The Art of Living Other People's Lives Read online

  Marianella entered the house and we immediately pointed to the bathroom while waving our hands in front of our noses, which is the international sign for “your villa smells like sewage, please do something immediately.” She quickly caught on and began frantically mumbling Italian words to herself. It was clear she didn’t speak a word of English, not even hi. Somehow my mother had been able to book our stay through a bare-bones, poorly translated website she stumbled upon. As Marianella made her way to the bathroom, still mumbling frantically, I couldn’t help but feel guilty, like the mess was somehow our fault. I imagined she was muttering something like, “Stupid Americans need everything to be perfect. If anyone else had rented the villa they wouldn’t have minded the smell. Don’t they realize it’s part of the experience? It pairs nicely with the starving cats and farm animals. I bet these are those types of Americans who call themselves Italian. They don’t know the first thing about being Italian. Their pasta’s not al dente.”

  Assuming foreigners are cynical, judgmental, American-hating monsters is another of my insecurities that comes to light when I travel. Traveling is like a good therapist; it can take the most confident people and bring them far enough outside their comfort zone that they start to realize all the uncertainties they have about themselves. Too often, when I return home from a trip, I find myself wondering if spending so much time trying to make myself invisible caused me to miss out on an even greater experience, or if I missed some great pictures because I was worried it would look “touristy” if I took my camera out.

  I did some research on the anxiety I feel on trips, and a number of searches led me to xenophobia, which is an unreasonable fear of things that are foreign or strange. The key word being unreasonable. Though what I feel is more like reverse xenophobia: an unreasonable fear that I will appear too foreign and strange. Basically, I’m afraid of appearing awkward as fuck in a country that’s not my own. Is there a word for that?

  When Marianella was finally finished assessing the situation, she talked directly to us. We watched her as if she were a character on a screen and the subtitles weren’t working. Then Cole, who hadn’t spoken a word of Italian all trip, stepped forward and started talking. Marianella’s face lit up. She was probably wondering why the person who knew some Italian had been quiet the entire time. The two of them exchanged choppy dialogue for a few minutes, smiling in agreement when they’d finally understand what the other was saying.

  Eventually Marianella waved good-bye and headed out the front door as quickly as she’d entered. We turned to Cole for an explanation.

  “I think she said someone will fix the bathroom by tomorrow,” he explained. “And she invited us to their house for dinner tonight. Everything in town is closed.”

  Dinner, of all things, is the most important part of being Italian American. The kitchen table is the most sacred place in the home, and no, you may not be excused early. A part of me wanted to be excited for the invite, but at the same time all my fears culminated in this very kind invitation. Not only could I not communicate with these people, but now they had the chance to judge my American ignorance in their own home. This was on top of the fact that everything I thought I knew about being Italian was probably going to be proven wrong.

  Later that night we made the long-awaited trek from our shit-scented villa to the house. It was a short walk up a narrow half-dirt, half-stone path. Marianella and her husband Francesco greeted us. They didn’t quite say hello. Their greeting was more of a barrage of sound mixed with firm handshakes from Francesco, who had a thick beard and hands that were permanently dirty from years of farming. They led us into their kitchen where they introduced their two daughters, Martina and Francesca (Yes, Francesco named one of his daughters Francesca).

  Francesco pointed to the kitchen table and we all sat. It was strange going through the motions of dinner without any real dialogue. It felt like a holiday dinner when you get stuck at a table with old people you don’t really know. My concerns were to sit up straight, smile, and make no sudden movements. I felt the weight of America’s reputation on my shoulders. We tried passing phrases like “your house is lovely” and “what a beautiful family” through Cole. As he searched for the words, Marianella sliced her finger open while cutting up food and spent the next five minutes apologizing, continuing to prepare dinner in spite of what looked like a deep wound.

  After wrapping a paper towel around her cut finger, Francesco left the room and came back with an actual pig leg. “Prosciutto,” he announced, plopping the fresh leg directly on the table. Marianella poured us all glasses of wine, the paper towel on her finger stained red with blood. As Francesco began to cut the pig leg into delicious-looking slices of prosciutto, Cole, who was a vegetarian at the time, explained in his best Italian that he did not eat meat. The look that came over Francesco’s face was one of disgust and confusion. His eyes locked onto Cole’s and after a few seconds he responded in a flustered tone. Cole turned to us. “He said it’s not meat, it’s prosciutto.” Martina and Francesca put their heads in their palms. They’d been sighing to themselves the entire time, clearly embarrassed by their parents, but unwilling to speak up. It made me more comfortable that they were as noticeably anxious as I was.

  Eventually Francesco understood that Cole wouldn’t eat the prosciutto and cooked him eggs straight from the farm. As we ate, Cole did his best to hold together the conversation between us, but he struggled to create real dialogue. It was Martina who eventually thought to turn on the computer and try out an online translator. Suddenly, all things were possible. The translations weren’t spot on, but we could at least ask questions and provide general answers. Cole and Martina took turns typing and translating. We’d all wait in silence at the table for the translation to process before erupting in unison, delayed, but just as engaged as if we were conversing in real time. We spoke about everything from taxes to food to school. I was a college student at the time, and when I had Cole type “I study English” into the computer, they were impressed that I didn’t know any other languages but was so passionate about the one I did know. My dad’s job, which is head nurse of an operating room, translated to plastic surgeon. He happily went along with it.

  After making our way through a few complete conversations, we were finally able to relax and be ourselves. We were poorly translated versions of ourselves, but we were ourselves nonetheless. At the very least, we were able to brush off the assumptions we’d come to the table with and appreciate that we had so much in common. Even Francesca and Martina joined in the conversation. We ended up speaking for hours, not realizing time was passing so quickly. Looking back, it’s difficult to even remember the computer being present. In my memory, the conversation flowed as naturally as any I’ve ever had.

  When we finished the wine, Francesco poured us all grappa he’d made in his backyard. It tasted like gasoline and a hint of death, but that didn’t stop us from toasting to family and new friends. Yes, the pasta they served was cooked to al dente perfection and the wine may as well have been God’s tears in a bottle, but I felt right at home. We were just two families having dinner, finding common ground over food, wine, and laughter.

  The next day, the smell in the bathroom was gone, just as Marianella had promised. We spent the rest of the week relaxing by the pool and taking mental photographs of our view of Tuscany’s rolling green mountains and olive trees. We had stumbled upon a little slice of paradise after all. We were invited back to one more dinner during our stay, and it was just as enjoyable as the first. Francesco even gave us a bottle of grappa to bring home. When it was finally time to say good-bye, I felt like I was leaving people I’d known for much longer than one week and surely not people I had at one point hoped to avoid at all costs.

  Now, when I travel to new countries, I try my hardest to shake off any anxiety that creeps into my system. I still can’t pronounce foreign words correctly for the life of me, but I’m starting to realize that’s nothing to be all that ashamed of. If I ever d
o find myself consumed with a familiar fear of being too foreign and strange, either at home or abroad, I think of the dinner in Italy. More specifically, the moment I came to terms with the fact that being awkward and embarrassing is just part of being human.

  Maybe one day Francesco, Marianella, and their two daughters will travel to America and eat at my family’s dinner table. I’m sure they’d have a ton of fears and insecurities while visiting a new country for the first time. If that day ever does come, I’ll be sure to tell them, in my best Italian, Siamo tutti estranei da qualche parte.

  “We’re all strangers someplace.”

  Seeking an Underwear Expert

  When I was ten years old I made the change from tighty-whities to boxer shorts. It was a transition that changed the world as I knew it. What was once uncomfortably held captive in a prison of fabric could now roam freely. A few years later I discovered boxer briefs, and once again my universe was turned upside down. Unlike its free-spirited cousin, the boxer short, boxer briefs offered actual support. Where tighty-whities would suffocate and cling, the boxer brief allowed enough room to breathe while still providing reinforcement. My discovery of boxer briefs was the first time I saw hope for nuance in a world that, as a middle-school student in suburbia, was overwhelmingly clear-cut. Life up to that point had been a matter of black or white, right or wrong, too much support or none at all. Boxer briefs opened my eyes to the gray area of life. A perfect balance between too much and too little existed after all.

  After my decision to go through life wearing boxer briefs, I stopped thinking about underwear altogether. The first time the subject crossed my mind again wasn’t until I was twenty-two and had been living on my own for six months. I received a call from my boss at the small website I was writing for and listened as he explained that he wasn’t able to raise enough money to continue operations. In short, I was out of luck. One moment I had a job and the next I was unemployed, wondering for the first time ever how I’d pay the next month’s rent. The thought of moving back in with my parents became a terrifyingly real possibility. They had warned me that my job wasn’t secure enough to move out, but that had only pushed me to get my own place sooner.

  Up until the moment my boss called, I had been living my childhood dream of having an apartment in New York City and supporting myself through writing. The paychecks weren’t spectacular, but I was able to work from home. I didn’t even have to change out of my pajamas (or my boxer briefs) if I didn’t want to. Best of all, I could call myself a professional writer. It didn’t matter that I was writing two-hundred-word articles on obscure bands I’d never heard of for a website nobody read. I was getting paid for my craft and that made me a professional.

  I’d become so obsessed with finally being a paid writer that doing anything other than writing wasn’t an option. Immediately after the call, I went online to find a new writing opportunity. I scoured Craigslist for hours, sending my resume to just about anyone willing to exchange actual money for words. That’s when I came across the job listing for a “talented writer interested in covering the exciting men’s underwear scene.” I hadn’t even realized men’s underwear had a scene. It was late, but I decided there was no harm in sending out one more resume.

  For the next week, the only e-mails I woke up to were motivational quotes from my mother and spam urging me to order the latest groundbreaking male enhancement pill, guaranteed to work or my money back. Then one morning, a reply to one of the hundreds of jobs I’d applied for appeared in my inbox. The subject line read “Seeking an Underwear Expert.” The e-mail explained that the leading men’s underwear website on the Internet was looking for someone to review newly released underwear. There was no actual website given, but Bobby, the mystery man behind the e-mail, assured me that I’d be given all the details during the in-person interview the following Wednesday.

  I was certainly no expert on underwear. I couldn’t even name three brands. All I knew was that the underwear ads that appeared in magazines and on billboards were perfectly photographed and positioned so that anyone passing by couldn’t escape the ever-present, giant bulge, similar to how the Mona Lisa’s eyes always follow you around. With my minimal funds running lower each day and no other prospects on the horizon, I decided to take the interview. I imagined that there was a Hemingway quote floating around somewhere that went something like, “A good writer can fake being an expert in anything—even men’s underwear.”

  On the morning of my interview I found myself in a staring contest with my underwear drawer. I couldn’t help but think there’d be a test upon arrival. Perhaps an underwear check at the door, and they’d only allow me inside if I were wearing a worthy pair. I pushed aside the generic-brand boxer briefs and dug for the Calvin Kleins I’d picked up somewhere along the way. I didn’t even know if Calvin Klein underwear was popular. I would have checked the website to find out, but I had no idea what it was, or more importantly, if it really existed.

  If there were to ever be a mass human-trafficking ring set up through Craigslist it would most likely be disguised as a job interview for a men’s underwear website. But the combination of needing money and a burning desire to work my way up in my chosen career of writing made me take my chances.

  When I arrived at the address given in the e-mail I was surprised to see there were no office buildings around. Instead I stood directly in front of a luxury residential building on the lower West Side of Manhattan that overlooked the Hudson River. It was the kind of apartment building I’d only ever seen on commercials for The Real Housewives of New York City. I considered turning around and going home. Anything can happen behind closed apartment doors. People die in their apartments and aren’t found until weeks later, when neighbors start complaining about a peculiar smell. I didn’t want mine to be one of the bodies found when the police finally raided the luxurious slaughter den of New York City’s elusive underwear killer.

  After taking a lap around the block to clear my head I decided to push forward and at least see what the inside of the building looked like. Before heading in I called my roommate and told him my exact location along with strict instructions to call the police and my parents, in that order, if he didn’t hear from me in an hour. If anything were to happen I at least had on my best pair of underwear.

  Inside the building I was greeted by a doorman and gave the name Bobby had told me to say. The doorman looked me up and down before telling me the floor and apartment number and pointing in the direction of an elevator. “Come check on me in twenty minutes,” I wanted to say before heading off alone into the unknown.

  In front of the apartment door I took a deep breath and knocked. A young man, who looked no older than twenty-five and had brightly dyed blonde hair, answered the door.

  “Greg!” he shouted with familiarity, as if he’d known me for years.

  “Bobby?” I asked, and he nodded.

  He led me into the apartment and my jaw hit the floor. The ceiling was at least the height of a professional basketball hoop, which is the only way I am able to effectively judge the height of anything. A white bear rug, the kind that only exists in catalogues and cartoons, was sprawled across the hardwood floor. Glass vases lined a marble fireplace mantle and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Manhattan and the river. The walls were painted mostly grey and black, which made the white furniture and accents pop like budding flowers all over the room. There was a white leather couch, thick white fashion books on an all-glass table, a white leather chair, and an abstract white ceramic statue on a circular black table. I felt like I was in a Vogue photo shoot and couldn’t help but wonder why there wasn’t a model lying across the bear rug, running her fingers through her hair and biting her lower lip.

  “You could fit a basketball hoop in here,” I told Bobby.

  “I know, right?” He laughed. “Nicholas isn’t one for sports though. Let me go get him and tell him you’re here.”

  I had no idea who Nicholas was, though I made a mental note t
o not break the ice with a sports reference. I took a seat on the white leather couch and waited.

  Nicholas emerged suddenly from another room and made his way directly to the white leather chair adjacent to the couch. He sat down immediately and crossed his legs. I stood up to shake his hand and give him my resume. He denied the piece of paper and explained that he’s not one for overexamining a person’s exaggerated job history.

  Where Bobby had been warm and welcoming, Nicholas was cold and stoic. He was wearing a perfectly fitted blue suit that looked as if it were painted on his thin frame. He wore round, wire-thin glasses, and from where I was sitting on the couch when he first walked in, he too looked as if he could be as tall as a basketball hoop. He was at least ten years older than Bobby and his exceptionally groomed facial hair made me feel insecure about the stubble I left sprinkled on my face to appear older and more seasoned.

  “This is a great place,” I told him.

  “Thanks, it’s home,” he answered as quickly as the words could leave his mouth. Then he added, “So what do you know about my website?”

  “Well there was no website given in the e-mail,” I noted, second-guessing whether or not I’d missed the link when reading Bobby’s response to my application.

  “So then you aren’t familiar with it is what you’re saying? What are you familiar with, Greg?”

  I got the sense that Nicholas was the type of employer who really enjoyed the interview process. Not so much as a process to gain an understanding of the person being interviewed, but more so as a way to exert authority and weed out candidates with pointed, uncomfortable questions. Admittedly, it had always been a dream of mine to one day put my feet up during an interview and throw out obscure questions to a nervous recent graduate sitting across from me with a stack of their own freshly printed resumes that I refused to look at. I always fantasized about asking an interviewee questions like “What’s your spirit animal?” and “If you could eat only one food that you’ve never tasted before for the rest of your life, what would it be?” The number of questions with no right answers are endless. If that was the game Nicholas was after, then I had no choice but to wow him with my answers.