Fears Conquered (little ones anyway)

Every time I come to Italy I step out of my Bainbridge Island comfort zone and every time, it demands that I grow and change. Like everyone, I have stupid fears and insecurities that make me avoid things that are probably easy for others. Past failures and embarrassments, along with my natural shyness tether me to a “safe zone” of experience. Here in Italy, because of necessity, or sometimes because I decide not to give a shit, I push myself more. It feels good, though I also have plenty of wimpy moments when I choose the easy route (in fact, today was a doozy so I’m trying to look very busy writing this from a bench at the park while Felix plays with the local kids because I’m overwhelmed and don’t want anyone to talk to me in Italian.) A friend was traveling recently and I told her to report back on what she did that was brave. What’s brave is completely subjective, but to gather your courage and take a personal risk is the same for us all. And I think the little things are as important as the big ones because the more we practice, the braver we get. Perhaps I will get home, where I care more what people think of me, and regret sharing the fact that I’m afraid of wearing shorts, but right now I’m the more confident, more Italian version of myself and that woman wants to tell you some of her accomplishments from the last month and a half. These tiny things will be impressive to exactly zero people, but I want you to know so that you will share your own brave moments with me.

Parallel parking

This one has been a serious hurdle for me. Easy to avoid in the US, impossible to avoid here. And I can now do it, even with someone waiting behind me and not break out in a full body sweat! As my friend W can attest, I absolutely killed it in a small spot on a narrow street where you have to park with your right tires up on the sidewalk. There was also a tree two inches from my side mirror and I didn’t hit it. If I can do that I can pretty much do anything. I was so proud of myself that I took pictures:

Accents

I’m always worried about offending people with thick accents by not understanding them. Here, there are people from everywhere with all kinds of accents. When the common language is one I barely understand it’s beyond tricky but no one understands me either and I’m not offended so I’ve gotten over it and just look confused about seventy five percent of the time.

Talking to anyone and everyone

This fear goes along with accents. There are definite groups and cliques here in town but I don’t understand the small town politics and I have no idea who slept with who’s wife or who was mean to their neighbor’s cousin’s dog. At home I’m very comfortable knowing my place in the local caste system but in this other home, I don’t fit into any category yet so I say ciao to everyone. Old ladies, construction workers, shop owners, little kids, the intimidating Albanian gang, locals, expats, beautiful women, the guy I suspect is the local drug dealer…I “ciao” and “salve” and “buonasera” my way through the day and so far they put up with me.

Shorts

If you know me, I can guarantee you’ve not seen me in shorts for at least the last 19.5 years. I’ve had shorts phobia ever since the weight gain of my first pregnancy. I dislike my thighs and prefer dresses in hot weather. But due to the fact that it has been insanely hot and humid for the whole time I’ve been here and the fact that I don’t have a full length mirror in this apartment (which I can tell you is a wonderful thing for self esteem!) I’ve actually worn shorts like five times. In public. By choice.

The butcher shop

This is mostly, but not completely, a specific fear for Italy. The butcher shops are tiny and intimate you have to ask for what you want and then they cut it for you. Plus all the cuts of meat are different than in the US so it’s hard to know even what you want to ask for. Also, kilograms, which I’m still getting used to. But I went in and got some steak and the world didn’t end. In fact the man at the counter was very nice.

Sports ball (playing)

I’m not athletically gifted. You knew that already. I was so traumatized by 7th grade volleyball that I have pretty much avoided sports since then. And yet the other night I found myself in the midst of a volleyball/monkey in the middle/keep away fiasco with the most unlikely group I can imagine. Me, Felix, my friend and her son, a 19 year old Tunisian who smoked the whole time, a drunk middle aged guy who hogged the ball, the darling 13 year old waitress from the cafe and my 80 year old neighbor lady. It was absolutely ridiculous.

Sports ball (watching)

The only reason ever willingly watch sports is for the snacks. I have a well founded fear of being hit in the head with flying objects. Something about my head and sports equipment does not mix well. But I attended TWO games here in our little town. They play this sport called pallapugno that dates back to the Romans or something crazy like that. I can’t for the life of me figure out the rules but it involves hitting a ball with your hand wrapped up in this big piece of rope. It was fun to sit on the splintery bleachers and cheer when it seemed appropriate. And I didn’t get hit in the head with the ball even once!

Looking like a fucking idiot (karaoke)

My new Belgian friends definitely bring out the silly in me and I humiliated myself to no end one evening singing and dancing with them. Never, ever, would anyone in my hometown witness me singing AC/DC with my son in a public setting. I see you trying to picture it and no, it wasn’t Highway to Hell or You Shook Me All Night Long, the easier songs we could’ve chosen. Felix wanted Back In Black. I suggest you take a listen to that song and image how you yourself would sound singing it. Then multiply that horror times middle aged woman and nine year old. But what I lack in talent I made up for in enthusiasm. That may be the only reason I haven’t yet been run out of town.

Looking like a fucking idiot (other stuff)

I’m still working on this one. Not knowing the language of the country you are in is humbling. I misunderstand times, prices, questions and all kinds of other things. I’m constantly paying the wrong amount, answering the question I was expecting to be asked instead of the one I was actually asked, and saying ho capito (I understand) to things I don’t understand one bit. And I’m a blusher so I walk around with a red face and butterflies in my stomach a huge part of the day. Melting from embarrassment isn’t brave, but going back into that shop or restaurant where I made a fool of myself and trying again definitely feels brave. The reward is being shown, again and again, that the world doesn’t revolve around me. People are mostly kind and forgiving and I give them something to laugh about later. I’m pretty alright with that.