Talk Less, Smile More

“Scuzi. We are so sorry we are late,” Florencia announced as we burst through the door of the Italian AirBnB and into what appeared to be a scene staged for Instagram: a long rough hewn table artistically arranged with bowls of lemons, cheeses, a cutting board with piles of fresh sage and rosemary, and beautiful Millennials standing around smiling and sipping wine.

“No problem,” Elenora, the owner, chef and architect soothed with a wide toothed grin. “We were practicing drinking the wine.”

Throwing myself into a local situation or activity is my favorite way to experience a new culture. Yoga classes led in the family house by someone’s cousin, riding on the back of a motor bike thru a village to meet someone’s guru, touring little known food markets. I have to say, cooking classes while traveling hold a special magic that allow me to somehow more deeply infuse the flavors and the heart of the location into my cells. My class in Bali taught me about the magic combination of galangal, shallots, and ginger, as well as how rice can be a symbol of love and patience. But it also was one of my most tense travel moments as the two people I was with were in a full blown relationship meltdown while we all chopped vegetables. The lesson and the food were brilliant, but a holy war broke out in the cab ride back to the hotel. I chalked it up to the crazy energy of the island. After this week’s cooking class, I’m starting to wonder if perhaps I need to find a new travel hobby.

As our tour through the red and white wine of La Foresteria Farm began, we all introduced ourselves. The Chicago couple was celebrating their honeymoon. The New York pediatrician and child psychiatrist took their dating life overseas and were touring Italy before attending a friend’s wedding. The German psychotherapist was cycling through. Florencia was there to further the Eat Less Water experience and learn all about the organic Italian lifestyle. Jen and I were simply there to drink wine, fall deeper in love with Italy and not be moms for a while.

The conversations were innocuous enough in the beginning.

“So, where do you live?”
“Where are you originally from?”
“How is your trip so far?”

As the wine flowed and we stood shoulder to shoulder cracking eggs and peeling lemons, we gathered information about each other, made connections, revealed easy truths. Chicago was married in April and training for a marathon. Her mother’s side of the family was Italian American. The couple owned an extensive spice collection and had a killer taco recipe. New York had just taken her boards and was happy to be on vacation with her boyfriend. They were staying at the AirBnB as well as Chicago, but the four had only just met in this class. Florencia and Elenora chatted about the similarities between the foods of Italy and Mexico. Jen, the German and myself swooned over the smell of the chopped sage.

“Do they know who you are,” I teased Florencia as I snapped action photos of her for her newsletter.

“Who are you,” the American couples said in unison, anticipation bubbling from their lips.

“Oh, I wrote a book called, Eat Less Water,” she said giving me a look. I smiled back. “And I host a podcast.”

The five of them dove into a discussion of food and saving water, Jen and I chatted with the German tourist. She was soft spoken and actually did not reveal her profession until about 3/4 the way through the evening. It wasn’t until I offered to take photos of her, since she was traveling alone, that she began to open up to us. She hadn’t been on a holiday for a very long time. She came from a family of cyclists. Her grandfather was in his 80’s and had just completed a 35 kilometer ride. She wasn’t much of a cyclist herself and confessed with a shy grin she was riding an electric bike.

The wine was help-yourself and flowed freely while the hot water kettle sat lonely. Mr. Chicago mixed the marscapone with the cream for the tiramisu sparking Jen and I to quote Schitts Creek: “No, you fold in the cheese.”

“Oh! Do you guys watch that show,” NY child psychiatrist said.

“Watch it? She has it memorized,” I laughed pointing at Jen.

“You’re so cool,” squealed the doctor.

And this was the moment the evening turned from Strangers in a Cooking Class to Generational Social Experiment of Americans in a Foreign Country.

“Do you know Schitts Creek,” I asked Germany, trying to include her into the conversation.

“I don’t own a television,” she replied.

The evening took a rather wide and skittish turn from there. The couple from New York were both originally from the Tampa area in Florida. They had grown up only 45 minutes from one another but never met until they were living and working in NY. They weren’t engaged (an honest question asked by one of us moms, can’t remember which, that incited an awkward silence). In between cutting out precise raviolis, Mr. Dr. NY would critique Ms. Dr. NY’s technique, mansplain the process to her like she was a child. Then he kept disappearing to check his phone. Hurricane Ian was blowing into Naples.

Food prepped, we waited and drank more wine as Elenora dashed about getting the stove ready. We watched while she cooked the chicken thighs, bone in, in white wine and quartered lemons. Mr. Chicago said to Mrs. Chicago, “See! Thighs. I told you.”

While the chicken and pepper sauce was cooking, we set the table, drank more wine. By the time we had finished eating the fried zucchini blossoms and were waiting on the fresh pasta, the throttle on the conversation opened up and we really got into it. The rising crime rate in Chicago. COVID fallout. The hurricane raged on but it wasn’t discussed.

Then, the doctor couple gave their thoughts on kids that are trans. The topic started innocently enough; a conversation about the various beliefs on gender in different cultures. Then NY explained what they were seeing in their practices, how the kids were being affected. Florencia, Jen and I looked at each other knowing there had been way too much wine drunk for this to go smoothly. I contemplated letting them know just who I was. While everyone else sat silent, me, Jen and the NY doctors discussed if gender was a fully formed concept when you are a child and agreed that kids just need space to be kids. I tried to look at Chicago while we spoke to see what they thought. Mr. Chicago just smiled happily enjoying his wine. I couldn’t see Mrs. Chicago. Germany was silent in her seat next to me, but in a way that she was taking it in, not shutting down.

“Well, 80% of people who go through transitions want to reverse it,” announced Ms. Dr. NY.

I fucking hate these moments. Of course, this moment most often happens with my mother, who expertly regurgitates some bullshit statistic that Tucker Carlson warped and told her that day. I hate them because I know that the information is wrong, but I don’t have the author, date and page number of the medical journal that proves otherwise. Now, sitting here probably close to three glasses of wine in, an almost certified child psychiatrist was using this statistic to invalidate my kid’s existence. And she was taught this in school.

“I feel I need to tell you something,” I said. Jen and Florencia held their breaths. “My son is actually trans.”

Again, I couldn’t see Team Chicago, but Team New York sat very still, their expressions changed ever so slightly, but they remained quiet. I quickly went on.

“Basically I just tell my kid every day, ‘How are you today? Who you are doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that you are loved, no matter what.’ We just give him what he needs to be 100% completely himself.”

“And that’s why you’re a great parent,” Ms. Dr. NY said nodding, eyebrows pinched together. “So many don’t have a parent like you.”

“Too many,” I said.

The room dropped into a heavy quiet. We waited in our thick silence for the chicken to be ready or the house to burn down, either would have been fine with all of us. Ms. NY turned to Mrs. Chicago and said, “So tell me, what’s your favorite go-to dish for your dinner parties?”

I’d love tell you that I shrugged it all off, turned to Germany and asked her what she loved about traveling alone in Italy. Some of that is true. I did learn more about my new friend and she ended up being the best part of the evening as we connected on psychotherapy, energy healing and how making a real connection with someone is more genuine when you both have been through something. But I didn’t shrug it off. When Mrs. Chicago and Ms. New York turned their conversation about getting pregnant back to the entire table and posed the question “is it true that when you have a baby their poop doesn’t bother you” to us moms, I couldn’t hold back my snark.

“It’s like if you have a best friend and go out drinking,” I explained. “And she barfs everywhere. Still gross, but you’ll clean it up because you love her. Not the same as random vomit. See?”

“Oh, not me,” Mrs. Chicago said. “I’d run away and tell her to save herself,” she laughed.

“Yeah, maybe it’s best you don’t have children.”

I was too intoxicated to recognize social cues, too covertly pissed to follow them. Mr. Chicago announced he was going to call the three Australian 23 year old women from the previous evening’s class and have them come drink with us. Mrs. Chicago most likely gave him a look (again, I couldn’t see). I told him to bring it on because we were professional book clubbers and he had no idea the amount of wine we could put away. Ms. NY and Mrs. Chicago began whispering to each other at the end of the table, looking towards us and laughing. Dr. NY disappeared with his phone and didn’t return. Florencia stood up and announced it was time to go.

Germany drove us back to town. We talked about music the entire way. As the three of us thanked her climbing out of the car, she turned around in her seat to look at us as she spoke.

“I have to tell you how incredibly grateful I was when you three walked in the door. I didn’t know how I was going to manage with the Beautiful Americans. But when you showed up, I knew that we would get along fine.”

It wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning, when I was wide awake because of the jet lag or menopause, but absolutely not because of all that wine, that I realized the American Millennials were simply kids. They were practically adult pupae trying to figure out their way in a very complicated world and hadn’t I been exactly there only just twenty years ago myself? How was I any better than them, just because I’ve raised children and lived almost half of my life married? And then the terrifying follow-up thought hit me:

They are children taking care of our children.