<![CDATA[ - BLOG]]>

<![CDATA[ - BLOG]]>Thu, 30 Nov 2023 01:53:59 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[Sixties Music and Today]]>Sun, 10 Nov 2019 04:18:30 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/sixties-music-and-today

We were discussing music in my sixties class—yes, students earn English credit for listening to music, watching films, and reading fiction from the sixties. Far out. They also have to write about what they watch and read, of course.

Most of the students at the community college where I teach are young adults. But one man in this class is, well, more seasoned. He made a disparaging remark about today’s music and asserted that music from the sixties was more authentic.

Another student seemed rankled and raised her hand. She was tired of such comparisons and defended the quality of some of today’s music.

We talked about the reliance on auto-tune by some bands and the many tools that allow even a non-musician to create “music.” We talked about how some music today seems produced by a machine.

The young woman was undeterred and argued that plenty of music today didn’t match the perceptions of listeners from older generations.

I asked her to give me the name of one band that I probably would NOT like. I told her I would listen with an open mind. The rest of the class quickly joined in, offering other band names. They were giving me homework. And they were enjoying it.

So I did it. I did my homework. I listened. I listened to Ween and AJR and NF and Wallows. I’m listening to Wallows right now as I type this. All damn, good stuff. Great stuff. I liked some bands more than others, but all of them had an urgency and energy that pulled me in. And the subject matter of the songs ranged from romance to drug abuse to friendship, many of the lyrics sophisticated and crafted. When the class meets next, I will ask for more names!

When I first heard the remark about sixties music being more authentic, I found myself nodding. The sentiment rang true for me. But mainly for selfish reasons. We all like to believe that the music from our own generation is the best.

To be more specific, when I find myself discrediting today’s music, there’s a particular sound I’m referring to: anything with a pulsating, jet engine bass; or songs that seem designed simply for dancing (nothing wrong with this when it’s time to dance, but I’m not listening to dance music in the car or on headphones); or songs that seem intended for the sole purpose of selling albums (or downloads?). But as I learned today, there’s a much broader world out there, filled with riches and textures I hadn’t imagined.

I’ve always believed that teaching keeps you young. As I bob to the beat from my headphones right now, I’m grinning at this truth. And grateful.

]]><![CDATA[Review: Ann Patchett's DUTCH HOUSE]]>Fri, 27 Sep 2019 01:06:20 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/review-ann-patchetts-dutch-house

Here's a review I wrote for New York Journal of Books: NYJB.

When we revisit the places of our childhood, they invariably seem smaller than we remember. Partly because we were small and the world large. But also because our imaginations expand those old places. Reality can’t live up to our imaginations.

Danny Conroy, the narrator of Ann Patchett’s lovely new novel, The Dutch House, provides the perfect vehicle for illuminating these tricks of memory. His dad distant, his mom gone, Danny has little sense of his personal history. He doesn’t even know that the two caretakers he’s known all his life are sisters. He must rely on his older sister, Maeve, who looks after him, to fill him in on family history, to teach him about the stately place in which they were raised, the Dutch House.

Even with his sister’s nurturance, he’s never quite sure where he belongs, made plain by this exquisite passage: “There are a few times in life when you leap up and the past that you’d been standing on falls away behind you, and the future you mean to land on is not yet in place, and for a moment you’re suspended, knowing nothing and no one, not even yourself.”

In fact, Patchett flashes back and forward throughout the book, mirroring Danny’s feelings of suspension, which is an effective and brilliant device. And as the years pass, past, present, and future come together for each of these characters through their connection to the Dutch House. They are defined, for good or ill, by their relationship to the house. Even after they’ve moved away, the old haunt continues to anchor them. But no two characters view the house in quite the same way, which is unquestionably grand. But is it beautiful? Gaudy? Pretentious? Is it home?

By the end, as with all good novels, we don’t view the Dutch house in quite the same way because the characters don’t view the house the same, which is both heartbreaking and satisfying.

All these rich ideas require a vibrant voice, and Danny’s resonates. While sitting in school one day, someone knocks to summon him. He thinks, “No one comes into the middle of geometry and tells you to get your things because you’re going to be a starter at the next basketball game.” His response—wry, resigned, bemused, sad—precisely captures what it feels like to live a life.

In the car with his sister, Danny tells us, “The snow came steady and soft as the last light of day was folded into the clouds…She smiled at me then, cranking the window down just far enough to let in a shelf of arctic air.”

This finely textured novel is made up of many such small, intimate moments, yet the effect is sweeping, grand, and lavish—and all deeply moving.

]]><![CDATA[REVIEW: THE PARADE by DAVE EGGERS]]>Wed, 27 Mar 2019 03:51:03 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/review-the-parade-by-dave-eggers

I've been reviewing books for New York Journal of Books. Here's a recent review. And here's the link to NYJB, a great source for reviews.

On the cover of Dave Eggers’ suspenseful new novel, The Parade, the letters of the title ascend a newly paved road, striped down the middle with two solid yellow lines. Who hasn’t relished the cushiony expanse of a smooth road after enduring miles of under-construction rumbling? Imagine your satisfaction if you lived in a war-torn country, where the previous trail is so roughshod that you don’t have access to doctors or medicine or goods to buy or sell. The urgent push to pave such an essential road, to unify north and south, in some unnamed country, makes up the central plot here.

Why the urgency? A government-sponsored parade is scheduled upon the road’s completion. Obstacles ensue, of course. Life and death sometimes hang in the balance. Yet as we turn pages, we’re compelled more by that deadline—by a road project!—which is testament to Eggers’ expert skill at point of view.

Four, the experienced man in charge of the project, is single-minded in his drive to finish on time; thus, so are we. His free-spirited assistant, Nine, connects with everyone he meets, disappears on adventures, and lives in the moment, qualities that might otherwise evoke admiration and sympathy. But since Four views Nine as a nuisance and dangerously irresponsible, so do we.

Yes, the characters are named Four and Nine. For security reasons. A man they meet on the road is named Medallion. Because that’s what he wears. His cousin is named Cousin. Moreover, as mentioned, the country is never named, the war is never identified. Plans for the parade are never quite described. Is this a real parade? Or are we in Shirley Jackson’s “Lottery” territory? Because of these literary conventions, the labels allegory or fable might spring to mind, but those labels come with so much baggage. Resist that.

Instead, lose yourself in the sensory precision of this world, as offbeat Nine might advise, which is ironic, since every passage is rendered through Four’s eyes: “The night was quiet and soaked in black. There was no electrical grid in the region, so the nights were unsullied by human striving. Four looked up to the moonless sky, only a shard of starry space visible through the cloudcover.”

The Parade is a deeply felt book that defies easy labels. This is a book you can finish in a single sitting. And you will.

]]><![CDATA[Song About My Old Man]]>Fri, 15 Feb 2019 22:20:30 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/song-about-my-old-manAbout a year and a half ago, I was driving around, listening to the radio, and decided that I'd go home and write a song. I'd never written a song before. I didn't think I could. But I went home and wrote a song. Which wasn't very good. But then I wrote another one. And then another. And now I can't stop.

Here's a song I wrote about my dad, who I still dearly miss. CLICK HERE!

]]><![CDATA[Review: Virgil Wander]]>Fri, 12 Oct 2018 02:00:38 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/review-virgil-wander

I’ve been reviewing books for the New York Journal of Books, a good source for book recommendations. This review originally appeared there.

Suffering from vague cognitive deficits after his car plunges into Lake Superior, Virgil Wander must navigate the world anew. He hobbles around Greenstone, Minnesota, both as an innocent and a reluctant sage, part child and part ghost, prone to deep emotion over the simplest acts of kindness. This effective setup, in Leif Enger’s wonder of a novel, Virgil Wander, affords us a front row seat to Virgil’s discoveries. He’s only a step ahead of us—at least that’s the illusion.

After his accident, his own home feels unfamiliar: “For more than twenty years I’d felt at home, in my home. Now I stood weirdly slack in the middle of my kitchen. Everything was off.” In his quest to ground himself, he continues to work at city hall. He maintains friendships and forms new connections with townspeople, some of them taking on mythic proportions. As owner of Empress Theater, with its secret stash of classic films, he renovates the place and brings people together.

While these efforts can be a struggle, they offer ample rewards since Virgil is stolidly open in mind and heart. His new dear friend, Rune, teaches him the joy of making and flying kites. “The kite clattered and roamed about. Rune experienced sudden forgetfulness and expectation, a sense of things widening.” In fact, flying a kite creates a “current of solidarity, expectancy, a knock-wood perception of something bound to happen.”

Even ten-year-old Galen, in hot pursuit of an enormous, fabled sturgeon, leads Virgil to this quiet insight: “I wondered then and still do what giants we miss from not looking.”

Roadblocks arise, of course. Not everyone is nurturing. These roadblocks present some of the most satisfying moments in the novel, as Virgil intuits dark undercurrents in others. While greed or conceit may have rankled the old Virgil, the new Virgil becomes curious and inquisitive and even encouraging. When handyman Jerry tries to swindle tools from him, Virgil, having faced death, plays along and prods more greed in a most amusing exchange.

The roadblocks are often literal, as numerous people in Virgil’s orbit end up in car or train or plane crashes. When sweet Nadine gives her son, Bjorn, a beater with over 200,000 miles for his eighteenth birthday, this arouses a tension in the reader that doesn’t match the sweet intent of the gift. Don’t get behind that wheel, we want to shout.

Mostly, though, this lovely novel feels homespun and familiar. You might be reminded of Richard Russo’s small towns in upper New York and Russo’s brand of flawed characters. You might think of Roland Merullo and the wisdom of his mystic sages. Or the film, Cinema Paradiso, which basks in the love of handling celluloid.

In the end, Virgil’s quest for wholeness, for belongingness, requires a town effort. A village, if you will. We’re connected in ways we can’t begin to fathom. As Virgil learns, “Your tribe is always bigger than you think.”

]]><![CDATA[Review: Tana French]]>Sat, 18 Aug 2018 17:07:38 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/review-tana-french

I’ve been meaning to write something about Tana French for a while, but I’ve been too busy devouring one book of hers after another. Her novels are difficult to describe because they encompass such a broad range. They are crime procedurals, mysteries, family dramas, work place dramas—and they are written so well that the distinction of Literature applies.

I’m not reading the books in any order, though there might be value in that as some characters reappear. But the books are stand-alone, and reading them out of order has not presented any difficulties in understanding the long term relationships, though there is something quite satisfying in seeing characters at different points in their lives.

I’ve read four now, all gripping, so I won’t recommend any particular one. In terms of pure writing, though, The Secret Place, the one I just finished and that sent me to my laptop to post this review, is by far the most exceptional. The kind of precise writing that forces you to pause, to look away and reflect, to reread. Which makes for a slow read. But most satisfying.

]]><![CDATA[Review: Clock Dance by Anne Tyler]]>Thu, 02 Aug 2018 03:25:18 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/review-clock-dance-by-anne-tyler

I’ve been reviewing books for the New York Journal of Books, a good source for finding books you might want to read. This review originally appeared there. Here’s the link to NYJB.

Eleven-year-old Willa Drake sells candy bars door to door in rural Pennsylvania with a friend. Just as we’re settling into her little girl world, getting to know her needy, younger sister, her doting but ineffectual father, and her remote and often cruel mother, Willa is suddenly twenty-one, dealing with college and romance and moving to California. Two more decades pass in a flash, and Willa has become a mother herself. Then, for the bulk of the novel, set in Arizona and Baltimore, Willa is 61, yearning to be a grandmother.

Here’s the psychological challenge for the reader: you don’t want to jump decades like this. The jumps are jarring. Life doesn’t operate this way, you want to protest. But the protest is exactly the point in Anne Tyler’s twenty-first novel, Clock Dance, a brilliant and tender reflection on time and perception and family.

Another more obvious reason why you might resist the leaps from one age to another: the characters are so sharply drawn, you selfishly want to spend more time with them, which is a testament to Tyler’s fine writing, especially as it pertains to point of view and language. In Part 1, for instance, Willa’s observations perfectly match her eleven-year-old sensibilities. Willa’s “mother was the prettiest mother in their school, and the liveliest and the smartest, but then all of a sudden something would happen and she would have this big flare-up.”

Willa herself often finds it hard to believe that she’s reached her early sixties. When her now distant sister, Elaine, calls to get together, it’s not the dour Elaine that Willa wants to see; she misses the six-year-old Elaine. And so does the reader. Which poignantly demonstrates the effectiveness of the time leaps.

It’s no surprise then that Willa admires slow growing saguaros. She views them as majestic and mythical, “the only things in Arizona she felt a deep attachment to.” She longs to understand her father’s advice on coping with loss: break the day into moments. She’s fascinated by the clock dance, where three young girls line up precisely behind one another and whirl their arms like hands of clock. We’re all part of the dance, which is both joyous and heartbreaking.

Because of her acute sense that time is fleeting, Willa is a careful “chronicler” of her own life. (The book is not written in the first-person, though it feels like Willa is narrating.) After a major loss, she reflects: “Now she settled into the dailiness of grief—not that first piercing stab but the steady, persistent ache of it, the absence that feels like a presence.” By now, this feels like earned wisdom. She learns how to adapt to the changes that whirl around her. Willa is not always correct in her conclusions. She’s kind, often to a fault, for example. But she learns to recognize that family is what you make it, reminiscent of novelist Kent Haruf’s best work.

This is a beautifully crafted book, every page suffused with small gems and surprises. Seemingly homespun and effortless, yet refined and worldly. Often quaint, but with danger lurking along the edges. Tense and dramatic, but also amusing and uplifting. This is a superb, timeless book.

]]><![CDATA[The Handmaid's Tale: Season 2]]>Wed, 25 Jul 2018 18:34:18 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/the-handmaids-tale-season-2

Obvious warning: if you haven’t seen all of Season 2 of The Handmaid’s Tale, don’t read this.

Several people I know limit their viewing of this series to one episode a day, which I understand. Watching can be exhausting. But this weekend, I couldn’t turn away. What I’m left with is exhaustion, sure, but also—not quite fear—but the nagging dread that the seeds for Gilead have already been sown.

No, I don’t worry about revolution of the sort depicted in the series. Despite the turmoil we find ourselves in today, I do believe in the durability of the Constitution and the systems that guarantee its power, although those systems have come under attack. I dread the other parallels, namely the human rights abuses to “other” and the reliance on faith over science to dictate policy, particularly as it relates to the environment. I dread the chipping away of norms. These dreads, of course, are the point of the show. Writers and artists and filmmakers have always been the ones at the forefront with their warnings.

What I’m left with mostly though is something more personal and visceral, the stark realization, a reminder really, that darkness resides in all of us. In me. When Offred points the rifle at Commander Fred, I feel the venom rise in me. Shoot him already! When Emily stabs Aunt Lydia, then kicks her down the stairs, this is…satisfying. What the hell is wrong with me? Emily’s rage is the kind that never abates, that crowds out any chance for mercy. The kind that passes from one generation to the next. Which should sound familiar. Who hasn’t asked, why can’t these two countries just get along? There are always logical answers to this question, but this series helps us understand such conflicts on an emotional level.

Why binge-watch a show that makes me feel so consistently uncomfortable? And enraged? And weepy? I guess I don’t want to think about the reasons too deeply. I don’t want to pick it apart and become too analytical, though it’s already too late since I’m writing this. The fact that the show achieves what all art should is enough: it commands our attention. An undercurrent of intensity churns through every scene, even the lighter ones because you know the lightness can’t last.

After binging, you want more, right? Where’s Season 3 already? Which explains, I think, why Offred can’t escape at the end. The series would crash without her. There’s no one else who commands as much attention. I know every pore on her tear-stained face. But when she opts not to leave at the end, I feel that the dramatic agreement between artist and viewer has been compromised. A bit. She stays, it seems, purely for commercial reasons, though we’ll never really know, will we? Perhaps the writers themselves don’t know. I do concede that the writers have done a remarkable job with this. Aside from the apparent commercial compromise, the ending does feel right in many ways. Offred doesn’t want to leave her child, or Nick. She’ll fight from within, etc. But come on. I am surprised that the last scene doesn’t end on a more ambivalent note. Will she get in that truck? I would have loved to hear the discussion regarding how much to show at the end.

Other implausible moments that briefly interfered with total command of my attention. (To be clear, these are minor in what is an otherwise engrossing thirteen hours. Thirteen! Did I just spend thirteen hours on the couch?) 1. When Luke confronts Commander Fred in Canada, what the hell is Nick doing? I know he’s taken aback by his growing awareness of who this guy is, but come on. He’s not going to pretend to protect his boss? 2. How does Nick happen to find Luke at a bar? And why the heck is Luke at the bar by himself? 3. In Canada, why is Serena allowed to roam about freely? 4. In Canada, during the protests, how does Moira get so close to the Commander’s car? I know this is dramatic and poignant, but come on.

I’m noticing that most of my complaints have to do with Canada, which is ironic. This freer world includes more inconsistencies. Or maybe this isn’t ironic.

I also question why the commander would allow Offred to visit her daughter. This is the same guy, who allowed his wife’s finger to be severed. I get the rationale, the softness in him toward his handmaid, but I don’t quite believe he benefits enough from this visit, which would be his primary consideration. What's in it for him?

Some of the most emotionally satisfying scenes center around the simplest of exchanges: when the handmaids whisper their real names to one another in the produce aisles; when the neonatal specialist is asked if she is the best, and she replies, “I used to be”; when Emily is offered a glass of wine. The fact that, in real life, we take these ordinary moments for granted—the acknowledgment of other; the respect of other; the kindness to other—is extraordinary.

The two new characters, Nick’s young wife and the offbeat commander who frees Emily, add an interesting dimension. Both of them seem at first to be insignificant or minor to the plot, though of course we know better. When their purpose is revealed, we’re still taken aback.

You know who would have been a huge fan of The Handmaid’s Tale? Rod Serling. If that name doesn’t sound familiar, he was the creator of The Twilight Zone. He would have applauded the fine writing, especially Margaret Atwood’s contributions, as Serling himself wrote many of the most memorable episodes of his series. He also would have appreciated the fine acting. Serling worked with young actors who went on to become the most acclaimed in film and television. And he would have praised the social commentary, especially how the issues are presented with such precision and sophistication, since he sometimes was a bit heavy-handed with his “message.” Mostly though, he would have been saddened that the same injustices he addressed so brilliantly over 60 years ago still haunt us today.

]]><![CDATA[A Conversation with Rick Kogan]]>Tue, 03 Jul 2018 04:00:06 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/a-conversation-with-rick-koganI had a conversation with the great Rick Kogan on WGN radio. Here's the link: WGN.

]]><![CDATA[Italian Ways]]>Sat, 23 Jun 2018 01:22:23 GMThttp://tonyromanoauthor.com/blog/italian-ways

We just returned from my homeland, Italy, and I was struck by how much place defines us, how place shapes our very thoughts. After only a few days, I began to mentally construct phrases I could use with waiters and drivers and store clerks, pleased when a girl at a gelato shop complimented my Italian. If I had truly sounded fluent, there would have been no need for praise, but I ignored this little fact.

We spent only ten days in Italy, but we quickly adjusted to the contrasting norms. Even in the smallest of towns, you never have to walk far to find a trattoria or café or bar. Even the rest stops off the highway serve the most sumptuous sandwiches and sometimes full plated meals.

At restaurants, the first question is always, acqua naturale? or acqua frizzate?, the latter carbonated with bubbles, as wait staff explains. Never a lump of ice anywhere. Then comes the bread, freshly baked and enough for twice the number of people at the table. Pasta and pizza are abundant of course on every menu, and most places are able to accommodate gluten-free preferences. If a salad appears in a multi-course meal, it arrives near the end. Waiters never present you with a check, or il conto. This would be an insult, a suggestion that you should hurry. When you want to leave, you have to flag someone down. Even then, there is often no hurry. Tips to staff are not expected.

Near the end of our trip, we visited my family, where food was also plentiful. You never knew when the courses would end. We were presented with individual plates of antipasto, bread and more bread, cheeses, several kinds of sausages, pasta, fresh vegetables, fruit, homemade wine, and always coffee. At one point, we asked why people in Italy weren’t obese. No one supplied an adequate answer. My theory is that since the showers there are so tiny, no one would dare.

Hotels supply grand breakfast buffets, complete with loose scrambled eggs (as Americans prefer?), trays of cheese slices and prosciutto, cereals, pastries, and, of course, freshly baked bread, which, when toasted, becomes aromatic and wonderfully gritty.

If you go to a bar because you have an hour to kill before dinner, and you order a single drink, one or two or all of the following may appear at your table: bread, cheese, salami rolls, chips, finger sandwiches.

One afternoon at the bar, on the television, an Italian prankster in Naples delivered pizzas to various houses. Instead of delivering the correct order, the man explained that the pizza was topped with pineapple. Customers becomes irate. They screamed. They protested. They needed to be restrained. The audacity. Pizza is not something to be toyed with.

The best meal, for me, was at my cousin’s farmhouse, where we sat outside under a broad shade tree around a long table. The farm has been in my family for almost 100 years, the same land my grandfather tilled and sweated over, and I feel an elemental connection every time I visit. If my father had never sailed off for America in 1957, I may have been working those same fields.

The leisurely pace of meals is offset by the manic maneuvering on the roads. Drivers swerve and weave and dodge to inch ahead, cursing and waving, restrained only by the laws of physics, which they seem determined to defy, especially during wild dashes to claim a coveted parking spot. You watch and think, there’s no way that car will fit into that space, and then it does. Factor in motor bikes that suddenly appear and whoosh past, and the streets seem more like daring circus performance than reality.

I made the mistake of renting an oversized van. I didn’t mind the jockeying; after a while, I began to barrel ahead myself. But I hadn’t driven a stick shift in years, so that stole some of my attention, especially on the tight winding roads near Sorrento, where I missed a Do Not Enter sign. My focus was squarely on the maneuvering rather than signage. My family began to scream, “No, don’t, you can’t, No.” Abashed, I suddenly stopped, drivers around me surprisingly calm and waiting, but certainly thinking, What an idiot, whereupon, I carefully shifted into reverse, just a few inches, so as not to dent the car behind me, and gingerly righted myself. Later, at dinner, I joked that the town seems much more quaint when you’re not terrified. No one laughed.

If the carabinieri had witnessed my little mishap, I don’t know if I could have talked myself out of a ticket. Sometimes the laws in Italy are stringently enforced. For instance, I’d been told by my cousins that certain roads are carefully monitored electronically, so I always took note of my speed. How does one deal with a traffic ticket from another country? But more often, the enforcement of laws is a matter of individual discretion or whim.

One night, we sat at an outdoor restaurant in Rome near the Coliseum, and we saw a young, drunken man arguing wildly with several soldiers in military garb, armed with long-barreled automatic weapons. We found the presence of these soldiers both unsettling and comforting. This animated drunk shifted from indignant howls to desperate pleas to a strange physical intimacy. At one point, he tried to touch a soldier’s face with both hands. Through all this, the soldiers showed remarkable restraint. No handcuffs, no tasers, no guns pointed. By the end, the drunk was allowed to walk away. We couldn’t imagine such restraint back home. (I found out later that my cousin’s oldest son patrols the streets as a soldier in Naples.)

Outside the Academia Museum in Florence that houses Michaelangelo’s David, vendors sell junk reprints of famous paintings. They spread the prints on the street near the entrance. If a cop drives by, they quickly scoop up their wares and scurry off like mice. Once the squad car disappears, the vendors return. Both sides know the game, and no one is going to push the established boundaries.

We were constantly warned to be wary of pickpockets, who must not be overly concerned about punishment. We heard of several cases of empty pockets. We were also warned not to buy stolen wares because the buyer will pay a fine. How to know if an item is stolen? This was never explained. For the most part, we stayed away from street vendors.

There’s one other elusive difference that’s difficult to describe: Italian gestures. I’m not referring to the obvious, over-the-top, stereotypical wagging of the pinched fingers, though there is that. I’m referring to the hunched shoulders, the tilt of the head, the palms pressed together to express confusion or impatience or a hundred other subtle messages. Someone needs to create a video glossary of these gestures, which are so clear and nuanced, you don’t even need subtitles. Most observers will be able to discern the difference between, say, an innocent, No one knows, versus a more impatient, How could I know this?

One of the strangest differences in cultures occurred at the Rome airport. While we hauled our luggage onto the conveyor belt, the attendant wanted to speak to each of us alone. We would eventually pass through the usual x-ray security checks, but for now, she wanted to know where we worked, what the neighborhood was like at work, what we did during our leisure hours, and, no kidding, the name of our favorite flower. Everyone was asked slightly different questions, but fortunately, we all remembered the name of our favorite color.

When we got to the taxi stand back home at O’Hare Airport, the attendant wanted to know how many in our party. I almost blurted, quattro. When the driver pulled into my driveway, the driver questioned my son-in-law, who answered, Si. We’d been gone only ten days.

Despite all these differences, we adapted fairly easily and had a wonderful time.

Here’s a photo of my aunt and my other son-in-law that maybe highlights the disparity between the two cultures better than any words can.

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