East isn't always in the Middle, and West is ...

I was watching the film "Cairo Time" and encountered one of those stop and think moments. There's a line in the dialogue that's spoken by an American who refers to Egypt as being in the Middle East. An Egyptian companion, confused, responds, "What is this Middle East?" It got me thinking. He's right, for someone in Egypt, Egypt isn't east of anywhere, it's the center of everything. The Middle East is only the Middle East for someone who lives west of the region, and for whom Egypt looks to be in the middle of the world's geography. When an entire global organizations start referring to places as the "Far East" or the "Middle East," then you start to understand the influence of the governments in the western hemisphere, which is only the western hemisphere if you're...

You see what I'm saying? Food for thought.

Popular Travel

Think of this as an invitation to travel, where the people in far-flung places are the first items on the itinerary, and their famous places are the second. I don't mean necessarily that we should go and knock on a stranger's door as soon as we arrive in Paris or Casablanca and introduce ourselves. What I do mean is that we travel to places and enter cultures with a people-centered perspective. If doing that means changing our attitude about travel, we'll be dazzled by the change.

Let's think about every place we've dreamed of going, near or far, of where we'd go and what we'd do. The sights, the sounds, the aromas. Now remove from that image all the residents of that place. Focus on what remains. When you do, I would venture to bet a lot of round trip air fares that the daydream goes muddy.

Unless your destination is a national park or a UNESCO World Heritage site, then you'll soon realize as I did, that your favorite destinations lose their color and life at the thought of absented people. Venice for example, the city beloved for its water-locked beauty, it mysterious serpentine streets, the Doge's Palace, the canals, and magical architecture. Delete the Venetians, who live and work in and around the city. Delete any contact with them, all appreciation for the Italian language and the lyrical Venetian dialect, their knowledge and memory of life there, their skills, their personal and regional histories, their way of preparing and eating food, their greetings as you walk their streets. And just like that, our magical city becomes an international theme park with some beautiful museums and gorgeous blown glass. A slow ride in a water taxi along the Grand Canal without a friendly, chatty pilot from Mestre suddenly isn't any grander than a ride in an ersatz gondola at a hotel in Vegas.

Recapturing the dream doesn't require drastic action. You're not obliged to learn the local language, although certainly a few phrases would be thoughtful. And as a linguist, I can't emphasize enough the joys of communication; but, what's most necessary is a dash of an explorer's sense of wonder, and an open heart that's given a few moments of recollection to let the words, the lessons, and the lives around it touch and sink into the openings. Then, and only then, will the miracle perform. Everyone from our Venice, Paris, Casablanca or Khartoum will be able to fit inside us, as soon as we set foot on their soil. The grand and unknown will shrink and recognize. Venice's name might change to "Giuseppe from the gallery" or "Marco the super friendly water taxi pilot" or "Gigina who lived across the calle from us."

Our places becomes people, and we carry them home. They live on with a kind of bilocation, there where they are, and here in us.

A Different Kind of Foreign Tour

Foreign travel evokes different emotions in all of us. The vacation of a lifetime...a monthly business trip...a trip home to see family and friends...a creative retreat...a college semester or year abroad...

...Slavery - Human trafficking.

I've wanted to write about this one for a while. Now I am. I realized that if I'm going to write about culture, confess my love for it, study the complexity of it, and share my small experience, then I can't be quiet about the lowest grade of international travel. One of the very worst examples of international and intercultural relations. It rings the top bell at the carnival midway, along with its hideous relatives, genocide.

Believe it...2010...a human being, child or adult, robbed of identity papers, misled, betrayed or kidnapped, threatened, probably beaten, raped, and/or drugged, and then purchased like so much livestock or other freight, transported like illegal contraband to a city or region of their own country, or maybe a foreign country...cut off from family, friends, language, safety, security, independence, compensation...rights...and forced to do whatever the "owners" order done. The job description? The limits of your imagination might have difficulty encompassing the depravity and injustice of it. The usual suspects first...prostitution...domestic servitude...sexual servitude...drug transportation...theft rings...adult entertainment...forced labor...pornography...sweat shops...It happens everywhere, in every country; yours and mine.

Imagine Italy through the prism of slavery. Ah, the streets of Rome, or Milan on a spring evening...as a prostitute slave. The waters of the Trevi Fountain are suddenly not so playful. There's a tarnish on the romantic glow.

Globally, millions of human beings, are forced into work, bereft of freedom and life and placed at the mercy of human traffickers. Human Trafficking, an odd coupling of words. Isn't it an oxymoron? The term should be Inhuman Trafficking. It's trafficking in us, people like you and me. It's happening in just about every nation in the world.

The United Nations Global Initiative to Fight Human Trafficking or UNGIFT at http://www.ungift.org/ is helping me learn more. Join me.

Boston, Buenos Aires, Abrazos - Tango!

I've just started Argentine Tango lessons in Boston, and am enthralled. Tango's music is intoxicating, its soul is old, its appeal is global. As proof, it was a recent conversation with friends from Venice, Italy that rekindled my desire to learn. Grazie, Giuseppe Ferlito.

As a linguist, I see this tango style as an intimate conversation to be danced rather than spoken. It begins with an invitation, progresses to an abrazo or embrace, and continues like a deep, strolling conversation for two. The steps are the fruit of engaged and unbroken communication. They are the whispers, giggles, hesitations, debates and parries the partners improvise and exchange. Each conversation varies according to the music heard, the movement of nearby dancers, and the private responses the two partners give each other. The press of a hand, a gentle pivot, a close embrace, an invisible weight shift, a spirited swirl; and nary a word is spoken.

By its nature, the Argentine tango expresses and encourages individual expression. There are no rules, only respectful conventions, all of which make it a highly democratic art. Perhaps that is one reason repressive governments in Argentina's past banned the dance.

Like every other form of dance, it's harder than it looks. At first glance you think, "I'm walking forward and backward, how hard can it be?" But it's a walk with purpose, grace, and feeling. It feels as if I'm learning to walk like a patient, stalking lioness, weight forward, slow, on light-footed tiptoe. Of course I lose by balance and often feel more like a woozy lioness recovering from dart gun injection, but, the little epiphanies encourage.

The dance takes my brain and muscles to a completely different place. I love that, and I'm becoming more comfortable with, well, being completely out of my comfort zone. Being awkward and off balance, and accepting that as a necessity to learning, is just so freeing. Who knew!! Even more freeing is allowing myself to feel that way while learning with another person who is, gasp, a stranger! This is after all, a partner dance, and I'm flying solo in a group class. Such a metaphor for life, for trust, for interactions between men and women.

Methinks I'll be learning as much about myself as I will the tango.

For more information, go to www.bluetango.org

Worth the Wait

Looking out the car window, I see Google Earth in living color. Looking at the map, I see a bread crumb’s distance from Radicòfani. The accent over the “o” in the town’s name signals the pronunciation Radi-CO-fa-nee. We’ve circled nearly the entire Val d’Orcia into Southern Tuscany. And now, following a small sign off the serpentine main road, down a dirt and gravel track lined with cypress trees and spiky yellow broom, and then bending left into a circular crushed gravel drive bordered by terra cotta pots overflowing with red geraniums, we pull up to Fattoria La Palazzina, Locanda Agrituristica.

La Palazzina gracefully adorns this crenelated landscape. It’s a beautiful villa and farm estate transformed into an agritourism destination. Its light yellow stucco exterior, with wrought iron lattice work over the arched windows, make it noble, warm, and inviting. It boasts eleven guest rooms, delicious traditional Tuscan cuisine, including its own olive oil, and stunning 300 degree views of the valley. And what a valley. The Val d’Orcia is a UNESCO World Heritage site that delights the senses with undulating hills bubbling up portions of the wide green valley, swaths of olive groves, vineyards, magpies, darting swallows, alpine choughs soaring on thermals, and towns rising like sentinels on distant hillside promontories.

The villa’s driveway cozies up to a wide patio tiled in terra cotta and dotted with cafe tables with umbrellas. It’s about 5 pm, and still quite warm in the May sunshine. Unfolding our bodies from the car, long pressed and pinched like origami cranes after hours of travel, we cross the terrazza to the impressive wooden front door, a veritable portone.

Before we can knock the wide door swings open and we’re greeted by Eliana, chef at La Palazzina. She’s been expecting us. Slim, her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she’s sporting chef’s clogs and a long white apron. We’ve pulled her from the kitchen. It’s obvious from her face that she’s been working hard, but it doesn’t show in her welcome. Her voice and smile are warm and friendly. Eliana doesn’t speak English, so I slip once more into my role as interpreter. She guides us to the terrace and offers us “Tea? Juice? Water? Biscotti? Tea and cookies, we say eagerly. As Eliana excuses herself to prepare our refreshment, we sit, happy to have Tuscan earth firmly beneath our feet at a full stop, zero kilometers per hour.

http://www.fattorialapalazzina.net/villa-tuscany-la-palazzina.htmlhttp

The Magi Live in Sarteano

May 14, 2009 mid-afternoon...I blink myself back to reality in time to hear one of the elderly women asking where we were from. “America,” I reply, smiling, and then thank them profusely as I turn back toward the car. She calls after me and asks if Italy is really as beautiful as foreigners say it is. I say yes, Italy is a paradise, and the people, the best. In fact, in many ways, Americans have much to learn from the Italian culture.

“But,” said the man, moving next to the women, “We’re poor.”

“Actually, no, you’re not. It’s the Americans who are poor. Italy knows secrets to life, and we need to come here often for lessons.”

“Lessons? Please do not patronize us,” he chides pleasantly.

“Believe me, I’m not. That’s the last thing I’m about. I’m completely sincere. I’m not saying that you should be happy to be poor. I’m not referring to economics, or politics, or stereotypes. I mean to say that in my own country, I see the values and trends that popular culture holds up as praiseworthy, good business, and entertaining. I see something skewed, storto. Work so hard you have no life outside of it. Hurry. Adopt stress as a virtue. Look for the quick answer, the low-hanging fruit. And then, to escape from it, worship athletes, actors and inane reality shows. It’s warped, like music played out of tune and rhythm, with no thought for composer or conductor. I know that here in Italy you’re surrounded by the same things; but, somehow, Italy as a whole, is still more in tune, connecting people to the world around them more authentically than what I experience in the States.”

“Give me an example,” he persists, placing a hand on my shoulder with friendly emphasis. One of the women nods eagerly, another puts down her bags. The third adjusts her sweater on her shoulders and smiles encouragingly.

“This conversation,” I want to say, and do, but only in my head. “You think nothing of entering into a philosophical discussion with a perfect stranger who just tumbled out of a car looking for directions along this quiet road. You don’t know my plans or my motives. What matters to you is that I’m here, and you are curious about me. I’m astonished, in the best sort of way. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re the Little Prince, all grown up.“

Aloud, I say to him, “Well, having lived here once for a few years, my small experience of Italy is that the division of a day into tight time schedules and itineraries is not a valued practice. Strict agendas are frowned on, in favor of savoring the moment, respecting the rhythm of the day and the company you keep. Am I right?”

“You are,” he nods, and pauses, gathering his thoughts. Then he takes my hand. I feel my shoulders relax. “The experience is what matters most, whether it’s business or a gathering of friends,” he explains. “The schedule obeys the experience, not the other way around. That’s why there are no quick goodbyes in Italy,” he says, and chuckles. The women nod in agreement, e si' , adjusting their grip on their shopping bags. He goes on, “This is not just the result of some socialized government policies, but of the long connection that Italy has to the land, to its resources, its creative spirit, and to family. And probably due to resilience in the face of the privations of war. And this is what you love about Italy?”

“Yes, absolutely.” I say. “With deep respect for the sum total of everything that makes Italy, Tuscany, Sarteano, you, precisely what you are today. That, and the natural beauty of every region of the country. If I die here, or say, in Umbria, no one need be concerned about bringing me back to America. I say, let everyone come here to honor my memory; stay a while. The trip will do them a world of good.” They smile at this. Davvero.

"Umbria is nice," the gentle man says, grinning now, "but forgive us if we advise in favor of Tuscany." We all laugh. I’m moved by the conversation, honored to be part of it.

Sadly too though, I'm overcome with fatigue, and feeling faintly light headed. I'm exhibiting early signs of Foreign Speaker's Aphasia. And, I've almost forgotten about the Ladies. They've been waiting, and probably think we have to head to Sicily and back for all the time it’s taken me to get directions.

Reluctantly, I tell these three wise women and man that I must leave. I thank them for being the ones to set the correct tempo for an Italian concerto. We embrace heartily, and our group drives off, eager to experience the masterwork of Italy, following its regional melodies, from the composer’s original score.

Ring Around Radicòfani

May 14, 2009 afternoon...It's springtime in Tuscany, and we’ve been winding up and down scenic mountain roads for the better part, no, the longer part, of three hours now. We are clearly lost. The views are breathtaking, but in all, it’s an experience better appreciated without the hangover effects of jetlag. With Cynthia heroically behind the wheel of the rental car – a diesel thank God, so we’ll go forever without worrying over the fuel gauge - we're traveling south of Siena to a magical region known as the Val d'Orcia, or in English, the Orcia Valley. I’m acting as interpreter for the Ladies, and so far, I’ve sought direction from three sources in the town of Sarteano; an elderly gentleman in Sarteano; a young woman at the bus station further along in Sarteano; and a group of three elderly women and a man outside of Sarteano. Like a living oracle, they declare as one that since we’d long missed the direct road to the town of Radicòfani, the only route left to follow is the long way around the valley, by way of San Casciano dei Bagni.

I hang my head in the silent desperation of every weary traveler. We’ve endured a trans-Atlantic flight, a long early morning layover in Paris at an outpost terminal decorated in garish lime green hues, and then the final flight to Florence. Now, south of Siena and well into an unanticipated circumnavigation of the valley, the breathtaking scenery is taking a decidedly psychotropic turn. I begin to imagine myself a traveler on the Silk Road lost in the Tien Shan mountains with winter at my heels. Dear God, the camels are dying, we have no water, show us the way!

My Herald Plays the Kazoo

Arriving in Italy by air via Florence is a delight. It’s a Renaissance artist’s welcome wagon. The light bathes the landscape just so, conjuring red tiled roof mosaics above marble facades, or a corpulent dome hinting at Brunelleschi’s marvel waiting in the heart of the city. Flying in I imagine a kind of time travel that will have me touch down in Michelangelo’s courtyard. Or better yet, stepping off the jetway to da Vinci’s beaming approval at how well his flying machine designs turned out.

Instead, on terra firma, the airport is a provincial and rather bland locale. No swaths of rich fabrics grace the entrance, no priceless frescoes adorn the walls. Just a small terminal, two crowded baggage carousels and a long line at the rest room. Not even a passport stamp. No. Am I not in Italy, the country where the thumpathumpa of a stamp legitimizes even the most mundane civil transaction? Official crests and heraldic standards flourish here. How can Italia refrain from setting her seal upon any foreigner the moment her borders are traversed? I crave one designed by Zeffirelli, Ferragamo and Bernini. Someone stamps my foot instead, reaching for luggage. No matter, I'm greeted by helpful and efficient rental car agents, and to a jet-lagged traveler, that's a fashionable welcome in any culture.


We're a mother-daughter quartet on this trip; the matriarch Priscilla; her daughter Cynthia, whom I've known since nursery school; daughter-in-law Trish; and I, a daughter and sister by association of years. We are bound for southern Tuscany, and later, Venice. Treasures lie beyond the Florence air terminal, and our loyal steed awaits, a clean diesel-powered Ford crossover. That's Lamborghini in Italian.

First Thoughts

In the month prior to my return to Italy this year, and every day there, my thoughts strayed and settled on Alberto, the friend whom circumstances once obliged me leave behind in Italy. Deep indeed is the memory of that precious friendship, intricate and strong the stitches in the bond I shared with him. A native of Italy's Veneto region, he was, and I am confident still is, a man possessing a heart as pure, as strong, as humble, as perceptive, and as kind as I have ever known. When I last saw my friend in 1994, I knew our parting would likely never see a reunion. I left him, and Italy sorrowful, but not in vain. I knew that my heart was made for Italy, that my life was meant for Italy, and that my voice would find its deepest range in Italy. I just didn't know how, didn't know when, and certainly didn't know why. I was packing my bags for home, filling them with Alberto and the Italy he held within him, storing up for the dry season ahead.

Fifteen years on, I am happy and privileged knowing that twelve days in 2009 Italy can be lived joyfully and thoughtfully enough to conjure memories of that blessed friendship. Happy and privileged to know that twelve days lived well can bridge 365 days x 15 in a snap, and reveal to suspecting souls a new wealth of cultural and personal epiphanies.

For reasons I hope you will discover in the reading, I dedicate this journal of Italy to Alberto, wherever he may be. His birthday is August 7, a day dedicated to San Casciano, a happy coincidence I realized only after the fact.

Avanti!