If not now, when?

One American woman. Twenty acres and a 1650 farmhouse in Tuscany. Random introspection and hilarity, depending on the day.

31 July 2005

A gift of 37 days

It was today that I realized today I had been ‘on’ – with people nearly 24/7 – nonstop -- for pretty much the entire month. It was not until today – no one to need anything from me, no fixed time to wake up, no one to ask questions I have to find a polite answer to, no one to entertain, no one to be pleasant to, no one even knowing I’m here, with the quiet of the countryside and the breeze and the occasional din of a weekend motorcycle or bike team passing on the street.

Of course, the flip side of all of that is true; also --- there is no one to talk with, to reflect with, to sit and enjoy the quiet and beauty of the sunset with, content to just BE. For me, today, I am convinced that I wouldn’t be good company anyhow. Too fried and raw from the foray, too emotional from the changes. Although the right people would get that and let me just sit.

And so sit I do. It's pleasantly chilly tonight, the kind you only get at altitude in the summertime. The sky tonight is cantaloupe colored, fading to a yellow, just a tinge of green, a turquoise, sky and then deep midnight blue. It’s a rainbow of colors an hour after the actual orb dipped beneath the far mountain. The bats (pippistrelli, as ye regular readers know – good friends of mine!) are winging their way around, their silhouettes dancing against the end of the evening sky.

Sunset has gotten earlier – almost a half hour so, I would say – since I was here last. It’s still my favorite time of day, dusk. Something magical always seems about to happen. Colors are more beautiful. People seem more elegant. Time for just a moment seems to slow.

Tonight, at dusk, I am finally opening a gift. Lovely Lady R sent me a gift weeks ago – after my visit, and I was too … everything … (busy with life in DC!) to glance at it. It is the gift of a blog by a wonderful writer and friend of hers, Patti.

Patti’s blog, 37 days, asks the question: what would you be doing today if you only had 37 days to live?

Her answers to that are brilliant, insightful, introspective, thought-provoking, tearjerking, laughoutloud funny, well thought, quirky, and generally things-that-make-you-go-hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. And that’s the point. Patti is a teacher of many things, among them the life lessons that should be so obvious but aren’t about how to interact with others. She’s amazing. I met her once, years ago, at a conference we both attended. We nodded politely at each other, I'm sure. We didn’t realize then that we had a mutual dearest friend in Lovely Lady R, and I think now that perhaps I wasn't really ready to appreciate her magic, wisdom, and her gift of insight. Life gives you the things you need when you need them.

The answers to this question are the backbone of her posts. There is a theme and a message that I (in my scattered random blogdom) envy greatly! She also closes each post with a challenge. Their titles fascinate even standing solo … but can deceive you into thinking this is just another feel-good 1000 ways to be happy exercise: it is most clearly not. It will provoke you and prod the deep regions of your brain. Most recent challenges: Say WOW when you see a bus, Pop up your Nimrod, Burn those jeans, Hand one another along, Stand on your own rock, Roll on the floor, Find your saxophone, Stop at every lemonade stand, Redefine normal , Always rent the (red) convertible, Catalog your debris , Dance in your car , Live an irresistible obituary... and so many more.

In one of her many posts, Patti says that she wants to be Eve Ensler when she grows up. She says, “I’m going to speak out and be energetic and articulate and have something important to say. I’m going to pay attention to what’s going on in the world as if the fate of the world depended on me paying attention. I’m going to have a point of view and an opinion without waiting for other people to tell me what it is. I’m going to do the work I know I need to do, that I must do, that I’ve been waiting my whole life to do, without waiting for an audience. I’m going to sit up straighter and I’m going to make people hear me. I’m going to ask a lot more questions and I’m going to pay attention to the answers as if they really mattered. I’m going to really, really listen to people when they tell me their stories. I’m going to raise my voice if it needs to be raised. I’m going to lend my voice to people who have none. I’m going to figure out how to be an effective advocate for others. I’m not going to care anymore whether people like me when I speak my truth. I’m never going to ask for permission again. And, as Ensler said, “I am going to hold who I am in the face of anything.”

And so, if Patti wants to be Eve when she grows up, I will settle for being as articulate, fascinating, aware, and emotionally connected – and as willing to give of herself -- as Patti is. I hereby add her to the list of WOMEN I WANT TO BE LIKE IF I GROW UP (headed, most notably, by The Mom, Lovely Lady R, and Beatrice – each in their own ways, and certainly not in ALL ways, lest they get big heads or feel that I'm stalking them!). But in Patti’s honor, I’m starting my list here … of things I would do if I only had 37 days to live.

Be honest. About how I feel. About what I think and want. Say ouch when I am hurt. It doesn’t mean being impolite; it’s just that the squelching of my own feelings when someone steps upon them intentionally is no longer an okay way to be. Because if you go through too many years just letting your feelings get stepped on, you develop callouses, and callouses lead to not feeling. And feeling equates to BEING, and not being, my friends, is not okay. So in a weird roundabout way, Be Honest means let yourself feel what you feel, and be willing – nicely – to let others know. Be okay just BEING.

Let people be who they are. When you’re honest and in the midst of being you, sometimes people can’t handle it. Don’t try to change them. And sometimes, that means letting them be – just exactly who they are -- albeit a little further away from your life. Be okay with that. Things change. People change. It’s not bad, it just is. Some of my most magnificent friendships have come from accidental encounters, and some of my best changes have come from loss. It’s the natural way of things.

Okay, okay – I know I have to say ‘Move to Tuscany’. Except that 37 days would not be enough. Because, for me, now – (not before), I realize that it’s not in the DOING of the thing ... (though 'take a risk' should probably be on the list); it’s in the BEING there. REALLY being there. Learning the rhythms. Respecting the unknown. Facing that which is scary and learning to appreciate it as normal. Understanding and learning things from which you did not come. Rather than just move here, I need to BE here: to learn to be still here (in the words of the Eagles), and discover what it has to teach me. I have so much to learn.

So many others come to mind: Don't insist on being right when it really doesn't matter. Talk to strangers. Say thank you more to the people who make a difference and never ask for anything in return. Forgive (I'm working on this one, really.) Surprise people by welcoming them into your life (I have new renters at my apartment, I believe in part because when they came to look at the place, I had just opened a bottle of champagne, so I gave them both a glass while they toured. That just might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.)

Wear the big hat. Too often, we don't do things because we are afraid of how people will look at us, of standing out, of not being one of the crowd. Yet every time I wore the 'big hat' for an event, I had compliments thrust upon me. The hat itself is a paper bag that it looks like a nursery school class made a project out of. Yes, it's freakishly large. But it's not the hat itself - it's the confidence it takes to call attention to yourself. To dance to your own music no matter how goofy it is. To break outside of 'safe'. I looked different when I wore the hat. I FELT different. I walked taller. I smiled more. It's inexplicable. The hat had seen horse races, easter brunches (ooh, my poor tolerant friends!), birthday parties, gay bars (where it was ALWAYS well received), parading down 17th street just for kicks. The hat was worn for its last time the evening of and after my yard sale. It was a part of the DC life, and I left it perched atop a trash pile out front of my house when I left, knowing it would find a good home. As I came through the airport back to Italy this time, I found a sleeker, more sophisticated hat: a wide-brimmed, black and white striped, slightly floppy, hat-of-fabulousness. Still a statement, but a more elegant one, a bit more evolved, subtle and quiet than its sibling the paper party hat. As I came off the plane in Rome (with fresh 'bed' hair), I put it (and my sunglasses) on. I imagined myself looking like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (HA!) And lo and behold, people stopped me. They say nothing other than "great hat" with a tone of admiration. And I straighten my back a little and smile. "Thank you, I love it."

Order the tiramisu. While it is heresy to say (living in Italy) that I am not a Tiramisu person; insert your word here for ‘Tiramisu’ and the story is the same: 2 ½ years ago, I was at a dinner here in Italy with a small group of women (mostly strangers to me), and Beatrice, who had just finished her first round of chemotherapy and was facing the eventual prospect of having her left hand amputated. Her fight with cancer was in its early stages and cast an obvious aura over the group that week. One of the women in the group was obscenely aerobics-video-cover fit (at 50 something years old), and makeuped, sprayed and plasticsurgeried to the hilt, to the point of caricature. She was also – it is fair to say – significantly annoying in persona to those of us who had come to ENJOY the trip. (‘Are you going to eat THAT?!?, oh, that’s DISGUSTING!!! Oh, no, I couldn’t – you know, *I* watch my calories.”) Blah, blah, blah. It was on this night that Fratello Guido proclaimed that the restaurant we were eating at – with a spectacular sunset view on a spring night in Tuscany – had the VERY BEST tiramisu that he had ever had (no small claim for a Tuscan!). In our small group of 8 women, we ordered two pieces – ‘to share’. When the plate got to ‘Fitnessa’ – her response was “Oh, no – I have told myself that I can have dessert when I am 70.”

The table went silent. Beatrice, one round of chemotherapy under her belt and heavens knows what else in front of her, broke the silence with her stage-perfect timing and inflection: “And what makes you think you’ve got that long??”

(just let that sink in for a moment.)

The happy postscript on that story is that I like to believe that there really IS a ‘hidden law’ (as Capt. Silver Fox would say) and that just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen: everyone gets what they have coming to them, somehow. Fitnessa had a surgery go a bit awry on her (not fatally awry, just enough to teach her that messing with mother nature doesn't always pay)... And Beatrice, blissfully, is living a happy healthy life in remission, giggling with her new granddaughter every chance she gets, and will be here to visit in September: taking nothing for granted and enjoying every bite of Tiramisu.

And the list will continue; perhaps as a regular '37 days' tribute feature. Thanks, Patti, for making me think.

Be Honest. Let People Be Who They Are. Move to Tuscany *(Learn to Just BE). Don't insist on being right when it doesn't matter. Forgive. Say Thank You More. Welcome people into your life. Talk to Strangers. Wear the Big Hat. Order the Tiramisu. Ask ... If not now, when?

30 July 2005

Getting back

I dragged myself out of bed, sick as a dog (okay, I admittedly do NOT know where that expression comes from, but I felt like garbage. Regrettably cancelled not one but three appointments to buy myself a little time. Drugged myself into near-oblivion, swung through the office and did ‘perky’ one more time (God bless Miss Manners who brought me a stash of Airborne tablets!, took one taxicab, two airplanes, three trains, twenty-plus hours -- and at the end, my dirty little car (from its last adventure) sat waiting for me at the train station. A quick stop at the Coop to get a few necessities for the fridge (I was arriving on a Saturday night at 5 pm – nothing is open on Sunday, I’ve already learned THAT the hard way!). Stopped at Pazze Pizza (literally, Crazy Pizza, a cute carryout place), and ordered a carciofi e salsiccia (artichoke hearts and sausage to go… stopped for a limone gelato while I waited. Aaaah, it’s good to be back. Noticed a sign in the window at Pazze … Chiuso per Ferie, 1 August – 10 Sept. Are you KIDDING?!?!? 6 WEEKS? How does a business survive? I am about to experience my first August with ‘Italy on Vacation’ – have heard the rumors, but see now that it’s no joke!

As I came in on the train, I realized that the sunflowers (girasole – literally turning to the sun) are still here, which makes me smile. Someone during my travels told me that there were as many sunflowers in Italy as there is corn in Iowa, and while I purposely haven’t spent a ton of time in Iowa (not that there’s anything WRONG with that?!), I imagine it to be pretty close to true. My hike today revealed only a few changes in the garden – the roses are at their end but the cardoons are blooming, gargantuan 6’ tall purple thistle things that they are, but the heat has gotten to them; many fewer leaves on them than when I left. The blackberries, thankfully, are not yet ripe (still plenty of time to give myself a stomachache eating them when they are… I have fond childhood memories of berrypicking with my surrogate grandfather Mr. U, and wish he could be here to see the bounty that awaits – the bushes are literally heavy with the weight of the still-pinkish fruit!); the fall-harvesting olives and figs are coming along nicely.

Even Maxi – the famously disinterested, almost skittish cat – is literally bounding with energy to see me; he won’t let me alone for even a moment, insistently rubbing against my legs, shoving his head up against my hands, stretching his legs on my back when I sit on the stone wall - begging for attention. TD & RA have left and locked the limonaia – where their food lives – so they have to settle for a saucer of milk and a bit of sausage, which I have, and give happily. It’s nice to be missed.

Mea culpa!

Oh, it's NOT possible that it's the end of July. Really. If I shake my head really hard, and splash a little cold water on my face, it should be the week of July 7.

But no. If any of you out there are still reading (and by all rights the four or five of you who were my loyal readers should be off and addicted to some other mindless drivel after 3+ weeks of zip, zero, zilch from your used-to-be-reliable-penpal-blogbuddy Viaggiatore.) However, as the name 'Viaggiatore' hints - by now likely you've realized that my lack-of-blogness almost always coincides with a major travel engagement, this time again to the States for a gargantuan mess of work obligations all strung together into one miserable sticky wet DC July.

You *know* it's bad when I don't have a moment to even drop y'all a line. Even if I had the time, I didn't have a web connection in my apartment. Of course, I was also sleeping on a rapidly-deflating airmattress, waking up well before the ass crack of dawn, and living without a TV or a coffeepot - so really, blogging was the least of the things I was missing...

Suffice it to say I actually HAVE kept some random notes of the oddities of life that have unfolded since the last time I posted. Will be putting them up in chronological order as if I never left over the next day or so. Stay tuned, scroll down the page to read the entries on the days they actually happened, and catch up on the 'July that Was'.

Miss chatting at you. And, oh... (she pauses, taking a deep breath of fresh Tuscan summer air), I'm REALLY, REALLY, REALLY glad to be back.

27 July 2005

The Mania and the Lessons: Lance Armstrong

He has a cult of his very own, like a religion or a god of sorts - one of the ancient, magnificent Greek Gods - whose powers are humanesque but taken to incredible new heights: Lance Armstrong. And though I was desperately sad to be out of town during Bicycle-Built-For-Two's annual Tour De France (Lance!) soiree, I was truly amazed at the media coverage of the event, even in the US.

Because, you see, it takes a *lot* to get the US interested in what are otherwise sports 'For the Rest of the World': Soccer, Cycling, Cricket (okay, that one hasn't hit yet), Rugby... (even the Olympics, when watched through the filter of the US Newsmedia, only covers sports that OUR athletes compete in. It's a completely different games to watch them abroad!)

But having one of our very own continue to crush the competition - year after year, against incredible statistical odds - yes, the spirit of overcoming the greatest of odds resulting in the American domination of what is otherwise a primarily European sport, THAT gets people motivated. And there's the heartstring-tugging story (complete with beautiful children in yellow sundresses!) to go with it. And no great American passion is complete without easily accessible tchotchke -- to publicly display your dedication: (Witness other fads where people can show off their passion for something: the Baby on Board signs. The pink ribbon. The POWMIA pins. The support-our-troops yellow ribbon, round the ole' oak tree. 'These Colors Don't Run' (usually accompanied by BushCheney04) bumperstickers. The rainbow flag. The veterans poppies. And so on.) Yup, our 'show it to me' cause-driven society has jumped on the bandwagon of the yellow LIVESTRONG armband bracelet, also - and I pray that the money really does go to cancer research (if you're going to buy one, buy it through the foundation so you're sure!): there has been $14 million donated so far by the Lance Armstrong Foundation. I applaud that, but it's not enough. I add my voice to the millions who have asked 'why on earth is Cancer still an issue? Why can't we find a cure?' It defies scientific logic that this disease continues to plague our society.

And that, I suppose, is the mystique of Lance Armstrong. He himself defies logic. He embodies a spirit of survival, of domination, of perserverance, of triumph over the odds. We would all like to believe that his is the 'great American spirit'. And perhaps, for some, it is. But not as many as we would like to believe.

I came across this article by Thomas Friedman (who I worship as a brilliant political and cultural commentator, not to mention a writer who weaves logic and fluidity and international affairs into such clear and compelling articles!), that comments on the Lance-ing of America, and the ugly opposite side of that coin. I paste its' text here because after a week, the NYT site will make you pay to read it... and it's too good to miss:

Learning From Lance
There is no doubt that Lance Armstrong's seventh straight victory in the Tour de France, which has prompted sportswriters to rename the whole race the Tour de Lance, makes him one of the greatest U.S. athletes of all time. What I find most impressive about Armstrong, besides his sheer willpower to triumph over cancer, is the strategic focus he brings to his work, from his prerace training regimen to the meticulous way he and his cycling team plot out every leg of the race. It is a sight to behold. I have been thinking about them lately because their abilities to meld strength and strategy - to thoughtfully plan ahead and to sacrifice today for a big gain tomorrow - seem to be such fading virtues in American life.

Sadly, those are the virtues we now associate with China, Chinese athletes and Chinese leaders. Talk to U.S. business executives and they'll often comment on how many of China's leaders are engineers, people who can talk to you about numbers, long-term problem-solving and the national interest - not a bunch of lawyers looking for a sound bite to get through the evening news. America's most serious deficit today is a deficit of such leaders in politics and business.

John Mack, the new C.E.O. at Morgan Stanley, initially demanded in the contract he signed June 30 that his total pay for the next two years would be no less than the average pay package received by the C.E.O.'s at Goldman Sachs, Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers and Bear Stearns. If that average turned out to be more than $25 million, Mr. Mack was to be paid at least that much. He eventually backed off that demand after a howl of protest, but it struck me as the epitome of what is wrong in America today.

We are now playing defense. A top C.E.O. wants to be paid not based on his performance, but based on the average of his four main rivals! That is like Lance Armstrong's saying he will race only if he is guaranteed to come in first or second, no matter what his cycling times are on each leg.

I recently spent time in Ireland, which has quietly become the second-richest country in the E.U., first by going through some severe belt-tightening that meant everyone had to sacrifice, then by following that with a plan to upgrade the education of its entire work force, and a strategy to recruit and induce as many global high-tech companies and researchers as possible to locate in Ireland. The Irish have a plan. They are focused. They have mobilized business, labor and government around a common agenda. They are playing offense.

Wouldn't you think that if you were president, after you'd read the umpteenth story about premier U.S. companies, like Intel and Apple, building their newest factories, and even research facilities, in China, India or Ireland, that you'd summon the top U.S. business leaders to Washington to ask them just one question: "What do we have to do so you will keep your best jobs here? Make me a list and I will not rest until I get it enacted."

And if you were president, and you had just seen more suicide bombs in London, wouldn't you say to your aides: "We have got to reduce our dependence on Middle East oil. We have to do it for our national security. We have to do it because only if we bring down the price of crude will these countries be forced to reform. And we should want to do it because it is clear that green energy solutions are the wave of the future, and the more quickly we impose a stringent green agenda on ourselves, the more our companies will lead innovation in these technologies."

Instead, we are about to pass an energy bill that, while it does contain some good provisions, will make no real dent in our gasoline consumption, largely because no one wants to demand that Detroit build cars that get much better mileage. We are just feeding Detroit the rope to hang itself. It's assisted suicide. I thought people went to jail for that?

And if you were president, would you really say to the nation, in the face of the chaos in Iraq, that "if our commanders on the ground say we need more troops, I will send them," but that they had not asked? It is not what the generals are asking you, Mr. President - it is what you are asking them, namely: "What do you need to win?" Because it is clear we are not winning, and we are not winning because we have never made Iraq a secure place where normal politics could emerge.

Oh, well, maybe we have the leaders we deserve. Maybe we just want to admire Lance Armstrong, but not be Lance Armstrong. Too much work. Maybe that's the wristband we should be wearing: Live wrong. Party on. Pay later.


(And let me end by saying that if I had an account at Morgan Stanley, it would be closed today. But of course, I'm not wealthy enough for that, and I'm guessing John Mack wouldn't care one way or the other - and neither, probably, do most of the people who DO have accounts there. I fervently hope that Lance's gazillions of dollars aren't in the hands of a John Mack, either. Because winning is one thing, but living the principles is another thing entirely.)

11 July 2005

Reentry could have been hell, but wasn't

When I arrived in Waterford, the Lovely Lady R (High Priestess of the White Robe Club) was waiting for me (with Comma Honey) and glass of wine in hand, and the one thing I really needed… a bath drawn. She presented an elegant and color-coordinated bath basket… candle, soaps, book of poetry … lovely little trinkets with which to relax.

Being greeted by friends who want nothing other than to be happy that I am there in one piece is truly an amazing gift. The Waterford Weekend was the softest possible re-entry into the hustle of my DC life, and for every moment of it, including spectacular weather, I am truly appreciative.

Following the much – needed bathing, fresh and rejuvenated, we sit down for a delicious ‘very American’ meal of fish, coleslaw and the most divine homemade French fries. We eat by candlelight under the arbor out back of the cottage, enjoying the garden at dusk, and sing and dance until I hit the wall and become a puddle of jetlagged mush around midnight, at which point I am poured into a white-linened bed, doused with water and the goodness of the ladybug, and sleep soundly in the fresh summer air.

The rest of the weekend was picture perfect; laughter mingled with food, wine, and magical life philosophy – that which is unique to the times I spend Lovely Lady R. We marveled at the simplicity of “Be Where You Are” – which is my answer to jetlag, but also a great philosophy for life in general. We began our Saturday morning with a vodka and grapefruit juice ‘passagiata’ (walk about) around the town … generally being beautiful people and discussing ‘things we must do today when we are still sober.’ LLR asked the question “now, how many of your friends plan their vacation weekends like that?!” … my answer: “all the really good ones!”

By the end of the weekend, we had massaged the philosophy to a more sophisticated:

“Be where you are. Use what you have. Feel what you feel”



… and I would add, raising a glass... “love with abandon those that are worthy.”

Thank you, my dear friends, for being wonderfully, fabulously worthy of everything. Thanks, Comma Honey, for taking (in your words) 'blogworthy' photos to capture the moments. And so, this chapter closes. And until the next meeting of the White Robe Club, all was as it should be: Delightful.

08 July 2005

Planes, Trains & Automobiles: the normal saga of 'from here to there'

This was my first time trying the public transport route from home to the states. It’s amazing how I used to whine when I had to get out to the airport at Dulles from my apartment downtown; I didn’t know how good I had it!

For illustration and your enjoyment of how remote I really am … here’s the route:

6:07 am, leave house. Fly like a madwoman in my car down the hill, trying not to kill anyone along the way.

6:20 am: arrive at tiny train station in my town. Leave car in the lot and pray noone bothers it.

6:24 am: catch train to ‘big town’ – Arezzo. Smile sweetly and ‘mille grazie’ profusely at the guy who helps schlep Magdalena (my giant suitcase) onto the train with me.

6:49 am: train arrives in Arezzo. Figure out which platform I need to be on. Magdalena and I elevator down from the arrival platform (the term 'elevator' is a bit generous here – it’s like a glass box on an electric pulley system, you have to continue to hold the button down to make it move). Ride the electric box back up to the next platform.

Make friends with the Americans from Phoenix who are standing there waiting for the train. Easy to spot, we Americans. I give them the skinny about how to find the rental car place at the Rome airport, the guy getting on the train is nervous about finding the connector train once we get to Rome.

7:14 am: Phoenix Guy and I get on the highspeed Eurostar train to Rome. We’re not in the same car. I tell him I’ll keep my eyes open for him when we arrive.

8:59 am: We are delayed nearly 30 minutes for unexplained reasons, then arrive in Rome, Termini station. This is the mother of all train stations -- 29 platforms, gargantuan. We arrive at platform 1, of course Magdalena and I have to walk to platform 29 to catch the Leonardo Express airport train. There’s no way to make it there by the 9:07 departure time, so I won’t give myself the cardiac workout trying to run for it through the sea of Friday morning people at the station. Stop, buy a biglietto (ticket) at the Tabacchi … and have a coffee while waiting.

9:30 am: we gather on the platform for the 9:37 departure of the Leonardo express train. I see Phoenix Guy standing there, we exchange pleasantries (amazing how fast you can build friendships when traveling!), we get on the train together (he helps me with Magdalena and we collectively jockey for good luggage positioning.)

10:05 am: Leonardo Express arrives at Fiumicino Airport (which is in the town called Fiumicino, but is really the Leonardo DaVinci airport, hence the name of the train). Phoenix Guy and I are both on Delta, so we hike together the long route from the train station to the terminal. He’s relieved to be navigating with someone who knows what she’s doing; I’m happy for the company. Turns out he’s a math teacher and high school basketball coach; I tell him about Pi Guy! We joke there must be something genetic about math skills and coaching skills going together … he says 14 out of 15 teachers in the math department at his HS are coaches, and I seem to recall my high school was much the same!

10:40 am: breeze through check in lines, thanks to newly acquired Gold Medallion status. No upgrade, tho (haven’t quite figured out how that all works on the new airline yet …), but I do have a window seat, which is a relief. Send Magdalena off with the nice airline man, and go to get yet another coffee before the flight. The guy at the shop jokes with me - here's how it goes:
I order: Vorrei un caffe e anche un Capri (name of sandwich), per favore.

He says: "Subito. E la Capri -- con mare o sensa mare?"

(I am confused, pausing ... searching the file folders in my mind... I thought "mare" meant ocean, is it also a sandwich condiment? slang for Mayonnaise? What??? ... I finally give up, line behind me, and respond: Con mare. )

He giggles and says ... "Certo! Non e possibile ha Capri sensa mare!" (Of course you can't have the Island of Capri without the ocean.) ... GROAN!!! ... doesn't he know it's not nice to tease the language learners?!?!


Once I get the joke, I laugh with him, learning to trust my instincts a bit more on the words, take my sandwich and go.

11:30 am: am briefly but violently annoyed by the group of high school kids milling around the bookstore at the airport, one of which who says loudly to another, ‘like, ohmigod, they don’t even have magazines in ENGLISH here!!!’ (Hello? You’re in Italy.) Deep breaths.

11:50 am: we board a bit late for our 12:10 departure

12:30 pm: we finally depart.

For those of you who are counting, that’s about 6 ½ hours from departure from house to airplane departure. PLUS, 9 hours enroute to NY/Kennedy, 1 ½ hours layover, and another 1 ½ hours from JFK to Reagan…. Plus 30 minutes waiting for luggage, 15 minutes to get rental car, and an hour out to Waterford and the White Robe Club... just as the sun is setting. That’s just over 20 hours door to door! (Yes, I’m having a be-careful-what-you-wish-for moment.) Thankfully, I won’t be doing this that often.

Take Adventure; add two cups of water... Or not.

I make it home around 12:30. I’m FILTHY (long day of touring wineries, add the tour of the animal pens at Montelucci and the car ride along gravel roads on the way home, and I have a thin film of grime all over my body and hair) – not to mention there are only 6 hours until my train leaves. The car looks worse than I do, but not by much.

I throw some things into the suitcase, figure I’ll buy whatever I've forgotten when I get to DC, and decide to jump in the shower.

Except … I turn on the tap and the pipes go ‘glurg, glurg, sputter, shake’. The water isn’t working. I rack my brain trying to decide if there’s a switch I flipped somewhere, but can’t think of a thing that I may have done to cause this. Assuming that either the well is weirdly dry (HIGHLY unlikely), or the guys working on the house must have turned it off somehow. I realize there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, so I ‘give it up to the Lord,’ resign myself to the idea of getting on the plane with all my filth, and … lay down on the bed for a few hours of sleep.

(Footnote - I scrawl a note to The Diplomat & Renaissance Artist about it before leaving, and get a sheepish email the next day apologizing: indeed a wrong switch had been flipped somewhere. I'm just relieved it wasn't serious!)

The Long and Winding (Gravel) Road

I leave Montelucci and head home down the ‘back gravel roads’. In a perfect world, it should be a 20 minute drive. But it’s a bit before midnight, nothing is lit, and very little is well signed. (quick Italian road sign lesson – there is no ‘east or west’ – it’s all “in the direction of …”, so you have to know which towns are between and beyond where you are and where you want to go. On the main roads, it’s not a huge issue once you get used to it – but the little gravel ‘back roads’ … fuggedaboudit!!!!)

A reasonable sense of direction and adventure had me off and running. At one point, I realized that I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHATSOEVER where I was, speeding through winding gravel back roads, completely in the dark, with dense forests on both sides of me. I thought to myself – “self, you asked for adventure… you got it!” Figuring I had ¾ of a tank of gas and 6 hours to figure it out, I just settled in for the ride and didn’t get anxious about it. When you ask for adventure, you can’t be picky about how it is packaged!

(I did – about 50 minutes later, thanks to random luck and probably a directional angel or two – find my way into my darling little town, albeit from a directional approach I had never taken. I’m sure the town was startled awake by my loud ‘yee-haw’ of recognition!)

07 July 2005

The first Thursday night date and She Who Shall Be Obeyed

And I thought *I* was a control freak!?! Sparky & Tortola Artista were in town – a trip for T.A.’s birthday -- by completely random coincidence staying about 20 minutes from me in a beautiful place called Fattoria Montelucci, a small hotel of about 30 rooms with meeting space and 500 acres of production and hiking trails, which is owned by an old friend of theirs and her boyfriend.

VERY long story short; SHSBO is an elegant woman 'of uncertain age' who is a power player in the Milan fashion world. She is a very compelling presence. Sparky had sent me a sort of cryptic email prior to arriving that although they were here on vacation, every moment was being managed by SHSBO … so our initial plan (that I would pick them up at the hotel and take them out for dinner) was NOT going to work.

Late though I was, and filthy from a day of touring, I “slapped on some lipstick” and twisted my hair up, threw on a black sweater, and was good to go. Arriving with a bottle of wine for each of them, at least somewhat appropriate and apologetic!

Hysterically funny is the only way to describe the evening. Like many inside jokes, most of it will only be relevant to those of us who were there… but SHSBO is truly a character, and I would be remiss in not sharing with you:

She was nowhere to be found upon my arrival, the three of us sat and ‘champagned’ (who knew it could be a verb?!?) and got caught up in the garden. If I’ve ever met anyone who was ‘all about her,’ she is definitely it. After she arrived and we did the introductions (she giving me MORE than the once-over… and testing my language skills – as if I were a new toy to play with … ), she waved us off to take a tour of the property. About an hour later (touring the hiking trails, pens for the animals, ancient stone church, and olive groves), we returned and she was – again – nowhere to be found. Multiple calls to her apartment produced nothing. In the absence of other direction, we were content to champagne, enjoy the sunset, and explore on our own.

About 2 hours later, she reappeared, looking a bit (ahem) disheveled and bed-headed, flailing her cigarette about and repeatedly saying, ‘oh, I’m so sorry’… (had apparently taken a nap and then woken later than expected…) I SWEAR, if I had a video of the moment, I would embed it here. Hysterical.

We brushed it off (like there was another option?!?! We're her guests!), saying that it was all fine, and we did a quick tour of the space (and oohed and aaahed over the portfolio of fashion shoots and PR that she had for the hotel), and we went into dinner. Of course it was the best table in the house, and of course everything had been pre-ordered.

The meal was to die for. The best I’ve had since I’ve been here, which is saying a LOT. The bistecca Fiorentina was absolutely mouth-meltingly delicious, we drank the house wine, a perfect companion. We were treated like royalty. More hysterically funny was the way she ordered everyone around – clearly the ‘lady of the house’ - and was such a presence in the dining room as she told stories (not realizing that the other tables (including a travel agent being entertained at the next table by her staff - were hanging obviously on her every word, including the copious and passionate use of the Italian equivalent of the ‘f-bomb,’ vafanculo!) The three of us felt like we were in a movie. Or a bad Saturday Night Live sketch. She ordered dessert and vin santo for everyone then suggested that we go up to her apartment for a nightcap.

4 glasses of champagne, 2 glasses of wine, 1 glass of vin santo later, it’s close to 11 pm. I haven’t yet mentioned that I have a 6:24 am train the next morning to get down to Rome for my flight, and I haven’t packed a THING.

But … I have learned quickly that there is no way other than SHSBO’s, so we cheerfully head upstairs, the chef and staff obviously relieved to see her go.

After a quick nightcap, I say my goodbyes and promise that we will get in touch this fall once I am back more consistently in Italy (which I will do – not only is it good to know neighbors, but she actually is fascinating, and I give her a lot of credit – though I have created a bit of a caricature here, she is exactly what she appears to be, and you can take her or leave her. I admire someone who is that honest about themselves. She was also very sweet to me – after I passed her ‘tests’ – including letting her call all the shots -- which, again, is a part of the mystique!)

Sono una guida!

Eeek! I’m official. Sorta. Today was my ‘coming out’ party: my first day working on a real tour with Il Cavaliere. Actually- it was perfect timing… there was a couple who wanted a day tour of Chianti, Fratello Guido wasn’t able to do it and Il Cavaliere doesn’t speak enough English to go out on his own… plus it was going to places I needed to pre-tour before our September event, so I accompanied him and played translator. He is always so amazingly patient, but I was proud of how well I did. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I’ve brushed up a bit with some good chatty tourist worthy stories of Italian culture ... It’s the little things that make it easier!

As always, tour days start early. I left the house at 6:30 am to meet Il Cavaliere at the exit to the autostrada at 7:45. We picked the couple up at 9:00 at their hotel. Lovely people – New Yorkers – Clara and Michael. Stopped for a photo at the overlook for the villa where Michelangelo supposedly painted Mona Lisa. Proceeded to piazza in Greve, where I learned that Amerigo Vespucci and Giovanni Verrazzano (of the NY bridge) were actually both from Chianti – apparently exploration is in the blood here? (Ridiculous I have to come all this way to learn about two men key to the early days of the US!) After that, a wine tasting with Leandro Alessi at Cennatoio, a wonderful tiny winery tucked into the Panzano hillsides, that makes delicious wines (a few of them are available in the states!) Leandro himself guided us through, explaining the full tasting of his wines in endearing broken English. I had mentioned that morning to Il Cavaliere that I needed to buy some wine to take as gifts back to hosts in the states -- when we were tasting, he asked me for my order, which he had packaged and waiting hidden in the back of the car when we returned. He quietly whispered ‘we pay different prices’ -- aaah, of course! Yet another perk to the barter economy system here.

We went to lunch in Volpaia – an ancient village with a restaurant and a winery The castle in this town was built in about the year 1000!!! It was here – sitting beneath a tree in the restaurant, overlooking the gorgeous vista of vineyards and rolling chianti hills – that we heard from the owner of the restaurant about the London bombings. A very strange feeling to be so far away from everything, yet so connected to world events. An odd trepidation washed over me as I realized I would be flying internationally from Rome the next day -- I brushed that off with the Italian philosophy, che sera' sera'.

After lunch at Volpaia and a quick tour, we stopped at the ceramics store, dropped off Clara and Michael and pointed them in the right direction for dinner, and headed back to pick up my car. Although it doesn’t sound like much, it was a long day – and by the time I got on the road, it was very late; nearly 5:30 pm, and I called to make my apologies and headed rushing off down the autostrada to make it to my dinner engagement with Sparky & Tortola Artista & SHMBO.

04 July 2005

Connections = Independence

Okay, that's a bit of a stretch for a holiday tie-in title, but it is really true - especially here. Fratello Guido explained to me a while back that the concept of 'mafia' actually originated from a very positive concept -- that you do business with people you like, and you take care of your friends.

So this afternoon, The Diplomat spent 4 hours squiring me around town giving me the next major step in my independence here... personal, face-to-face introductions to an assortment of people that I will need to know. Without boring you, I can try to give you a feeling of how amazingly lucky I am to have introductions like these, to not have to go out and find these people on my own, to start with basically a ready-made life: it's incredible. As Peter's reality check in his last comment reminded me: not only am I lucky to wake up in Tuscany tomorrow, but to wake up here with a whole community of people welcoming me kindly -- this is an amazing thing. For my own memory as much as anything... here was (in rough chronological order!) the afternoon:

Lino the cobbler
Lamberto the owner of the clothing store (which is candidly a little too shi-shi and overpriced for me...!)
Silvio the car insurance guy
The vice-corporal (or some similar ranking guy) at the Carabinieri, who I had already met once when he stopped by the house - but now I'm official!
Georgina & Aldo, the butchers. (There are 4 butcher shops in this tiny town!)
Federico, the one with the beautiful eyes who owns the new coffee bar next to the butcher shop.
Daniele, who owns the Tabacchi shop where they sell the 700 minute for 20 Euro phone cards (and lotto tickets and cigarettes and a bunch of other stuff I will never buy. But his mother said I could always just wave when I walked by to say hello.)
Marcello & Gigliola, who run the 'hang out' coffee bar in town, Caffe Luna.
Mauro - who runs the shop next to the bank that has the best cappucini
Franco the Farmacista, who is also an amazing musician and historian.
Gianna, who runs one of the three shops in town where they make handmade Gelato.
Katia, the woman at the fabric/bed linens store
Guido & Antonio at the machine shop, where my lawnmower will go when it's sick. I bought a mask for my 'weed eater' (decespugliatore) there, too.
The family - Claudio, Carla, Paolo, Giancarlo - who run the benzinaio (gas station) that we like. And their mechanic, Andrea. Good people to know!
Paola and Anna (mother and daughter) at the convenience store with deli counter - one of the few places open on Sundays!

Then, of course, I have already met Ricardo the blacksmith and locksmith, the carpenter Carlo, Leonardo at the computer shop, and Luca the son of the plumber. The three brothers Tigli who graze their sheep on the pasture and cut the wheat in the summer, do tree pruning and watering.

Still on the list to meet: Silvio the electrician, Biondo the firewood man, Rafaello who brings gravel for the driveway, and whoever fills the fuel tank in the winter... (THAT is an important one!)

Oh, it's so much to remember! But also, I am so aware that a reality of life here is needing people -- much more so than in an impersonal big city. I never in my life remember having to actually KNOW an electrician or a blacksmith - just opened the yellow pages when I needed one. I'm also confident that just in this afternoon, I received a warmer, more excited welcome than I ever would have in a similar situation in DC or Chicago, or most major suburbs even. Can you imagine walking into a gas station -- not to actually BUY anything, but just to introduce yourself to the people working there???!?!?! Without fail, every one of them greeted me more than warmly. I know in part this is because I'm a bit of an oddity -- (that crazy American woman), but I also think it is a culture that respects more that every person has a role to play. Plus the small town feel of it all.

We returned to the house around 7:45, took the first real 'orientation' hike around the 20+ acres (not all of it, certainly!), then had a delicious meal (courtesy of Renaissance Artist, who is also an exceptional chef, gardener and musician ....!) of fresh green beans and pork ribs that had been cooked in a chestnut honey sauce. We ate al fresco sitting out under the lunch tree, looking out at the lights of Siena.

It was a different Independence Day, to be sure, than any I've ever spent. But, oddly and perhaps appropriately, today I am more aware of both the spirit of independence and the value of connections than I have ever been on the 4th of July, and I am blessed today with both.

03 July 2005

A bit ... just ...

Just... I don't know. Floating? Disconnected? Strangely empty? There's really no word for how this feels. Thankfully I'm starting with an easy holiday (not like it's Christmas morning and I'm sitting here by myself), but it is ... odd. Our family always had July 4th festivities, ever since I can remember. It was a week-long celebration. A bigger deal than Thanksgiving (which is just one big meal and some football); a more significant holiday for us than Easter - heathens that we were: July 4th was the undisputed event of the midwestern summer. Parades. local festivals. The Hickory Nuts, and all the crazy antics my parents made their neighbors participate in. Block parties. Fireworks at the racetrack. Serving Pizza & Beer at the Festival. Coupons for ice cream. Buttons the Clown. The Dunking Booth, Cherry Pie Baking contests. The auction and the flea market. The team water fights with the firemens' hoses and the empty beer keg. Behind the Main Stage at Frontier Days. Riding the ferris wheel at night.

Danza Sorellina and The Mom are both walking in the hometown parade tomorrow morning - DS with her kiddlies from dance class, I think, and The Mom with her local theatre board. Logic clearly tells me that even if I lived in the US, I wouldn't be there (and haven't been for years, I might add). But it feels even further away today. It just doesn't FEEL like the fourth of July - though my calendar tells me that it is. It's the little things, really -- no annoying car sales advertised on TV. No R/W/B cupcakes in the grocery store. No roadside fireworks stands. No flags hung out on front porches. No patriotic medleys playing on the radio.

And as for my 'adopted' hometown, DC (swampy summertime that it is there) is probably all at the beach for the weekend and flipping burgers on a grill, or boating on the Chesapeake, stopping to eat Maryland crabs & beer, -- all of which I rarely was -- because for the last 8 years I have had our annual meeting breathing down my neck to prepare for (2nd week in July). Which I do again this year, so I'm working this weekend. Being here definitely makes THAT easier!

But being here, I do definitely feel - independent. That I have made a decision to do what many people would never have: to go out on a limb, by myself, not entirely sure where that road may lead. And if that spirit of change, independence, seeking a different life when the answers are not clear or easy is what the spirit of July 4th is really all about, then I guess - gulp - I'm living it. I saw a post tonight on my 'expatriats' message board that definitely rang true:
we cannot discover new worlds - without or within - unless we have the courage to lose sight of the shore.

Sail on, baby. Happy Independence Day.

Scorched Earth Politics

Being remote, I rely nearly entirely on the web for news, commentary, and a vibe for what's going on in the world (well, and the International Herald Tribune) ... but mostly the web. Because I absolutely despise getting newsprint on my hands. (Really true.) It's worth it when there's a really good crossword, but otherwise... the web works just fine.

But here's the obvious - to anyone who's ever BEEN on the web - caution: there's so much OUT there that it can become instant information overload. So I have to pick and choose a few reliable sources to filter for me, rather than spending hours upon hours reading random crap.

My faves are a diverse left-right-generally irritated with both mix of folks, and they tend to focus on int'l & political affairs (can't quite shake that IR degree, tho I've never put it to any real use!): Thomas Friedman, The New Republic, Virginia Postrel, The Weekly Standard, Glenn Reynolds, Oxblog, and of course, for gossip, humor and general irreverence: The Onion, Drudge, Jon Stewart, Wonkette. Rounding out the list for the Right, though, with what is typically a common-sensical calling out of government specifically, and the US in general, is the brilliant-though-conservative writer Peggy Noonan. One of the great speechwriters of all time, her writing is always lyrical (though her inability to see the failings of Pres. Bush on similar issues is (ahem) a tiny bit of a blindspot. Or maybe she's just smart enough to not bite the hand that feeds her.)Her latest column - Conceit of Government: Why are our politicians so full of themselves? -- takes some well deserved shots at the darlings-of-the-day on both sides, Frist and Obama, and bemoans the high-mindedness of government officials in general. If I can see anything clearly from this distance, it is that Washington truly does live in its own little self-important bubble, and the epidemic sweeping the town is this individual aggrandizement coupled with the apparently requisite lack of introspection and self-awareness. As Peggy asks very clearly, 'What's wrong with them?'

The founding fathers did not anticipate what would happen to their smartly-conceived checks-and-balances system when it was inflated to a seam-popping point with the influence of so much special interest money. With current government being such a mess - on BOTH sides - I tend to subscribe to the scorched earth philosophy. Let's throw 'em all out and start from scratch. Who's with me?

A family affair

Dinner tonight again at Al Cacciatore. Perhaps I'm falling into a rut, but it's so much easier to go somewhere where I'm already known, tolerated for speaking badly, and -- if I may be so bold -- liked. Welcomed. Like I'm already a local.

I walked in tonight ... parked my car on the road, and walked into the courtyard, and before I even got through the 'gate' -- Paolo, who was sitting at a table with some other guests -- called to me. 'Ciao, Kael-eee'! (even though it's been a week since I've been in.) I'm a sucker for a 'cheers' experience.

I sat outside, at Paolo's urging. I apologize for being late -- it's nearly 10 pm (just after sunset) when I arrive. It's a point of pride for me that when I am alone, he no longer really asks what I want to eat, just brings me whatever is good that day. And always, a bottle of wine and a bottle of water - without asking. Tonight, it is fried squash blossoms, which are TO DIE FOR, and steak. And tiramisu, which I never in a million years would have ordered - not having much of a sweet tooth at all, but that I try to eat when he brings it to be polite. He sweetly 'plays' with me all night -- checking what I'm reading (an elementary Italian book - he's already told me I'm not allowed to read anything except Italian there.) Throughout the night, he introduces me to the entire family -- it's summer, so all the nipoti - nieces & nephews - are about: Simone, the cheeky little 14 year old with the cresta (mohawk), and Stefano, the 17 year old, who says he is obviously the sweet one because he is being eaten alive by the mosquitos, and remembers me because he waited on me last week. Plus Gaia - whose name translates to Joy, and two others whose names I don't remember, and of course, Giulia, Paolo's daughter (15), who he wants to have visit America. They are all fascinated that I lived near the Casa Bianca (White House.) Simone is darling - though a bit of a studente seccatore, we would call it a 'brown nose' -- he speaks English better than the rest and is always quick to try to help me translate when I am missing a word. I say that when Giulia she graduates from Scuola Superiore (high school), she can come to visit the US.

It's a Saturday night out, and the tourists are here in droves. I love the people watching. The women in the strange overly-'done' outfits (really. It looks like a Milan runway.) for a night in a country restaurant. The families. The group of men who had too much to drink and start singing. Roberto - the regular - who recognizes me and comes over to say hello. The old couple who live in Arezzo - she with cancer (telltale head scarf), he dapper in glasses and an painters' style overshirt -- he comes over to ask politely who I am and why I am living here; as this is his third time seeing me. He welcomes me: tanti auguri. Yes -- it's the classic family business - they live upstairs, and close when the last guests leave.

Tonight, just after midnight, I am the last guest, and I say my goodbyes warmly after paying Paolo ... no matter what I eat, he always says my bill is 15 Euro. I always give him 20 (tips aren't normal here, but my bill - always - should rightly be more than that - tonight: a bottle of wine, bottle of water, bruschetta, a ridiculously large steak, fried squash blossoms, coffee, and tiramisu...) But it's always 15 Euro. It's nice to be a local.

02 July 2005

Rant of the Week (AKA, What I don't miss about America)

Give me a f***ing break. There's simply no nicer way to say it. If we needed ANY proof at all post 'finger-in-the-Wendys-chili' scandal that the American legal system is completely out of control, and that our culture in general is whiny, opportunistic, overly litigious, instant-gratification and blame-happy, THIS is it.

This Arlington, Virginia woman - Catherine Holmes - is actually SUING the dairy industry: Dannon, Kraft, Gen. Mills, and an assorted bunch of trade groups - because she didn't lose weight on the 'dairy diet'. She actually is quoted as saying, "I was thinking that I wasn't seeing the fat melting off like all those skinny little girls in the ads," O.M.G.!!!!! If only stupidity was a crime. What's next?!? An attack on Tampax, when she isn't miraculously able to compete in a tennis tournament and/or dive into a lake on a summer's day (at 110 lbs and wearing a slinky bikini) immediately after insertion? Or on VIAGRA, when she takes one and a ready-to-go man doesn't appear next to her on a mountain top at sunset? The very best thing I've found about living out of the US is that, by and large, people hold themselves accountable for their own actions. Don't put hot coffee in your lap, bozo. Or if you do and it burns the crap out of your leg when you spill it, do what 98% of rational people would do: Curse loudly. Go home. Change pants. Liberally apply burn cream. Cancel date for the evening. Suck it up, and learn a lesson.

Aaah. But though Catherine is the pretty face (said with tongue FIRMLY placed against my cheek) of this crime against reason, if you dig a bit further, you discover that the suit is actually brought on her behalf by the 'Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine' - a group made up of less than 5% actual physicians; actually a radical animal-rights group in disguise. (Not that I have anything against vegetarians. Or animal lovers. But it's like I say about anything ... if you have passionate beliefs, great - YOU practice them.) Don't like meat? Don't eat it. Oppose abortion? Don't have one, and don't perform them. Think tuna is bad because the nets catch dolphins accidentally? Eat egg salad instead. Think most TV preachers are psycho hate-spewers? Great - don't send 'em your $$$$. Hate spam emails? Delete them. Think porn is bad? Don't watch it, and don't let your kids roam the web unsupervised. Don't like George Bush? You're in good company, but for the love of all that's good and holy, do something more productive with your time and energy than sitting (unshowered in your birkenstocks) in front of his house for the next three and a half years with some half-baked protest sign. Go get involved in local politics, because that's where tomorrow's problems start. Because behaving like a wacko with nothing better to do than picket the White House is NOT - I repeat - NOT advancing the cause. Sigh. We're all responsible for our own lives. That weird, demonstrating radical segment of our society - on so many issues, some that I agree with and others that I don't ... really does leave me to shake my head in wonder. Kook-a-rama. And as for those 5% of the PCRM group who are actual physicians, they deserve every cent and then some of their skyrocketing malpractice insurance costs.

And to you, Catherine: YOU make me ashamed to be a self-confessed occasional yo-yo dieting, heavier-than-I'd-like-to-be-but-not-willing-to-give-up-the-things-I-like woman. No, honey. There's no magic diet, no free lunch (vegetarian or otherwise), and no cure for being hit with the ugly and stupid stick. Get your ass to the gym like the rest of us - or don't - but either way, stop blaming other people for your problems, and for heavens' sake, if you can't do all of that, please move to another country so you can stop giving Americans (and, also, I would hazard a guess, Democrats) a bad name. And, oh, please pick a country with a less voracious media than ours (and the US media should be ashamed of itself, too, which is also something I don't miss about America, but that's a rant for another day.)

But you're not alone in the hall of shame, Catherine. The winner of the 2004 Stella Award (named after the McDonalds Coffee Woman), is the equally-embarrassing Mary Ubaudi of Madison County, Ill. Ubaudi was a passenger in a car that got into a wreck. She put most of the blame on the deepest pocket available: Mazda Motors, who made the car she was riding in. Ubaudi demands "in excess of $150,000" from the automaker, claiming it "failed to provide instructions regarding the safe and proper use of a seatbelt." One hopes Mazda's attorneys make her swear in court that she has never before worn a seatbelt, has never flown on an airliner, and that she's too stupid to figure out on her own how to fasten one.

To marvel at more absolutely blood-boilingly stupid lawsuits, Stella Awards has you covered. Take an aspirin or two before you click, though, to thin your blood accordingly. I'd hate to get sued for referring you to the site if you have a heart attack in anger while reading. Yup. There are people worried about publicizing lists of sex offenders. If I were the crusade-launching type, it would be that people like this be forced to have BEWARE tattooed on their foreheads, so the rest of us know to avoid them.