What's 5 Euro, really?

I am gullible. I’m not afraid to tell you, because I’m well known for it. I may be a shrewd businesswoman, but if you stopped me on the street and told me that on the next block there was an elephant running loose, I would probably believe you—at least at first. It’s sad but it’s true.

I’ve always been like this. My first instinct is to believe. My own earnestness, I think, is a huge factor. I’ve never been one who plays with the truth, largely because it’s too much trouble. My friends who are better at that sort of thing enjoy watching my eyes grow wide as they tell me crazy stories that anyone else would see through in seconds. Eventually, I catch on. But I’m good for at least 2 minutes of fun, always.

I’m probably deluding myself, but I like to think that this defect in my personality is a little charming. It could speak to my fundamental faith in humanity rather than plain old stupidity…couldn’t it? Even as I get older and grow (slightly) more shrewd about the common con, I still end up erring on the side of credulity.

What happened to me yesterday is a perfect example. I was getting on a train in Milano, headed to Basel. A man stopped me, all out of breath. He was a well-dressed black man, who spoke English with an accent. He said he was from South Africa. He explained that he and his pregnant wife had been traveling for days (from Africa) and had purchased tickets that were incorrect. They were able to change them, but for a fee. They had all the money they needed except 20 Euro.

Are you smelling a con yet?

I sniffed the air, and smelled a con, too…but as quickly as I could form the words “I don’t have anything for you,” my mind flashed back to the time that I was traveling from Chicago to Belgium by way of Paris. In all the planning, I had mistakenly purchased a train ticket for the wrong day. When I arrived in Paris, my 100 Euro ticket to Bruges was invalid. Luckily, the train conductor let me slide and I rode for free.

Quickly on the heels of that recollection came another—a story that my friend Rebecca Carr told about being stranded somewhere in Europe (I forget the precise details) and having a man give her an unsolicited handful of cash to tide her over until she could get things straight.

People really do have crises, sometimes, I said to myself. Sure, this man is probably lying, but how much would it cost me to help him a little?

I had a 5 Euro bill leftover from my ridiculous shopping spree for wine and salami on my way out of Italy. I gave him the fiver, told him that was all I had and that I hoped he could find someone else to give him the rest. I wished him good luck and boarded the train.

End of the story, right?

Wrong. Would you believe that this man followed me into my train car to ask me 1) what my name was, 2) where I was going and 3) if we could “stay together and get to know each other”. I asked him pointedly, with my mouth dropped open in shock and horror, “What about your pregnant wife?” He looked startled only a millisecond before he recovered. “Oh, she is very tired.”

If I had a husband like that, I’d be tired too. I told him he was a disgrace and walked away.

Either way, it’s shameful. If he ran a con on me to get 5 Euro, it’s shameful. If he did in fact have a wife somewhere on the train and he was chatting me up 3 cars down, it’s shameful. I got to my seat, sat down, and looked out the window, pondering humanity. What did he intend to do, buy me a cup of coffee with the money I had given him??? I comforted myself with the thought that I had only been taken for a 5 Euro bill.

When I meet people like that, and invariably give them the benefit of a doubt that only I would have, I am tempted to regret my generous and trusting nature. I am aware that I end up looking the fool, now and then. But, I guess I’m okay with that.

At least I got a good story out of it, right?

Ciao from Bologna...

Just when I got used to the charming structure of Switzerland, I am thrust into the chaos of Italy.

I've been in Bologna a week now, and I have another week to go. Since my arrival, I have thought many times of writing a little in my blog, to memorialize my time here, but frankly I was too tired. I'm here studying--and have been speaking (and listening to) Italian at least 90% of the time. I know I am prone to hyperbole, but this is absolutely the truth, I swear! Although I'm proud (and a little shocked) that I can actually do this, I'm TOTALLY spent at the end of the day, every day. There is no energy left for blogging. Sometimes, there's no energy for anything at all except crawling into bed.

It's a good fatigue most of the time, though. I have met some nice people--mostly other singers, who are here to study at the Scuola, like me. I am staying in an old folk's home--yes, you read that correctly. Here, they have a much nicer name for it: Casa di Riposo. The Casa Lyda Borelli is a residence that is dedicated to retired artists specifically. In addition, they have a relationship with the Scuola and house young singers who come to study. So, picture about 20 elderly Italian ex-singers, conductors, pianists, and so on...and me.

I exaggerate. Other young people are here too: for example, a group of about 7 opera singers from Kazakhstan (!) who are working through three months of intensive study in Italy. There are people from Brazil, Puerto Rico, Turkey, Japan...it's a wonderful cultural exchange. At breakfast, we speak grammatically-incorrect Italian together over coffee and painfully sweet pastries (the Italians do not believe in savory breakfast). It's a nice little community.

Besides the breakfasts, I am eating well, even if my diet has been a little carbohydrate-heavy. My newfound addiction to coffee continues. I'm getting around better and better, every day, and learning the city's small curvy streets and pedestrian zones. The bus system, while widespread, annoys me; after Basel where every stop is notated in triplicate and verbally announced, the haphazard system here is extremely frustrating. Some stops have a sign, some don't; some buses announce as they go, some don't. The bus schedule is approximate at best. It's all very fluid. Once the bus actually comes, it takes about as long to ride it to the school as it does to walk (30 minutes).

No matter how I get to school, by foot or by bus, trouble finds me anyway. I marvel daily at the shamelessness of the Italian male. As most of you know, I have a list of crazy man stories from all over the world--I seem to attract them everywhere I go. But, this city, my friends, has been a fantasy of ridiculousness.

It started (as was documented on facebook) almost immediately upon my arrival last Sunday, when a man on the street tried to get me to go with him to get a drink. When I ignored him and kept moving, he caressed my behind, I suppose because he figured that was better than nothing! I was so shocked that I just sort of jumped, and then walked (briskly) away as fast as I could. I would like to say that I cursed him out with my newfound Italian language skills, but alas, I did not.

I did, however speak very sharply the next day to a man who followed me for at least 5 minutes, walking just behind me. I could feel that he was there, but he wasn't saying anything. I finally stopped, reeling him in, pretending to look at something in a window. When he worked up the courage and made his move, I turned around with all my accumulated ire, looked him straight in the eye, and said (in Italian, loudly) "I do not want to talk to you. LEAVE ME ALONE!" Ouch. In retrospect, I might have been a touch nicer.

My Italian female friends, however, say that I need to be that nasty all the time, or else these men won't get the hint. I'm just glad I don't live here! I can't imagine having to deal with being accosted on the street every day...

...On second thought, if I lived here, maybe I'd work my way through all the crazy men of Bologna in the first month or so and then they'd leave me alone. Maybe I'd develop a reputation among them: "Leave that tall brown one alone, she's mean!"

Either way, my crazy-man story collection is growing exponentially with every day I spend in Bologna.

On that note, I should stop for the evening...a good night's sleep (and another full day in Bologna tomorrow) awaits me.

Ci vediamo a dopo!

Finding My Flow

Monday was my 4-week anniversary in Basel. Life is good here. After 4 weeks, I feel that I've arrived just yesterday--but also that I've been here longer than I can remember. I'm fully submerged and I've found my flow...again.

Let me explain by backing up. I lived in Paris from fall of 2002 through the winter of 2005. Life was good there, too. I was happy in Paris in a different way than I had ever been, living anywhere else. Between 2005 and now, I had forgotten the specificity of this feeling. I have been reminded. Basel reminded me.

So what is it about Europe? I was never able to say with any kind of clarity what exactly about living in Europe did it for me. When people asked me, I would talk about lots of little things: how much I liked the way the cities are set up here, for instance. Pedestrian friendly. Good public transport. The food is good. Cheap healthcare. Slower pace. When I talked about it, everything sounded so banal. My reasons were shallow, and I knew it. Life in Philadelphia is pretty good, too, after all! But there was something about Paris...it was hard to quantify why I liked it so much--why living in Europe brought out a better me...but it did.

I have a new theory. Actually, it's not my theory. It belongs to Mihály Csíkszentmihályi. About 20 years ago, Mr. Csíkszentmihályi introduced a psychological concept called "Flow". Here's an overview of the princple, in the words of the man himself:

"A sense that one’s skills are adequate to cope with the challenges at hand in a goal-directed, rule-bound action system that provides clear clues as to how one is performing. Concentration is so intense that there is no attention left over to think about anything irrelevant or to worry about problems. Self-consciousness disappears, and the sense of time becomes distorted. An activity that produces such experiences is so gratifying that people are willing to do it for its own sake, with little concern for what they will get out of it, even when it is difficult or dangerous."

The Flow is a state of being. Athletes find the Flow. Musicians do too, of course--especially improvisatory artists. I have always thought of Flow as a very desirable state to find while singing. I think that I do get there, actually, a fair percentage of the time when I perform. Artists, writers, teachers and learners all can find Flow--anybody can, really, who is so intensely challenged in an enjoyable way that it requires his or her complete concentration.

Maybe my sense of well-being here in Europe can be explained with the same concept!

I know, it's a little trippy. Maybe I drank too much wine with Rena tonight. But, stick with me...

I might be taking some liberties with the theory, but I think it makes sense. Living here requires more of me. I'm operating in fifth gear here, firing on all cylinders. The newness of my surroundings combined with my questionable command of the language(s) keeps me on my toes--but the challenges that life here presents are challenges that are within my ability to master, eventually.

Flow.

I don't always know where I'm going, but I can read a map. When I don't have a map, I may not be able to ask directions speaking perfect German or Italian (or, these days, even French!), but I have a working (if poetic) vocabulary in each language. Additionally, I'm a fantastic gesturer. In the worst case scenario, I can sing them something. Sola, perduta, abbandonata, maybe...or Kennst du das Land? in a pinch...

I can get along. And I'm learning that it's the game of getting along that rings my chimes--at least for now.

So, maybe it's not the French food that I especially loved, but the satisfaction of figuring out how to ask for what I want and then savoring it. Perhaps it's not that the pace here is really any slower: maybe it's that I allow myself more time to play the game, and reward myself more lavishly with each hand I win.

I'm sure it helps knowing that I can stop the game at any time; US Airways has flights to Philadelphia daily. Enough said. But for now, I'm enjoying the flow.