Girls Who Love Horses

Actually, my first love was dinosaurs: at age eight, I knew everything about them. I had a set of dinosaur cards which I could put in chronological order, and I knew that a tyrannosaurus could never have eaten a dimetrodon – they lived millions of years apart, in completely different eras.

I don’t remember exactly when or why horses took over in my imagination; perhaps it started with the books. In fourth grade, we moved to the larger campus of the International School of Bangkok, with a much bigger library. I devoured every book I could find about horses, especially those by Marguerite Henry (Amazon UK | US), with beautiful, full-color illustrations by Wesley Dennis (they don’t print them like that anymore). I bought the few horse books available in Bankok’s paltry English-language bookshop; these were classic English girls-and-ponies stories, recounting a life that seemed very exotic: imagine being able to live at a school where you could also keep your very own pony!

I had very little experience of real horses. When we took family trips to Pattaya Beach, my big treat was a half-hour ride, led by the bridle by the horse hire man. I was always frustrated: I wanted him to let go, so the pony and I could gallop on the sand, just like the scenes in my favorite book, Henry’s “King of the Wind.” There was a polo club in or near Bangkok, where we went once a year for the big American Fourth of July bash. It was possible to take riding lessons there, but my parents never offered; I don’t know why.

I rode in my imagination, and I drew horses, practicing constantly, looking at Wesley Dennis’ pictures for reference. If I couldn’t be near horses, I wished I could at least draw them properly. I felt a thrill of pride the day I finally produced something that really looked like a horse.

The summer my dad and I returned to the US, we visited my aunt Rosie and cousin Casey in the Texan countryside where, to my great delight, I got to ride a few times. When we settled in Pittsburgh, I begged to take lessons, but that was more than my dad could afford as a grad student. I kept riding in my dreams, now with Walter Farley in the Black Stallion books. My mother sent from Thailand a Chinese brush-style painting of two black-and-white horses, which had pride of place in my room among my posters and pictures – mostly of horses.

I spent the summer of 1972 with Rosie and Casey again. Casey had her own horse then, a big palomino called Flash, and there was a small horse for me, a docile old pinto mare called Dolly. We rode, though not as much as I would have liked (Casey was a teenager by then, and had other concerns). We often rode bareback, since it seemed cruel to put heavy western saddles on the horses in the Texas heat. We’d canter across the fields, poor old Dolly laboring gallantly to keep up with Flash. At the end of each ride, we’d steer them into the “tank,” an artificial pond full of muddy water, so they could cool off and drink. On the last day of my visit, we were mounting up for a farewell ride when Flash reared, startled by a puppy that suddenly shot out from under the barn. Casey fell and, landing awkwardly, broke her arm.

The following summer I attended a girl scout camp in Pennsylvania whose activities included riding. I was delighted to do everything with “my” own horse: cleaning, tacking up, feeding, and of course riding. It was a glorious two weeks, except for the time a camp counselor tried to make me drink tomato juice.

I don’t remember getting anywhere near horses while we lived in Connecticut. Then we moved to Bangladesh, and eventually I went to Woodstock School in India. It’s possible to hire horses in Mussoorie, but our allowance as students didn’t stretch that far, and these ponies were such sad, skinny little things that I felt more pity than desire to ride them.

I spent my freshman college year at the University of California, Santa Cruz. Alongside formal classes, the university offered short, informal courses, including riding (off campus). So I began to learn English riding, and again took care of my own horse. He was huge, with hooves the size of dinner plates; I affectionately called him “Moose.”

From my sophomore year of college, I transferred to the University of Texas in Austin. Here, again, I looked for opportunities to ride, finally finding a cheap place out of town where you could hire a horse and ride around in barren fields among the mesquite bushes (not a place you’d want to fall off). I was on my way there one day when I ran a red light and wrecked my grandmother’s old car, which put an end to both driving and riding for some time (I wasn’t hurt in the accident, but had no other way to get out there).

Horses vanished from my life after that, except in artwork and in dreams. The last two embroidery projects I did, during pregnancy and early motherhood, were a pair of carousel horses, for my friends Stephanie and Robin. But the Chinese painting still hangs in my home, and, whenever I doodle on paper, horses flow out of my pen. I rarely got to see horses in Milan, but sometimes we’d run across them elsewhere, and I’d stop to gaze.

It’s all Ilaria’s fault that Rossella got the bug. Ilaria had been Ross’ classmate since preschool. When they were eight years old, she began riding at a stable in Milan, and one day took Ross along to try it out. I was travelling, so didn’t get to see Ross’ historic first lesson, but I heard all about it by phone – it took only the one lesson for Ross to fall in love.

I could afford lessons for her, and had a flexible enough schedule that I could accompany her to them two or three times a week. I made good use of the time: while Ross was riding ponies, I took lessons on horses. She progressed faster than I did, partly because I was travelling a lot for work and had to rebuild muscle after each absence. But I finally became comfortable cantering and jumping, and even got a bit cocky. They say you’re not really riding until you start falling off; I was really riding! Ross and I used to keep score; we were neck-and-neck (in number of falls) for about the first year.

I finally got scared the time I fell on my head. It wasn’t the horse’s fault; I lost my balance after a jump, and just tipped off over his shoulder. I remember the trip down, looking at the horse’s hooves and wondering if I was going to fall under them. I don’t remember the impact, nor anything else for 15-20 minutes after that. I was never unconscious, but there’s a blank in my memory: the next thing I knew, I found myself in the clubhouse, talking to someone, having no idea how I got there, though apparently I had done so under my own steam.

I went to the hospital for x-rays, but there was no damage (I had been wearing a proper riding cap, of course), just a fierce headache. But the joy went out of it for me; I was scared of jumping, but bored of trotting around in the manege, and in Milan there’s no place to ride outdoors. So eventually I gave it up, and these days I’m just an observer.

Rossella continued to ride, and to fall, and to love horses madly. She would volunteer to clean the school ponies, which students were not required to do (their groom loved her). We’d spend hours in the stables, just being with horses, which made us both happy.

The riding school in Milan is very competition-oriented, so the usual progression is from the basics and “pony games” competitions on school ponies, to sharing a pony or buying your own, and moving on to higher competitions. Ross began show jumping on a shared pony in 1999, and in 2000 we began looking for one to buy.

The buying project was delayed by our abortive move to California, but when I returned to Milan definitively in 2001, it was time to look again. Ross had attended riding camp at Wellington Riding in England three summers in a row, so we enlisted their aid in finding a pony for her in England (even with travel costs etc., this is cheaper than buying a pony in Italy, where few ponies are bred). We made a special trip up there in September, 2001, and found Hamish. He finally arrived in Milan in November.

…and this is getting long, so I will gush about Hamish some other time!

Making Friends in Italy

This question came up recently on one of the expats-in-Italy boards I hang out on (it had coincidentally already been on my mind): How do you make friends with Italians?

Although most of the Italians I’ve met are warm and friendly and great fun to have dinner with, I’m not sure that I have any really close Italian friends. There are Italians with whom I can enjoy a long chat when the occasion happens to arise, but no one I’d call up and pour out my heart to when I need an understanding ear. I do have friends like that, both in Italy and elsewhere, they just don’t happen to be Italians.

I’ve observed, over the years I’ve been here, that most Italians don’t make friends as easily as many Americans do. I think it’s a matter of practice. Many Americans move around a great deal (most within America, some outside), and have repeatedly faced the need to make new friends. When you move a lot, you learn to get to know people quickly.

Most Italians stay all their lives in the city of their birth (if they possibly can); some never even move out of their original neighborhood, though they may commute across town for work. Some commute between cities, working somewhere during the week and returning home on weekends. Some are forced to migrate for work, but still maintain strong ties with their paese, a word meaning both “town” and “nation” – which reflects Italy’s long history as a collection of separate city-states.

Hometown ties extend even to strangers. When we first moved to Italy, our car (donated by my husband’s parents) had a license plate from Teramo, a town in Abruzzo. We drove it to Milan for our first reconnaissance visit. Late at night, at a toll booth just outside the city, a man in a car beside us shouted excitedly: “Are you from Teramo? That’s where I’m from, but I live here. I’m in the Guardia di Finanza. If you ever need any help, just look me up!” (The Guardia di Finanza are the financial police, who investigate accounting frauds, tax evasion, etc. – I hope never to need him!)

Kids usually stay in the same school for the complete cycle at each level: five years of elementary school, three of middle school, and five of high school. As far as I can tell, Italians form their enduring friendships during their school years, and, even if they grow up to be very different from those friends in lifestyle, experiences, careers, etc., they don’t feel a strong need for new friendships in later life.

I just ran across an article in the International Herald Tribune which suggests that this is also true in other European cultures: “the therapist stated categorically that people just did not make friends any longer in middle age. That advice, suggested Draguns, reflects cultural traditions in Germany and the Netherlands, where people tend to limit their friends to those they made in school and to keep the same friends through old age…”

I’ll be curious to hear from my European readers about this, to agree or refute or expand. I wonder: do Europeans feel that American-style friendships are shallow, because they happen so quickly? Some undoubtedly are, but not all. Some of my closest friendships have been formed very quickly, often with other third-culture kids who feel the same need I do to find the right people and make friends quickly.

See also: Rebecca’s view

Update: A few years later I began meeting and hanging out with il popolo della rete – Italians who are active online – and then began to find like-minded Italians to be friends with.

What’s your experience of making friends in Italy?

The Beginning of the End

A number of people wrote to say that they liked my dad’s piece in the last newsletter; some liked it enough to forward it to others (which you are welcome to do). I liked it, too, but I’m glad and very relieved that Iraq does not, after all, look like turning into another Vietnam.

One Italian headline this morning read: “Baghdad falls, Iraqis celebrate, Pacifists embarrassed.” Indeed. It does begin to seem that, whether Bush’s reasons for going into this were right or wrong, the end result of getting rid of Saddam is appreciated by the Iraqi people. Let’s just hope we get the peace right.

Meanwhile, back in Italy… the American flag story I overheard turned out to have a backstory that I had missed. It was reported in the papers that someone in Milan had hung an American flag on their balcony; subsequently the entrance door to the entire building was ripped out by vandals. So, in the case I heard about nearer to home, the condo association’s fears (that an American flag on display would result in building damage) were fully justified. Probably the homeowner’s association of the first building are now arguing about who should pay for the repairs.

Rossella has been telling me about her classmates’ discussions about the war. Some of these kids say they are Communist, which they assume automatically means anti-war. Others say they are Fascist. I wonder if any of them know what either term actually means? Many make sweeping statements like: “Of course everyone’s for peace.” But one girl in her class is well-informed, and expounds her views very skillfully; Ross thinks she’ll grow up to be a politician. This Lucia has told her classmates that America has actually been at war since September 11th, and that, while war is bad, some wars, including this one, are justified. I am glad to see that at least one kid in the bunch thinks for herself, and says what she thinks.

April 14, 2003

Yesterday there was a street fair on Viale Monza, and Forza Italia (Berlusconi’s political party) had a booth selling flags. The US and British ones were most prominently displayed (and largest), alongside Italian and Forza Italia flags, and some of a design I’d never seen before, saying “Liberta’ e Pace” (freedom and peace). Trying to make local political capital out of a victory in which Italy barely participated…

LT Smash

August 28, 2003

I’ve been reading his weblog from the war zone since March; he’s a very good writer, with a wry sense of humor that well suits the situation he found himself in. Now he’s finally arrived home after eight months in the Gulf.

About the Newsletter

[My] newsletter began shortly after I resigned from Roxio, the software company, in July, 2001. At the time I was the editor of two email newsletters (one for Windows, one for Macintosh) with a combined list of 180,000 subscribers, intended to help people to get the most out of their software. I used to write all the material myself (except for the Macintosh software, which I didn’t know well enough); later, when I got busier with the many other parts of my job, I hired outside writers for the feature articles. But there was something from me in every edition, and my signature was at the bottom every time. The return address was my personal email, so when people replied, they immediately reached a real person. This was an important feature, which Roxio has abandoned since my departure.

Because I took this personal approach, I knew that I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to the subscribers. I included a farewell message in my final newsletter, giving my new website address and private email.

Within two days, I got about 400 messages of thanks, condolence, and farewell (one woman assumed that Roxio had fired me, and furiously offered to complain to the company’s president). A few dozen of those messages included lines like: “Whatever you write in future, I want to read it.” This was a great morale-booster, at a time when I badly needed one. Someone specifically suggested that I start a new newsletter. So I did, and invited all those kind people who had written me to join it. And they did. So the original group of subscribers were mostly people I had never met, who knew me only through my software newsletters. I have since pestered friends and relatives to sign up, and they have graciously done so.

I originally expected to keep writing about technology, something I knew my original subscribers enjoyed reading from me. But I found that I was too burned out to think that hard, and instead began writing about what I was up to, and what was on my mind. So far, most of you have done me the honor of enjoying whatever I throw at you. (I have been writing about technology, as paying freelance work: software manuals for Roxio Germany).

I’m also enjoying the freedom of not representing a company. Admittedly, a lot of my personality was detectable in what I wrote for Roxio (this seems to be part of what made it so effective), but I avoided potentially contentious topics; public relations means making people feel good, smoothing them down rather than stirring them up. In this new venue, I’m free to be myself, and, as those who know me personally can attest, “sweetness and light” is not me!

This issue is a new departure: I’m including a guest column from my dad. We were talking about the war, he said some things that struck me, and I asked him to write about them. I know that my subscribers have a wide range of experiences and opinions, and not all may agree with him; do feel free to respond! I hope to have more guest columns in future, not because I can’t write plenty myself, but because this group is made up of interesting people with interesting thoughts and stories, which you sometimes generously share with me. I find these stories fascinating, and believe the rest of you will as well.

A few practical notes:

  • I send out newsletters no more than twice a week, usually much less. Lately it’s been more frequent because I’ve had more time and more to say; when I get busy with paying work, things get very quiet around here. I usually keep each issue to 4 or 5 pages.
  • All the newsletters are archived, so if you want to catch up on back issues in the order and format they originally appeared, go there.
  • Almost everything I publish in the newsletters I also put on this site, often adding pictures and links. For books and movies, I provide buy links to Amazon, both US and UK. If you buy via any of these links, I get a commission. So far this hasn’t made me rich, but it’s fun to see what people click through to, and a few people have actually bought (thank you!).
  • The site also contains a resumé section with pages about various facets of my work, and what people have thought of it (only the good opinions, of course <grin>). I need more freelance work, so if you know someone who might have a use for any of my skills, I’d be very grateful for leads.
  • A fantasy novel I’ve been working on for 15 years is available for download, though it’s not quite finished.

Questions, comments, and suggestions are always welcome!

School Trips: An Italian Tradition

^ downtime in Siena during a class trip to Tuscany

It’s traditional in the Italian school system, at least from middle school on, for each class to take a school trip (gita scolastica) most years. Rossella started at age five, during her last year of scuola materna. Though most of them had never been away from home before, the kids were thrilled to go; their parents were absolutely traumatized. We arrived at the school early Monday morning to put the kids on a big bus. They were all laughing and excited; some parents were holding back tears. One mother told me that her big, tough-guy husband had invited their son to sleep in the parental bed the night before, because he “already missed him.”

^ the trip to Malcesine

They went to the shores of Lake Garda, staying in a villa owned and managed by the Comune di Milano (city government) specifically for the use of schools and summer camps. There are similar facilities all over northern Italy: in the mountains, on the beaches, and on the lakes.

children on the beach at Malcesine

^ on the shores of Lake Garda

It’s obvious that Italian schools haven’t experienced the lawsuits so familiar to Americans. We were told in advance that one of the activities would be a boat trip on the lake. I asked about life vests – many of these kids couldn’t swim! – and was met with puzzled looks. The question was not satisfactorily answered, so I refused permission for Ross to go on the boat trip; one other mother followed suit. Ross was angry at being left out, but the teacher who stayed on shore with them bought them ice cream as consolation, so she got over it.

They went on outings in the town, visiting crafts workshops and buying souvenirs. One night there was a disco for them at the villa (they had all brought dressy clothes for the occasion, their first dance!).

They returned safe and sound Friday evening, and every parent was on hand to meet them, weeping with joy. I noticed a woman standing nearby whom I didn’t recognize as a parent. In reply to my inquiring glance, she said: “It’s just so sentimental, I love to watch.”

During Ross’ elementary school years the trips were similar, always staying in facilities run by the Comune. My memory isn’t clear; maybe they only made one or two long trips, and did day trips the other years. Ross also went to summer camps several times; this is another wonderful service provided by the city government, so that kids can get out of the filthy city in July while their parents are still working. Costs are low (and scaled to income), and you can choose from any of the locations where the Comune has facilities; Ross always went to the beach.

In middle school, the trips become more ambitious. After all, these kids are in Italy, with thousands of years of history and art (and stunning natural beauty) available within a few hours’ bus ride, if not on their very doorsteps. In 6th grade, they went to the Trentino region, staying in a hotel (school trips occur mostly in March, off-season for hotels all over Italy). They went on hikes in the mountains, visited a farm to see cheese made, and the Thun factory to see ceramic crafts made, and saw other local sights.

In 7th grade, they spent a week in Tuscany, on a galloping tour of several towns. Ross grew bored of churches, but, for the kids, the barrage of culture isn’t really the point of the trip: the point is being away from home with your friends, staying up all night talking, and getting into mischief. I admire the stamina of the teachers who accompany them!

Many classes take a trip outside of Italy sometime during the middle school years. Ross missed out because she changed schools for 8th grade: her former classmates went to Austria this year, her new classmates had already gone to France last year (they are studying French as their third language). So this week she’s been in Tuscany again. But it’s not a great loss for Ross: she’s already been all over Europe and the US with her parents.

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