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italy, streamers, and the family propensity for magical thinking
When I was about thirteen, my parents took me to Italy over winter break, because my wacky Jewish mother thought it would be cool to be in Rome for Christmas. This was the mis-eightees, so ATMs were not ubiquitous nor ammenable to foreign cards, and we hadn't realized that December and January in Italy would be one giant bank holiday. Aside from this, there seemed to be no Italians anywhere -- in either Rome, or later, in Florence. In fact, German tourists were about the only humans we saw -- they overran our pensione, the few open restaurants, and then finally, the luxury hotel my father made us switch too because the pensione had no hot water (we were able to stay with the pensione in Florence, and although more run down in a lot of ways, I have very strong and emotional affection for the place, but that's another story).
At any rate, as Christmas Eve and New Year's approached, we realized it might be quite a struggle to find somewhere to dine out that was appropriately festive -- afterall, the Italians were all either with their families or had fled the country entirely. Ultimately, my parents, after a bit of research, came to the conclusion that the only things open, and of interest to them, were in trastevere, which from the vague impression I was given at the time, was a bit like Soho in the late 70s or perhaps even the East Village, when neither of those neighborhoods are what they are today.
My mother made a reservation at a restaurant, and (and I can't recall if it was for Christmas or New Years) we got a taxi to take us there. This, however, took several tries. Surely, we were tourists and did not want to go to a part of town like that -- didn't we understand it was dangerous? We were so talked out of it, we were actually scared by the time we finally found a car to take us there, and worried profusely about finding one to take us home.
I don't remember much of the neighborhood, just the ordinary cement building the restaurant was in, and its ordinary cement walls, barely lit by candels, large solid wooden tables, and children running about everywhere, from small room to small room -- each connected with stone arches -- the ceilings were not too low, but one felt closed in, like one had to duck to move about.
Just before midnight, we were all given baskets of streamers to throw, and everyone did -- creating a lattice over the tables and chairs and diners. I had a small lovers knot ring I had had since I was a very small child (two of the other rings I wear today I've had since I was eight, and this predated those by at least four years), that flew off of my hand as I stood on a chair and threw my red and white streamers. I heard it hit -- whether it was the ground, or one of the dented metal water pitchers on every table, I don't know. I never found it, and while I felt bad about it (I tend to feel immeasureable paralyzing guilt of my ability to take care of things that are given to me and become my responsibility), I remember my mother saying it was a good occassion to lose such a thing.
Maybe that's where all my superstition comes from, a family like that -- omens of rings and birds and death and loss and strange long bred fortune. Good luck wherever we care to make some up. It's served me well, and remembering that night now, perhaps better that I've ever expected, certainly in ways still yet to be.
At any rate, as Christmas Eve and New Year's approached, we realized it might be quite a struggle to find somewhere to dine out that was appropriately festive -- afterall, the Italians were all either with their families or had fled the country entirely. Ultimately, my parents, after a bit of research, came to the conclusion that the only things open, and of interest to them, were in trastevere, which from the vague impression I was given at the time, was a bit like Soho in the late 70s or perhaps even the East Village, when neither of those neighborhoods are what they are today.
My mother made a reservation at a restaurant, and (and I can't recall if it was for Christmas or New Years) we got a taxi to take us there. This, however, took several tries. Surely, we were tourists and did not want to go to a part of town like that -- didn't we understand it was dangerous? We were so talked out of it, we were actually scared by the time we finally found a car to take us there, and worried profusely about finding one to take us home.
I don't remember much of the neighborhood, just the ordinary cement building the restaurant was in, and its ordinary cement walls, barely lit by candels, large solid wooden tables, and children running about everywhere, from small room to small room -- each connected with stone arches -- the ceilings were not too low, but one felt closed in, like one had to duck to move about.
Just before midnight, we were all given baskets of streamers to throw, and everyone did -- creating a lattice over the tables and chairs and diners. I had a small lovers knot ring I had had since I was a very small child (two of the other rings I wear today I've had since I was eight, and this predated those by at least four years), that flew off of my hand as I stood on a chair and threw my red and white streamers. I heard it hit -- whether it was the ground, or one of the dented metal water pitchers on every table, I don't know. I never found it, and while I felt bad about it (I tend to feel immeasureable paralyzing guilt of my ability to take care of things that are given to me and become my responsibility), I remember my mother saying it was a good occassion to lose such a thing.
Maybe that's where all my superstition comes from, a family like that -- omens of rings and birds and death and loss and strange long bred fortune. Good luck wherever we care to make some up. It's served me well, and remembering that night now, perhaps better that I've ever expected, certainly in ways still yet to be.
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Aaron, Dawn, and I were out at the beach in San Diego watching fireworks offshore and I dipped my hans into the waves and the sea took eye ring (which had never been loose before) off of my finger. I was upset and deeply suspicious of the loss of a protective charm like that. Four months later, Becca visited, we fell in love, and my life changed drastically. I was perhaps being protected from change and needed the freedom for risk and difference. Or, this may just be foolish thoughts finding good in a loss. Such is the way of thoughts about that talismans, luck, and omens that haunt both of our lives.