Italian Winter Weather

The first time we visited Milan, in January of 1991, there were about four inches of snow on the ground. It melted the next day, and in the 12 years we lived in Milan after that I only saw snow falling once or twice a year, some years not at all, and rarely enough to stick. For the last few years, February has been mild, April cold and rainy, and everyone complained about how the seasons weren’t what they used to be (a lament that has probably been heard since the australopithecines).

Today it’s snowing in Lecco. A lot. Just like it did the week before last, and the week before that, and I lose count before that. A few weeks ago we took in “refugees,” six of Ross’ classmates who had commuted up to an hour to get to school, only to find it cancelled because snow was falling and the heating system wasn’t working.

The kids weren’t a problem, but I’ve had enough of winter. I never liked cold weather in the first place. I was born in New Orleans, subsequently lived in Texas, Hawaii, and Thailand. I never saw snow actually falling out of the sky until we got to Pittsburgh, when I was 11. I hate having to dress up in layers and layers of clothing to go outside, then when you go into a shop or come home again you’re too hot and have to undress. I have no circulation in my hands and feet, so they’re always icy cold (cold hands, warm heart – I’d settle for the reverse). I even have chilblains on my toes this year, probably from wearing wimpy shoes in a misguided attempt to be fashionable, before I found a pair of decent-looking fur-lined boots in England.

One problem specific to Italian winters is that most of us have no control over home heating – condominium buildings are usually centrally-heated, and the thermostat is set according to government regulations. Heating goes on October 15th and off April 15th, regardless of actual outside temperatures. And it’s turned way down during hours that most people are out of the house, e.g. 10 am to noon, which happen to be my peak working hours in my home office. So I’m sitting at my desk wearing ski socks and fleece slippers (still going strong – thanks, Laura and Larry!), a turtleneck, corduroy trousers, and a Kashimiri shawl.

Heating also gets turned off at night when we’re all supposed to be in bed. There are few things more miserable than being wide awake at 4 am with jetlag, and you can’t even read in bed because it’s too cold to put your arms outside the covers (yes, there is another activity which could warm you up in bed, but that only works at 4 am when both of you have jetlag).

The End of Fear

There’s a frightening opinion piece in the New York Times, A Nuclear 9/11, about the need to stop nuclear proliferation. Some people in the know think that there’s a high risk of some form of nuclear weapon being used by terrorists on American soil, sometime in the next 15-20 years. The war in Iraq has done little or nothing to alleviate that risk, and not much else is being done about it.

I grew up with the constant threat of nuclear war between the US and USSR. That threat didn’t loom nearly as large over my generation as it had over my parents’; we never had bomb shelters or “hide under your desk” drills in school. But we did have Ronald Reagan’s massive military spending, sabre-rattling, and “Evil Empire” speeches. Perhaps I’m a hypersensitive soul, but it made me wonder sometimes whether all our hurrying and scurrying to build happy lives for ourselves and our children might be blown to naught by someone’s itchy trigger finger.

My daughter was only a few months old when the Berlin wall fell in 1989. It seemed like a good omen for her life: the world was finally emerging from the shadow of the Cold War, and her skies would be bluer than ours had been.

In 2001, as we all know, the skies got much darker. At least with the USSR we had had détente, mutually-assured destruction actually being a good deterrent. Now we’re up against people who gladly accept their own destruction, if only they can take a few of us with them.

In my research for the Woodstock School history book, I read a first-person account of World War I, by a woman who was a student at the time:

“And then the war. It was always there in those days 1914-1918, over the horizon to be sure, but it somehow took the bottom out of the world for us. We had all been brought up to know that the world was getting better and better, and [war] was more and more impossible. I suppose it will be at least a hundred years before there is such a confident, carefree generation again. The impossible had happened…”

That hundred years has nearly passed now, and we still can’t be confident and carefree. If anything, the prospect seems to recede ever further into an uncertain future. When will mankind grow up?

Randy Newman in Milan

Monday night we went to hear Randy Newman in Milan, on the last date of his European tour. I didn’t realize it was the last til I looked at his site just now – he certainly didn’t look any worse for the wear of 22 shows in 30 days. This was the Songbook tour, just Randy and his piano; I’d heard about the tour (and bought the CD) thanks to a review in the NYT or somewhere. It was sheer dumb luck that I stepped out of a hotel in Milan a few weeks ago and found myself face to face with Randy Newman on a poster, glued to a fence around the Pirelli tower (re)construction site (this is how I usually learn about concerts I want to go to, usually too late).

The promoters missed a marketing opportunity – I think Rossella and I were the only Americans in the theater. Ross was also very much the youngest person there, but that’s less surprising. I watched as the crowd entered, and amused myself speculating on who these people were. My guess is that this concert brought out every old-school lefty to be found in the Milan area: I have not seen so many beards in one room since about 1975. There was even one guy with long sideburns and a gold corduroy jacket – thirty years of fashion had passed him right by, even in Milan! Or maybe that stuff’s back in now, and I, as usual, am the laggard follower of fashion.

We hoped not to be subjected to a constant audience singalong such as we had suffered through at the Alex Britti concert. This was a very different audience, but Ross was plagued by the two guys behind her singing along through most of the show, albeit so quietly that Enrico and I didn’t hear them. Unfortunately, she didn’t mention this til afterwards; she hadn’t wanted to disturb anyone else by shushing them, though she might have said something during intermission.

There was one song that Randy asked us to sing along on: “I’m Dead and I Don’t Know It,” about all the geriatric rockers still on tour (referring to himself as well). I had recently been thinking about this phenomenon: my daughter is the third-generation Who fan in our family. That’s a bit scary, but at least it’s something we can share, though my tolerance for her generation’s music is limited.To sum up, the concert was wonderful. If you don’t know Randy Newman, or only know him via such pop hits as “Short People” or “I Love LA,” or his movie scores, I recommend a closer aquaintance. He writes songs unlike anyone else’s: three-minute stories narrated by characters very distant from himself, sad, funny, touching, and often with an ironic punch that gets you thinking.

Songbook Vol. 1 Amazon UK

About Randy Newman

More Virus Sneakiness

I received the following email last night:

“Dear user of e-mail server “Yahoogroups.com”,
Some of our clients complained about the spam (negative e-mail content) outgoing from your e-mail account. Probably, you have been infected by a proxy-relay trojan server. In order to keep your computer safe, follow the instructions.
Please, read the attach for further details.
For security purposes the attached file is password protected. Password is “87240”.
The Management,
The Yahoogroups.com team http://www.yahoogroups.com”

There was a password-protected zip (compressed archived) file attached.

The alarm bells started ringing in my head, even though my virus scanner had passed this attachment as clean. If Yahoo really had something to tell me, why would they put it in a password-protected file? I did NOT open the file, and I warned my fellow moderators of this Yahoo group not to open it. I turned to my group of expert friends for their opinions, and one told me he had recently received this warning from his ISP: “There’s a new virus on the loose that’s able to trick our antivirus program on our email server. It’s in a password protected zip file. Unfortunately, there is no method to scan password protected zip files, so our server sends it through.”

The moral of the story is the same as it’s always been: if you are not expecting a file from somebody, and/or anything seems strange about the situation, do NOT OPEN THE ATTACHMENT. You’ll save yourself and everyone in your address book a world of trouble.

See also

The Bride’s Bouquet

A year after we met, Enrico and I attended the wedding of two high school friends of mine (I was a bridesmaid). At the end, I stood among the other unmarried women while the bouquet was thrown. I wasn’t particularly keen to catch it, and am no good at catching things, so I didn’t even raise my arms. I looked up, watching the trajectory, as the bouquet arced high and then fell – straight down into my startled face (good thing I wear glasses). It bounced off and into my hands, and so I “caught” the bouquet.

I took the accidental and unsought catch as a sign that, whenever I did get married, there would be something unusual and surprising about the circumstances. Turned out I was right about that, too. But that’s another story.

Deirdré Straughan on Italy, India, the Internet, the world, and now Australia