Adventures on the Country Roads of Italy

Adventures on the Country Roads of Italy  

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

One of the best ways to learn when traveling is to make comparisons.  It gives us firsthand knowledge.   We can learn about other places and civilizations by exercising all of our senses.  Because our own lives are a reference point, we can learn a tremendous amount about ourselves at the same time.  If we stay open-minded, feel safe, and avoid political opinions, international travel can be vitalizing and fun.  A recent bus tour of both city and country locations in Italy certainly gave my wife Hillary and me a unique appreciation of its deep history and sheer beauty.    

Our jaunt included 35 adventurous seniors from several countries.   Jackie, our tour director, is bilingual and passionate about all things Italian.  The bus ride alone was a continuous listening and learning experience.  We also enjoyed local guides who enriched our days with unique historical descriptions and anecdotes.  We hiked over miles of cobblestones and up and down stairs.  In the evening, after a couple of eight-course dinners lubricated by local wines, our tour group bonded over vintage rock and roll music.  

 My purpose here is to make a few simple comparisons with our home country.  First, consider the landscape.  It seems hard to believe that forests cover about one third of both the United States and Italy.  Our impression was that every available acre of Italian country is planted with olive and fruit trees, wheat and maize, and endless rows of grape vines. Volcanic soil is perfect for agriculture.

Cities like Rome and Florence have been built on the accretions of previous inhabitants over thousands of years.  In Tuscany and Umbria, hill towns built on volcanic tuff perch above high walls that may conceal caves and parts of ancient neighborhoods.  Pompeii, an entire city frozen in 79 AD by volcanic ash from Mt. Vesuvius, has no American equivalent.       

 Italy is geographically narrow and long while the U.S. sprawls in every direction.  Old and permanent, Italian landmarks are built from bricks covered with mortar.  Perhaps this is because the Romans, borrowing from their predecessors, invented bricks, made narrow walkways from basalt (volcanic rock) that lasts forever, and clustered their towns to protect against historical enemies.  Related factors may be the centralizing feature of cathedrals as well as the communal style of life around piazzas. The splendor of Christianity is enshrined in architectural masterpieces.

 By way of contrast, American towns and homes seem much newer given our short history, use of flammable wood as building material, huge land mass, and our restless mobility.  Americans and Italians are marvelous architects, but ancient Romans mastered the mechanics in ways we still copy.  Prompted partly by the need to move and house large armies, the Romans constructed straight roads, aqueducts, and municipal buildings with extraordinary efficiency.     

Trying to compare Italians and Americans based on a tourist view is a challenge. We certainly noticed that Italian service folks were patient, courteous, and spoke basic English.  When they do speak Italian, their words seem to roll out like an animated avalanche, typically punctuated by hand gestures.  As for style, Italians have a distinctive flair.  They cherish colorful traditions, stylish garb, and superb craftsmanship. 

 Italian road vehicles and driving habits contrast with ours, not so much on their “strada principali” but on city streets and on winding country roads.  Tiny compact cars and motorbikes weave down narrow roads, overlook traffic laws, and cram into every available parking space.  Busses seem to fit easily around tight corners because of wheels that turn at right angles.   Our bus driver Enzo adeptly navigated torturous roads clinging to sea cliffs so we chipped in and purchased a Ferrari driving experience for him when we visited the factory and museum.  

 We found Italian food delightfully fresh and varied, not spicy at all, supplied by nearby farm markets.  Multi-course dinners included antipasti, a typical first course of pasta, then vegetables and meats.  Pizza is sort of a gesture for tourists. The best desserts are found at corner gelato nooks.  We were told that real Italian gelato contains no fat, is not inflated with air, and is made from wholly organic ingredients.  Thus I gained some pounds, while also learning to appreciate abundant wines which are intended to be consumed with food.  

Many of our misconceptions disappeared as we traveled.  For instance, Venetian canals are mostly fresh and clean.  The Verona balcony where Romeo and Juliet allegedly declared their vows may be a tourist attraction, but Shakespeare invented it.  And the white that we saw on distant mountains is not snow, but rather carrara marble quarried today in Tuscany as it was in the days of Michelangelo.

Finally, something called “campanilismo” is probably the most vital ingredient of Italian life.  Remember, for most of its history Italy was anything but unified, so a positive provincialism still thrives.  An American parallel might be the traditional small town that deeply appreciates its heritage.  In Italian communities, you can feel it in well preserved city centers, old cafes, nearby churches, clean streets, and the friendly rhythms of life around the municipal bell towers.

 Throughout our trip, we realized that each separate region of the country rivals the art, history, and civilization of entire nations elsewhere.  No other country in the world has 53 world heritage sites.  Now we know why.  We want to return.    

 

Research Should Be A Tool For Thinking Clearly

Research Should Be A Tool For Thinking Clearly

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

Students are typically told that research should come before drawing conclusions.  However, life experience prompts us to jump to conclusions, and then backfill selectively to justify them.    

What is wrong about this?  It seems quite natural to look harder for justifications than for contradictions.  But there are pitfalls lying in the weeds.  Most obvious are suspicions about so-called fake news.  As a result, we may close our minds to opposing viewpoints spawned by the internet or the media.  When conclusions rely on bias and emotions, the truth acts like a candle in the wind.   

Having spent a lifetime conducting research for many different purposes, I have a few suggestions regarding ways to make it a better tool for thinking clearly.

First, carefully define potential misconceptions, and then ask why.  For instance, if I eat a lot of peanut butter, does this make me more intelligent?  Or do I eat more of it because I am more intelligent?  Cause and effect is a two-way street, so it always makes sense to balance correlational research with common sense.  Along with this we should rule out questionable causes – like whether chunky or smooth peanut butter makes a difference – and realize that relationships are not necessarily a matter of cause and effect.  Things may just vary together by coincidence.

Another fallibility is called herd instinct.  Unless we analyze an issue to form our own opinions, we may be tempted to “go with the flow” and embrace what others tell us is a popular choice.  Herds could be a matter of survival, as when a crowd gallops toward an exit because of fire.  Or it might occur simply because an overhead sprinkler has malfunctioned.  

Rolf Dobelli, head of a decision science lab at Harvard, describes a fascinating collection of misconceptions that can best be corrected by self-awareness and a bit of research.  He points out that we jump to conclusions using whatever information is handy (availability bias).  We hold onto a house that has become a money pit when logic and research tell us it is time to sell (sunk cost fallacy).  Another potential warp, called “story bias”, leads us to turn truths into fairy tales for purposes of consistency or to hide something.  After all, stories are usually more interesting and exciting than time-consuming research.

Often we invent reasons to short circuit research.  Most popular is the knowing-doing gap.  By investigating an issue into near oblivion, we can delay doing anything about it.  Instead, research might reasonably convince us to act and then make adjustments afterward.       

Research and the internet go together.  For this reason, digital literacy should be a necessity for all of us.  Reading habits have changed drastically in recent years, especially for young people.   A new study reports that just 16 percent of our high school seniors read a book, magazine, or newspaper every day.  In contrast, eight of every 10 spend vast periods of time staring at computer screens.   A helpful step toward research literacy could be Google Scholar.  Via this computer application students can be guided to ask well-worded questions, investigate real-world problems, share their work, and to compare and refine documented references.

Simply collecting information is hardly enough.  Thinking should be clarified beforehand.  Misconceptions should be anticipated.  The internet may be a worldwide data treasure, but mining it calls for integrity and a systematic approach.  Valid and reliable research takes time, effort, and open-mindedness.  It can be used to test hypotheses, for advocacy or to tell a story, but in every instance, research should be respected as a feature of daily life.     

Seeking Simplicity is Only Human

Seeking Simplicity Is Only Human

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

Simplicity can be a complex matter.  This sounds like a contradiction, but when we stop to think about the interwoven choices that surround our daily lives, it is no wonder that finding simplicity amid the din is something like discovering silence at a rock concert.

When the term simplicity is googled, lists of advice appear to tell us how to clear out living quarters, pare down wardrobes, and change our diets.  Unfortunately, not much is available to show us how simply being human can be a very natural way to enhance simplicity.

Today’s avalanche of technology provides an excellent example.  Not long ago our refrigerator died after weeks of ticking ominously.  Disappointed that it had lasted only nine years, but delighted that we had a 25-year-old substitute fridge to store things temporarily, we hastened to the local appliance store and complained to a sympathetic saleswoman about planned obsolescence.

 She said she was truly sorry.  She explained that years ago refrigerators seldom died because their compressors were built to last.  Today’s regulatory and safety mandates doom appliances to a much shorter life span. She could have added that computerized features have made many appliances easier to throw out rather than repair. 

This savvy saleswoman simplified our lives.  We realized an extended warranty would hardly protect us from malfunctions that were inevitable.  Our bias in support of the good old days was reinforced.  And given her apparent knowledge and emotional sensitivity at a time of stress, we were grateful to make a quick, simple choice based on her recommendation. 

A more dramatic example of why simplicity often wins dates back 40 years ago.  At the time I subscribed to a science magazine in which one of the feature articles was about the pros and cons of jet fighters.  Today’s stealth aircraft were foreshadowed with a stark warning:  they were precariously designed to stay in the air only as long as instantaneous and constant computer adjustments to the controls were operating.  When these experimental jets were flown into simulated dog fights with old jets using simplified technology controlled largely by humans, the Wright brothers would have cheered.  You know who won.   

Why was this?  For one thing, the technology back then was undependable.  Second, human judgment and skill spelled the difference.  Without a doubt, artificial intelligence and amazing electronic communications have changed our game, but we should never sell human judgment and simple thinking short.

 Even in a world of mystifying change, simplicity can be achieved.  I think one good way is to slow down, focus on just one or two goals at a time, and forgive ourselves for being human.  Another is to leave multi-tasking to others who may be much better at it than we are.  When we limit choices deliberately, this reduces the possibility of getting paralyzed by information overload. It helps to start by getting started even when the outcome may not be clear, and some data are lacking.  Adjustments can be made afterward.

Simplicity thrives on the present moment.  Spending too much time regretting the past, or trying to predict the future, can complicate life and immobilize us.  By learning to live our days one by one, a simpler life can be achieved.  

Finally, the abundance of simplicity in our natural world should be preserved.  When you see a photo or a painting of nature, most appealing is nearly always the impression of simplicity in the scene.  I try to use this as a guide for every photo I take.  It also serves as a satisfying guide to being human.        

Figuring Out What Belongs in the Dumpster

Figuring Out What Belongs In the Dumpster

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

Once in awhile we rent a one-ton dumpster and clear out our accumulating material possessions.  We don’t think of this as unloading junk because most of it is still in good condition, having been well cared for and maintained in its previous life.  There just isn’t enough room for it any longer.  When culling the stuff, we frequently benchmark our decisions by asking, “Would our grown kids or grandchildren want it?”  However, a knot in our decisions, if not our throats, appears when we think about whether our kids would look at something we decided to keep and exclaim, “Are you serious?” or “What the heck did they want or ever use this for?” and promptly throw it out – all this as they clean the house just before or after we pass on.

Something sorrowful stalks us when the dumpster lands in our yard for a week, despite the fact that my wife actually experiences intense pleasure from methodically clearing the decks, regardless of whether what falls overboard is technically hers or mine.  She thrives on orderliness.  Everything has its place.  I agree especially when I cannot locate something and fixate on finding it.  But when it comes to mass disposal, it pains me to realize what I paid for so thoughtfully and with such financial commitment just a few years ago is now essentially worthless except to me.

Studies show people routinely overestimate the value of what they already own and are surprisingly reluctant to part with it.  Think about those reality TV shows where crusty geezers refuse to sell rusty car parts they have stored in musty sheds decades.  The same studies show people underestimate the value of other’s possessions.  After all the effort of putting price tags on items, two different worlds of value collide amidst bargaining at flea markets and yard sales.  Charities have to be choosy too, given space constraints and client needs, so instead of selling or donating, the easiest route might be the dumpster.  Ah, but it’s not.

Take, for example, my substantial collection of suits and ties.  New ones were always a shopping reward especially if they were a bargain.  I could never wear them out, so after I retired, they just hung there like a museum display. To make matters worse, as I reluctantly gained girth and lost height, these nearly new suits no longer fit.  After years of debate, I donated all of them to the Salvation Army.  But I kept the ties as a collection of nearly one thousand memories.  Periodically I visit the closet to admire my own good taste.      

The saddest part of “dumpstering” is my having to say goodbye to such a full-blown, rich collection of memories all at once.  Each object evokes a certain memory or association, a time and place one can no longer recapture except when looking at or actually using some object now due to sit in a dumpster out in the rain and in the dark.   From time to time, this painful image prompts me to regard estate auctioneers as carrion eaters.

I suppose we have to remind ourselves that material possessions of any kind have no intrinsic value other than what we credit to them.  If we all agreed gold and diamonds are utterly worthless, so they would become. Yet for those who remember the look in their loved one’s eyes when gifted with gold pendants or diamond rings, the memory is cherished.  Infused with such lasting symbolic value, our gifts literally turn into valuables.  

What is the bottom line for the dumpster squatting in the yard or driveway?  I guess it is that finding, keeping, losing and even weeping about value is a hefty part of life.  Whether we are incorrigible hoarders or dedicated purgers, the truth is we spend much of our lives sorting through values and figuring out what is worth keeping and what really belongs in the dumpster.  Just as a reminder, don’t leave your best values in storage until a dumpster arrives.  The best way to preserve and renew them is to use them!       

                       

A Trip Into the Swamp

A TRIP INTO THE SWAMP

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

I stood in my back yard

And pondered the pine forest.

It looked calm, still, inviting.

As I walked in, pungent pine needles cushioned my feet.

Patches of bright sunlight and

Blankets of quiet shade created peacefulness.

The terrain levelled out.

Gradually, almost Imperceptibly,

The ground started to shift.

My feet began to squish.

I stumbled a bit as swampy water

Curled around my boots.

There were more mosquitoes who wanted my blood,

Persistently seeking patches of skin to exploit.

Soon I sank to my calves.

And then to my knees.

Reedy little islands beckoned.

I pushed toward one but could not reach it.

With each step I sank in further.

No longer could I move anywhere.

The swamp made sucking sounds.

Crickets answered and small frogs

Croaked as dusk approached.

Then dimly I spotted a man watching me.

Leaning against a scrawny tree on more solid ground,

He stared at my helpless situation

And seemed to smirk.

Then I heard him say,

Relax, you are SO safe,

In fact, you are in the best place ever.

Count my helping you get out.

But what have you got to give me back?

I like leverage and loyalty.

Can you give me that?

Compassion?  Forget it.

Give me your soul instead.

I gasped, could hardly breathe.

I said, OMG, are you the devil or something?

Why have I have been trapped by this mess.

How did my beautiful pine forest turn into a swamp?

He smiled quite gleefully and said,

Credit me. I did this, all me.

I have a real talent for it.

 You see, it is easy to trap people into getting what I want,

I make sure they have no choice.

Desperately, I grasped at surrounding swamp grass.

It just tore loose.

Then I noticed a noxious smell of methane gas and saw bubbles rising to the oily top.

I swore at this strange, alien figure,

But he just stood and smiled at me.

What can I do, I furiously yelled, as I swatted buzzing insects.

And by the way, how the hell did YOU get here?

Oh that was simple he replied:

I promised everyone I would make them great again.

I made sure those who opposed me got hated more.

All I needed was to be elected, to become the chosen one.

Then I built a swamp.  It works. I win. All the rest is fake news.

No one works together to get themselves out of this swamp.

They just argue about it and

Disagree over what part of the swamp they come from.

Don’t you remember?

You did this to yourself.

Let me know when you start swimming in your own juices.

Then you can count on me to give you another promise.

6/20/18

In The Boathouse

In The Boathouse

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

The deck of the old Chris Craft shimmered,

At rest in the shadows,

Silhouetted by the slits of sun

Around the doorway of the old boathouse.

The wood frame walls

Had been cured by the decades.

The walls were dark, smelled tinder dry

As if nothing had changed since 1920.

This was a dwelling place of memories.

I peered down into the clean clear water,

Saw rippling sands,

And in them my dad’s face was smiling.

The lake scent promised his fisherman’s paradise.

I kneeled in silence

On the boathouse deck.

Images of a young life drifted by,

Weaving together the boat, the lakes,

My dad and me.

I climbed down the deck ladder

And felt the cool water surround my waist.

The air hung still and warm

With the sweet feeling of summer.

As the water lapped around me

I could almost hear his voice.

Time disappeared for just a few moments.

But soon the inboard would awaken

And loosen our harbored tether.

The gentle burble of her engine

Would leave our reverie behind.

As her bow cruised into the path of sunlight,

A distant scent of Borkum Riff would linger.

FATHER’S DAY JUNE 17, 2018

Cars Carry A Cargo of Memories

Cars Carry A Cargo of Memories

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

 Among classic songs about cars is one by Chuck Berry about a seat belt that refused to unfasten at a romantic moment.  “All the way home,” the rock and roll legend croons, “I held a grudge for the safety belt that wouldn’t budge.”  I predated seat belts, so this never happened to me, but I must confess to enjoying an electrifying moment when the girl beside me whispered in my ear, “You’re the driver.”  Without question, cars invoke strong emotions while delivering unbelievable adventures. 

 For many of us, cars are hitching posts for significant events in our past.   Whether it is about technical features or social relationships, each car tells a story.  Here are just a few based on the dozen or so cars I have owned or encountered since the 1950s.      

I learned to drive in a 1956 Oldsmobile two-toned aqua and white hardtop.  Its technical features fascinated me because in those days cars rarely had power-driven radio antennas and channel switching, as well as six-way power seats.  None of this saved me from my father’s wrath when I nearly drove into a ditch trying to avoid a squirrel. 

In the mid 60’s I got a car of my own for the first time.  My 1957 Chevy was a hefty gift from my dad so I could get back and forth to college.  He felt its tonnage would protect me in case of mishap if a careless squirrel crossed my path. The front grill was   a piece of muscular sculpture as big and heavy as many of today’s compacts.  The imposing diameter of the steering wheel nearly forced me to peer under it when driving.   Unfortunately, before the days of undercoating, salty winter roads shortened the life of my classic gem.  Today I sigh at the high-priced restorations I see on television.  

Skip ahead to my 1965 Ford Galaxy sedan, our first car as newlyweds. This beautiful vehicle had a nearly fatal flaw.  It loved to drift, with suspension and power steering that felt like jelly.  We crashed on the New Jersey turnpike without injury, but shaken up.  I will never forget the horrified expression of the state trooper who opened our rear door and found 10 escaped pet gerbils peering at him from under our piles of clothing. He slammed that door quickly! 

In the early 1970s, upon returning from service in Vietnam, I ordered a Volvo sedan on an overseas delivery plan.  We were convinced it would be reliable.  Wrong.  Its dual manual Btitish-built carburetors were persnickety beyond belief and virtually unrepairable.  Especially in the hot California climate, our Swedish beauty balked at every stop sign, apparently demanding a frigid climate. 

Years later, with young kids to transport, my wife and I bought one of the early mini-vans, an underpowered four-speed Plymouth Voyager.  Speeding was impossible, thankfully because our kids learned to drive in it. The mileage was decent but downshifting nearly everywhere uphill was tedious.  Even more so was removing the third-row seat, which required leveraging, lifting, and sweating like a wrestler.  

Much more recently I purchased a year 2000 Corvette that drove like an unruly truck.  We called this one the beast because it acted that way and reminded us of Batman’s black cruiser.  True to the traditions of the Corvette nation, I brought the beast out only if the sun was shining and conscientiously flashed my lights to greet every oncoming Vette.  I discovered people just have to tailgate these eye-candy babies to see what is going on.  In a land of pick-up trucks where drivers often have to show me they can go faster, I have always felt just a little strange.

 Most memorable was a state policeman who stopped me, and, after inspecting the beast’s rakish front hood, said, “Where is your front license plate?”  I stammered, “Well, there isn’t any place to attach it, so it’s under my front seat.”  He warned me that state law requires plates on both front and back.  After some hasty research, I discovered that the preferred solution is just to pay the fine and forget it.  An interesting alternative is to install an expensive gimmick that strategically makes the front plate flip down and disappear under the bumper at the push of a button.  

Some folks thrive on refurbishing and showing off so-called “resto-mods”.   I remember too many of these gas-guzzling muscle cars from the 1960s as pure junk.  Even so, I say more power to them.  I settle for keeping mine washed.  I think we should protest the accelerating disappearance of standard shifts and cozy bench seats.  Remember when your girl actually sat close to you?  Today’s wonderful gadgetry is convenient and satisfying, but nothing beats my cargo of memories.