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| Hey all,
So I haven't been completely neglecting blogging in the past month; only sort of. What I have been doing is organizing my new website, which you can find here: http://web.mac.com/cgadient/Site/Welcome.html. So enjoy! | | |
| Oooooh...I’ve felt like I barely have had time to breathe. Work has been so crazy and demanding that all I’ve meant to do has not only been put on the back burner, but it’s also started to pile up. Per esempio, I’ve just about run out of clean clothes. It’s not like I’m even working all that much: at most, eight hours a day. But it’s at funny times. My week goes like this: Sun-Thurs I work 11-1 or 2 (skipping my Italian class for awhile b/c I’m needed at work). Then I have a few hours break and return to work from 4 or 4:30 til close, which is usually between 8 and 9. And what with running errands to the pharmacy or getting coffees and lunches with friends before they leave Como and go home for the holidays, or trying to figure out what the hell to do for xmas gifts (thank God for amazon.com b/c the dollar is so bad that I can’t even imagine paying the Italian rate for anything; if only things could be shipped fast enough!) , I feel like I haven’t had even a moment to myself. That’s probably a good thing because I had been getting bored with all the free time. In addition, I would run the risk of really bad homesickness if I had the time to really let the fact that I’m not home with my family for Christmas sink in. On the other hand, now I have so much I want to write about and reflect on and I don’t have any time! And I had been looking forward to enjoying the pre-Christmas madness in Italy, a country where they go over the top with holiday preparations: lights all over the city, draped between the narrow roads; real decorated trees in the main piazza; and ice skating rink overlooking the lake; extra little hut stores selling trinkets in the smaller piazze; red carpets and boughs lining some of the oft-used, strait walkways in the historic center; a living nativity in Piazza del Duomo; tons more concerts, holiday parties, and general festivities...the list goes on and on. But I just don’t have the time to get to it all! I’ve been meaning to hit the ice since it first opened two weeks ago. But the only day I had the time, they were not yet open. I sure looked like an idiot walking around town with my “shoes with knives” draped over my shoulders.
Now if you know me at all, you’ll know that Christmastime is my absolute favorite time of year. The music, the lights, the nip in the air, the holiday cheer...I adore it. I beg my parents all November to go to the tree farm to get the tree up as soon as Thanksgiving is past, which allows for the maximum amount of time to enjoy the tree (and also leaves us with a very dry, brittle mess by the time the 25 rolls around). I spend every weekend in December baking every imaginable type of cookie: thumbprints, sugar cookies, Russian teacakes, spritz, the Neiman Marcus oatmeal chocolate chip kind, and whatever else my family shows a mild interest in. My Christmas music collection puts most others to shame (or perhaps I should be ashamed by my obsession with Bing Crosby singing holiday tunes). Weekend nights, I decline invitations out, preferring to watch the cheesiest holiday films and old classics, like “Home Alone,” “White Christmas,” “A Christmas Story,” and “Muppet’s Christmas Carol.” It’s because of me (much to my father’s dismay) that our house gets covered in lights, wreaths, and boughs, both inside and out. In fact, it’s a bit of a tradition for my mother and me to spend the weekend following Thanksgiving putting up all the outdoor decorations before the loads of snow (so typical of Minnesota winters) makes it impossible and impassable! And I’m in charge of setting up the “Angel” tree (a fake one) in the window, which takes at least 2 or 3 rounds of Bing’s “Merry Christmas” CD. And then we decorate it with just while lights and these intricately designed paper mache angels made by an artist acquaintance of my mother. And then there’s still nutcrackers, music boxes, the nativity, the red silk geese, the stuffed Santas...the list goes on.
On one special night in December when I’m home alone, I’ll light a fire, put on an orchestral Christmas CD, drink a full bottle of wine or a healthy serving of cherry bounce, and put my ornaments (and only my ornaments) on the tree (because I figure if I go to the trouble to put them all up, then I’ll put up my favorites for which I have good memories, and everyone else’s can stay in their boxes until they have the energy to dig them out and put them up; plus, I find it strangely satisfying to taunt my brothers by pointing out that only my ornaments were pretty enough to put on the tree; yes, I am aware that this is both pathetic and completely contra to the Christmas spirit).
On that note, I am reminded of my family’s Advent calendar. It’s a felt tree with snaps on which to snap or “hang” the felt ornaments of different shapes (candlestick, pig, bird, star, stocking). We’ve put it up every year since we were kids, and it’s always been a bit of a hit, although I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s due to the healthy competition it fostered between all of us. You see, you can’t hang an ornament up until it’s the proper day, which means after midnight. As children, we used to rush down the stairs to be the first one down and grab the ornament to put up, especially on the 24th which was the last day with an ornament: the star. As we got older, we wouldn’t necessarily run down to the kitchen, but the first one who remembered and got it done had bragging rights for the day(yeah, there’s not really anything to brag about, but it was fun to do). And there were certain ornaments that was each of our favorites. Like, Michael loved the red and blue stockings. He would “dibs” them early on and insist that only he could put those up. Of course, that meant that Edward and I would try to beat him to it. Now that we’re all grown up, it’s changed a bit. My brothers, who know that I still love doing the Advent Calendar, when they’re around and I’m not looking, put up all the ornaments at once with no regard for waiting until the proper day. And then I, of course, get shocked and appalled at their having broken the rules, chastise them, take all the ornaments down, and put those whose day has passed back up in their proper order. It has been known to happen that then one of them does the exact same thing 5 minutes later; and, of course, I respond accordingly as the other offending brother and my sister laugh and roll their eyes. My parents would typically look on, my dad perhaps snickering beneath his mustache and my mom saying “Now hey guys....” I know it’s kind of stupid, but at this point, that’s one of the things I’ve missed most this year. It was something that brought us all together, even if only to tease each other.
But I guess that’s what Christmas is for me and my family. We get together with more frequency, usually due to a meal together or a night out at the theater or to open presents on Christmas Eve or to see if Santa came to fill our stockings on Christmas morn, and we give each other a hard time. I love that. I love that I bake cookies all month in preparation for Christmas Eve (and beg my brothers not to finish them before the 24th has even arrived). I love that we have the same meal every year: lobster and beef wellington; and that everyone pitches in to get things ready that evening, even if it’s just setting the table or opening the umpteenth bottle of wine. I love that dinner usually lasts way too long and that we don’t start opening gifts from each other until 10. I love that we argue about who has to be “Santa,” or the one responsible for preparing the rounds of gifts (because we always open one at a time, in rounds, from oldest to youngest, which allows for the maximum amount of time to enjoy and savor the evening). I love throwing the wrapping paper across the room into the big plastic bag or at someone. I love drinking lots of champagne, wine, cherry bounce, and mulled wine as my mother gives me a look when my cheeks and nose turn a bit pink. I love that we talk all the way through and tease each other and compete for Patches’s attention. I love that we go to bed way too late, but that everyone sleeps at home under the same roof for the first time in ages (or since the previous year). I love waking up and gathering in our pyjamas on the stairwell for a photo before we can see the loot that Santa has brought. I love that we have a morning of presents during which we enjoy each other’s company again. I love that Michael makes the best omelettes I’ve ever tasted out of the leftover lobster. I love the relaxed, comfortable, familiar feeling of being surrounded by my family on my favorite two days of the year, and I love that it never changes.
And now, as I’m thousands of miles away, thinking of all that I’m missing, I’m homesick all over again. I miss Christmas how it should be. I miss my family. But as it’s a few minutes to 3:30, I have to hurry off to work again, where I’ll be too busy to think about any of this...which is the only thing keeping me from incredibly homesick. | | |
| Hana, my American friend here, told me about how she really enjoys making up new words to replace the words she doesn’t know in Italian. She finds it rather entertaining because what she comes up with is usually pretty ridiculous. For example, ice skates are “shoes with knives:” much more interesting, I think. Well, I came up with one of my own last night. At the enoteca, while packing and wrapping bottles for the holidays, I tried to ask for the shredded cellophane/tinsel-looking stuff that we use to fill the boxes and protect the glass. For lack of a better way of describing it, I called it “the grass of silver,” which I think is a pretty good description. In addition, it brought a smile to everyone else’s faces. | | |
| As I went for my walk along Lungolaga (meaning “along the lake road”) today, a general characteristic of the Italian people struck me. Wait. I should correct that. I should say the people of Como (or Comascans, the rather hoity-toity people who live in this paradise on the lake), but it’s probably true of the rest of the population, too: Italians are not tough. Now I’m well aware of the fact that I don’t really have the right to judge. Hell, I’m 5’2’’ and have never been in any fight in my life. But I’ve always imagined myself to have a slightly bad-ass streak, the owner of a possibly feisty disposition. If there were to be a fight, and the occasion called for it, I feel that I could stick out my chin, curl my lips into a sneer, narrow my eyes, and throw down with the best of them (Doesn’t that seem like the perfect Disney description of a fight; it’s like I would “curl my lips into a sneer” and then break into song about how I’m going to “beat every last buggin’ gang/ on the whole buggin’ street” (note the ref to West Side Story) and do some choreographed knife fight...so tough.). That’s not anything I see in the people of Como. As I walked through the city today, all I could think was, “What a load of pussies.” Coming from a girl wearing pigtail braids, that’s quite an insult. I looked at them all in their dainty puma sneakers; tailored, tight jeans with either “RICH” written across the bum (so fashionable here) or some other decorative embellishment that looks like it came from a bedazzler; their over-accessorized torsos; fur-lined hooded jackets; and snazzy sunglasses...and I think about what utter failures they all must be in any sort of tough-guy situation. Someone would muss up their already gelled to mussed-up-bedhead-perfection, and they would probably break into tears. They’d rip off their aviators, stomp their well-heeled soles, stick their snooty noses in the air, and hiss something in high-pitched Italian. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. What I do know is that when I walk around the city of Como, I feel like a hard-ass; and that alone is saying something. | | |
| I don’t know if I’ve written this yet, but I’ve recently joined a choir. Paola and Giuseppe invited me to come to their chuch choir’s practice one Monday evening, and ever since, I’ve included it in my weekly schedule. So one night a week, we close up shop in a hurry, rush home, eat a quick dinner all together (the enoteca family, so Paola, Giuseppe, Umberto, Francesco, and me), and then I walk over to the church with P&G (the boys don’t have any interest in singing). Usually, we arrive at the church a bit late, but that’s no matter as rehearsal never starts on time. Besides being typically disorganized in a perfectly Italian way, the maestro (or conductor) has recently been in and out of the hospital having surgery on a brain tumor, so things are really and truly disorganized now. The substitute maestro is constantly conferring with the organist; the sopranos tend to individually practice singing the highest notes they can; the basses never know which note they’re on; the altos’ chitter-chatter and constant repositioning (so that they can speak with that person they’ve been dying to talk to who just happens to be standing on the other side of the room) lengthens the pauses between pieces; and I can’t say much about the tenors except for the one guy who usually stands behind me and sings his praises of whatever he had just eaten for dinner (bresaola last night) instead of singing the songs. It’s actually quite comical, and I love every minute of it.
Oscar, the maestro, was introduced to me by Paola just a week before he went into the hospital for the fairly serious surgery. Paola made sure to mention that I had studied a bit of music and singing. I remember watching Oscar that night as he walked around the church, lurking in the shadows, listening to the effects of the amazing acoustics on our little choir’s sound, and every once in awhile appearing behind our substitute maestro just long enough to accent a specific note or indicate that ever-important crescendo. Honestly, in those few seconds, it was almost as if you could see musicality in his hands. At the risk of sounding redundant, our maestro truly is a master of music. Even as he walked, there might just be the slightest bounce in his step at just the right moment to signal the extra oomph the choir needed to add to a signal half-note. It was inspiring.
Anyway, later, Oscar informed Paola that he wants me to sing a solo. I’m not exactly sure how, since I was only ever singing with the entire choir, but he is convinced that I’m decent. So I was put in charge of finding a typical American Christmas carol with a solo. And I knew just which to pick!
I arrived at practice last night with “O Holy Night” (or “O Night Divine”) in hand. I handed it to Rafaelle, the organist, who I could tell had some doubts. But I decided not to worry about anything and that whatever would happen would happen. If he liked my sound (which is the important thing since Oscar is completely out of commission for awhile and Rafaelle is in charge), then great. And if not, no worries. He told me we’d take a look at it after practice.
So after practice, I followed Giuseppe across the alter to the organ stand, near the back. He took a look and played the first few chords. As people were finishing up their conversations and bundling up to head into the windy night, he indicated that I should start singing. So I did. And standing in front of the church, under it’s main dome, with the organ accompanying, while I sang one of my most favorite songs in the world...it was magical. I could hear this voice...this sweet sound...maybe slightly hesitant on the low notes...but clear up higher...and vibrant with just the slightest bit of vibrato...and musically, sensitively blossoming with each phrase...all of it echoing off of the gray stones of the dark, cold, musty church. I almost couldn’t believe that it was me. I’ve forgotten how satisfying that sound is. The sound of my own voice, uninhibited at times, in a location with great (and helpful) acoustics...I’m surprised every time I hear it. I’m not trying to sound smug here, just honest: It’s like, I can’t really believe that I’m capable of making something so beautiful. But it must be me. Because there’s no one else. And for that moment when I reach one of those sweet spots, one of those notes where it’s all warm and blooming and easy, so easy that I can’t help but hold it a little longer, as if it’s so perfect that I need it to thrive for that extra bit of time, just so I can enjoy it for one more moment....in that moment, it’s as if the world stops, and I’m completely alone with just this perfect sound in my ears, and it’s both incredibly inspiring and peaceful at the same time. Like, I think that if I am capable of making something that good, that pleasant, that wonderful, then what else am I capable of? But even if this is the only thing that I ever accomplish, that one note that makes my heart overflow and can bring tears to the eyes of the listener, if I never do anything more, I’ll be ok. I’m satisfied with that. I am content to think that, if only just for a moment, I can create something that touching, then that’s enough for me. It’s an amazing feeling.
So I sang the song. At first, I could hear the little Italian conversations going on; then in the background of my consciousness, I became aware of the harsh hushing sounds of some of the women; and then is was silent except for me and the organ. And when I finished, and I became aware of all the other people still in the church, I heard clapping. The staccato sounds of palms slapping together, and then the Bresaola-enjoying tenor shouting “Brava!” And I was back in reality...the previous heavy silence surrounding the music shattered; although, its magic still lingered, perhaps taking a few extra seconds to be absorbed by the cold stone walls. And I smiled, and probably blushed, and was then swallowed by the chaos of my Italian choir. As that peaceful feeling floated around inside my head, the explanations, compliments, and plans for Christmas mass swam around me. I emerged from it all unscathed, swaddled in the arms of Paola’s extremely soft and warm coat, as she chattered on about how wonderful it will be for me to sing the solo before Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. So that’s the plan for now. Solves my holiday plans problem: what could be more perfect than spending Christmas Eve in a little old church in Italy, singing my little heart out and enjoying those wonderful sentiments of inspiration and peace that it gives me?
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