What do you do to live?

My host dad, to make a living, sells copy machines.

My host dad, to live, is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.  

The beginning parts of these two sentences are quite similar.  The lack of a tiny, one letter word in the second one makes the difference.  The second half of these two sentences, however, are quite different.  Why did I put it like that? What am I trying to say?  

Let's start over.

My host dad's job is selling copy machines.

My host dad is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.

Do you get where I'm going with this?  Let me try again.  This time I'll be more explicit.

My host dad's job is selling copy machines.  Selling copy machines is what he does to make money to pay his bills.  

My host dad, despite his (what many people would consider humble) profession, is incredibly well educated and aware, especially when it comes to history, politics and philosophy.

I sat at the dinner table for about two hours today, talking with and listening to- mostly listening to- my host dad.  The conversation, in I don't remember anymore what order, ranged from the Second World War, German philosophers, Greek philosophers, current day Italian politics, language, laws, and the political theories, ideologies, and cultures behind them.  And it wasn't just  a conversation that mentioned general aspects about these topics.  My host dad went through a number of both German and Greek philosophers, by name, and knew what their ideas were, their theories, when they were written and what inspired them.  My host dad knows important dates and historical figures from all over the world.  These are things that, at least at home, I only talk about with my fellow college students, professors, and adults who were at one point college students like me.  Intellectuals, you might say.    

In Italy it's different.  I'm sure it's partially due to the differences in high school education (no public high school in the States that I know of requires four years of philosophy class), but it's more than that.  Italians, at least the ones I've been fortunate enough to meet thus far, separate their jobs from their lives.  That's because Italians do their jobs to pay their bills, not to live.  To live, they think.  They talk.  They share and discuss and reflect.  Living in Italy is not synonymous with paying bills the way it so often- too often- is in the US.  In Italy, being an intellectual is not a profession.  It is not a title attributed to a certain class or group of people.  To be an intellectual in Italy, you don't have to be a college professor or a politician or a lawyer.  You can be, of course.  Or, you can sell copy machines.        

Why do we ask people "What do you do for a living?" Why do we use the expression "to make a living"? Have we really reduced the act of being alive to merely what we do in order to earn money?  

Had you ever even thought about it before reading this?  Will you ever think about it again afterwards?  I hope you will.  In fact, I implore you to do so.  The next time you meet someone new, instead of asking him  "What do you do for a living?" ask "What do you do to live?".  The words might be similar, but the meanings are completely different.  By all means, if you are actually curious as to what this person's job is, then just ask what his job is.  But if you're curious about the person, about who he is and what he believes and how he thinks, then ask him what he does to live.   

And while you're at it, ask yourself.  Look in the mirror and ask the question aloud.  What do I do to live?

It's a little scary how hard it is to answer, right?  Scary, and sad, and quite telling. 

My host dad, to make a living, as they say, sells copy machines.

My host dad, to live, is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.   

    

Buses, Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet

This morning, after my iPad alarm clock rang, I used the same device to check Facebook (I am a product of my generation, I beg you not to judge me).  Something good came out of it, though.  Liz had put up photos from her winter break (she went all over the place), and she titled the album "Buses Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet".  I liked the way it sounded so I picked up my journal, which is permanently on my nightstand, and wrote the following, all before getting out of bed.  This one is for you, cara Lisetta.

Buses, Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet

Buses, trains, planes,

Ferries and feet,

Unaware of the things

And of the people I will meet. 

Planes, feet and ferries,

Buses and trains,

Each step of this journey

I am breaking free of the chains

Of ignorance, of motionlessness, and of fear.

I feel with my heart as well as with my hands,

I see with my soul as well as with my eyes,

And with my head I think, I learn, I wonder, I fly.

Because flights do not only leave from airports.

I took a bus to a city nearby

And a plane to one far away

I took a train to somewhere in the middle

I've gotten lost, but I've never gone astray.

I've got a journey bug, now.

Wanderlust, I think it's usually called.

But for me, to wander is to be aimless,

And I have very clear intentions.

This world is so big.  There are

So many places to see,

Infinite things to learn,

And new people I'd like to greet. 

I'm thankful to my heart and to my mind for pushing me out the door,

And I am grateful for the buses, trains and planes,

For the ferries, and for my feet. 

Padova

My time in Naples ended bittersweetly on January fifth, when my parents went back to the States.  I however, couldn't come back to Florence until today, so Zio Mauro arranged for Noa and I to spend a few days in Padova  (or Padua, as it's referred to at home) with cousins of mine...whom I'd never met.  Actually, I didn't even know they existed.  To start, I've always been closer with and known more about my grandfather's side of the family than my grandmother's, and these cousins are on my grandmother's side.  Furthermore, given the fact that both family trees together amount to what is a figurative familial redwood forest, it's not all that surprising that I don't know all of my cousins.  I've always been curious, though, and have often wished that my older relatives would organize some kind of gathering or reunion.  I'd do it myself if I knew enough about my family tree, but sadly I don't.  

Zia Franca and my cousin Salvatore met Noa and I at the train station.  We had never met before, but we had studied each other's photos on Facebook the night before so that we could recognize each other at the train station.  Luckily, and happily, we found each other right away.  Zia Franca did not hesitate to inform me that despite living up north for many years she is still very much Neapolitan, proudly so, and that I need not worry.  She is a very small woman, maybe about my height, and so I was taken  aback when she told me that she has EIGHT children.  (She had the first when she was my age, which is frightening).  All eight of them were born in Naples.  When the youngest was just a few months old, Zia Franca's husband (who passed away quite a few years ago), got a job in Padova, and up they went.  

When we arrived at Zia Franca's home on Saturday afternoon, she immediately made us something to eat.  Too much to eat.  (Every meal for the entire trip was the same, really).  After lunch I took a nap.  My parents left for the airport around 4:30 am on Saturday, and so we just didn't sleep.  Needless to say, I was exhausted.  

Later that evening my cousin Lello (maybe the billionth cousin of that name from either side of the family), his wife Patrizia, and Zia Franca took us for a walk around the centro storico of Padova.  Although it is smaller than Florence, it didn't feel that way because the streets are much more...open.  Often in Florence I feel very closed in, and I was surprised that I didn't feel that way in a much smaller city.  The Christmas decorations were still up, and so was holiday spirit.  The streets were packed with people strolling along, looking at the tents and tables that are set up in Italian cities at this time of year.  It was lively and fun, and I enjoyed the overall vibe. 

Sunday was pleasantly overwhelming.  At first, it was Noa and I, Zia Franca, Lello and Patrizia, as well as Salvatore with his girlfriend and one of his sons.  I honestly felt like I'd known them forever.  Talking with them was so effortless, so natural.  It didn't matter that we had never met before, it was clear that the idea of me being a stranger had never once crossed their minds.  It doesn't, matter how we're related or how distantly.  All that matters is the fact that we are related, we are family, and we treat each other as such, no questions asked.  Over the course of the evening, more of Zia Franca's eight children (my cousins) came over.  Many of them brought their children, and one of them brought her daughter.  To think that I have this many cousins just from one family alone is a little mind boggling, and I had to keep asking who was who to fill in the picture.  We sat at the table for hours, I'm not even sure how many.  More hours than we didn't, let's say.  We then went with my cousin Patrizia (one of the eight) and her boyfriend and daughter for an aperitivo, and then to her house where we were (overly) fed (again).  We, again,  had a really great conversation, and it was nice to know that what I felt at the big table surrounded by people translated to a smaller, more intimate setting.  In a way, it made it seem more real.  

The next day Zia Franca took us to the University of Padova, where her son Carmine works, and he gave us a little tour.  Founded in 1222, the university of Padova the second oldest in Italy and one of the oldest in Europe.  It has long been known for its programs in law and medicine, and is also where in 1678 a woman named Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia became the first woman in history to earn a college degree  (obviously my favorite fact I learned that day).  Afterwards, we walked to Prato della Valle, which I was told is the largest piazza in Europe (though the Google search I did now as I'm writing this post told me otherwise).  Regardless, it is one of the biggest piazzas and Europe, and it's the largest in Italy.  We then went to the church of Santa Giustina and the church of Sant'Antonio, both of which were incredibly beautiful.                     

Zia Franca is proof that age is but a number.  She lives alone, and does just about everything for herself.  She's visited often by her children, but more for company than for assistance.  She is funny and quick, and always has something to say.  Her Neapolitan accent was a pleasant contrast with that of the Padovani, and I was thankful for a familiar sound in an unfamiliar place.  She almost exclusively uses the imperfect past in place of the present conditional.  I'm not sure whether that stems from dialect or upbringing,  but regardless I'm sure that there's a metaphor in there that I'm simply too tired to look for.  (I'll leave that to you).  My favorite part of the weekend was talking with her, especially about my grandmother, whom I unfortunately never knew very well.  I loved hearing stories about the two of them, what they did together as girls and later as adults.  My grandparents visited Zia Franca often after she moved to Padova, and every time  she mentioned that she smiled.        

Despite having faced a lot of difficulty, both as individuals and as a family, all of the family members I met in Padova were happy.  It's clear that they have remained very close, despite the big age differences between siblings and despite the death of their father, and I think it was their closeness that helped me to feel at home.  That and Zia Franca's heart.  She is one of the most warm and welcoming people I've ever known.  She made me promise to come back before returning home, and it is a promise that I will happily fulfill.  

My days in Padova, although not many, were intense.  In a good way, though.  I got to put another piece of my family puzzle into place, I got to see another part of Italy, and I shared the experience with a very important friend.  Days like this lead to thinking.  They lead to pondering and reflecting, all of which, eventually, lead to growth.  I feel so grateful that the journey I'm on this year, studying abroad, is being accompanied by a much less literal journey- one that takes place in my head.  I'm luckier still that every smaller journey within the big one, every trip to a new city, is partnered with it's own journey through my mind as well.  Padova is a small city, yet it is home to the Italy's largest piazza.  Zia Franca is a small lady, yet she has the biggest heart.  I am a small lady, too, and have returned to Florence today trying to decide what is big about me.