Seeing Beauty

Even in Places Not Famous for It (Like Milan)

Rossella started high school last week, she’s going to liceo artistico (art high school). Monday was the first day of regular classes, so they’re moving through the timetable and meeting their teachers one by one. For religion class they have a Catholic priest, who nonetheless explained that his class would not be catechism: “I’m not here to convert anybody.” He asked the class why they had chosen liceo artistico; someone must have mentioned creating beautiful things, because the conversation then moved on to how to define beauty. Ross tried to express something about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. Her example was: “My mother loves India and sees beauty in it; my father can’t understand how anyone could see beauty in a place of such poverty and squalor.”

I was struck by this, because I haven’t often talked or written about India in terms of beauty (partly because I don’t have much gift for physical description). Ross is right, I do see beauty in India, and in most other places I’ve visited. Where I can’t find beauty, I can usually at least find humor and interest. I guess that is my particular, peculiar gift.

There is beauty almost everywhere, if you are open to it. Take Milan, for example. At first glance it’s drab and dingy, and not considered much of a tourist destination. As an industrial center, Milan was heavily bombed during WWII, and afterwards rebuilt hastily – and often tastelessly. The few impressive pieces of architecture left are too over the top to be called beautiful: the world’s most Gothic cathedral (unfinished – after 600 years they’re still adding frills), and a huge marble railway station, the very epitome of Fascist architecture.

But, if you’re willing to look, you can find fascinating things. One of my favorites is an apartment building in via Vivaio, done in heavy stonework to look rather like a castle, adorned with huge cherubs near the roof. Peer into the entryway and admire the interplay of red brick, polished gray stone, and golden tiles. Weirdly, you might hear a peacock’s harsh call. This is from across the street. That place is owned by a wealthy retired couple, who obtained permission from the Milan city government to knock down the adjacent building and create a huge garden for themselves, by willing the entire property to the city after their deaths. In the meantime, they have filled the garden with peacocks and flamingoes.

Living in Italy Isn’t Everything

Many people would consider me to have the best of all possible worlds: I live in Italy, after all.

In 1995, Adaptec bought Incat Systems, the small Italian software company I was working for, and I was part of the package. I wanted to become a regular employee of Adaptec, though at a distance, since I was by then working from home with quarterly trips to the US office. The idea was radical (for Adaptec at that time, anyway), and they refused; as long as I remained in Italy, they would hire me only as a consultant at an hourly rate. It was a high rate, no complaints there, but I wasn’t a regular employee.

I happened to be at the US office when the sale was completed, so I was able to lose this fight in person, at least. We were all called in for a meeting with Adaptec HR people to explain the company benefits etc., none of which applied to me. After the official presentations, I was chatting with one of the HR people. I mentioned, wistfully, that I would have preferred to be a regular employee. “But this way you get to live in Italy,” she said. Well, yes, but it would be nice to have regular employee benefits (paid vacation, sick leave). “But you get to live in Italy!” she said.

Clearly, she dreamed of living in Italy. Many people do. Funny thing is, I never did. Until I met Enrico, I had barely even visited Europe, and never Italy. It just wasn’t on my radar screen; if I thought about my future at all, I assumed that I would somehow end up in Asia – seemed logical, given my personal history and my college degree in Asian Studies. Had I been actively seeking a husband, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to look for an Italian mathematician.

But there he was, and here we are. He claims that we could have ended up in the US: he could have looked for teaching positions there after graduate school, had the job market been better. I don’t remember ever expecting to stay in the US; perhaps I knew earlier than he did that it was inevitable we would live in Italy. When I bought my first (and only) car, I bought it with a manual transmission, knowing that almost all cars in Italy are manual, and assuming that I should keep in practice against the day.

In any event, Enrico landed a teaching position in Italy while still finishing his PhD, and any ideas of moving back to the States (for more than a sabbatical year or so) never went beyond the discussion stage. Nowadays it’s no longer even discussed; we’re here for the duration.

I don’t miss the US; didn’t have strong ties to it to begin with. Being a third-culture kid, I find it easier to live overseas, where I am “out” as an immigrant, than in the US, where people assume that I’m a native, then are baffled and resentful when I don’t behave quite the way they expect me to.

Italy for me is a happy medium, with all the comforts of developed countries (and then some), but just enough chaos, history, and cultural depth, to keep my interest. Italians are even quite like Indians in some ways, though many Italians would be horrified to hear me say so.

Zod knows there’s little to hate about living in Italy. I write (extensively) about the follies and foibles of life here, but, overall, it’s a damn comfortable life. Thanks to my husband and his family, I live in a very nice home and have few financial worries (though I do need to find some paying work…). I can concentrate on raising a daughter – a complex, demanding, and fascinating task, and the most important one of my life. I look out my windows and see mountains. I go into my huge new kitchen and cook wonderful food. We go on trips, we have friends, life is beautiful.

So what’s missing?

Italy is gorgeous and wonderful and all that, wouldn’t trade it for the world. But it isn’t the world. There’s a whole world of other countries out there, most of them equally full of interesting people, cultures, history, foods, etc. Why limit myself to just one? There are so many places I still want to visit (Australia, New Zealand), and others, especially India, that I want to visit some more. I’ve been able to do some non-US travelling in recent years, just enough to keep my feet from itching too much. When you’ve spent your formative years all over the place, settling down anywhere, no matter how wonderful, is very hard.

So I don’t expect this settled phase to last much beyond my daughter’s reaching adulthood. I’ll keep Italy as a home base, but I’ll need to get out, way out, sometimes.

Funny thing is, my daughter, who has had a very stable home life in Milan for 12 years (we’ve just moved 50 km to Lecco), also can’t wait to get out. “I’m not staying in Italy when I’m grown up,” she says. “It’s boring.”

Pirating Music

“When I was a kid, we used to tape music off the radio. You never heard of record companies suing people for that.” New York Times, Sept 10, 2003

Okay, I admit it: I’ve been pirating music for a long time.

The earliest copyright infringement I can recall perpetrating myself occurred in Bangladesh. I was 14 years old, and loved music as much as any normal teenager does, although my tastes were probably a bit more eclectic than most. It wasn’t possible to buy records or tapes of western music in Dacca at that time, so we of the foreign community all borrowed from each other. But how to make a copy so I could keep it? I had one of those old-style tape cassette players that was long and flat with a tray that opened up on top, and one small speaker. It could also be used to record, through an incorporated mic. I would position that in front of our higher-end early-model JVC boombox, and record from speaker to mic. Very low fi indeed, but I didn’t care about quality – I was just hungry for the music.

In India it was possible to buy cassettes of western music, but, on our boarding school allowances, who could afford it? And the selection was always months to years behind what was current in the US. Some kids brought record or tape collections with them, and we copied each other’s tapes, using the speaker-to-mic method. My roommate’s mother would sometimes send tapes made from the radio during her US trips, which gave us a chance to catch up on current music, though it was distinctly weird to sit in a dorm room in Mussoorie and hear news and advertising from a town in Massachusetts.

VCRs weren’t around then. An Indian classmate returned from four or five years in San Francisco a raving Trekkie, a passion I somewhat shared. In desperation, before leaving the States he had recorded the soundtracks of Star Trek reruns from his TV, and we used to listen to those together. So I have heard the celebrated “Trouble with Tribbles” episode, but to this day have never seen it!

When my dad and stepmom moved to Thailand, I discovered a whole new way to get music. In Bangkok you could go to a record shop where they didn’t actually sell any records. You would go through their (huge) selection and pick out the music you liked; they would record it onto cassette tapes for you, complete with hand-typed song lists. This was very cheap and efficient – you could get two whole albums onto a 90-minute cassette. If there was space left over, they would sometimes fill it with random stuff, giving you a chance to discover something new.

Back in the US, it was common to go through a friend’s record collection and ask them to tape stuff for you, although this was a lot to ask, LP-to-tape recording being rather a pain. By then I had a fancy tape deck purchased in Hong Kong, with a feature that would fast-forward to the next silence on the tape, so you could easily skip a song you didn’t like. High tech, for those days.

I bought a few commercially-recorded cassette tapes in the US, but they were expensive, and not very durable – they tended to stretch after only a few months: built-in obsolescence? The tapes I had made in Thailand are still fine 20 years later.

In 1984, while visiting my dad in Indonesia, I learned that Indonesia had never signed the International Copyright Convention. You could get anything on tape there, very cheaply, mass-produced with printed labels. Sometimes the label would have a photograph of the original album cover cut out and pasted on to add authenticity. I bought dozens of tapes, though I knew that, technically, it was illegal to take them back to the US. Having music available at such low prices encouraged me to explore new artists and genres; I could pick up something on impulse, and if I didn’t like it, so what?

These tapes, too, have proved durable, and also had their delightful surprises. Like the Thais, the Indonesians couldn’t stand to leave a minute of tape empty. They would record right to the end of Side A, and if a song got cut off in the middle, would re-start it on Side B. Then they’d fill the space left at the end of Side B with whatever came to hand, sometimes by the same artist, sometimes not. In one or two cases I loved some of these extras, and went crazy trying to figure out what they were so I could get more by whoever that was – the track lists weren’t always complete with artist and album names.

Some of cassette producers added value by including lyrics in a small booklet, but they didn’t always have the original lyrics to work from. I bought the soundtrack of “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,” where evidently someone who was not fluent in English tried to get the lyrics down by ear. Apparently he or she was inspired by the title to hear lyrics far more dirty than actually exist in the film! (I still have this tape somewhere, will have to dig it out and give some examples.)

…I was going to go off here into a diatribe about the RIAA, but will leave that for another time, or maybe never. There’s been plenty said on that topic, too, by wiser heads than mine.


Two weeks after I posted the above, the New York Times caught up with an article about similar practices elsewhere in the world, notably Indonesia. (“U.S. Is Only the Tip of Pirated Music Iceberg”, By MARK LANDLER, September 26, 2003). The head of a German music industry association is quoted as saying: “Housewives, who should be cooking, are burning [CDs].”

The article went on: “Mr. Gebhardt hopes the German music industry will bring its first lawsuit against a file sharer in a few months. In the meantime, it is trying to win back the public through sympathy rather than subpoenas.”

Mr. Gebhardt probably thought he was being cute, but his “housewives” remark certainly lost my sympathy.

Alienation

It’s 4:00 am. I’ve been awake since 2:00, thinking, and writing didn’t quite get everything off my chest.

It’s partly about the concept of “home.” I don’t have one, you see. Well, yes, I have the type that you live in, and a very nice one it is; I’m very happy in it. But I don’t have a home town, or even a home country.

This is baffling to Italians.

“Where are you from?” they ask.

“I’m American,” I answer, hoping against hope that this will be enough to close the topic.

It never is. For an Italian, you can’t simply be “from” a whole country, you have to have a paese, a hometown. “But which part of America?” they persist.

“Oh, I lived all over the world when I was young,” I say uncomfortably, “I’m not really from any particular place in America.”

“But where are you from?” they insist (“Ma tuo paese qual’é?”)

“Well, I was born in New Orleans.” That works; everyone’s heard of New Orleans, and the ones who haven’t been there already would like to go. Me, too. I left when I was two, visited once or twice after that, but the last time was about 25 years ago. So I don’t feel the right to claim any attachment to it.

No paese, and not much nationality, either. It’s that whole TCK thing – disguised as American, but really not one, so I have a hard time feeling comfortable in my supposed home country.

I was already thoroughly discombobulated by the time I got to Woodstock School, at age 14, so it’s no wonder that I fell in love with the place and sunk roots there, as far as I was able. This happens with many Woodstockers. Some of us were fleeing from messed-up homes, some came from places where their parents worked but couldn’t raise or educate children. Some went into boarding so young that they never really had a family life, except for a few months of vacation every year. Woodstock became their home, as it did mine; staff became surrogate parents (a role which many carried out with amazing grace and generosity), and our schoolmates were (and remain) our siblings and best friends. Many of us continue to feel that Woodstock is in some fundamental sense our home, or at least where we “come from,” for the rest of our lives. But we don’t usually try to explain that to new acquaintances; it’s just too complex a story to tell in a few sentences.

I wrote about how “during my senior year, I got interested in the community around us, Mussoorie and Landour.” This was part of a deliberate, though perhaps unconscious, campaign to make Mussoorie, as well as Woodstock, mine – just before I left it. This was unusual behavior for a Woodstocker. The majority of students in my day had no ties in the town beyond commercial ones; when I dreamed up the Mussoorie history project, my homeroom teacher Mrs. Kapadia was enthusiastic – so few students showed any interest in the town. Their explorations, if any, went in the other direction, out to the Garhwal Himalayas. I was an anti-hiker, so that avenue was closed to me, but I walked and walked – all over Mussoorie, and beyond. I had friends in town, and avidly pursued its history, as well as its current life at all levels.

I’m not saying I got very far into Mussoorie society, but at least I tried. So, by the time I graduated, I felt I had some rights to claim “ownership” of Mussoorie, as well as Woodstock, in a way I never could any other community in the world. I don’t claim that India is my home, nor even Mussoorie, but Woodstock is the one place in the world where I’m never a stranger. Perhaps my involvement in this history book is partly about ensuring that my visceral connection to Woodstock and Mussoorie continues, and that I continue to be remembered there.

Changing Names: Italian Women Keep Their Own Upon Marriage

Women in Italy don’t change their names when they marry. In the US this is the norm; most women when they marry change their surname to their husband’s, and there are simple, routine procedures in place for them to do so. It’s so usual that Americans are confused if you don’t do it. Years ago I asked the Adaptec travel service to reserve airline tickets for myself and my family, and ended up with tickets for “Mr. and Mrs. Straughan.”

Some American women don’t change their names, often for professional reasons, sometimes for political ones. Some couples hyphenate their two last names and give that as a last name to the kids. I always wondered what would happen if two such children decided to marry: would they create a quadruple surname?

In Italy, as far as I know, there is no legal procedure by which a woman could change her surname to her husband’s, even if she wanted to. In every context except the family, you’re still known by your own name, which saves headaches and maintains continuity on the professional front. Every doorbell has both names on it. On the other hand, the kids almost always get their father’s name, and it’s perfectly natural and normal to be called “Mrs. So-and-so” in some settings, such as your child’s school (perhaps simply because it’s easier for the teacher to remember).

Enrico and I got married in the US, but I never got around to changing my name, and neither of us gave it much thought. To the extent that I thought about it, I had spent so many hours of my life explaining both my names that I was perversely reluctant to give up the struggle.

I didn’t initially realize that women don’t change their names in Italy. When I began publishing articles in Italian magazines, I thought that my husband’s name might be easier for Italians to deal with. However, his great-grandfather was Swiss, so his name is neither Italian nor entirely easy, and I ended up spending almost as much time explaining that one as Straughan. And I didn’t like the look of it alongside Deirdré in print. So I switched back to Straughan, and have articles published under both names. The book was published under my own name (and Fabrizio’s).

Jan 10, 2004

The above sparked some responses. It seems that American women (and even one man friend of mine) change their names so that the whole family will have the same last name, though this desire is often complicated by multiple marriages with kids from various pairings. One friend told me about a couple she knows who wanted to share a last name in an equitable fashion, so they made one up, combining elements of each of their original surnames.

I’ve also known cases where women were glad upon marriage to give up an unappealing surname, and I had several responses were about that:

Sally: “I can think of lots of English names I would want to change. .. like Bosomworth, Ramsbottom, Drain. One girl I know refused to marry Ted unless he changed his name from Tiplady.”

And Judith: “I would change my name IF I thought my new husband’s surname better than my current one. One English girlfriend gave up ‘Loutit’ on marriage for the much more glamourous French ‘Dubresson’ – she was thrilled!”

Deirdré Straughan on Italy, India, the Internet, the world, and now Australia