Screaming for Screens

Glad to see La Gringa is back from the Far East. Her comments on 1st world vs. 3rd world were interesting. Truthfully, I have no idea what’s PC anymore and frankly don’t care. At 3 Outlanders, we tell it like it is. And today, I’m telling you there’s something wrong with Europe. They don’t believe in screens. Be they on doors or windows. Nope. We’ve got just your plain doors and plain windows on plain old houses (that are rarely air conditioned, even in hot old Italy). Personally, I don’t mind heat so I’m cool without air conditioning (that pun was unintentional but nice!) but it does get hot. I do need to open doors and windows to let in fresh breezes. But without screens, that means I also let in a ton of bugs, flies and fat old bees. My apartment is buzzing with them ALL summer. Sure, I could get a screen, but it’s so rare, that I have to go to a specialty shop and get them made to order. VERY expensive. And no one I know has them. I remember one of my chores when I was a wee lad growing up in NY was to take down the regular doors on the house and put up the screen doors. Until I came to Europe, I thought that was the norm. Screen doors make sense, especially in Rome. And yet, they haven’t heard of them. 3rd world vs. 1st world. You tell me.

Yours in whiptitude. Whip

btw-I finally put up my picture. It’s semi-current. At least you get an idea of the kid who had to put up the screens every summer.

Be Nice to Outlanders Day

Obviously the lady next to me on the Metro hadn’t heard. As usual, it was mega crowded. Rush hour mind you and some teenage boy decided to lean against the pole that we weary travelers use to hold on to. A short woman next to me couldn’t reach the overhead bars and motioned to me to make room for her to squeeze in and hang on to the pole. She said something but I had my iPod on so didn’t hear. Still, I moved away to allow her access before the train took off and she fell. She stuck her hand in, then pulled it away and made some angry motion with her hand. I nodded as I assumed she was talking about the rude boy who had usurped the entire post, oblivious to the rest of us trying to stay upright. I slid my hand down to give her more room. Instead of grabbing on, she pointed at my hand. Huh? I grunted. She then proceed to flick the name tag on my bag in disgust. What the hell? I should point out that my name tag is actually my business card. She smacked it a second time. It then dawned on me. You see the Metro in Rome (I used to live in Paris with La Gringa and Seattlite, but have decamped to Rome) is over crowded and not very clean. But I don’t blame anybody. Anything overcrowded gets dirty. And with all the hands going from nose to mouth to poles, I’ve had numerous cases of heavy, itchy rashes. So, I was holding on to the pole through the sleeve of my coat. For some reason, this pissed Signora Loser off. On top of that, a quick read of my business card and she tagged me as a foreigner, some elitist who was too good to hang on to the pole with his bare hands like the rest of Rome. After the second flick of my card, I said, FU. At which point, she started to speak very loudly, “LALALALALALALALA”. You know, like your five year old kid would do when he/she doesn’t want to hear you give orders. I called her another choice word. “LALALALALALALALA.” Petulant, isn’t she? “What is your prob—” Cut off by another chorus of “LALALALALALALALAs.”

Of course, it’s a funny story and I wasn’t harmed in anyway, but there’s that initial moment when you’re singled out and lambasted for no other reason than being a foreigner. In my 14 years abroad, it’s happened only a few times (but at least once in the four countries I’ve lived in), and it cuts you because it’s proof positive, a reminder you don’t belong. I never expected to become a full member of society, but I have been careful to blend in, follow the local customs, as a courtesy. Now, it’s a good story for dinner parties, but it does hurt, for a brief moment, to feel the undeserved hate. We outlanders sometimes struggle to fit in anywhere. Even back home. And I’m not talking about the Europhiles who lambast all things American because they have now found culture. Gross! Living in a foreign culture changes you because you have very original experiences, something a typical American wouldn’t be aware of. This is not a criticism, just a fact of life. It’s no different than a New Yorker living in LA for 14 years. You change and become something you weren’t before. But you’re still a New Yorker at heart. Me, I’m always going to be an American. Proud of that, but I haven’t lived a typical American life. Fitting in completely anywhere takes effort. So even a nasty lady on the Metro can remind you just how tough that effort is.

Anyway, the woman get off at my stop. Hope I see her tomorrow. I won’t yell or complain or say anything vulgar this time. I’ll just blow her a kiss and say Buongiorno Signora! Come va?

 Your foreign friend, Whip

Whip is whipped up

Okay, this really annoys me. And maybe I expect too much, but when I write an email to someone, I like getting replies in a reasonable amount of time. I know sometimes it doesn’t happen. We all get busy. But when I receive an email, I respond as soon as I see it. 99% of the time. I figure that’s polite. Even if it’s just to acknowledge, ‘Received. Will write details later.’ So, when others don’t do the same, I get all bothered. I wonder, are they ignoring me? Are they busy? Away on vacation? Have no desire to talk to me? I know. I know. I know. It sounds like I’m paranoid, huh? Well, it’s just my pet peeve. Email to me is a time lagged conversation. And I love them. I love being in communication with people. Being an Outlander, it’s value to me is probably heightened. Home is closer since the advent of email. And since Skype came around, home is way closer and VISIBLE. But, back to emails. What’s great about them is that I can send you an email and you can respond when you have time. In that way, it’s less intrusive than a phone call. It doesn’t have to be immediate, but timeliness is appreciated. See, I prefer the time lag in the conversation to be measured in about a day. No more if at all possible. And not in weeks and weeks. I mean, don’t we all have time to say ‘hey’ to someone who’s calling out to us electronically?    Hey! Whip

Pugs and Paris

Here is Paris’s dirty little secret….the weather.  Last night on the way back to Paris from the campagne we had driving rain, snow, sleet and moment of sun (yes, moment.  singular).  Not to mention the requisite accidents that go avec.  So after exactly one day of spring on Friday, we’re back to winter.  Rainy winter.  It drives a person indoors, which is a good thing for a writer.  

For my dog on the other hand… Like any good Parisienne (begging to fit in) I have a dog.  Miss Snuggles.  While at church last night, Miss Snuggles found her way into a cabinet and ate an entire box of Golden Grahams–this from a dog who’s regular food is called ‘obesity management’ (It’s not only the women that have to be skinny in Paris).  This is no town for a fat dog.  Oh la pauvre pug!

I think Whip didn’t give me permission to upload a photo of Miss Snuggles.  We’ll see about that!  A+

La Gringa

 

An Evening with DRK

Dirty rat kid and I spent an evening without Mama/wifey. Wifey was at some charity event at the US Ambassador’s residence. I look forward to those times alone with DRK because they don’t happen too often. I’m the office guy. My beloved wifey is the stay at home Mom. Kinda wish the roles were reversed. Wifey’s a hell of a lot smarter than me anyway, with better income earning potential. Oh well. Picked up DRK from tennis lessons, where she was involved in a match with a 40 year old guy. She almost beat him! Hey, the lessons are paying off. Finally. We walked straight from tennis to one of her fav restaurants. Fully stuffed, we returned home. I wrote a few pages of my next best seller (???) before we topped the evening off with a round of SmartyPants, a Wii game. I ALWAYS win. Except last night. DRK was crowned SmartyPants and couldn’t have been happier. Defeated Dad retired to bed…    Whip