A Brief Moment in Venice

A precious and marvelous couple of days spent in a magical city. Friendly restaurant and wine bar owners, winding tiny streets, many many little bridges, handsome and snappily-dressed gondoliers, expensive prices, glass beads and antique shops aplenty, brisk and cool air off the water. Une ville minérale with remarkably little greenery. The locals do as they might with window boxes, potted trees, etc., Enormous public squares, piazzas. Lovely and easy to drink wines, many a variation of salt cod, shell fish laden pasta, black squid ink, creamy polenta, thick and sweet chocolate, hotels up five flights of stairs. And everywhere, tourists like us -- many French speakers, many English, a few German and Dutch... No, we didn't blend too well with the locals, often with our guides and maps in hand. But, we moved and swirled about this tiny island, shared the crowded boats, and took in the otherness of this city caught between the Byzantine and Europe.

Staying with Friends

It's fascinating to me how we each approach the act of opening our homes and lives to a visitor, be he/she family, friend or new acquaintance. What is it to host? I was raised by a mother who opened our home every summer to a visiting French teenager, or to a family of five relatives on my father's side for over a week, or to the passing friend through NYC. We welcomed friends to our Christmas festivities. There was always enough food to go around, a spare bed or couch or a mattress on the floor, linens. It just wasn't that big an imposition.

Now, I suppose we had our unofficial guidelines. We preferred guests who helped with dishes, who were relatively independent transportation-wise, who were good company, but who could just as easily go out for a walk by themselves or pick up a book and read in a corner.

And when we went visiting, we arrived with gifts, we offered to make our own beds (if they hadn't already been made), we helped cook, carried babies, did dishes, had a stash of books so we wouldn't be a bother, went shopping with our hostess and purchased (this was my mom's thing) the groceries for the week we were there (particularly when visiting as a family in France). And yes, when the visit was concluded, we stripped our beds and brought the laundry to the laundry machine.

Whenever I go to the States for a meeting or conference, I check to see which cousin lives in town, give a call (or email) and of course I can spend the week. That's a given in our family. The response is always a strong affirmative. Hosting one of our cousins--as we are quitenumerous and we don't all know each other as well as we'd like--is a chance to knit together a stronger relationship with someone we are happy to know better.

When I lived in Arles the house was a veritable welcome spot for many a young cousin, au pair and friend. I remember one cluster of cousins -- all young men -- who from the moment of their arrival were a joy and a help. One took Leo on his lap and read him books, another emptied the dishwasher and set the table. And, before leaving, not only did they strip their beds, but they vaccuumed their room as well! I was amazed, praised these young men to their mother and simply sat back and wondered if ever I'll be able to raise my sons as well. Yes, we fed them great meals, and yes, I loaned them my car to go kayaking, got them maps, set them up for excursions, etc., But that's all part of it, right?

I think on all this as during the week I rented my house, I was a house guest a bit left and right. At the first home, the home of a relatively new friend, I clearly stayed one day de trop. And, I arrived with dog in a house inhabited by cats. Not a recommended act. Said dog was relatively well-behaved, and I, well, I came with gifts, tried to help, but out of sorts as I was, I was a weighty presence, not the helpful being I would like to think I can be (and normally am). I was clearly in the way by the second day. Two nights was one too much.

I then went on to Martine's, and there, I was put to work, and I was able to contribute and while I talked too much at times, I also shut up and simply worked in a zen state at other times. It balanced out. I also came with food, my rice cooker, and dog. The dog caused some issues with a neighbor, but was otherwise well-tolerated and well-behaved. We're still very close, and she is neither berating me for my stuck in my messed-up state-ness, nor does she seem weary of me and my current woes either. She is able to let me be where I'm at without it affecting her personal state too much.

My time at Mireille's was equally nourishing and warm. But there I heard stories of a childhood where friends weren't allowed further than the garage to play. Where sleepovers were unthought-of, and barriers set high. She's made a complete about-face from her upbringing, and whichever child is willing or absent sacrifices his/her bed to me willingly and easily. Warmth and welcome now come naturally.

For me, I think, the trick is not to take the act too seriously. I do what I am able to do. If I've 4 pre-adolescents at each other's throat, a broken-down car, and homework to get done with Leo, well, I'm not able to do much more than make up the mattress on the floor, pull out a towel, and perhaps serve a plate of fried rice. But, I'm okay with that. I have limits imposed on me by the house, the kids, etc., but I still have a spare spot on the floor of my room, and I'll do what I can do. I also have faith that the guest will help out too.

As such, I am perhaps not an elegant host, but I'm an easy host. I usually say yes, and will work it all out as I'm able. Only rarely have people over-stayed their welcome in my home. But it was an extreme case of three months of over-bearing presence, tactless behavior, minimal helpfulness, etc.,

I leave these thoughts unfinished. As they are and always will be. We each do as we can, linked to our cultures, our pasts, our traditions. There are the hosts who lay out the red carpet, and it is marvelous. But as I remember from my time in Japan, if you give too much the debt becomes too difficult to re-pay and the relationship tilts out of balance. But if this is the tradition you heark from, then that is the style of host you will likely be, and in this case, guests may quickly become a burden. ...

Yes, there's always more, and there is no right way. But the blending of styles and cultures will raise issues and occasionally, as when I over-stayed my welcome with my very generous and dear hosts... leave a sense of, oops, something's gone off.

A difficult moment with my elder son

There is a constant I suppose when you've two children (or more I'm sure) that they will bicker and this will drive you crazy, or not, depending on your achievements in the world of zen meditation and your state of sleep-deprivation. Sunday morning we were up at five. I came to pick the boys up at their father's at six to head to the TGV station in Avignon. It's an easy drive, and they, being so eager to see Gramma and their cousins, were ready to leap into the car -- is this why we forgot to double check to see if they'd packed their tooth brushes and bathing suits? In any case, it was an easy trip, at least the first forty-five minutes of it. Leo babbled to me about his week, and Jonas piped up a bit as well. Leo had had a glorious time at the beach with friends and Jonas had watched oodles of TV -- what's new? Neither had put a brush to their teeth since I'd last seen them Friday morning at school eight days earlier. I dared not ask about baths.

Before getting in the train, it began. I offered the two of them each a book for their trip, and Leo, rather than looking at his, pushed it aside and wanted to read his brother's. Ticked off that Jonas preferred to look at the images of his book than to have his brother read the text to him, he sulked, tried to rip the book out of his hands, and sulked some more.

"Leo, remember when you were little? you liked looking at the pictures too and figuring out the story yourself. Why not let Jonas do so? then afterwards you can read the text to him."

"But I didn't have a big brother to read to me, so he should let me read to him."

hm, touché, yet how to explain that it was a good thing that his brain learned to decipher imagery and create his own imaginary tale? That the text is great, but not necessary?

Onwards. In the train, I was able to avert immediate melt-down by reading a magic treehouse book to Jonas. This one was on the Civil War. These books are simply marvelous and as a family we are devouring them. Leo enjoys listening in when I read to Jonas -- occasionally replacing me if I'm unable to finish a book --, and he learns perhaps even more than his brother. Being raised in France, the American Civil War, our history of slavery, the realities of that brutal time is completely foreign to them.

An hour later, book finished, the early rising starting to weigh upon us all, I suggested to Leo that I read him some of the new book I'd offered him. Not particularly interested, he permitted me to, but wasn't into it. And not being into it, and having his brother right in front of him, the bickering and teasing and toe stabbing and kicking, etc., etc., began.

Jonas has that classic younger kid way of putting up with just about anything and not complaining. Go ahead Leo, twist my foot, step on it, push back my toes, that doesn't hurt. (I remember something of the same between me and my older brother...). Leo pushed harder, twisted harder, and then when there was no reaction forthcoming, went to give him a kick in his privates. OK, time to intervene, that's enough. But nothing I say seems to work -- cajoling, threatening, nudging, distracting, menacing. I switched seats, and at last they shifted to a game of cards. From that point till our arrival at our destination (a not quite four hour ride), they managed to stay somewhat well-behaved.

But once there, it started again. And of course, it is two-ways. Jonas provokes, Leo reacts. Leo hits, Jonas hits back. The middle finger is pointed, hair is pulled, bags are dumped, kicks are given, insults spoken... des gros mots en profusion.

And here, I lose it. It's noon, we've been up since 5, I'm tired, they're behaving abominably, and I return to my mantra: "Leo, the strong one learns not to react, to ignore, to let pass the insults and provocation. The strong are above all this. A strong horse simply lays back his ears, bears his teeth and stares down his opponent. He doesn't need to kick and bite. To be strong, you need to be above all this, learn to control your reactions. Or otherwise, it is your little obnoxious brother who is the stronger."

For Leo, nothing could be harder. How can he ignore an insult? How to not react? It's impossible. He has to get in the last hit, tap, or insult. It is his right as the elder, he must, or where goeth his pride?

"No, when you are reacting on the fly like this you are putty in the hands of your opponents, you are the weaker, you must get control of your emotions..." I'm getting a bit carried away, and then, I say the unforgivable, "if your father had learned to control his emotions -- it's called being politique -- things wouldn't be so difficult right now for him."

Ok, where did that come from? Perhaps the letter from his lawyer yesterday morning? and our rather tense discussion about it at 6AM? Why spew that at Leo?

And I got what I deserved: Out of the mouth of my babe, "it's your fault, you left Daddy, you spent too much money to buy the Avignon house. We wouldn't have so many problems if you'd stayed with Daddy."

Ouch.

The screens on the back of the airplane seats will change the images in their heads long before they arrive in the US. But, for me, it will resonate, and the truth of what Leo thinks and feels is there to consider, and, somehow, deal with.