The Great Divide

Anyone who has ever travelled to another country (or in some cases simply to another neighborhood...) knows that there exist cultural differences between people groups. Such a cultural divide exists, in the large overarching and oversimplified sense, between the United States of America and Italy.

I will point out the often frowned upon U.S. tendency to be overly politically correct (notice I didn't simply say "American tendency"?) by saying here that no one culture is better than another. We all have areas in which we can learn from each other and grow together. That I actually believe this is besides the point, I suppose, as we are speaking politically here.

I've had ample opportunity in my time here to speak with Italians, and there are some fun differences I've noticed or that have been pointed out to me. I list them below in no particular order for your reading pleasure.


Customer Service
In Italy the customer's rightness is not a given. Contrary to what seems like a good business model to me, the goal here is not to aid the customer's consumer habits. If you have to wait half an hour for something you were told would take five minutes, well such is life.

Waiters/Waitresses
In Italy if your server is tired they are not going to grin and bear it. Oh no. If you annoy them or are a little indecisive no one is going to put in a little effort and be gracious about it. Change got thrown at you? Be glad you got any! What can you do about it? Nothing. Your tip is already part of the bill.

Electronics
Italians have a concept of equipment preservation. When I mentioned that I never restart my ipad I was met with an immediate "You're so American." Indeed.

Food
Now this right here can be it's own blog post. Heck, it can be it's own blog. In the interest of not dragging this list on any further I'll focus on one major difference here: Breakfast.

Why is there no such thing as real breakfast?! I want pre made bad-for-me egg and cheese and meat sandwiches on the go. Instead I get chocolate, cream, and jam filled brioches and cappuccinos for breakfast. I'm sorry but sugar doesn't equal long lasting healthy energy in the same way a protein filled egg does. Even if it comes with artery clogging bacon on the side. I'm too lazy to get up early enough to make myself an omelet, and by golly I am entitled to pay a few euros to have someone else do it for me faster!

This brings up a sub point: eating on the go. Despite Milan being a fast paced and rather New York like city, they have still not taken up the indigestion inducing U.S. habit of stuffing your face in public while walking or running from one meeting to the next.

Pity. It's serving us so well...

Busking in Cordusio: The Good and the Bad of it

I've always been a happy person (pun tooootally intended) but I have moments in which I feel exceptionally high. That's been the span of a couple of weeks now, and with this mood combined with my novel reading, I felt that after work I deserved to have some gelato and take a walk through the city center in my "teacher heels" and vintage sailor style dress without a care for Milan's fashion protocols.

On my walk past the Duomo and a few shops I stop to pick up a gelato that is way too expensive and isn't the best I've had. Still, it gets the job done and I'm happy with my choice of hazelnut and chocolate. Walking along I hear some beautiful jazz guitar and I decide to stop and listen. In my newly typical Eat, Pray, Love fashion I ask myself, "Why not enjoy some of the last bits of summer warmth, some decent enough ice cream, and some excellent jazz guitar playing?" Why not indeed.

Now, I've sat down for all of two minutes when this guy who immediately gives me bad vibes sits down uncomfortably close to me and asks me something about Africa. I tell him I wouldn't know, since I'm American and have never been to Africa. And even if I had been there whatever experience I had wouldn't have spoken for the entire continent... I'm annoyed, but I can condescend to be amused by his ignorance. "He just doesn't know any better," I tell myself while soothing my recently healed anger reflex to such questions. I was doing well, but this guy, well he just doesn't quit. He barely misses a beat, pumping me for critical information so he can make his move. How long have I been here? What do I do? Would I give him my number? Would I take his instead? Will I call him? Will I teach him English? Will I take his number and call him and teach him English?

He really did repeat questions like he was on some kind of loop. I don't know how long you can employ closed off body language signals and politely refuse a guy before he takes a hint and gives up. I told him bluntly that I wouldn't take his number and wouldn't call him if he gave me his, and I called him on the BS of his suddenly wanting English lessons. "Well I do want English lessons. And anything else you'd be willing to offer." (rough translation)

There's only so much a girl from the hood can take before the roots make themselves known. Maybe he sensed the impending danger and decided to make his escape before my patience ran out. Perhaps he grew tired of trying to wear me down, but he made sure to remind me of the nights of mindless passion I had tossed away by refusing him. (Ugh. Blegh! [insert preferred sound of disgust]) Either way, he left, and the jazz busker took a cigarette break at the very same moment.

Providence.

Sleaze-Man immediately forgotten, out of my mouth bursts the question that's been burning in me since I walked past him to sit down. "Can I play?" He looks at me and I tell him I'm a singer songwriter. "Will you let me play?" He asks me what I play and seems to like what he hears. He waves me over and I drop my half eaten ice cream cone in a nearby trash can and head for his guitar and mic stand like an oasis in the desert.

I've wanted to busk in Europe since I started busking. Another dream coming true. I sang a couple of tunes and then we did "Stand By Me", by the request of the second gentleman (nicknamed Becky, short for his last name of Beekmeyer, a colonial holdover that we both laughed about and could relate to, since in a way Fletcher is a holdover as well) you can see in the pictures below. (In fact, it was Becky who was so kind as to take these pictures of me and tag them on facebook for me. Yay!)

Basically that one blurted out question made my day. I had a blast performing, drew a crowd, and earned a few euros that I graciously left in Simone's (that's the busker's name) case. I'd say it was a good day, and I can be nice about Sleaze-Man. Sort of. Here are some pics of the action.

Eat, Pray, Love

I saw the movie Eat, Pray, Love before heading back to Italy, and oh was it satisfying to see places that I'd actually been to. Just in Italy, but still, I felt accomplished. Now this is my kind of movie, and when I saw the book a week ago on the book-share shelf of a wine store (excellent inexpensive wine) by the square where I currently live (Pza Le Susa) and it was in English, well I just had to borrow it. The man who owns the shop likes to practice his English and when I return the book, along with a few offerings of my own for the share shelf, I imagine we'll pick up where we left off on our conversation about the horrors of American pop music and the downward descent of most of the music scene in general. I tentatively shared my YouTube page (youtube.com/allegrafletcher), and I hope (but honestly and conceitedly I'm certain), that he'll have a different opinion of my contributions to the music scene.

Anyway, it was when we were wrapping up our conversation that I spied the aforementioned novel and proceeded to squeal like a Belieber who just spotted Bieber. Over the next week I read the book in snatches, squeezing it in between all the other things I had to do. I feel though that I haven't been merely reading this book. I think I'm subconsciously trying to meld myself into it.

I found myself pondering, "Why shouldn't I take more pleasure in some of the more enjoyable aspects of Italian food and culture? Why not have a second helping?"

I even dusted off my yoga mat. "Why not sit and contemplate on the Word of God with my audio Bible playing softly in the morning light? And who says I can't have a good stretch and dance time while worship music plays afterward?"

It's the love part of the book I get stuck at. While I could modify the whole meditating in India bit to suit my spiritual needs and convictions, I find I can't simulate a Bali-esque experience in the middle of Milan. I do happen to know a Felipe (who looks remarkably like a younger version of the actor who plays Felipe in the movie and who is therefore quite handsome), but I somehow doubt that's gonna happen. When he does things like hold my wrist for an unsuitable amount of time in church (thereby ruining hopes with other men and raising unnecessary speculation) and talks about taking my pulse (or something like that. wasn't exactly focused...) I remind myself that he is simply unaware of his charming good looks (as if...) and is just too man-stupid to understand that you don't do things like that with single women who are most decidedly not called to celibacy. Especially if you're not going to follow up and deliver the goods.

Though perhaps this whole love thing is closer than I think. This Tuesday, in what I can only describe as a rather Ketut-like moment in this context, a friend of mine told me he felt certain that soon some romance was going to come my way. Just in case you're wondering, he's engaged and didn't mean himself. But who could it possibly be, I wonder? And how soon is soon? Like Liz, I have my fair share of control issues. But these past few weeks of bliss, this letting go and letting God, makes it much easier not to know. I'll just keep swimming, just keep swimming, and I'll bump into the right fish when the time is right. No sooner, no later. Juuuuuust right.

Silver linings around half full glasses (unsuccessful combination, but whatevs...)

I have been so deliriously happy that I don't know what to do with myself. This state of bliss comes as a complete shock to me because I haven't been having an easy time of it, regardless of how you look at things. Whoo-hoo fruit of the Spirit! These past weeks saw me in an unenviable position in just about every major and not so major aspect of life. And yet I'm happy. I suppose I'm a glass half full kind of person.

I mean, I've been so glowing these past two weeks that people randomly smile at me on the streets, and there is a decided pep in my step even when they don't. Everything was such a mess that there was nothing to do but trust in God. There is such a beautiful weightlessness when we actually cast our burdens on the Lord. I was almost upset when my financial situation was resolved, because it meant I had to start being responsible for it again. Though perhaps the lesson here is to leave my finances in God's care and have done with it. Why not just do that with my entire life? That way I can continue to waft about in this beautiful place of being fully aware of and responding to what's happening without suffering the crushing worry, guilt, shame and other accompanying emotions that went along with my perceived successes and failures.

I've decided to count my blessings, take note of them, savor them, and look back on them whenever future trials come. And of course, troubles will come. But victory is (literally) my middle name, and now more than ever I feel the appropriateness and power of my name. Happy Victory Arrow-maker.

My mother named me well.

People Watching

October 1st
I find myself in the square of the main church here in Milan, trying to do some discreet people watching. I suppose staring at people for hours while you try not to look sketchy as you write things down doesn't always work. On top of that, my wardrobe screams, "look at me!" Sort of. It's just the boots and bag attract attention in a place as name brand conscious as Milan. My lovely yellow scarf doesn't exactly blend into the dirty concrete on which I'm sitting either.

But I digress. This self given assignment isn't about others watching me, but about me watching others. "The other", to be exact. With all of the soul searching I've been up to lately I needed to do something. Sure, I received healing with regards to my own personal connection to slavery, but I've been aware for some time now that there is another form of modern slavery running rampant and receiving even less attention than the transatlantic slave trade.

Looking at this situation I am being made more and more aware of how limiting personal pain can be. While I've been moping around about something that happened centuries ago (to be fair to myself, I must acknowledge that there are still the aftereffects to contend with), there were people being trafficked into all kinds of horrific forms of modern slavery right under my stuck up nose. But I speak for myself. Someone else might have taken their personal pain and used it as fuel in the fight against the modern day slave trade. That's all fine and well except for the fact that I don't want the work I do to be fueled by pain and hatred. What good could possibly come of that, in the long run? For sure I'd burn out or lose effectiveness as the bitterness consumed me.

Back to the task at hand.

I am people watching. I am watching the people who no one pays any attention to, and I am waiting. In a sense, I am putting myself in a place to receive divine appointments. Many of the African immigrants here in Milan feel comfortable coming up to me. They ask me what I think about the city, how I like it. They take the time to listen to me, while I've just been breezing by, missing out on deeper connections. But I want to slow down now, and I've determined that now it's my time to listen.  I may not be particularly trained at dealing with people who reside on the fringes of society, but clearly that hasn't mattered.

I know that I can listen, I can ask questions as well as answer them, and I can write. It's time to write about someone else's experiences now, though in typical egotistical human nature fashion the connection of this project to myself is incredibly obvious. I think in some way all of our creative outputs are a reflection of ourselves. Really, it's only our lives that we live, but part of the beauty of living is intersecting with other lived lives.

So this creative effort here is both a step into the new and an exploration of my past. Here we go!

Vanity, thy name is Italian male

It is said that distance makes the heart grow fonder. Perhaps, perhaps not. I do know that my return to Italy allowed me to better know this population God has given me a heart for. As the title suggests, I had a rather shocking discovery: women, after all, are not the vainest creatures on the planet. No, that covetous standing in society is reserved for the Italian male.

Now I make this observation with the utmost fondness. I myself have my fair share of vanities, and while I adore my waistline and rear end I equally loathe each day I have to face the fact that my acne didn't miraculously disappear after my teen years.

I have to be fair here. I mean, what person doesn't take a quick peek when they pass a mirror? Everyone stops to adjust their gelled and carefully coiffed hair every time they pass any reflective surface, be that a shop window, an ipad screen, a mirror, or the spoon they've lifted up from the table in front of them. And let's not forget the vainglorious profile picture with the simpering half pout and sultry bedroom eyes. Ah. Perhaps we should.

Now the grooming practices of the well-kept Italian male extend beyond head hair. Let me clarify. I was surprised to find out that certain younger male members of society here pluck their eyebrows, and they're straight (Sorry Bryn Mawr, but gender stereotypes are not so easily escaped, it seems. ). I never expected straight males to pluck their eyebrows, and I honestly thought that for two of my friends, their eyebrows just grew that way. Needless to say, the disdain with which they glanced upon my bush brows had me running to my tweezers in record time. It also had me diligently checking on any new beard growth that needed plucking. 

When one of my male students told me he waxed his legs it didn't exactly send me running to the esthetician, but perhaps that's because it's easier to hide hairy legs than it is to hide bush brows. So you see, the shadow theory (or whatever it's called) is reconfirmed. You really dislike or notice most in others what you dislike or notice a lot in yourself. However, having moved past any guilt in my self grooming and beautification practices it makes it much easier to accept Italian men for theirs.

I must admit that allowances should be made for cultural differences. I mean, one of my friends, his girlfriend does his brows for him. And really, Italian men as a lot are generally stylish and easy on the eyes, so I don't particularly care if they pluck their eyebrows and wax their legs to achieve the desired effect on the lady folk. (And trust me, the effect is desire(d)...) I mean, while in Poland our boys stood out for the clear anointing of God upon them, and their clearly superior style. Clearly no one was complaining, perfectly arched brows and all ;).

God's Song Over Me

It's getting harder to keep track of how this week fit together. There were so many significant moments that even limiting posts to those is adding up something fierce. Anyway, one of these special moments was God's song for me. Alisa was in her morning prayer and she received a word for me, which she was instructed to sing over me.

Now, Alisa received healing for singing not terribly long ago, and so the fact that she was asked to sing the message was like an extra confirmation of God's wanting her to sing. As she told me about this being the first time she was asked to sing a message we both laughed at the idea that God was blessing "Two birds with one song". I was instructed to prepare myself with tissues, and I was asked about my preference: song at the beginning or end of our session? I opted for beginning, since fewer people would be there to witness any sobtastic behavior. Just for added context, this word came after my healing and racial (or I should say continental) reconciliation. Here it is.

Fear not, for I am with you;
Be not dismayed, for I am your God;
I will strengthen you, I will help you,
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41:10

Alisa sang of God's love for me, and on the other side of the paper was a message from her:
You are loved. You are valued. You are His own precious daughter. People may hurt and disappoint you, but never forget who you are! He has made you. He is pleased with you. He brought you here to Kalisz. It is not by chance! You are here for your healing. He is the Balm Gilead. Let Him heal you. He will heal your heart. Pain and wounds be gone in Jesus' name!

In the song God had given her, He told me that he felt every hurt and every blow, and He sang of His love for me. It was beautiful.
We then went on and finished our last worship session, during which another member of our team claimed his healing and sang worship songs, overcoming the mental block he had for singing. Then we went back to the hotel for breakfast.