Yesterday President Obama repealed Don't Ask Don't Tell. This is one of those issues where location makes a difference. Before I became an Army wife I believed that gays and lesbians suffered tragically under DADT, but when I came here and began spending my days on an American military installation I realized that those living with DADT, didn't share my fervor. If they did, they couldn't tell me and I couldn't ask.
I was eager to find new gay boyfriends. I had so many in New York; my life was missing their special sparkle. Those who know me well, know that although the law stated I could not ask, I asked.
One night at a house party a few weeks into my arrival in Vicenza my gaydar went off. I sauntered over to the source and struck up a conversation. He was petite, smart and funny, but not well dressed. A new import to Italy, he had trouble finding affordable clothing in his size. I shared a few secrets of my own. Then he said it. He looked deep into my eyes as he said it, but there was very little emotion. The words that ruined my champagne buzz, "I am not going to risk my career to bond with you."
Over dinner the other night, one of my friends compared Don't Ask Don't Tell (DADT) to segregation and the prohibition of women in the military. She said the idea of black, whites and women serving together in the military seemed impossible, but now it happens all the time. She hopes it will be the same for gays and lesbians in the military. "Someday," she said, "We will look back at this moment and wonder what all the fuss was about."
Sharing the details about your partner, crush, your most recent one night stand or whatever, are the stuff of long lasting friendships. DADT made this bonding experience impossible. Although my new friend trusted me, he would not risk sharing the details of his most intimate/interesting relationships with me because coming out to me would put his career in jeopardy.
I am looking forward to seeing the changes the new law will bring. I cannot wait for gay nights at the bowling alley and the Pride Parade in June on post. For now my dreams remain the punchlines of jokes.
Veterans of military life tell me change happens slowly in the military. I remind them that June is just enough time to plan a fanciful parade to celebrate Pride in the armed forces.
Happy Pride y'all! Happy Pride.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Natural Italian drama
I had my first fried turkey last night. It was better than everyone says it is, but the evening was not devoid of the natural Italian drama.
Erica, one of Ryan's co-workers, hosted dinner at her house in a small town just outside of Vicenza where she is the only American. I have met quite a few Americans here who choose to live in small towns outside of the city center where they are the only Americans for miles around. I don't get the appeal. I'm more of a city girl. Hustle and bustle course through my veins.
We were met with unusually heavy traffic on our way to Erica's small town. Unusual for two reasons: Thanksgiving is not an Italian holiday and it was 15:00 (3:00pm). Most Italians were at work. Eventually we came to the source of the traffic: Erica's town was having a HUGE fest. Fests happen in towns all across Europe to celebrate saints and other holidays. Town residents parade the interiors of the town's grandest church, drink wine and socialize in the street. Most of fests happen with very little notice. The ride that was supposed to take 20 minutes took almost an hour including the winding detour through the hills. At least one native was not prepared for the altitude. He pulled over to the side of the road to vomit.
Erica lives in a lovely house in a quaint cul de sac in a small valley on the side of the hills. The first turkey had been frying for 10 minutes when we got there. The fryer uses 5 gallons of oil and cooks a 12 pound turkey in 40 minutes. Erica informed us that she had injected jalapeno butter strategically throughout the bird. How interesting!
We stood around the fryer staring at the plume of fragrant steam rushing out. Curious Italians drove into the dead end street presumably to see what the crazy Americans were up to. Before long the police paid us a friendly visit. They skillfully played good cop/bad cop. Bad Cop boldly announced that we could not cook on the sidewalk. "The side walk belongs to the town not, you. If you want to do this you must do it on your property. Who's property is this?" He threw the question out to all of us. I quickly surmised that no one understood Italian from the blank stares. I translated. Erica said it was her house and Bad Cop asked for documents to prove that she indeed lived there. Meanwhile the jalapeno butter infused turkey fried away furiously in the fryer. Good Cop moved closer to catch a wiff. "But," he said tentatively, "What is it?", complete with the famous Italian hand gesture, the jutting out jaw and downturned smile. We all dramatically whispered, "It's turkey..fried turkey." Good Cop stepped back carefully as if the turkey were still alive in the fryer and might try to make a break for it.
By this this time Erica had successfully charmed Bad Cop and they returned to the turkey circle on the sidewalk all smiles. Bad Cop admitted to just needing to know what we were doing. Good Cop stared distrustingly at the fryer before telling us to have fun and driving off.
Erica, one of Ryan's co-workers, hosted dinner at her house in a small town just outside of Vicenza where she is the only American. I have met quite a few Americans here who choose to live in small towns outside of the city center where they are the only Americans for miles around. I don't get the appeal. I'm more of a city girl. Hustle and bustle course through my veins.
We were met with unusually heavy traffic on our way to Erica's small town. Unusual for two reasons: Thanksgiving is not an Italian holiday and it was 15:00 (3:00pm). Most Italians were at work. Eventually we came to the source of the traffic: Erica's town was having a HUGE fest. Fests happen in towns all across Europe to celebrate saints and other holidays. Town residents parade the interiors of the town's grandest church, drink wine and socialize in the street. Most of fests happen with very little notice. The ride that was supposed to take 20 minutes took almost an hour including the winding detour through the hills. At least one native was not prepared for the altitude. He pulled over to the side of the road to vomit.
Erica lives in a lovely house in a quaint cul de sac in a small valley on the side of the hills. The first turkey had been frying for 10 minutes when we got there. The fryer uses 5 gallons of oil and cooks a 12 pound turkey in 40 minutes. Erica informed us that she had injected jalapeno butter strategically throughout the bird. How interesting!
We stood around the fryer staring at the plume of fragrant steam rushing out. Curious Italians drove into the dead end street presumably to see what the crazy Americans were up to. Before long the police paid us a friendly visit. They skillfully played good cop/bad cop. Bad Cop boldly announced that we could not cook on the sidewalk. "The side walk belongs to the town not, you. If you want to do this you must do it on your property. Who's property is this?" He threw the question out to all of us. I quickly surmised that no one understood Italian from the blank stares. I translated. Erica said it was her house and Bad Cop asked for documents to prove that she indeed lived there. Meanwhile the jalapeno butter infused turkey fried away furiously in the fryer. Good Cop moved closer to catch a wiff. "But," he said tentatively, "What is it?", complete with the famous Italian hand gesture, the jutting out jaw and downturned smile. We all dramatically whispered, "It's turkey..fried turkey." Good Cop stepped back carefully as if the turkey were still alive in the fryer and might try to make a break for it.
By this this time Erica had successfully charmed Bad Cop and they returned to the turkey circle on the sidewalk all smiles. Bad Cop admitted to just needing to know what we were doing. Good Cop stared distrustingly at the fryer before telling us to have fun and driving off.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Soldiers are fascinating
When my parents got married my father wore his Army uniform to the wedding. He volunteered to serve his adopted country. It was the early 1970s and the war in Vietnam was sending young men back injured or worse. My mom thought he was crazy for volunteering to join while others ran for the border to avoid the draft. He did not make a career out of it. As it turns out, the Army was not for him. He went to Vietnam and later Korea before satisfying his commitment and returning to the US.
Because of my Dad's experience or perhaps in spite of it, I held on to a latent fascination with the armed forces, and the need to serve one's country. Army brats seemed to have mysterious backgrounds that they never wanted to talk about with any detail. As if the whole thing was too painfully tedious to relive.
It is to my utter surprise that I work on an Army base and live with a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF). I found a pair of Ryan's black, cotton, tattered, athletic shorts a few weeks ago. I suggested he throw them out. He stared at the shorts and then at me, and then at the shorts again, "Those are my Operation Enduring Freedom shorts." Yep, the Army is a BIG part of my life.
Soldiers are fascinating, especially the guys that are here. They are recently returned from year-long deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan risking their lives for their country. Most of them are young guys in their early to mid-20s (yes,many of them are single.) They each have a story about why they chose the Army. Some did not have better options, others are following the family tradition. My days are filled with talking to them or about them. Now that they are back from the front line how will they cope? Many of them are thrill seekers looking for the next adrenaline rush, others want nothing more than to play the latest simulated war game on their brand new XBOX.
The life of a soldier is foreign to me. I'm a former corporate suit. I didn't wear a suit everyday, but had the the occasion to at least a few times a week. I don't know anything about daily PT (physical training so intense that it doesn't end until someone vomits), pulling guard duty (somebody has to keep an eye on things) or getting jump pay (extra pay for jumping out of planes). It's an entirely new world for me and these young men and women have so many stories to tell about why they joined. I look forward to getting to know them better.
Because of my Dad's experience or perhaps in spite of it, I held on to a latent fascination with the armed forces, and the need to serve one's country. Army brats seemed to have mysterious backgrounds that they never wanted to talk about with any detail. As if the whole thing was too painfully tedious to relive.
It is to my utter surprise that I work on an Army base and live with a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF). I found a pair of Ryan's black, cotton, tattered, athletic shorts a few weeks ago. I suggested he throw them out. He stared at the shorts and then at me, and then at the shorts again, "Those are my Operation Enduring Freedom shorts." Yep, the Army is a BIG part of my life.
Soldiers are fascinating, especially the guys that are here. They are recently returned from year-long deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan risking their lives for their country. Most of them are young guys in their early to mid-20s (yes,many of them are single.) They each have a story about why they chose the Army. Some did not have better options, others are following the family tradition. My days are filled with talking to them or about them. Now that they are back from the front line how will they cope? Many of them are thrill seekers looking for the next adrenaline rush, others want nothing more than to play the latest simulated war game on their brand new XBOX.
The life of a soldier is foreign to me. I'm a former corporate suit. I didn't wear a suit everyday, but had the the occasion to at least a few times a week. I don't know anything about daily PT (physical training so intense that it doesn't end until someone vomits), pulling guard duty (somebody has to keep an eye on things) or getting jump pay (extra pay for jumping out of planes). It's an entirely new world for me and these young men and women have so many stories to tell about why they joined. I look forward to getting to know them better.
Monday, November 15, 2010
On clear day you can see forever
I'm doing a good job of not wasting anytime while I'm here. Sunday I went for a bike ride at Lake Fimone. It was supposed to be a run, but for reasons I'd prefer not to address here, my best friend and I decided to drive to the lake and ride our bikes instead. She described Lake Fimone as one of her favorite places in Italy. I always pick Rome when I am asked to chose. Nonetheless the lake was beautiful, and the terrain rugged and muddy.
There was anti-American graffiti scrawled over the parts of the road that were paved. A minority of the Italians are still unhappy with America and consequently her citizens. We rode over their lame requests for us to go home and spent a great day on our bikes at the lake. Exhausted from our ride we had lunch at the newest McDonald's in Vicenza. I don't know what they do to the meat here, but it tastes especially delicious. We made it an early night because the bus to Slovenia was scheduled to leave at 6:45am.
The tour bus left the sleepy Army base right on schedule, and in three hours we crossed the very plain Slovenian border without passport checks or stopping. There was no difference at first, but gradually the buildings came into view. Most of them were unfinished. As we made our way up the winding road to the Santomas winery I saw more persimmon trees than I have ever seen. The trees were heavy with their fiery orange fruits. They were everywhere. The guy sitting behind me began to describe the various ways the fruit is used in China. Persimmon is a good omen in China.
After the Santomas winery we had second tasting at a wine bar on the shore of the Adriatic sea. It was a cloudy day, well equipped with dense fog, but you got the feeling that on a clear day you could see forever. My Brazilian friends are going to kill me for saying this, but it was reminiscent of Rio, in weird Eastern European way. I wish I could say the wines I tried rivaled their Italian cousins'.
When it was finally time for lunch. We ended up at a Mexican restaurant with the best Mexican food I have had since I left the States. The margaritas took forever, but they well worth the wait. Salted to perfection and smooth on the pallet. The Slovenian tequila must be the key:)
There was anti-American graffiti scrawled over the parts of the road that were paved. A minority of the Italians are still unhappy with America and consequently her citizens. We rode over their lame requests for us to go home and spent a great day on our bikes at the lake. Exhausted from our ride we had lunch at the newest McDonald's in Vicenza. I don't know what they do to the meat here, but it tastes especially delicious. We made it an early night because the bus to Slovenia was scheduled to leave at 6:45am.
The tour bus left the sleepy Army base right on schedule, and in three hours we crossed the very plain Slovenian border without passport checks or stopping. There was no difference at first, but gradually the buildings came into view. Most of them were unfinished. As we made our way up the winding road to the Santomas winery I saw more persimmon trees than I have ever seen. The trees were heavy with their fiery orange fruits. They were everywhere. The guy sitting behind me began to describe the various ways the fruit is used in China. Persimmon is a good omen in China.
After the Santomas winery we had second tasting at a wine bar on the shore of the Adriatic sea. It was a cloudy day, well equipped with dense fog, but you got the feeling that on a clear day you could see forever. My Brazilian friends are going to kill me for saying this, but it was reminiscent of Rio, in weird Eastern European way. I wish I could say the wines I tried rivaled their Italian cousins'.
When it was finally time for lunch. We ended up at a Mexican restaurant with the best Mexican food I have had since I left the States. The margaritas took forever, but they well worth the wait. Salted to perfection and smooth on the pallet. The Slovenian tequila must be the key:)
Friday, November 5, 2010
Uncomfortable movies about genocide
My husband does important work that makes a difference in the world. He educates others about ongoing conflicts in Africa. I don't know for sure why or how he came to have the drive to do this work, but nights like these when he watches movies about Darfur that make me want to cry out loud and hard for along time I remember that this knowledge will make him work harder at his job. He's a man who cares about what's going in a place that does not affect his everyday life, and yet he cares. I marvel at the fact that he can sit through a movie about the genocide in Darfur, but I'm so proud that he can because he won't just turn the channel or shrug his shoulders when the topic of Africa comes up.
He sat through Darfur, a movie that depicted the horrific atrocities happening in a world far away from our secure home in Vicenza. I wanted to watch Vanilla Sky for the tenth time. He had other plans for how to end a day that began with his final exam and my second look at an orientation for soldiers returning from Afghanistan and Iraq, affectionately known as downrange.
When I say this is a whole new world for me I mean it. Everything is different. From the people I love to the reasons I love them. It's all different. I love my husband for many reasons, but most of all him for his unlimited compassion, and his humanity. Both inspire me.
I lived a blessed life far removed from the wretchedness of Darfur and loved by a man who cares for those so much less fortunate than us.
He sat through Darfur, a movie that depicted the horrific atrocities happening in a world far away from our secure home in Vicenza. I wanted to watch Vanilla Sky for the tenth time. He had other plans for how to end a day that began with his final exam and my second look at an orientation for soldiers returning from Afghanistan and Iraq, affectionately known as downrange.
When I say this is a whole new world for me I mean it. Everything is different. From the people I love to the reasons I love them. It's all different. I love my husband for many reasons, but most of all him for his unlimited compassion, and his humanity. Both inspire me.
I lived a blessed life far removed from the wretchedness of Darfur and loved by a man who cares for those so much less fortunate than us.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
L'Acqua alta
Just back from a walk to investigate the flooding and the rumors of flooding. At first there was nothing out of the ordinary, but as we progressed to the main bridge we saw a tent set up for a base camp as the fire department command station. Several fire fighters, dressed in scuba gear, were loading an inflatable boat into a truck. As an aside, does anyone else see the irony of the firefighters in scuba suits? I digress, at the end of the road there was a very serious looking blockade. We couldn't even get close enough to see how high the river was.
As we gathered our thoughts on what to do next, go home and bake bread with the homemade yeast Ryan made (Actually it kind of made itself.) or look for a custard filled donut for me to eat were a few of the ideas we tossed around when the rain started again.
The base is scheduled to be open tomorrow, but who knows if that will happen considering the persistent downpour.
The great flood of 2010
My first entry on my blog. I know it’s long overdue, and since the HuffPo didn’t publish my posts I decided to regroup and start anew here. Although we are still recovering from our raging Halloween party, the follow up is already underway. With so much leftover wine and assorted liquors, including tequila and whiskey, throwing another party is the only way we can avert the inevitable guilt induced need to drink it all ourselves. I guess we could also open a bar but, that’s a little more complicated than throwing another party.
It’s been raining here for six days. Heavy clouds have loomed over Vicenza in a strict holding pattern since Thursday. Schools and businesses closed early yesterday and all day today. Many of the bridges and the main highway have all been flooded. I checked the weather forecast and it looks like rain for the next few days as well.
From my days in Rome I can tell you the Italians don’t do well with rain. A little rain can shut an Italian city down the way a snow storm can cause havoc in NYC. A lot of rain, the likes of which we have here now, is a near catastrophe. Somehow we’ll wade through all the water and make the best of it.
It’s been raining here for six days. Heavy clouds have loomed over Vicenza in a strict holding pattern since Thursday. Schools and businesses closed early yesterday and all day today. Many of the bridges and the main highway have all been flooded. I checked the weather forecast and it looks like rain for the next few days as well.
From my days in Rome I can tell you the Italians don’t do well with rain. A little rain can shut an Italian city down the way a snow storm can cause havoc in NYC. A lot of rain, the likes of which we have here now, is a near catastrophe. Somehow we’ll wade through all the water and make the best of it.
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