Can we talk?
I live in a country of unending bucolic nature, ubiquitous goodness, inherent generosity, frighteningly high quality food and internationally renowned wine. A walk in town means absorbing the reverberation of 12th century stone; old men meet on the corner and talk about last night’s soccer results as their wives buy handmade roasted veal ravioli from the local producer. The smell of wood burning pizza ovens mingles with the fragrance of onions frying in olive oil as the lunch hour nears, and Enzo the fish monger waves out to me, holding up an entire salmon and smiling. The bars switch from serving coffee to serving aperitivi of sweet and dry vermouth, Aperol and Campari along side free buffets of goat cheese marinated in olive oil and peperoncino, spinach frittate and bruschetta.
It’s also a land that, because it outlaws nuclear power, buys nuclear power from countries like France and Switzerland, marks it up by exponential quantities and serves it to us in such fits and starts that the power surges are very capable of blowing out the circuitry of major appliances. Big ceramic kilns, for example.
It’s been the week of the meltdown. Unfortunately, no glazes were involved in the process. Only the potter was in a puddle on the floor.
I get frustrated when things don’t go my way. I get hurt and offended, as if the utility company and the kiln conspired in the playground to beat me up during recess.
I figured I had two choices. Get the kiln fixed, hope for the best, or buy a new (smaller, more transportable) kiln when I least need to be spending money on one. But in this part of the country, the possibility of finding an individual who repairs German industrial ceramic kilns is as likely as having a a really bad meal. It just ain’t gonna happen. The new (smaller, more transportable) kiln is on its way. From Germany. To sit proudly next to its sick, monstrous brother until mommy can figure out how to make it all better.
After all this, I could barely stand up straight. Italy had attacked me again. It had gone straight for the jugular this time. My creative artery. My kiln. My precious kiln that I had dragged with me out of my basement studio in Hamburg with the help of two Croatians, a tractor and a forklift and that had made it here in one piece only to be shoved by the builders from location to location until finally finding its home in my new studio. My cavernous kiln that had seen all of my early glazing nightmares and had produced my best pieces. My kiln that I had worried over, fretted about, woken up to check in the night and referenced in prayer more than once (please let that turquoise glaze stick to the bowl and not run all over the place. Please).
I cried in the shower for a long time. It was so long that my husband finally poked his head in and said, “Come on,it’s almost evening. It’s just a friggen’ oven. Let’s take the dog out for a walk.”
Walk? In my state? How unfeeling could he really be? Didn’t he understand the creative gut-kicking I had just taken? I dragged myself out of the shower, put on a cursory amount of red lipstick and foundation (all crying jags by women in their fifties need to be immediately followed by red lipstick and foundation), dressed in, well, I don’t remember and plopped myself down into the passenger’s seat of the car.
We drove to our friend Guido’s vineyard.
Max ran like a fool, rolled in the rows between the vines. We walked for miles. Micha put his arms around me. He gave me the list of benefits I would have with a smaller kiln. I’ll be able fire more often. Experiment more with glazes. The big kiln always meant that I had to work for at least four weeks to make enough things to fill it. Now I would be able to fire it after a couple of weeks of throwing and building and sculpting. Try new things without feeling guilty about wasting too much electricity. I’ll be able to fire more often during the season. Sell more. It’s a good thing that big oven finally blew, he laughed.
What a moment. What a day.
Sometimes here in Italy, I get exhausted from making lemonade out of lemons. I get sick of putting on a brave front and pushing forward. And then sometimes, I am reminded how good I have it. For all the things it forces me to do and to think through and to accept, Italy is the biggest single blasted lesson of my life.
I am holding on to my old, big kiln for now. Who knows. Maybe there’s a German kiln technician looking at my website right this instant, thinking about booking a vacation. Can you spell barter?
I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. That’s kind of how things work here.
When I was younger, everything that was wrong with the world seemed to fall on my shoulders. Maybe it’s the same way today, but for the most part, I just don’t see it, not everything. I’ve come to the edge of not caring so often, that I just look at stupid things happening as if saying “Really???” and then pass right through. Nothing ever seemed to go the way I want, and it was fine. Everything turned out not to be such a big deal.
There’s this clip from a television show where this person is too much in a relaxed state, so his coworkers try to get him angsty. He goes into the break room, turns on two blenders, and falls asleep.
There’s a peaceful melody underneath the song of war.
Jonathan, maybe some day I will be far along enough in my personal development to pass through something like a kiln blowing a motherboard after working on the eighty pots inside for over three months, but I ain’t there yet. But I’m trying.
Diana, I’m so sorry to hear about your kiln…I agree with Micha though that having a smaller kiln might actually work out for the best – the Universe works in mysterious ways…
I so understand that sometimes you’d like to flush the lemons down the toilet (and the juicer, and all the lemonade you’ve made so far…). So I believe in releasing a.k.a crying your eyes out, and then going for a long walk to find the stillness inside, and start again.
By the way, after a good cry you need foundation and lipstick at forty-one too
Ti abbraccio forte,
Cristina xx
Thanks, cara mia. What a long, strange trip it’s been. I’ve shaken it off as best I can and yeah, when I think back, there have been about a thousand moments in the last ten years when I thought, “I wish I had bought a smaller kiln” for all the reasons that Micha mentioned (his being able to reiterate the reasons back to me is living proof that he has heard them enough times out of my mouth). So now I am getting what I want, I suppose. Thanks for your soothing words. xoxo
Hello Diana,
I can totally relate to you, living here in Greece. I’m originally from Canada where things are much more organized and run smoothly compared to my adoptive country. It’s so easy to feel exasperated when everything just never seems to go according to plan and that seems to happen a lot these days. From public transportation strikes out of the blue to markets not bothering to open, it makes you wonder why we choose to live where we do. Obviously there are just as many pros as there are cons to living here and these days I try and take the buddhist approach of nothing is good or bad it just is….
Good luck on your journey.
Jessika
Jessika, thanks. I can imagine that the challenges in Greece, especially in the last year, are large. Of course there are huge pros. And cons. And pros. And cons.
The other night I had a dream that I was viewing the earth from out of space. I tried to remember what my earthly problems were and couldn’t in light of the fact that I could barely make out Italy on the globe at all. I took that as a sign to lighten up. But sometimes the crying jag is a prerequisite to doing just that.
thank you so much for stopping by and commenting.
Oh Diana — So sorry to hear about your kiln!!! I couldn’t think of anything salvageable about it — until I read Micha’s smart analysis. I know you will miss the dickens out of that big monster (until Gunther and Sissi arrive and repair it that is!!) but I do like the idea of your being able to fire more often. I know there will be a learning curve too while you figure out the new kiln’s quirks and preferences.
So sorry about this but glad the new kiln is already on its way.
But seriously why can’t Italy get some 21st-century power supply!??!!
((Big hug))
Kim, no kidding. Italy will start improving its infrastructure…on the twelfth of never. I almost spit out my coffee over Gunther and Sissi (my mind flew to the land of lederhosen and Romy Schneider for a brief second….). I hope they bring the toolkit.
I am sorry to hear about your kiln and am excited at the possibilities that await. With every end there is a new beginning – and how wonderful that you recognize the beauty of the place in which you are experiencing this… and with that beauty comes challenges a plenty!
Wonderful post though I am truly sorry to hear of your loss and hope that there is a doctor for the patient.
HA! Right now I plan to cover the patient with a big cloth and keep my back to it until I completely deal with the loss. I am hoping that it will be a case of Phoenix rising. One day she will burn again. When that happens I think I am going to name her Bertha.
That does suck about your kiln. So sorry. But I need to tell you that I love reading your blog because it’s real. I may have mentioned this before, but I would get so frustrated with my friends who wouldn’t “get” that LIVING in Tuscany (which I got a taste of for a year) is much different from VISITING in Tuscany. We aren’t all out under the Tuscan sun (which this time of the year is non-existent) eating spaghetti, and meeting pretty men named Marcello for crap’s sake, ladies. (And what IS that obsession with ‘men’ thing they have?) Try living here for a year! You adore it and it touches something in you that makes you miss the “material comforts” of home at the same time. Thank you for sharing the reality of Expat life with us from a place that’s real and sometimes raw – the way it needs to be. I haven’t made the full-time leap yet (that whole citizenship thing is such a hoot, you know) – but reading your words keep me grounded as I work through the process.
Valerie, yes, one of the base rules of life as a new expat is, ” don’t throw yourself off a bridge when you try to find similarities between your vacations here to life here and realize that there ARE NONE. ” There are other things, though. And those things are often worth exploring.
Thank you for another splendid post, and for laying down the truth (okay, the law) about what we women of a riper age must do after a crying jag. In my case, it’s the other way around. Foundation first, then the lipstick, unless I want to look like Dracula. That’s after crying, after waking up, after smiling too much, after being hot . . . You get the picture.
Thanks!!!
You know, you are absolutely right. It’s foundation then lipstick. The other way around is way too scary.
Oh, I so get the picture.
So sorry that your kiln has died, but I am pleased that you have such a supportive understanding partner. Keep smiling.
I know, Sue. Micha’s the best.
My God! I can so relate to your feelings about Italy. I have the same in Spain (which I imagine isn’t much different.) I have also had my share of hissy fits. But I’ve learnt (or am learning) that it is because Spain is so laid-back that attracted me here in the first place. When I lived in London I had my share of problems too, just different (and without the sun!)
I know, Vanessa. There are pros and cons with every location – the expat’s saving grace and biggest dilemma. Italy brings out really strong reactions in me, whereas when I lived in Germany, things were less emotionally charged. Pros and cons.
Hi Diana,
I’m so glad you shifted from puddle on the floor to some lippy and a bit of foundation – heart-lifting! Enjoyed reading this and know that good will come of it. I found it hard not having a workshop at all whilst it was undergoing its recent transformation, but your experience was harder to cope with. How exciting, a new kiln on its way to you. Have a lovely weekend, Gee x
Gee. I can relate to that. I was without a studio from the middle of 2003 to late 2005. I remember that frustration as well. I will be happy when the new oven is here and I can get back to it. Nothing like lippy and foundation. And there are huge benefits to throwing the old shoulders back and keeping the chin up. xoxo
Big smile! Big smile! I’m actually throwing my shoulders back as I type! xo
I love Micha
Looking forward to lots more creations from you now that you can fire more often!
I know. Me too.
I am looking to a whole new world of creativity opening up for me now.
HAPPY WORLD NUTELLA DAY!!!!!!
Oh my goodness. For me, and please correct me if I’m wrong, this was an explosion of more than a kiln. You know when you get up in the morning and you bang your toe and the next second you bang your head and before you know it, you’re a heap of tears on the floor, sobbing for every reason that has built up inside you for weeks, perhaps years. It all comes out in a toe. Or a kiln. Or both. Anyway – it all comes out. (Thankyouverymuch Universe) It always does. Change – again with the change. Change from a big kiln to a small kiln. Heartbreaking at first and perhaps relieving in the end. Perhaps not – but at least you gave it your best. You are a damn strong woman and I know you and your lipstick with get through this change, as you’ve gotten through all the other changes that has left you to bang your toe. You know – somethimes I really, honestly do think the Universe bangs it for us. And for what? Well – that bloody change. Or than new kiln. I don’t know. But know I am praying for a German to knock on our door.
Turid, I can only say this about that : you get it, dude. You totally get it.
This is a lovely post and, having struggled with my blog (WordPress – can’t work it) to get a couple of miserable lines and a few pics together, you’ve inspired me to wax lyrical and give it a MUCH better shot.
Barbara, self hosted WordPress took me a few very focused weeks to figure out. It was really worth it. You have SO many wonderful things to offer. Time to totally wax lyrical!!! Go for it.
Hello my bella Diana,
You did it again: you so perfectly and honestly described a typical situation where we are full of conflict as we go from Despair to Hope. Italy is too often a battlefield where only the most courageous soldiers survive! But how tiring those battles can be, my friend.
I love your writing!
Mary, do you mean to tell me there is not just a day when it all falls into place and life in Italy is going to turn into one of those expat novels where I get to eat figs soaked in sweet wine all day while giving myself a facial with my neighbor’s honey that I removed myself from the hive because Italian bees are so friendly and nice?
I need a xanax.
tee hee.
So sorry to hear about your kiln.
But like Micha said, a smaller one might be a better in the long run. Lemonade out of lemons indeed.
I thought Italy reversed its nuclear energy ban last year? Not sure how soon the plants will be up and running.
Remember this song, Arlene? I’m giving it some new lyrics:
In the year 5510
if nuclear power’s coming to Italy, it oughta make it by then….
The best part of this post is the red lipstick and foundation–it’s all priorities, at this age, girlfriend! Oh and congratulations on the new kiln!
http://www.middle-aged-diva.blogspot.com
grazie, mia amica! I don’t know why but this comment landed in my spam! I just found it now….
So sorry about your kiln, Diana, but I admire your attitude!
Francesca, I have a question. Can we have coffee?
Thanks,
I needed that today.
Prego, Rebecca!
What a beautiful picture. On a completely different note, I think that you live relatively near Maglione (in the Vercellese, right near the border with the Turin province). Have you ever made a day trip there? I think you would love it; it is a tiny town and every year they invite artists to create public art. There are murals and sculptures throughout the town. Here are some pictures from when I visited last spring; http://chopsticksandspaghetti.blogspot.com/2010/04/walk-to-maglione.html
That looks just lovely. It’s about 2 hours from me. I love the implied humor – so creative!
Maybe an hour and a half.
Cheer up Diana, it could be worse. You could be here in China. Same aggravation and none of the payoffs! So sorry about your kiln. It would be like being without my easel.
I am betting a good glass of wine can help things look better though.
Oh, I’m fine. Now I am going through my glaze textbooks finding all the interesting glaze tests I can make since I’ll be able to fire more often. Good wine helps everything. Life is good.
Loved this story…had no idea Italy didn’t have nuclear power. I don’t know, Micha’s convinced me you need a smaller kiln! I’d love to see more of your art.
Elle, He’s convinced me too. I think it will be a positive thing, the new baby.
Dear Diana-oh my! I can only imagine how hard it was for you to have to accept the loss of your kiln. I love Micah’s thoughts and determination to make you feel better. You are a survivor and will make the best out of having a new, smaller kiln!
Thanks, Janie. I’ll be really focused as soon as it arrives. It will take the sting out of the loss.
Sorry to hear about your kiln, Diana, but happy to hear there’s a smaller one on the way, and you can get back to your pottery.
The food in Italy sounds wonderful, your post made me hungry!
Dave, I think I will be highly motivated when it arrives. Oh, Italy? Food? OMG. It staggers the imagination. Every region is different, special, beautiful, tasty. The food and the wine make the less “refined” parts of living here more palatable. For sure.
No two ways about it, losing your kiln is a huge blow, and I’m sorry for your loss…..
Thanks, Sandra. That felt like a hug.
Love the photo. Sorry for the difficulties. Thanks for sharing.
prego. Happy you like the photography. It’s a beautiful part of the world.
Sorry you lost your kiln. Must have been a heart break moment Diana. So glad you have a wonderful home and family. HUGS!
Oh, Deeba, so lovely to see you here. Thank you my dear. I have so much to be very happy about. A kiln… can always be replaced.
much love.
I know of few people who could experience such a disruption to their soul – because our creative heart resides there and not in the brain – and still rocess it enough to write both a lyrical and amusing tale.
Perhaps Micha is right and this will stimulate a new burst of creative energy and move your art in a different direction. I have found that my most exciting developments come out of crushing disasters . . . here’s hoping for you . . .
Jerry, you are wonderful.. Thank you for this. I am hoping for the creative burst as well. I know I’ll be able to see results more quickly, which is always motivational. Can’t wait to see you guys!!
Jerry put it so well. That’s the amazing Ms Baur for you!
awwww (blush).
I’ve had things happen so many times where I thought “this is the absolute worst thing that could happen” only to find out later (sometimes a LOT later) that it was actually the best thing to happen because it pushed me out of my little comfort zone of safety and forced me to see what I’d been missing.
Hope the same is true for you and the smaller kiln opens new opportunities until Gunther and Sissi come to fix the big one
Isn’t that the truth. Completely, completely agree. Thank you, and I will send everyone’s regards when G and S finally do get here. What is taking them so long???
So weird. I am Italian and decided to go and live abroad, because.. You know all the whys, don’t you? sometimes it is just too difficult to cope with the perpetual struggles Italy requires. But all this fighting makes you a stronger, braver and more creative person, as I have discovered when I moved away. I miss my country and I hate it and I miss it. I don’t get very emotional with ‘Italian style’ difficulties, while German rigidity easily brings me to tears. It’s what you grew up with, I guess.
Thanks for sharing this, it was such an interesting insight in a complementary point of view. And so sorry for your kiln.
Thank you, Rosa. Lovely to hear from you. I did nine years in Hamburg before coming to Italy. German rigidity? Just please remember, you are not allowed to eat a white asparagus after June 24th. I am not exactly sure what happens if you do this, but the risk would be too great, so no one tries. Death by Spargel I suppose.
Once, in desperate need of getting out of Italy, we drove to Freiburg to get a “Germany” fix – a little bit of order and being around people who knew how to act in a traffic circle, etc. So we get to a small town outside of Freiburg, and park the car just to see if we can read the map and see where we need to go. It took about, oh, fifteen seconds. A woman, YOUNGER and HIPPER than me, comes running out of her apartment yelling “HIER KOENNEN SIE ABER NICHT ANHALTEN!!” You can’t park here!!! Micha looked at me – after 7 hours on the road – and said, I wanna go back to Italy….
The irony of expat life.
It really sucks about the kiln, I’m sorry. But reading this, “Sometimes here in Italy, I get exhausted from making lemonade out of lemons. I get sick of putting on a brave front and pushing forward. And then sometimes, I am reminded how good I have it. For all the things it forces me to do and to think through and to accept, Italy is the biggest single blasted lesson of my life.” …it made my heart explode even louder.
I admire your attitude–it’s a huge lesson for all of us, expats and not.
Ciao Diana,
This is similar to my experience. I lost my job because I was off sick two weeks last month. But instead of crying foul, I was glad that it happened that way. It could have been worse. I could have been sacked because of delinquency or insubordination but I was a good worker. Moreover, I rejoiced because now I’ve got the opportunity to do what I really love–working online and learning web design.
Well, it’s also different in a way that your big kiln has a great sentimental value to you. I was getting burnt out at work and that was why I got sick and was on the brink of depression.
Diana,
I have enjoyed reading this post and all the comments. It gives me an appreciation and a different perspective on living abroad. I have Italian ancestory and hope to visit one day. My husband can fix most anything, I wonder if he could fix a kiln?
Not dealing with clay and pottery, I cannot understand completely how you felt, but once I realized that 3 months worth of work was in there and possibly ruined, it made me think of what it would be like if, as a writer, my trusty laptop died with everything I had worked on locked away inside. Then I understood a little better.
Miche is a smart man!
Blessings!
Bernice
I’m sorry about your kiln!
But I love your description in your opening paragraph! What a talent. I wish I could write like that. Perhaps I should move to Italy too … I don’t feel quite so inspired by the old mill town in Yorkshire where I live! The coffee is the powdered instant variety, the bars serve pints of lager rather than Vermouth, the ravioli comes in tins and rather than onions frying in olive oil, it’s chips in lard!
Hi there Diana
i read your whole blog… delicious writing! so inspiring – all of it!
about the kiln. dont chuck it. my husband has fixed a few when we lived is South Africa. my father comes from Piemonte – Giaveno/Avigliana. We now live in the Molise. but if we are ever up that way, and your kiln is still kaput, we will def pop in and he (Freddie) can take a look at it.
thank you for taking the time to translate your days into written words.
ciao!
laura