A Tramping Broad

Guten tag, freunden and flascher freunden (friends and false friends),

FMM**:  4, 548 steps, but the day is young

Have you missed me?  Been wondering where I am?  I wonder that a lot, too.

This time we and the students are in a famous Missourian's favorite German city: Heidelberg.  He liked it so much that he stayed for months instead of days and he wrote about it extensively in his book called A Tramp Abroad.    However, a current famous travel writer feels  differently.  He claims that our location is not worth visiting even if you have three weeks to spend in Germany.  He insists that it attracts "hordes of Americans" and that "its surviving charm is stained almost beyond recognition by commercialism." Well, who are you going to believe -- Mark Twain or Rick Steves or me?  

What's Germany like so far?  Well,  our introduction to our rooms here included a Power Point on cleanliness. We were told to keep the dishes washed and our rooms tidy.  A photo of a sink filled with dirty dishes -- from wayward former tenants (!) -- was displayed to show us what not to do.  Random room checks will occur.  If your room is messy and your sink is filled with dirty dishes, you and your roommates will have five euros deducted from your security deposits.  While Bob and I aren't sure if this applies to us, we have been keeping up appearances just in case.

We are told that jaywalking is verboten.  Not only will you be fined, but Germans will "look down" on you if you do this.  So far I've only missed one tram trying to abide by this rule. Aside:  Did you know that the term jaywalking is of American origin?  It dates from 1915-1920 when a "jay" was a slang word for a "stupid or dull person."  Hmmm... seems like I know another word that begins with "jay".... Maybe my Mizzou friends can help me out.

Bicycles are king.  They are everywhere.  And no one wears a helmet. They also have the right of way.  If one runs you over, it's your fault.  This one can be tricky, especially if you are someone who gets to talking and forgets that you are standing in a bike lane.  I'm learning, I'm learning. I may invest in a helmet myself.

Promptness is expected.  Even one esteemed professor whose name I won't reveal who is accustomed to having people wait for him has taken to showing up on time for meetings.  I kind of like this one.

Our daughter Nancy is coming to visit tomorrow.  She has been given strict instructions on what to bring:

*a very specific automatic pencil for her dad (the exact kind he has used since 1976). Photos and specifications were provided to her.  Hopefully, she won't let him down.
*a stack of paper plates (Shhhh ! I don't think they are allowed here; she will probably be detained.)
*microwave popcorn (It may be against the law,  too, but I'm willing to risk her future.)

For those of you who are long time readers of Tiztalk (begun in 2009), I must report that mice have again reared their ugly heads and teeth.  More on this next time when I hope I can report a resolution and maybe even a titillating  photo or two.  In the meantime, set your mousetraps.

With Nancy's arrival, there's hope that photos will reappear on Tiztalk.

**For new readers, "FMM = forced mile march".  I must say that having a Fitbit certainly keeps me honest.  liked it better when I could "estimate' how far I had to tramp in a day.

Talking but not jaywalking,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Tizmom/Mom/Grandma

Rome Ravings

FMM: 7.5 miles

Howdy,

I just tried using my "I Translate" app to see what the Italian translation for "howdy" is. Turns out it's "howdy".  However, it also provides verb conjugations for it. I don't think I've ever "howdied", but I don't know for sure.

The latest buzz...

I splurged on two milk-carton-like containers of red wine.  One was .89 euro; the other was a whopping 1.15 euro. Boy howdy, they both tasted fine to me.  After all, vino rosso by any other name is just vino rosso, right?  And no cork bottle stoppers were required either.  A win-win.

Want to get up early and get your errands run?  Forget it.  Stores here don't post their business hours.  You just have to hope that the owner wakes up  when you do.   I would not suggest a 6 am doughnut run.

They have not heard of the blue hair special over here.  They  usually open for dinner at 7:30, my brother Tom's bedtime. He wouldn't like the food anyway.  We haven't seen roast beef, corn, or
radishes on the menus.

Interested in fashion?  These things appear to be in style:  unzipped low boots,  backless tops with  black bras underneath, red athletic shoes


Wondering about animals in Italy?  The answer is pigeons and more pigeons.  They are everywhere, and they are totally not afraid of humans.  In fact, I think they love me as they will happily brush up against my feet as I dine at an outdoor restaurant.  And they are happy to invite their friends over if I accidentally drop a crumb or two.  They don't mind being kicked.  Aw, heck, she didn't mean to do that?  They just come back for more.  A student reported a one-legged pigeon pestering her. They're tough old birds. My only solution is to head for tall tables, and hope for the best.


When Bob and I go somewhere , a persistent anxiety plagues him.   He will often say, "How would I explain THAT to your sister Mary?" For example, last night I stated that  I flat out refused to do anymore running across streets.  It was 97 degrees. I vowed to walk at a normal pace, in spite of the lawless frontier of weaving, honking, speeding and careening cars, buses, and motorcycles called a street over here. His comment, "Dear Mary, she refused to run, and now she's done."  Note:  I was unable to keep my vow and ended up "Mom running", as my kids call it, in spite of myself. But today I am NOT running.  I swear.

I love Rome's large stone pine trees.  However, they  drop long needles which can be very slippery.  I nearly slipped last week, and I heard , " Dear. Mary,  she was just fine until she slipped on a pine."

I could go on, but you get the picture. This poor man has been tracking and explaining me for forty years as of today.  It's not an easy task, and he has done a great job of it.  Thank you and happy 40th, Bob!  I don't deserve you, and you certainly don't deserve me.  He'll never see that since he claims he's never read any of my blogs, so I guess I'll have to tell him in person. And I'll do my best not to do a single thing that requires explaining today.

In other news...We attended my cousin's daughter's concert last night.  Her choral director had heard that we might show up, but she wasn't sure  why we we're in Italy.    She asked, "You're over here to write a blog, right?"  I just smiled.


Observing, swerving, and undeserving,
 I remain
 Tizzie/Tiz/Mom/Tizmom/Liz/Grandma Tizzie

\

Worldly Wise

FMM:   6 miles

Buon Giorno,

Live and learn?  Who ever thought up that?  I don't mind the "live" part, but I sure get tired of the "learn" part.  In case of an apocalypse, no one I know would want to wake up and discover that I was the other person left on Earth.    However, my ability to adapt may surprise you.

Someone about the height of Lurch (or my neighbor JS, you know who you are)  must have  installed the bathroom mirror in our apartment.   If I stand on my tiptoes, I can see my eyebrows.  There is also no full-length mirror.  What's a girl to do?   It's easy.  I put on my makeup using those little mirrors that come with compacts and eyeliner.  You know what I'm talking about, right?   Then I get dressed. When I am all ready to take on the world, I jump up and down a few times to check out the finished product.   I also check myself out in store windows as I walk by.  I would not recommend that second part; it is not for the faint of heart.  To my knowledge, I have only had one minor mess up:  I wore my shirt inside out all day.  I can only hope that my mother's oft-repeated words are now true in my case, "Nobody's looking at me."

We have no toaster. My husband has solved this one.  He grills bread in the skillet with olive oil. Add a little jelly, and you're all set.  Sound good?  You don't have to answer that.

We have no washing machine. This problem has since been solved, but the first week we had to visit the laundromat.  We planned our trip by making two map-intensive treks out to actually find one that was still in business.  We succeeded, and the man assured us that he would be open until 1:30 on Sunday.  As long as we arrived by 12, we could get our clothes washed and dried on time. We arrived at 11 with a large rolling suitcase full of dirty clothes.  He announced that he would be closing at 12.  So, we were able to wash our clothes, but not dry them.  No problem.  We wheeled them home, carried a drying rack outside, and Bob guarded our belongings with his life for the next several hours.  Ok, actually, he sat outside and read a book.  You'll be happy to know that we have been able to return to wearing clean undergarments. It's the little things.

The television programs are all in Italian.  Imagine that!   We shook down our daughter Nancy  for  her Netflix password.   We were excited to get back to our old habit of  HTT (happy tube time). However,  things weren't quite that easy.     I downloaded Netflix, but guess what?  It was all in Italian, too!  The next day I shared my plight with one of the students.  Guess what?  If this ever happens to you, there's a little button at the very very bottom at the left that lets you change it to English.  We are back in business.   After some trial and error, we have figured out the best way to prop up the iPad with pillows.  The sweetest part of all?  Nothing - but nothing - tops the pleasure of ripping off your own children.


Ideas for Solving the Graffiti Problem in Italy:

If you are  caught in the act, you  must register as a text offender.

Institute a spray paint registry like the Sudafed ones in the US.

Any others suggestions??


Coping without doping or moping,

I remain


Tiz/Tizzie/Mom/Tizmom/Liz/Grandma Tizzie

Reaching the Wisdom

FMM:   8.39 miles on Sunday (No, I'm not kidding)

Hi, friends, frenemies, and fam,

Recently, we got an eight euro break on a museum entrance.  When I asked the man why, he smiled and replied, "Because you have reached the wisdom."   Wow, and I thought I was just touring around; I didn't know enlightenment was part of the deal.  O'Connell children,  take note.  It's official: I now really do know best.

Since you are all reading this to learn about Italy, or at least to pretend you are spending your time wisely, I'll let you in on a few things I have experienced since arriving:

Women hanging out apartment building windows talking to people in the street.  (Yes, this happens a lot.  It's probably because most of the windows have no screens. So far I haven't seen any men doing this.)

A man holding his thumb to to his two fingers, bending his elbow,  and shaking his arm while speaking loudly. (Yes, and I don't think I was the cause of it, but one can never be sure about such things..)

Graffiti everywhere. (Yes.  It is on every possible surface.  Today we even saw in on the pop-up side of an escalator step.  I'm told that if it weren't for graffiti we would have no knowledge of how the ancient Romans lived.  Nonetheless, when I first saw our neighborhood, I feared that I had landed in the middle of a Crips vs Bloods turf war or perhaps a Corleone vs Sarducci vendetta.  But, no, I'm in an ordinary neighborhood.  And I'm told that most of the remarks have to do with soccer. Of course, designing creative ways to "solve" this problem has caused us to dream up all types of cruel and unusual deterrents and punishments for offenders.  Send me your suggestions.)

The frequent use of an Italian word that most of you didn't know you knew.  Answer at the end of the blog.

Tizhaps (Admit it; this is your favorite section.). I went to the post office to buy stamps.  I had a half-written letter with  an extra sheet of blank paper in it with me as I wanted to show the postal worker that I was mailing the letter to the U.S.  She promptly grabbed it out  of my hand, taped it shut,  and demanded two euros twenty.  Add one more person to the list of people who will now think I am off my rocker...I was talking to my sister on the phone while sitting outside at a subway station when I looked down and saw a lizard on my purse--- well, you can picture the rest; I prepared for pickpockets, not lizards......There's an unusual man who lives in this complex and sits at the entrance or sometimes lies on the curb.  I must pass him every time I come or go.  I've said , "ciao" to him a number of times, and he eventually answered back.  Then he stopped me and tried to ask me something.  I thought that perhaps he had found my lost metro card.  He put his hand in his pocket and showed me a handful of change and kind of shook it. I replied (in English, of course), "No, I didn't lose any money, but I did lose my metro card."   He hasn't spoken to me since.  So, now I think maybe he wanted money, or perhaps he wanted to offered me money (don't laugh; you never know!).  My "friend" suggested that perhaps he had recognized my wardrobe plight and wanted to offer me money for new clothes...I've taken to wearing my sunglasses each time I go out, but somehow I think he still recognizes me.


Give up?  Okay, the word is "prego."  It means "you're welcome" in Italian.


Wise and in disguise,
I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Mom/ Tizmom/Liz/Grandma Tizzie

Ciao

June 9, 2016

FMM*:  5 miles and the day is young.

Hi, friends, Romans, and countrymen/women,

I am in Italy.  Since  I have nothing better to do, and, obviously, neither do you, let's waste some time together.

Once again I find myself  in a foreign land getting by on my own devices.  You know that can't be good. Bob and I are here with 46 or 47 -- I keep forgetting -- students.  Bob is teaching a class.  Me?  I'm just here.  

We have had our share of cultural adjustments.  I became re-acquainted with a device I had first encountered in Europe in 1974: a bidet.  I tried to explain what it was to Bob, but without wifi for a proper explanation/demonstration, he didn't quite get it.  Nonetheless,  he did find a use for it.  He has been soaking his sore foot in it.

Bob has become quite attached to the RFID (you did look that up, didn't you?) money belt he got for Christmas for this trip. Of course, he refuses to wear it as designed --- out of sight and under one's shirt.  So, it looks suspiciously like a you-know-what (initials: FP).  He has asked me a few times if he looks like a dork.   Of course, I insist that he doesn't, but we all know the truth.

Figuring out food has been fun.  I bought what I thought was chicken noodle soup.  However, it turned out to be missing the chicken and noodles.  So, we had broth one night.  I thought I was being smart and ordered what I thought were scallops on one menu.  That turned out to be pork in a basalmic vinegar sauce.  I didn't mind as I like pork, too.

Tizhaps:  I briefly lost my passport, but a quick-thinking student grabbed it off the ground as we exited a ferry, thereby saving me from a lifetime spot in the Hall of Shame Gallery.... when walking back from the grocery the first time, I accidentally walked into the wrong gated apartment complex (well, someone was holding open the gate and I was only one complex off...) and got myself locked in as a key was needed to get out.  Luckily, the Italian man who had let me in laughingly responded to my cries,  came back across the street and released me or I might still be there; it reminded me of the time an 18 month old Molly slammed the metal door on us at the bank and we were locked in the safety deposit box room at Landmark Bank for 10 minutes; they have since installed a bell you can ring, probably due to us...lost my FitBit the first week.

Despite my best efforts --- or should I say lame efforts -- I have someone not packed the right clothes.  I should be wearing skintight jeans (Darn, left mine at home!), skintight tops (left those, too), high heeled shoes, boots,  and clogs (may have some at home in a box in the garage from 509 Marshall), and way more black.  If I decide to improve my wardrobe, I'll be sure to post pictures.

Currently, I don't know how to post photos from the iPad.   I'm hoping to shake down some of the students soon.  In the meantime, you'll have to use your imaginations.


Roaming and Roming,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Tizmom/Elizabeth/Liz/Grandma Tizzie

*FMM= forced mile March

Packing It In and On

Hi, old friends,

I'm at it again.   This time Bob and I will be inflicting ourselves upon the Italians as well as a few Hungarians, Germans, Austrians, and Dutch.  But first, comes my most unfavorite chore --- one I have taken a two days off work to complete -- one that inspires me to see if I can even still sign into blogspot-- one that may even make me come up with a new password and tour all the ways this website is "new and improved" even though I am perfectly happy with typing and pressing what I hope is the correct button -- one that I have been whining to my sister about for at least six weeks:  you guessed it:  PACKING.  

You can see that instead of packing, I am doing what you all do best:  slacking.   I should be crossing my accomplishments off a list, but instead I’m sitting here eating malted milk balls and writing a blog.

Of course, I have taken most of the proper steps to prepare for my trip.  I've ordered clothes, bought clothes, purchased luggage, and made lists, lots of lists as I can never find the previous list I made.   I’ve even ordered Bob a thing or two – a multi-pocketed nylon travel vest to hold maps sunglasses and all those things he usually dumps in my tote bag and a plaid collared Eddie Bauer nylon hikng shirt.   I've done everything but the most hated chore of all:  trying on the clothes I have to see what fits.  The answer is: not much.  Nontheless, I am taking these things:

Gray travel pants that I ordered from Lands’ End last year that fit just fine.   My daughters relentlessly claim that they are nothing more than yoga pants disguised as “travel pants”;

and they laugh evilly.   But that can’t be because I would never wear yoga pants to the airport.

An RFID  (Look it up if you don’t know what it means; what else do you have to do?) fanny pack, passport holder, credit card holder, billfold, and purse.  Those infamous Roman pickpockets will not be outsmarting me! Bob thinks they will just pick me up and carry me away.

I did have one rather disturbing experience.  I was trying to up my underwear count.  After visiting several stores, I was in a state of despair.  What I wanted just wasn’t anywhere to be found.  Then I happened into Walgreens and  - lo and behold – I found just what I had been looking for.  At the risk of starting a blog-readers’ mad rush for the brand/stye I prefer, I won’t mention it.

BTW, we are taking 27 students with us this time.  Wish us luck.

Tune in Sunday for an update from Milan.

Packing and yakking,

 I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Tizmom/Mom/Liz/Grandma Tizzie

Thank You For Your Service, 509

                Near the turn of the last century, a young couple named Tom and Katie fell in love and got married.  Their wedding announcement in the Charleston paper described Katie McCarty as one of the most “deservedly popular young ladies in Charleston.”  Tom Coady , one of “Pana’s  representative young businessmen,” was congratulated on “his good luck , to say nothing of judgment, in having won such a wife.”  They moved to Paris and bought a small two bedroom home at 509 Marshall St.  Little did they know that nearly 119 years later that that address would still resonate with their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren.

                Tom and Kitty’s (she was called both “Katie” and “Kitty”) seven children were born in the house which eventually had a front porch and a second story added.  While the children were growing up, there was a barn in the backyard, chickens and cows roamed the yard, and a large garden was planted each year.  Although Kitty died in 1928, she would have been happy to know that her children remained close to one another their entire lives, and they and their families gathered regularly and happily at 509 Marshall St.  Whether guests were properly seated around the dining room table or crowded around the kitchen table, love and laughter prevailed. 

                When Tom and Kitty’s youngest daughter Catherine  married Vic Bridwell in 1947, Vic moved into 509.  Catherine and Vic walked over to Paris Hospital on Shaw Ave. for the births of their children.  When it became clear that Catherine wasn’t interested in moving to another house, no matter what its attributes, Vic compensated by adding a garage, a rec room with a pool and ping pong table, and another bathroom.  509 was ready for another generation.  The kitchen was remodeled in 1956.  It never saw another remodel.  In the 70’s Catherine’s children pooled their money to buy their mother  a lovely new Tell  City wooden kitchen table.  It spent five years in the den as Catherine liked her formica table just fine.  Finally, her daughter Mary Ann took the wooden table home.

 In Catherine’s opinion, the house was fine just as it was.   And it was. People certainly were drawn back to it.  It was a given that family holidays would take place at 509.  As a widow, Catherine’s older sister Helen came to live at 509 while Catherine’s four children- Bob, Tom, Mary Ann, and Tizzie - were in high school.  If the teenagers got too much for Helen, she retreated to her room to listen to a ballgame or to pray the rosary.   Yet she came back for four school years.

For Catherine’s younger brother Connie’s family, 509 Marshall was their summer vacation destination.  For many years, the five of them came to visit each summer for about two weeks.  During that time, Catherine rescinded her rule against pets in the house and happily welcomed their dog , Mickey Flynn.  She didn’t even flinch when he jumped on the furniture. 

                One can’t tell the story of 509 without mentioning the front porch.  Today, people seem to want decks and privacy, but it was just the opposite at 509.  With over thirty kids in the neighborhood, it was often put into use for various causes.  Once it served as the hospital for childhood war games.  Boys would be patched up with sticks for splints and sent back out into the yard to fight some more.  Sometimes, the neighbor girls would join Mary Ann and Tizzie (aka “Elizabeth”) to rock their baby dolls to sleep on the big swing.  The adults just liked to sit and chat.  Catherine’s sisters Mary Louise Sunkel and MeMe Mansfield and their families often drove by and stopped as did Vic’s parents.  The porch was where the action was.  The Bridwell girls’ friends met on the porch each fall on the first day of school to make the short trek to PHS.  Vic took many photos to commemorate these ritualistic gatherings.   Eventually, it was the spot where a nervous young man asked Vic for his daughter’s hand.

Like any house, 509 saw its share of sorrow.  Three sons went off to three wars – WWI, WWII, and Viet Nam.  Kitty and Tom both died in the house.  Kitty and her son George, who died unexpectedly at 29, were both waked in the house.

But life moves on. Houses get quiet.  Eventually,  only  Vic and Catherine were left at 509.  For a while, they were blessed with grandchildren and the good health to enjoy them.  Another generation was introduced to 509. They watched Grandma make her secret fudge recipe in pan that was at least fifty years old.  They tasted the pork chops with the distinct flavor that only a lifetime of seasoning on an iron skillet can produce.  They dressed up in old clothes and hats of indeterminate age.   They sat on Grandad’s lap and read stories. They ate sugar toast. They viewed the iconic portrait of Mary and Tizzie forever memorialized at ages 5 and 6 that had greeted anyone who had walked in the front door since 1957.  In short, they fit right in.  It all seemed normal to them.   The fun only multiplied when the out-of-town cousins showed up.  Vic loved kids and he loved Christmas, and he did all the Christmas shopping.  The grown grandkids still talk about those Christmases as the best ever.

After Vic died in 1995, only Catherine was left in the home she had never left.  Vic had had insulation blown in and security doors installed, and had made it so that only a small part of the house needed to be heated or cooled.  In essence, it became a small home again.  Catherine managed well for many years, but eventually, she had to leave her beloved home.

For the first time in its long life, 509 was suddenly empty.  The Bridwell children began to ask, “What are we going to do about 509?” Well, as of August 15, that question has been answered for us.  The house is changing hands today.  It has a new roof and new wiring --- preparing it for another go round with another generation. 

For five generations,  it has been a mainstay in the family.    While, in the end, the house is old and not worth a great deal of money, no price tag can be placed on the memories it holds for those of us who are descended from the popular young lady from Charleston and the man lucky enough to marry her.  Thank you, 509, for your good and faithful service. We wish you the very best.

Crying and good bying,
I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Mom/Tizmom/Elizabeth/Liz