, shades of the sun. The streets are still cobbled from centuries past. Greek temples are now churches. The Coliseum and the ancient city still stand in the very center of Rome.
Independence is intrinsic to the American identity. It’s the heart of our origin story and a rite of passage for the young. Autonomy. Freedom! We crossed an ocean to be on our own and waged two long wars in our new home to fight being told what we could or could not do. 400 years later and we’re still distancing from our parental figureheads as quickly as we can. We start our own lives, we move out, we move away. Until rather recently, for over 100 years, the average age for leaving our parent’s home was twenty.[2] Some of us see our folks regularly, but whether that’s once a week or a few times a year, varies.
But in Italy, children live with their parents, on average, into their thirties.[3] And when they move out, they still live close by, maybe even in the same building. Parents are consulted in everything, Mamma is always present and Nonna is a matriarch: the head of the family, the center of Italian life.
Mom. I have an entire chapter in my book focused on Mom. She is, quite literally, our very first home. Her influence on our young lives forever shapes our experience of home as adults. Both the good and the bad. In the States, Mom isn’t always the center of the family, the nurturer, the keeper of the hearth. That ideal was popularized in Leave it to Beaver and even on Rosanne, but the truth is more complicated. As a nation of adolescents, we don’t always embrace the mother archetype. We focus on ourselves over our kids. Our careers over our family. The love is still there, only the focus is different. Think Cher in Mermaids. Or Harry Chapin’s classic song, Cat’s in the Cradle. We care, but… Let’s face it: we don’t value our teachers or our childcare workers. We pay them next to nothing, barely livable salaries, and we don’t fund our schools. Our children die in mass shootings and guns are the second leading cause of death among American kids[4] but we don’t change gun laws because the rights of an adult to own firearms is a higher priority than children’s lives.
But in Italy, family always comes first. The children, the parents, the grandparents, uncles and aunts and cousins. Family is the center of Italian life. Last week in New Jersey, coronavirus struck an Italian American family, killing four, including 73-year-old Grace Fusco, mother of 11, grandmother of 27. The New York Times reporter writes, “The virus’s devastating toll on a single family is considered as rare as it is perplexing.”[5] Not perplexing at all. Not to an Italian. This nonna’s large family joined her every Sunday for dinner. I can see it all now. So many hugs and kisses, hugs and more kisses, hands held, and hands patted on cheeks. The passing of platters, up and down the table and round and round again, all while talking, loud conversations and laughter, hands meeting hands, hands touching everything, bellies being filled, and hearts expanding. I can hear them, their voices still ringing. (Italians, as you know, can be loud.) But now, everything is silent. There is only mourning.
This is the great fear in Italy. Quarantining alone is antithetical to the Italian way of life. There is no alone. People my age and younger worry. “If I get it, okay, but what about my parents? Mia famiglia, miei genitori…”
In Italia, i genitori are revered. They are the keepers of tradition. The wise ones. The soul of the country. The heart and hearth of every family. Nothing comes above family, except God. The family is synonymous with Italian identity. What is home? I ask Italians. And always the same response, always: it’s Mamma. Madre. Home is wherever Mom is. And what if Mamma dies? Then home is where the rest of the family is, rooted in the soil like the olive trees. There will always be more elders, more aunts, more uncles, to ground a person to place. But they are meant to pass only after we ourselves have aged. And if they die too soon, prematurely, what is this nation to do?
With the elders at risk in Italy, all are at risk. I nonni are Italy’s past, present, and future. With each one that dies, a part of Italy dies. A piece of the Italian soul goes with them.
Italians are staying home. For themselves, their families, their country.
Please, America, do the same.
[1] https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/europe/coronavirus-obituaries-bergamo-italy/2020/03/16/6c342f02-66c7-11ea-b199-3a9799c54512_story.html
[2] https://liberalarts.utexas.edu/prc/_files/pdf/workingpapers/00-01-01.pdf
[3] https://www.boredpanda.com/young-adults-moving-from-parents-age-data/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic
[4] https://www.thetrace.org/2019/08/children-teens-gun-deaths-data/
[5] https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/18/nyregion/new-jersey-family-coronavirus.html
Coronavirus in Italy, Part 1: Understanding What’s Different About America
Another 793 people died in Italy yesterday. 627 the day before. A total of 53,578 cases nation-wide. Over 6,000 people have recovered and 2,857 are listed as critical. So many numbers. Numbers that equal lives.
A week ago when Italy declared a lockdown on the country, quarantining everyone to their homes, someone asked in a chat group, “Why is it so dramatic in Italy?” Honestly, it’s dramatic everywhere. This pandemic is unprecedented.
And yes, there is something different about Italy. It’s not just the sheer number of people infected and dying, it’s who is dying.
But it’s difficult to understand another nation until we understand our own. Before discussing Italy, we need to first look at the U.S.
The United States is still young. So very young; an adolescent in so many ways. We are every teenager who is so sure they know more than their parents, who thinks anyone over thirty is so ooold. We are enamored with youth. We think we’re hip and cutting edge. All our ideas are brilliant and unique. We’re cocky and dramatic. Everything is drama. Ordinary lives have become theatre for the masses, not as a tool for learning—for understanding our frailty and humanity—but purely for entertainment. We’re the kids who squirm at sex scenes but want to see more. Who fall in love and then give back the ring after a cute new kid transfers into our class. We read Shakespeare only when forced and then laugh at the funny language. History is cool but just when it relates to the young. We’re nostalgic for the 50’s, when rock-n-roll was ‘invented,’ and the 1970’s, when everything was ‘groovy.’
We eschew the wisdom of elders. We roll our eyes at warnings and instructions. We laugh at other people’s pain. Pranks are a national pastime. We bully. We demand things our way. The customer is always right and we have the money, so of course we’re right, now give us what we want. Me First. First in line, always in front. Unless we’re in the back cuz we’re too cool for all that. But then we’re angry if you ignore us.
It’s no coincidence that our President is a man-child who throws tantrums on Twitter. Retreating to his room, he laments his suffering and outrage in his diary. Except his diary isn’t private. He doesn’t want it to be private. Neither do we. We want to see, we want to read, we want to make fun. Nothing is more entertaining to kids than teenagers. Especially when they squirm. It makes us feel better, so much stronger and wise.
Of course, this isn’t 100% true. There are still adults in the room. Only, we’re not listening. As a nation, we don’t respect authority. Robert Bly wrote about this in The Sibling Society, all the way back in 1996, and it’s more relevant today than ever. Sure, we’ve matured a bit. We’re teenagers, after all, no longer kids. We passed the Civil Rights Act (and others), we elected a black president. At the same time, we’ve become more clever and cunning, not so easily persuaded or deceived. Just like teenagers. We found loopholes to skirt the rules. We discovered more creative ways to hide our activities, while simultaneously flaunting our rebelliousness. Even as more of us attend college, we laugh at degrees, positions, and titles. We broadcast our opinions as if they were facts and expect to be respected for what we think but haven’t studied. The only thing that matters is money. Money and fame. Money buys anything. Money makes us important. And fame is reserved primarily for the young, the newest hot “thing,” (because fame is a commodity). We listen to people in front of the camera regardless of their talent or lack of it—but not those reporting the news, historical news outlets are so old-school and the reporters are too old to be trusted. We listen to people with money, regardless of how they made it. Like teenagers, we all want to be superstars and play with piles of cash. We’re each living on dreams, playing the lottery to lift us out of poverty, and waiting for our one big break to change our lonely lives.
Of course, we didn’t elect Hillary Clinton in 2016 and we couldn’t fully support Elizabeth Warren this year either. It’s not just that they’re women, it’s that they remind us too much of Mom. And the only thing we hate more than Dad telling us to cut our hair and be home by ten is Mom telling us to zip up our coat, wear a hat, look both ways before crossing the street, and be nice to our friends. See, we can rebel against Dad but Mom, dammit Mom, we love you, we know you care, but you’re just so damn annoying and you’re really cramping our style. Don’t tell us it’s for our best. We’re almost adults, (why can’t you understand that?), and you’re so out of touch. We can take care of ourselves.
Parents say, “Stay home,” and teenagers say, “It’s my life. I’ll do what I want.” Then we rush to the stores and buy more than we need. We panic like children. We scream, “Me! Me first! Me! Me!” And when adults finally step in and enforce a few rules, we act like puppies placed in a crate. We whimper and whine. But worse than puppies, we shout, “This is martial law! You’re taking away our rights!!”
Why is it so dramatic in Italy? It’s dramatic in the States, not in Italy. Americans are the ones being dramatic. The restrictions in Italy are extreme, yes. Unprecedented. But so is this pandemic.
People in Italy are mourning their dead. They are following the rules of quarantine, terrified of this virus spreading. It’s not just the number of people dying but who is dying. The elderly. Tomorrow we’ll explore what this means in my next post: Coronavirus in Italy, Part 2: Death, Age, and Identity.
On a Lighter Note…
I Found Kleenex!
Now, just to be clear, because I wasn’t before, you can find facial tissue in Italy. In small packs. The kind you stuff in your pocket or purse so you don’t look like Grandma with a wad curled up in her sweater sleeve. But those come with plastic packaging. About eight tissues wrapped in plastic, clumped together in packages of six or ten and wrapped in more plastic. I don’t want those, thank you. I’m happy to be like Grandma – or my own mom, for that matter. Like her, when I die, my family will find plenty of tissue wads—clean!—in every purse and every jacket pocket. (But they won’t find money. At least my mother had money mixed in there too.)
I found a BOX of facial tissue! Only one brand, only one choice. Praise be! Course, I had to go to the Supermercati… Honestly, this place is only twice the size as the store on the next block, or the next block over, or the one a block after that. But a different variety. Like I said, they had Kleenex. They also had tomatoes wrapped in plastic (wrong, just wrong).
And gluten-free pasta made from rice and corn! The guy apologized that they only had spaghetti. Are you kidding? I was thrilled. First of all, I really am eating too much gluten. I can feel it. Not cramping, but… ugh. And secondly, it’s made with corn. Now, in the States WAY too much stuff is made with corn. But when it comes to pasta, this is a necessity. It helps the pasta stay firm, al dente. Rice pasta turns to mush. Don’t ever buy rice pasta. You’ll hate it. Trust me on this.
But I digress. You want to know the other wonderful thing I found? Yes, even more wonderful than facial tissue and gluten-free pasta? WINE! Sicilian wine!! In one store, an Amaro – and Italian digestive. Can’t wait to try this. And in another – Five choices! FIVE! I wanted to buy them all, but that’s such an American thing to do. That would be hoarding. It’s only me, alone, drinking. And just for another three weeks. (Theoretically.) I don’t need five bottles of wine, plus the Amaro. So… I bought two. 😉 The first choice, naturally, had to be the one with the label marked “Corleone.” No explanation necessary, right? And the second, a merlot. Now don’t anyone go “Sideways” on me about the merlot. Yes, I’m laughing. Come on, aren’t you just a teeny bit interested in what to know what a Sicilian Merlot tastes like? (I’ll let you know!)
And finally, most importantly, Chocolate! I couldn’t find the Duplo hazelnuts covered in chocolate that I’ve grown to love since being in Italy, so I splurged. Saw this 18-pack of Ferrero Rocher and, despite the hefty $12 tag, I bought it. Drastic times call for drastic measures. And for when I run out of those, I bought Nutella. Have no idea what I’ll spread it on. Wait, silly me. Nutella goes on anything. Like bananas. And spoons.
If you don’t hear from me soon, you can bet I’m in a sugar-induced stupor.
The Ultimatum: Stay or Leave?
The State Department is advising all United States citizens abroad: return home now or stay where you are and wait out this pandemic. If you stay, “you may be forced to remain outside of the United States for an indefinite period of time.”
So, do I stay, or do I return home?
Home. So interesting. This is the subject of my research for many years now. What is home? I wrote my dissertation on this. I was halfway through my book when I arrived in Italy with my latest draft. The psychology of home. The archetype of home. Finding home. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Attachment to place. Imprints from childhood. Mom as our first home. Family as home. The need to leave home. The hero journey that takes us away from home. Leading to, finally, how do we return? What is home when we come back?
The State Department advisory feels like an ultimatum: Come home now or it’s possible you may never. Ever? My mind wanders to the parable of the prodigal son… And the novel by Thomas Wolfe, You Can Never Go Home Again.
I’ve written about what home is to me. Or, at least, I thought I had. About my childhood experiences that left indelible imprints. Grama Baird and the farm in Michigan. My mother, my father, my youth spent in Chicago. My journey to San Francisco, my home as an adult, beginning at age 18. How it all brought me to Idaho, to the Wood River Valley, where I lived for fourteen years, ten of them in Picabo, a town of only six streets.
I tested the theories I had developed in my doctoral work when I traveled through the South, looking for a new place to live, a new place I could call home. I landed in Oklahoma. Yeah, I never saw that coming! But I like Tulsa, I really like it there. It “fits,” it feels right. I’ve felt at home.
And now I’m in Italy. Considering the State Department advisory: come home now or be prepared to stay away indefinitely.
And I keep wondering, why should I return? What does it mean for me to go home? For me to go home now? Two very different questions. So instead, I consider: what do I miss?
My ergonomic pillow. My backyard, which I never used nearly enough. Rubber wine bottle stoppers – the kind that suck the air out of the bottle and keep the wine fresh. A pair of jeans – the green ones removed from my suitcase (I only brought denim capris). One pair of fluffy socks for night while reading. My hot water bottle for sleeping.
Ok, then, what would I have brought with me to make this place feel like home? I think of my things. My art, my books, the tokens on my prayer alter. The few things I kept when I downsized from a three-bedroom house to a one-bedroom apartment. As for all the heirlooms and treasures I sold and gave away, things I had been moving with me for decades, I remember but don’t miss. Even the last few months in Tulsa found me clearing away more things. All things. Things I don’t need. Things I don’t miss.
What do I miss here in Italy? Avocados. Roasted dandelion tea. Cashews.
My own dogs. But then, I missed them in Oklahoma too.
What do I need in the States that I don’t have here? Nothing I can think of. Not my health insurance. Yes, I’m paid up through April, don’t worry. But is it really the best health care in the world? I don’t think so. Not today, it isn’t. And it’s damn expensive. And I rarely use it. Acupuncture, chiropractic, homeopathic, Ayurvedic, nutritional supplements – all the things I regularly use are still out of pocket. And right now, if I really needed it…? Let’s not go down that road. I’m just not convinced it’s worth returning to the States based on that fear.
So, what? What do I need that I don’t have here?
My family and friends. You are all here with me now. How much we converse and spend time together hasn’t really changed. If anything, it’s better. I can’t hug you, that’s true. But then, how often did we embrace? How often did I see you? Not nearly enough. You live in Chicago, in Idaho, and Oklahoma. In Michigan and California. In Wisconsin, Utah, Colorado and Oregon. In Alabama and Georgia. In Texas and Washington, New Mexico and New York. In South Dakota, Ohio, and Minnesota. In Turkey and Greece, Switzerland, Norway, and Germany. And please forgive me if I’m temporarily forgetting some of the places where you are – the point is, we are already miles apart. We’ve been miles apart for many, many years. Our friendship transcends distance. The love that we share and how much we care, well, I’m tearing up now– it lives in every memory, in every meal, every howl of laughter, every thoughtful discussion, every dance, every smile, every discovery, every touch, every misunderstanding, and, in every remembering. Our moments have always been fleeting, never enough. Visits too short, drives too long, plane flights too expensive, days ‘off’ too few. It doesn’t make sense to come back to the States for you. You’re already here.
We are ALL under quarantine now.
And today, my landlord has suddenly returned.
With Rosalia, his very sweet and silent small dog.
So, for now, or however indefinitely, I think I will stay.
(never doubt how much I love you.)*
And just so you know, I am enrolled in the Safe Traveler Enrollment Plan through the U.S. Department of State. I was already enrolled even before the State Department suggested it with their last advisory. My sister is my emergency contact. They have my Italian cell # as well as my email. And that’s as good as it’s gonna get for now. Don’t panic.
* I almost deleted this, as I don’t want to sound corny. But it’s true. And maybe I don’t say it enough. So I’ll say it again: I love you. Thank you for caring.
Quick Video Update
Hey, I’m new to this whole video thing, so this is rough. But at least it’s short! There’s more I would have said, or would have said differently. Point is: there are still 7 states that have not enacted any regulations & restrictions during this pandemic. Sadly, two of them I call home: Idaho and Oklahoma. PLEASE, take this seriously!! Don’t go out. Don’t go to Costco. Don’t go dancing. Don’t go to restaurants. Yes, I want to support them too. I have lots of friends in the restaurant businesses and this is devastating. And, still, STAY HOME!! This is not a hoax and this is not going away anytime soon. It’s not just about protecting yourself, it’s about protecting others. It shouldn’t take laws for us to do the right thing, to care about our neighbors. We are ALL in this TOGETHER! It’s gonna be a long difficult ride – and – I’m sure there will be incredibly good things that come from this too. Never stop believing. Breathe deeply. Read a book. Rest. Learn something new. Be creative. As the saying goes, boredom is just a lack of imagination. And imagination is a muscle that needs exercise. This is your chance. This is a chance for our entire country to get a LOT more creative in how we do things!
I’m thinking about each of you and sending LOTS of LOVE!
20 Observations From 2 Weeks in Italy
- Showers are small. Really small. For one person only. And forget about shaving your legs cuz you can’t bend over. Seriously, at least half the people I know would not be able to turn around in these things, some might even struggle to get in. Heck I struggle to get out! The hotel in Rome had a fancier (and ever so slightly larger) version of the same idea, but really, all the showers are something like 30”x 30”. That, my friends, is small!
- Mattresses are firm. Like, really firm. I like a firm mattress. I’ve slept in five beds in Italy so far and each was really, really, firm. Felt pretty good for the first twelve nights. (are you reading between the lines here?)
- Pillows are flat. If you like fluffy down pillows, or even a generic version of something fluffy, you better bring your own. Luckily, I don’t. Also lucky that I know how to roll up a towel to place under my neck when sleeping. And good thing I sleep on my back. (See “mattresses” above.)
- Space is used very economically. Slider doors with full-length mirrors. Kitchen stoves that convert into counter space. No bulky appliances. Showers (see above). Balconies just wide and deep enough to stand on and accommodate a chair or two and maybe a small table. Americans could learn a lot from this. The “tiny houses” movement is a step in the right direction. But for those of us who still need more room for books (or…pick your favorite hobby and passion), we need more space. But not so much space.
- Rental cars are manual. Mine was five-speed. Thank you, Papa, for teaching me to drive a stick shift on the expressway during rush hour in Chicago. Best skill ever! Next to typing, that is. I’m so glad I took typing as a summer class before high school, about one year before I learned to drive a manual car. Geez, do they even teach typing anymore? For that matter, does anyone learn to drive a stick anymore?
- I’m still freaked out by Vespas. Okay, maybe freaked out is a bit strong. But these things go fast. Sure it looks fabulous for Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, but I will not be riding a Vespa anytime soon.
- Everyone hangs their laundry. Every balcony comes equipped with clothes pins. Even my first apartment had a clothes rack hanging outside of the kitchen window. In hotels, a clothesline reaches three feet from one end of the tiny bathroom to the other. Unless you live in the country or maybe if you have an enclosed backyard, we WASPs definitely have a thing about not wanting folks to see our laundry. Even clean laundry, when hanging outside, is somehow considered “dirty.” It’s too private, too personal. Or maybe too closely associated with poverty. But not here. Even underwear is hung to dry in the breeze. Of course, this also has to do with #4: Economical Use of Space.
- Bath towels are LARGE. I mean, beach towel size. Now, this cracks me up because remember what I said about the showers? People here are generally not that big. The towels seem disproportionate to the size of the showers and even the size of the bathrooms. But maybe the real question is, why are our standard towels so small in the States? I mean, really, why?? We are so generous with space, we super-size everything, and yet the standard towel in the store and in hotels is barely big enough for a teenager. WHY???
- Kleenex doesn’t exist. Okay, maybe it’s somewhere in Italy, but I haven’t seen it. I’ve had allergies since I was seven. Even on good days, I still blow my nose. Recently, I’ve had a little drip. Not a cold, not allergies. Just a drip. This is the same reason I’m not good at cross-country skiing (or any winter sports): Every few minutes I have to stop and wipe my nose. So naturally, facial tissue is a staple in my home. Like, in every room. But not here. Only toilet paper. It’s a bit unsettling to use the same paper (albeit soft) that I use to wipe my butt to also wipe my nose. But I’m acclimating.
- Spices are hard to come by. At least here in Balestrate, where I’m finally cooking. The only thing I can find on the shelves is salt. Lots and lots of salt. Black pepper is a distant second. Then fennel. Who cooks with fennel? Am I missing something? I was super lucky to finally find red pepper flakes. Huge score! And luckily, there’s one place that sells fresh basil (basilico). So, when in Italy… use garlic! Lots and lots of garlic. Garlic in everything. I know, antibacterial and antiviral properties. Ok, so much for ayurvedic protocol. I’m on the Mediterranean diet now!
- Produce shops are full-service. Like a full-service gas station, except that these days this only means someone pumps your gas. In Italy, they pump your gas. They also pick your produce. I’ve been scolded twice over this. The shop owner, an older woman, waving her fingers and shaking her head at me. First it happened over the mushrooms, so I was smart enough to not try picking my own zucchini. But the oranges, I figured were safe game. No! A sharp reprimand, more shaking and waving. This is a weird thing for an American. Not being able to pick and choose for oneself. Basically antithetical to the American way – we’re all about choices. But ok, at least I got oranges.
- Produce tastes better when it’s bought from a small store. Just like when it’s bought from a Farmer’s Market in the States. Freshly harvested food is still bursting with flavor. Unless you’re canning your own vegetables, eat fresh. Slow down. Savor the orange. Stop buying in bulk. Eat what’s in season. (I know this sounds preachy, forgive me. And I know we all have good reasons for buying frozen foods or in bulk. I’m just saying maybe we need to look at those reasons. Maybe our cultural ways of operating need a revision.) Which leads me to…
- Shop small. Bakeries, butchers, newsstands, and more: small shops are wonderful. There is incredible satisfaction shopping in small stores instead of one large supermarket. Supporting individuals who focus their work on what they love, what they do best, and providing what other people need: This is the real heart of community. We’ve been saying this for quite a while now: shop locally. But the truth is deeper. This is how we get to know our neighbors, how we develop relationships with others whose work impacts our lives. When currency crumbles, we will still have this: the ability to share our talents. Not a dollar for dollar kind of bartering but a value exchange of what sustains us emotionally and physically. Sing me a song and I will cook for you. Knit me a scarf and I will massage your shoulders. Oranges for eggs. Tutoring for baked goods. A story for hanging my shelves. Utopian? Maybe. But our current system in the states isn’t working, so why not return to something simpler?
- I love freshly baked goods. Oh my heavens, what a treat to eat a croissant again! And today, I will risk a baguette with prosciutto and cheese. I’ve been gluten-free since 2008. I’m not celiac, but certainly have a profound sensitivity, what I’ve long called, “intense intestinal distress.” When it hits, I’m doubled over in pain. The cramping, bloating, and gas is off the charts. Ah, but in Italy! Every single day I have indulged in a pastry. I am still taking enzymes, probiotics, and prebiotics. But something about the gluten is different here. Now if only I could get my hands on some cannoli!
- Fresh air is a necessity. Even when you can’t go out and walk the streets or stroll in the park. Open your windows. Put on a jacket. If you have a balcony, stand on it. If you have a back yard, sit in it. We all need fresh air. The earth is grateful for this break from all our activity. Slowly, slowly, she is recovering. She needs this rest as much as we do; she is healing. We will too.
- People are people everywhere. Some are nice. Some are enthusiastic. Some look at me with suspicion. Some only mumble a greeting after I cheerily say, “Buongiorno!” Some say nothing at all. Others just turn away. And then, just now, as I’m writing, an old man walking his dog in the train station lot below stops and looks up at me. I wave. He waves back. Meanwhile, my neighbor across the street on her balcony tries to ignore me. And then, as if tuned into my thoughts, another woman walking her dog in the same lot below also looks up at me. I smile and say, “bella cane” (beautiful dog). She smiles. She says, “English?” Her command of the language is less than mine of Italian, but when she asks if I am on holiday, I tell her I am here for four weeks and she is pleased. Very pleased. She smiles brightly and lingers a bit longer while we both watch her dog run in circles. And then she waves and says, “Good-bye!”
- We are not alone. We are never alone. Even when you feel lonely. Reach out. There is way too much technology now to stay isolated. Not globally, not individually. Every single person matters. People want to hear from you. We need to hear from you, from each other. Wave. Smile. Say hello. Stay in touch. Four hundred years ago, John Donne wrote, “No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.” This Me First mentality that has swept the United States needs to stop. We’re all in this together. “Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”
And finally,
18. I really only need 1 pan, 1 pot, 1 plate, 1 bowl, 1 cup, 1 glass, 2 knives, 2 forks, and 1 large wooden spoon. Of course, if you visit, I’ll need double. And if more visit, we can each bring our own supplies.
19. Toilet paper rolls are small. Like smaller than I ever remember seeing in the states, way before “double-roll” became a thing. Really small. Which leads me to my last observation:
20. Bidets. We all need a bidet.
#coronavirusinItaly #americaninItalyduringcoronavirus
#MeToo – Another Lesson Learned During Coronavirus in Italy
Punto! Enough. No more. We’re done. This conversation is over.
It’s the strongest word I know in Italian. And I just wrote it to one of the few Italians I actually know.
I didn’t come to Italy for romance. A few friends said, “Maybe you’ll meet an Italian and stay!” No. Absolutely not. Of course, I would say that and then laugh. If I said it as strongly as I felt it, people would think I was upset. Instead, I tried to be nice in my response, to laugh, smile, brush it off. People in general are often put off by my directness. Maybe because they are first drawn in by my smile. When I am firm in my response, my voice often drops an octave and then people pull back. If I was a different person, I might enjoy that. But I’m a person whose life purpose is to connect. I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to soften my approach. I don’t want people to feel I’m harsh or rude or unkind.
Anyway, I didn’t come to Italy for romance. No secret hopes of a chance meeting that leads to falling in love. No brief and exciting escapade that ends up in bed with a dark, handsome, man. No. Definitely not interested. That’s not what I want. I’m not ruling out the chance that someday I may fall in love again – but at the moment, that’snot what I’m looking for. I LOVE my life. I love being single. And, in the States, I think I’ve finally learned how to navigate this status. I think.
The #MeToo movement has helped tremendously. No more slimy innuendos from men. No more inappropriate comments. Or rather, I encounter less of them now. And when I do, I feel more confident. More justified in feeling creeped out and disgusted. I’m just a little more emboldened to say something like, “Does your wife know you’re talking to me / saying these things to me?” or “You’re making me uncomfortable.” Okay, now that I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve had the nerve to actually say that in the moment. But I have written it – In an email or in a text.
Fast forward and I decide to finally visit Italy. A country where people have largely responded to #MeToo “with scorn and skeptism.”[i] No problem. As friends would say, if anyone can fend for themselves, it’s me. I’m direct. (remember?)
Except that I’m not. Not as much as I’d like to be. Not when it comes to me.
I have zero problem standing up for another person. When I hear something inappropriate being said, or see something wrong happening, I quickly jump in. My mouth engages before consulting my brain. I’ve interrupted and diffused many a potentially violent situation. But standing up for myself is something altogether different.
I don’t know if I was culturally trained not to hurt people’s feelings, if it’s a woman thing, if it has something to do with my father, or if I’m just overly sensitive to not wanting others to feel bad. But my entire life I’ve had men make sexual innuendos to me and instead of telling them to stop, I’ve just tried to ignore it. My first memories begin at age ten. A family friend, a music teacher, bosses, clients, guys that I thought were my friends and, of course, countless random men. Then, in graduate school, I was sexually harassed for almost three years by a woman older than me. And like all the times before, I couldn’t find the words to stay stop. To firmly declare, “You’re out of line.” Instead, I tried to brush it off, to laugh, maybe shake my head, but always still smile.
So here I am in Italy. Just being me. I’m smiling at strangers. And strangers are smiling back. No problem. Or so I thought.
The only time during my entire trip that I’ve actually engaged with a group of people was at a small gathering for folks who travel. We met in a restaurant in Rome. Most were local Italians. I spoke to a man from Naples, a man from Sicily, a man from Calabria, two men from Puglia. This is fantastic! All places I want to visit. And then there is one man, I can’t remember where he is from, but he has visited the States a few times. A day or two later, I notice he is following me on Instagram. And then the message, “You have sexy feet.” Or maybe he said cute feet, I can’t remember. In my disgust, I deleted it. Now to be clear, only 18% of all my posts on Instagram have photos of me and one of those is my feet. That’s the one he comments on. Really?
So I didn’t respond. I ignored it. I heard nothing more. Until several crazy days later after I’ve settled in Sicily and post a photo of me resting in the sun by the water with the text, “Technically I shouldn’t be out here.” Then this guy writes, “Respect the country.” No personal message this time. No, “How are you?” No, “Glad you’ve made it to a safe place.” Nothing but a very direct and public “Respect the country.” It felt like a scolding. This guy, whom I don’t even really know and who had the nerve to comment on my feet, scolds me for resting in the sun.
I was mad. I wrote him back. I tried to explain. I wrote my blog. And in the end, the truth is, he was right. Lockdown means lockdown. Giving the impression that I am on holiday, breaking the law, doing whatever I wish, was wrong. Bad form. But ultimately that isn’t what upset me.
You want to know why I was mad? What really got under my skin? He was able to be direct. To just say what needed to be said, without any consideration of niceties. He did what I should have done when he mentioned my feet. But I was cowardly. I ignored him. And when the time came for him to ignore me, to just brush off my behavior, he didn’t. He called me out. And he did it without any concern for my feelings.
Meanwhile, I texted another Italian I know – the fellow who hosted the gathering of travelers. I asked for his advice. He told me: “You are too nice. Don’t smile at men until you can trust them. In Italy, it’s okay for a woman to be rude.”
Well there you go. I need to stop worrying about men being sensitive to me being direct.
Add that to the list of blessings and lessons learned during #AmericanInItalyDuringCoronavirus.
[i] See NPR’s article from 18 January 2018 (as just one example) https://www.npr.org/sections/parallels/2018/01/18/578562334/in-italy-metoo-falters-amid-public-scorn?t=1584284623265
Jan Peppler HOME 