Closer to Life – Finestre Aperte

Lately I’ve had this idea – a type of realization that’s been forming slowly in the back of my mind -about some of the things that make me so enjoy life in Italy. Beyond the obvious, of course. And as this idea has taken shape, the only way I could describe it is like this:

In my Italian home, Siena, I live closer to life, if you will. Closer to life in a raw, unrefined, unchanneled state. Closer to life. That’s the phrase that first came to mind, and the only way I’ve been able to describe it. Closer to life. And I love it.

In my life in Italy, there seem to be fewer barriers - not counting Italian Burocracy, which is a barrier to everything. Barriers to what though? It’s hard to put a finger on it. Fewer barriers between myself and the world that is in motion around me, I guess. Fewer barriers between my life and the lives of others.

Take windows, for example. Open windows. Finestre aperte. Italian windows are always open and mostly screenless, allowing the clamour of the neighbour’s dinner dishes, the crowing of a nearby gallo (rooster) in the morning, or the sound of people talking in the street to float freely into your living room and your life. Fewer barriers allow for lives to mix and for people to live more comunally. It’s beautiful.  Getting used to sleeping with my screenless windows open, although a very trivial thing, was somehow quite liberating for me. Instead of trying to keep the world out, keeping my windows open was like an invition to invite life in. All of life. The good, the great, the bad and the ugly. Welcome world, benvenuto a casa mia.

Taken from my window in Siena

I’ve also found that I try to control fewer things and allow myself to be gently rocked by the ebb and flow of life. A complicated, chaotic country, Italy has taught me to be more flexible, more adaptable, and less demanding, among other things.

Let’s go back to the finestre aperte example, shall we? Keeping my windows open is something I do out of both pleasure and necessity. Italy gets pretty darn hot in the summertime, and I’ll take any venticello (breeze) I can get. But it also means my house isn’t climate controlled. It isn’t air conditioned. I’m not worrying about opening my windows or my door and “letting all the bought air out” as some of my fellow North Americans might say. I don’t worry about being in a room that is always 20 degrees celcius, no matter what’s happening outside. I adapt to the heat, and bundle up for the cold. I’m ok with things being out of my control. Life is more natural that way.

As I write this post, I realize I could go on forever. So maybe this Closer to Life post will become a Closer to Life mini-series, with this installment, Finestre Aperte being the first of many posts that talk about the aspects of life in Italy that bring me contentment and happiness, that allow me to live more simply, that bring me closer to life.

 

Tags: Blog, Italy, Life, Living, Memoir, Siena, Simplicity, Thoughts

Surviving Paris: The Metro (…And How It Nearly Killed Me)

Like I said in my first post about Surviving Paris: The Arc de Triomphe, Paris is a city that somehow makes me lose all good sense (and any good luck) that I have.

This is me in Paris:

 

[Please note the beautiful, oversize red purse in both pictures.]

[Please note how happy I look before Sarah's Parisian Disaster #2.]

The red purse, now affectionately named the purse that almost did me in had been a recent purchase of mine at the weekly market in the charming city of Tours, where I was studying at the time. It was very large, and I thought it very practical for travelling. It stored food, guidebooks, sweaters, water bottles – you name it, the red purse could hold it. Naturally, I brought it on my 3-day trip to Paris.

So, my friend and I, counting our lucky stars after managing not to die during our traffic dodging session at the Arc de Triomphe, had decided that the Metro (subway) was probably a safer mode of transportation for the rest of our sojourn in the city of lights.

Minds made up, we bought weekend Metro passes, and continued to buzz around the city making use of our unlimited rides. I can’t recall exactly where we were or where we were going (the traumatic events that followed surely blurred my memory of the day) but I do remember that we were rushing to catch the next departing Metro to somewhere.

Being the prepared traveller that I am, my nose was in the Rick Steves’ France guidebook, double checking the name of the stop we needed to get off at. Now, please let me advise you that running anywhere while trying to read a book is not a good idea. Running down stairs into a crowded metro station while trying to read a book is even less of a good idea. Running down stairs, nez-in-livre, as I was, into a crowded metro station then leaping like a gazelle into the train, is just about at the bottom of the good idea list. Vous comprenez? 

Being a bit more athletic than yours truly, my amie had made it into the packed Metro car without incident. My gazelle-like leap certainly landed my feet into the Metro car, but not much else. Now, let it be known that in 2008 when this happened, the doors on Parisian Metro cars closed very, very forcefully. I would actually watch them as they noisily banged closed, bounced off each other and settled more gently into a closed position just as the car was set into motion. Someone could really get hurt in those doors! I remember thinking to myself. Little did I know, that someone was going to be me…

So, I landed with both feet in the car, but somehow half of my body got stuck in the angry doors. I tried to extract myself from between the doors, but to no avail. Why? Why wouldn’t my skinny little chicken arm slide through the doors and join me safely in the car? Beacause the incredibly large mass that was the purse that almost did me in was hanging off my shoulder and had also got caught in the door, thus preventing me from going anywhere.

It was at this point that my friend started to panic. She grabbed me and started pulling, frantic, mouth agape, eyes wide, stammering, stuttering and shouting some mess of Frenglish gobbledeygook, trying to help me.

All I, on the other hand, could muster, was a stunned (but loud) “This is me, stuck in a door!” (An excellent quote, I must say, had they been my last words).

Just then, the Metro car started to slowly pull away from the platform and I realized that we were slowly headed for a tunnel. The Metro car would soon come within inches of the tunnel wall, at which point one of my limbs and my beautiful red purse (both of which were very dear to me) would probably be ripped clean off of my body. Quelle horreur!!!

I frantically flailed around, struggling to get free, imagining a new, limbless version of myself that somewhat resembled the black knight from Monty Python (“Tis but a scratch! It’s only a flesh wound!”). Finally, seeing my distress and maybe even understanding my friend’s cries for help, a man stepped forward and with his brute strength, managed to pry the doors open wide enough for me to pull my arm and my purse to safety.

Horrified, shocked, stunned, scared as I was, I believe I was able to stammer a merci to the Incredible Hulk man, and spent the rest of the ride convusling with hysterical laughter and getting some extremely strange looks from the Parisians.

So what did I do with the purse that almost did me in? I kept it, of course, as a souvenir of another near-death experience in Paris.

 Paris: 2, Sarah: 0

Tags: Blog, Europe, Humor, Memoir, Paris, Travel, Writing

Tips About Tipping in Italy

Reblogged from Not Just Another "Dolce Vita":

To tip or not to tip? That is the question!

In North America, diners are pretty much required to tip anywhere they go. No 15% tacked onto your Visa bill or laid out on the table? Well, you’ll certainly get a dirty look from your waitstaff. And don’t think you’ll be given those nice little mints when you leave either. No-sir-ee-bob.

Read more… 357 more words

Even though I wrote it nearly a year ago, it's still true...