Three Chairs

I'm Down! I'm Down! I'm Down on the Ground!

Refrain from throwing your bicycle in public. It shows poor upbringing.

~Jacquie Phelan

When I was 21 I graduated from college with my useless Psychology degree and went to Italy to be an au pair.  It was my intention to learn the language of my grandparents, who had not taught it to my parents because they wanted them to be American, but also to avoid the overwhelming responsibility of finding a real job for as long as possible.

I lived in Florence with a wealthy shipping tycoon, his architect wife, and their six-year-old boy, Andrea.  They also had a dog named Stupid, and a Philippine maid/cook.  Their living room coffee table was a gigantic model of a Marlboro cigarette box, and it opened to reveal a fully-stocked bar.  That's really all you need to know about them.  I could write a book about my experiences with that family, but for the purpose of this blog entry I'm going to stick to the set of circumstances that led to what I have come to think of as the "Down on the Ground" episode.

Every summer since Andrea was born his parents had sent him and his current au pair to Forte dei Marmi for a month of sun and sea air.  Andrea and his lucky au pair stayed at the Pensione America, which aristocratic Florentines booked years in advance, and spent their days at the private, exclusive beach across the street.  Everything from ice cream cones to beach towels was signed to a running tab, and at the end of the month Andrea's parents would show up and pay the astronomical bill.  I had endured several months of a less-than-pleasurable experience with this family, and Forte dei Marmi was my reward.  I was going to the beach, goddammit.

Forte dei Marmi is the jewel of of the Tuscan Riviera, and I intended it to be the jewel of my Italian experience.  I could lounge, bathe, stroll, dine, disco and (window) shop with the best of them.  I spent one month's wage on a pair of Georgio Armani sunglasses while I was there, and have mourned their disappearance for the past 19 years (a roommate's ferret stole them).

Forte dei Marmi has a "quiet ordinance," a rule that requests silence from lunchtime through the afternoon siesta.  Silence, of course, is relative, and although the local businesses would shut down and the majority of the tourists went back to their rooms and napped behind those ubiquitous, dark green, Italian shutters, there was still some life to be found.

It had become my habit to put Andrea down for a nap, leave him under the supervision of a Swiss au pair named Irmi, then jump on my bike and pedal from my pensione to the main street a few blocks away.  I would gaze adoringly at the designer goods on display in the shop windows, mail a few postcards, and buy a gelato.

On this particular day I must have been short on time, because I decided it would be prudent to eat my gelato and ride the bike back at the same time.  Let me be clear: I am The Most Uncoordinated Person you will ever meet.  Ever.  Some people can ride a bike with no hands; I cannot.  I can barely ride a bike with two hands.  So, there I was, riding along, ice cream cone in one hand, handle bar in the other.

I would love to know what happened next, but really, I have no idea.  All of a sudden I was in the middle of the road, bicycle on top of me, gelato everywhere.  A woman witnessed this from behind her walled garden and came out to see if I was OK.  She guided me over to the footpath, sat me down, inspected my wounds and asked me what happened.

It has often been noted that one's ability to speak a foreign language is enhanced by alcohol.  The opposite is true when one is shocked, in pain, or smeared with gelato.  Whatever linguistic skills I had at that point quickly vanished, and I found myself babbling like a toddler.  The rough translation goes something like this: "I don't know!  I'm good, I'm on bike, I go, all is well, then BAM!  I'M DOWN! I'M DOWN! I'M DOWN ON THE GROUND!"

The woman patted my hand patronizingly and asked if I could make it back to wherever I was going.  I wiped my hands on my shorts, got to my feet, and pushed the bike back to the pensione.  I dropped the bike on the front lawn and walked inside to the front desk where one of the old women who ran the place was shuffling papers and peering at me from behind her bifocals. 

"Dio mio!" she said, "Che successo?" 

What happened?  And there I was again, dumbstruck, tongue-tied, trying to explain the situation.  What I wanted to say was, "Well, you see, I was trying to enjoy a delicious gelato while riding my bicycle, but being inept at most things athletic, and having no coordination or balance whatsoever, I found myself tumbling from the bike and landing rather unceremoniously on the pavement, which is how I incurred these vicious injuries to my knees and hands."

If I couldn't express the seriousness of the matter through words, I could express them through volume, so I repeated my childish rant rather loudly.  "I am on bike, I go, all is well, then BAM!  I'M DOWN! I'M DOWN! I'M DOWN ON THE GROUND!"

The woman shook her head with disdain and said, "Che casino!" ("What a mess!).  I got the distinct impression that she wasn't referring to the accident, or my injuries, but to me, this dim-witted American buffoon who couldn't manage a bicicletta and a gelato at the same time.

I decided to appeal to Andrea, my six-year-old expert in scabs and bruises.  When he awoke from his nap I dramatically showed him my many bandages and band-aids and explained that I fell off the bike. 

"Were you going fast?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Well, no, not really fast at all."

"Did you hit a pothole, or a rock?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Um, no.  I didn't hit anything."

"You were... blinded by the sun?" he asked, eyes suspicious.

"No, it was... it wasn't sunny."

"What happened to you?"

"Ice cream, Andrea!  I was eating ice cream, and then... BAM!  I'M DOWN!  I'M DOWN!  I'M DOWN ON THE GROUND!"

Andrea looked away, shook his head, and muttered, "Che disastro." 

Indeed.

 

Andrea, arms up in the sea, Forte dei Marmi, 1989.

Hovering Over the Past

The act of writing requires a constant plunging back into the shadow of the past where time hovers ghostlike.

~ Ralph Ellison

I like to use Google Maps to revisit the places on earth that hold special meaning to me. Who says technology can't be warm and fuzzy? It can certainly feed my nostalgia.

I can see the house my dad built in Tucson, the one I grew up in, the backyard mostly unchanged, the stairs leading into the pool, the Spanish tiled porch, the circular drive where I parked my little Mazda and then later my little Hyundai. I think I can see the prickly pear cactus that took a beating when I tried to teach my brother David how to drive, the one he replanted at dawn so my dad wouldn't see it and get mad. I can see the curved walls that announced the name of our subdivision, the place I'd wait for the school bus at 6:35 a.m., and now I remember that the bus always smelled of marijuana.  I cannot see, but I can imagine, the lizards scurrying in the heat, the Palo Verde tree I planted from a seed, and a young woman walking to the mailbox, checking for the au pair application that might carry her overseas.

I go to Italy.  I can see the impossibly narrow, winding road I'd walk up to get to my au pair house in Florence, and I can feel the cool stone wall pressed against my back as a car inches past.  I can look at that house and see the big tree in the yard where the dad would sit and read the Corriere della Sera, and the enormous Rosemary bush outside the kitchen door and I can imagine that I see the rose bush that was outside my bedroom window, even though it doesn't seem to be there. I can almost see Andrea, six and a half years old, playing "Quanti passi?" in the garden.  I can see the gardens at the Boboli Gardens, high above the city, where I used to eat cheese sandwiches and apricots, and Santa Maria Novella station that took me to so many other places, and Il Duomo, and the San Lorenzo Market where I bought t-shirts for my friends and a black leather jacket for my little brother. 

I can wander up the hills north of Florence to Fiesole, then follow the country road out of Fiesole and see the 600-year-old converted convent of my other au pair family, the one with curly-headed Georgio and a baby whose name I can't remember. We revisited Italy last year, and I can see the pool at the hotel we stayed at last year, in Fiesole, and the Etruscan ruins, and the restaurant where we saw a young man dressed up for a night on the town and we all, including the young man, had a good laugh because Declan thought he was a pirate. I can see the hotel terrace where we ate the breakfast we still pine over.  I can taste a cappuccino.

I can see my inlaws' house in Dundrum, the lovely little back garden that my father-in-law has spent countless hours tenderly cultivating. I can follow the road from their house into the main street and see the top of the little worker's cottage that now houses the internet cafe I sometimes use when we visit. I can see the working farm we take the kids to, and the spinster sisters' house that now houses a sunny cafe and serves hot chocolate with pink and white marshmallows on top. I can see the primary school my husband and his brothers went to.  Are those ducks floating in the pond at St. Stephen's Green?

Back over the Atlantic I hover over New York City, zooming in on our old apartment buildings, playgrounds, favorite places in Central Park. I see the little pier that juts out over Turtle Pond, just south of the Great Lawn. There's Belvedere Castle, and the Bethesda Fountain where we'd see all the Asian brides getting their wedding photos taken, and the Boat House, where Justin and I once sipped cocktails without the kids. The Reservoir looks enormous. I can't make out the details of outdoor tables and awnings, but I imagine I can see Georgia's Bake Shop on the southeast corner of 89th and Broadway, and then I wander down to French Roast. New York is hard to revisit, all concrete, no detail.

Now I come home, to Winnetka, but there's no need to look at my house or my yard or my driveway, the school, the shops, the playground. Five-year-old Declan is wearing red slippers and a blue plaid shirt, always in long-sleeves, even in the summer, and seven-year-old Aidan is in PJs, his face still puffy from sleep. It looks like a gorgeous day out there, and we're going to go make some memories. Maybe the satellites will take a picture and I'll look at it a few years from now.