No Short Cut to College

The other day I read a news story about parents in Hong Kong who are suing a Boston-based college consultant for $2 million dollars.  The consultant promised to set up their 2 children with prestigious high school educations and to make introductions that would guaranteed their subsequent admission to Harvard.  He solicited the parents before the children were high school aged, representing himself as a Harvard professor with ties to the admissions office.   Over the years, the parents paid the consultant $2 million dollars, purportedly to be used to make large donations to the target institution.  This is a glimpse at a growing cottage industry that is being fueled by ever-larger applicant pools for admission to the top schools.  Though extreme, it is an extreme example of the lengths to which parents will go to see their children hit the college jackpot. 

While this article focused on the deception and possible fraud perpetrated by the college counselor, I found myself judging the parents.   Who lays out millions of dollars for a college certainty before their children have refined their interests?   I have difficulty viewing these parents as victims. They seem more interested in buying an outcome to their children’s education than in participating in their upbringing.

College consultants are very popular in our area.  When my children were in high school, I received solicitous marketing materials by mail on a regular basis (none from the personal named in this case and none that seemed disreputable).  Almost all touted the past titles (admissions officer, dean) and institutional connections (Harvard, Yale, Princeton) of their consultants.   Parents begin in their student’s sophomore and junior year to use these consultants, helping them to make choices about high yield extracurricular activities, courses (which lead to the “right” letters of recommendation), and other aspects of their academic record.  By the summer after junior year, the consultants are working on the “packaging” of the student and the application essays.

I have never used these consultants; nor have I read an application produced under their supervision.  On the other hand, I spent 14 years conducting interviews for my own alma mater, which imparts a certain insight into the admissions process.  I have heard college admissions officers complain about college counselors, bemoaning the effect they have on the admissions process.  They suspect many applications of being produced by a third party.  When I conduct an interview, I always make the assumption that a student’s greatest area of expertise is himself.   Therefore, I try to ask questions that let the student reveal the depth of her academic interest, demonstrate how she uses what she learns, and show what vision she has for herself.  I try to get at what really motivates a student's academic achievement rather than what she has been taught to say.  For many applicants, it is difficult to crack that shell.

I am not exaggerating when I say that every student I have interviewed has a similar resume.  I have seen consistently excellent GPAs coupled with 4 to 6 AP exams.  All have done community service, as it is a requirement for graduation in our town.   There are a few predictable variations:  science or arts, athlete or musician.  Just as common are those who have no focus among their many interests.  All are seeking an Ivy League school. 

After conducting dozens of interviews, I came up with a few questions that I use routinely as an assay of a student’s scholarly potential.  One of my favorites is to ask the student to describe their favorite term paper or research project.  Remarkably, many are unable to recall their 10^th grade history project or are unable to explain how they got the idea for their Science Fair project.   Only a few students have ever given a detailed response to why they are interested in attending the specific school for which I was interviewing them.  Sadly, more students report being motivated by the need to get good grades or amass credentials than by a true passion or an interest developed from in-depth study.  When you find a true scholar, it shoes.  The conversation is easy.  It demonstrates a joy of learning.  It floats from topic to topic, referencing moments of keen awareness, reveals moments of revelation with literature, or other "aha" events in the student's own development.

The irony to the burgeoning college consultant industry is that college admissions officers see through the packaging.  A college application is not a corporate business plan; it is an opportunity for the student to exercise her voice.   It should read as something that was composed by a 17 year old, while showing depth of thought and a point of view.  A good essay will reveal rather than tell.  If you consider that there are zillions of applications for every available slot, nothing is more important than a clear and distinct voice.  Many college consultants do the opposite, driving the student away from themselves and toward their company’s style.

A lot of people ask me to talk to their kids about their college applications.  I always give the same advice:  be yourself.  The goal of applying to college is for the student to find a good match to her abilities and her life’s goals.  If the student does not reveal herself honestly, she runs the risk of not matching with the best fit institution.   Not all roads lead to Harvard, and that's OK, too.

There is an important role for parents, teachers, and counselors in the college application process.  There are many practical and financial considerations in choosing a school.  Brainstorming, pitching ideas, and proof-reading are all critical to producing a well-considered application.  And it is important to be supportive about a wide range of great schools, no matter where the application leads.   But the process, like its consequences, should be owned by the student.   

Voltaire Was Right

We have a strange architectural feature in our home.   Our fireplace opens to the great room on one side and the dining room on the other; however, the third side is cut at a 45 degree angle, creating a foundation for a triangular void that leads out to the deck.  When we bought the house, there were two sets of sliders closing off this space from the adjoining rooms with a third set opening to the large outdoor deck.  Because this triangular space is nearly 2 stories high and comes to a point on the ceiling, we nicknamed it “the atrium.”  In reality, it was a 3-sided glass prism, unheated, with barely finished walls.

“The perfect is the enemy of the good.”

Over the years I have puttered with this room, trying to turn it from an eyesore to a “feature.”  I removed the interior sliders and finished the openings into the house, supplying it with 4-season climate control.  The exterior sliders had long-ago lost their seal, causing them to be not only drafty but also foggy inside.  I had them coated with a low-e film (the same product applied to the John Hancock Building) in order to keep them warm in the winter and cool in the summer.  These same sliders also had no working locks, requiring us to bury wooden dowels in the tracks for security as an alternative to bolting them tight.  For many years, these solutions were good enough.

“The perfect is the enemy of the good.”

Last summer, I could stand it no more.  I hired a construction company to replace the wall of leaky 40-year old glass with weather-tight French doors.  It was a revelation.  After a mere two-day invasion by professional-caliber workers, the contractors removed all the debris and the old doors, leaving nothing but a glorious wall of bright-light-emitting glass and a bill.   It was the first time I ever hired a full blown construction company to do a home-improvement project.  Normally, I enjoy playing general contractor to a collection of variously-skilled handymen, but this project presented unique challenges that were best left to experts. When the project finished on time and on budget, I realized the value of using people who had done this type of job dozens of times before.  It was a lesson in penny wise and pound foolish.

There was just one problem.  The construction company did not do finished painting work.   The 6-panel wall of windows and French doors came fully finished from the factory, requiring no additional painting.  But there were a few dozen linear feet of moldings that were lightly primed and installed with a nail gun.  I would need to get a professional painter to complete the cosmetic finishes.

“The perfect is the enemy of the good.”

As beautiful as the new doors were, they made the rest of the space, which is finished with horizontal planks of “ship lap,” look worse.  Ship lap resembles paneling, except that it has a rough surface and when aligned, the boards have deep ½ inch gaps between them.  Long before we moved in 15 years ago, there had been a leak around the chimney, causing the boards to be marbled with water stains near the peak of the ceiling.  My husband loved the retro 70s look of the unfinished wood planks, but I could no longer stand the marred appearance.  Rather than trash a room full of wood, we decided to seal and paint the planks with a nice low-VOC product.  It was a small improvement that could be incorporated easily into the job of painting the moldings. 

“The perfect is the enemy of the good.”

I measured the space to be painted; it was barely 200 square feet of wall.  Most of the room was either glass or brick from the back of the fireplace.   I called one of my favorite handymen who was always looking for small day jobs that he could do on Saturdays to supplement his regular job.   At the end of the first half hour it became clear that he had bitten off more than he could chew.  Not only were the grooves difficult to paint—they had three sharp sides to them—but the rough scratched surface of the raw wood planks created so much surface area that it consumed primer and paint at an alarming rate.  He was immediately regretting not bringing reinforcements.

After an hour in which he barely cut in half of the sharp angles in the ceiling, I offered to grab the glazing compound to begin filling the nail holes in door and window trims.  When I had finished that task an hour later, I picked up a small brush and began priming the grooves, hoping that he would catch up quickly as soon as he could switch to a roller.  Another hour later, I had primed everything within six feet of the floor, while the painter was still on a high ladder working the angles and grooves at the ceiling.  We finished a full gallon of primer and still had so much to cover.  I fetched another gallon from the paint store up the street.   When my husband came home, he took the brush from me and primed everything between 6 and 8 feet off the ground.  Still, the poor guy was working the ceiling on his tall ladder.

I finally insisted on a lunch break around 2pm.  Afterward, we switched to the paint color, beginning again with the process of filling the nasty grooves—this time with paint. Although the primed surface was easier to cover than the unfinished wood, it was nonetheless a full employment act for the three of us for the rest of the afternoon until nearly 9pm. 

I felt truly sorry for this poor man who worked hard all week and then came to help us with our “small project” on his day off.  To his credit, he did not want to leave us with a partially finished eyesore, trying with all his might to reach end of job.  This was a very small space (the room measures only 96 square feet), but the height of the ceilings and the nature of the wood translated into a huge amount of painted surface. 

“The perfect is the enemy of the good.”

I think my poor handyman was glad when he reached the bottom of the gallon can of paint.  It meant an abrupt end to the day’s work, even though the job was not finished.  He had rolled paint across all of the boards, but an area of grooves still remained unpainted on the ceiling.  Quickly, he vacuumed and swept up, running out as quickly as possible.

I hope this experience did not sour my favorite handyman on doing future projects for us.  I still have a long list of “simple” projects with his name on them.  But before I embark on the next one, I will remember this painful day and the sage wisdom of Voltaire:  “the perfect is the enemy of the good.”

Penalty Box

I remember the first time I traveled on an airplane.  It was the winter holidays and my family took a trip up north to visit my grandparents.   My mother took me shopping for new “traveling clothes.”  I could not wait to dress up and parade through the airport hauling my little bag of activity books with a sense of purpose.  Everything about the occasion was wrapped with importance.

Over the decades, I have earned a lot of notches on my traveling belt, arriving in cities across the US and abroad.  I remember a time when everywhere I went, signs bid me Bienvenue or Willkommen.  Airport officials in foreign countries smiled at expatriates, each playing the role of ambassador on behalf of their homeland.   Sadly, these days are long over.  Airports are now somber places where workers are burdened with regulations and restrictions, each a reminder of a wound that refuses to heal.  There is no smiling and no sense of humor.

For our return from Italy, the airline served notice to arrive a full three hours before our flight—a requirement to accommodate the heightened security of a decade ago.  Obediently, our car pulled up promptly at 6:45am for a 9:45am flight only to find that the terminal was deserted.   Dragging our roller bags, we stood in the middle of the International Terminal and looked in vain for airline personnel.  We had entered the first traveler’s “penalty box.” 

It was a full 40 minutes before an airline representative arrived to check our paperwork, permitting us to advance to the next penalty box.  We moved through a set of automatic glass doors only to find a duplicate set of airline counters on the other side.  First in line again, we waited another 25 minutes for the late-arriving airline staff to set up their ticketing stations.  Finally, they scanned the barcodes on our iphones and accepted our pre-checked bags.

The wild card in this process occurs between check in and immigration, when the international traveler must navigate the highly mysterious “tax-refund” system.  We purchased 4 items that exceeded the threshold, allowing us to claim the 11-15% VAT discount on those items.  It turns out that tax refunds are facilitated by four different companies—we had one from each—only three of which have booths at the international terminal between check in and security.  From the fourth we had an envelope that needed to be mailed at the airport only after getting a custom stamp (another 15 minute wait for an agent to appear) but before leaving the country.  There was just one catch:  the only mailbox was at Gate G1, while our flight was at Gate H11.  The only way to complete the tax-back protocol was to take a shuttle to G, a situation that would require us to clear airport security screening a second time before shuttling to H.  Basically, we had to choose between serving time in the penalty box or being ejected from the game.

We skipped the detour to G and went straight to H.  In the airport lounge, we were fortunate to find a worker who was willing to drop our paperwork in a mailbox on her way home.  We will not know whether she followed through for at least three months, when we will see whether or not we have been granted a credit on our Master Card.  If not, we have no further recourse.

After an eleven hour flight, we arrived at Atlanta airport, happy to be back on American soil.  The first order of business was passport control, another penalty box if ever there was one.  We were happy to be one of the first people off our plane, yet we ended up queued behind scores of people from other arriving flights.  The endless serpentine line was serviced by just 3 agents, each as deadpan as Tommy Lee Jones.  There was no air conditioning.  I suppose if you survive this major penalty, you are then certified as fit to re-enter the US. 

From there we had to claim our luggage in order to move through Customs.  Once again there is a glitch in the systems engineering, penalizing anyone who is not terminating in Atlanta.  Although we are free to purchase bottles of wine and spirits at the Duty Free Shops in Rome, once we claim our luggage and clear US Customs we are required to pass through TSA security screening in order to connect to our next flight.  Now, any Duty Free purchases are subject to the 3 oz. limit.  This is the Yankee penalty.

After clearing all these expected penalty boxes, Delta pulled a delay of game.  The bank of monitors displaying connecting flights was out of service.  Instead, there was a poorly trained agent who lacked command of touch-screen technology searching for gates while frustrated passengers shouted destinations at him.  It seems that penalties are only for the passengers; there are never penalties assessed on the opposing team.

I have great respect for those who aim to keep me safe while I travel.  But I have nothing but disdain for the faceless bureaucrats who have stolen the mystery and glamour from travel. 

A Little Mischief in my Wake

We have all suffered the endless night; tossing and turning, watching the hours tick by minute by minute.  For me, this happens most frequently on those occasions when I must awaken especially early, as I did this morning to catch our return flight home from Italy. 

The 5:00am wake-up time does not seem that extreme, unless you consider that I have been living 6 hours ahead of my body clock for ten days.  I never really adjusted to the European time difference.  I blame the blogs for this—having to write for an hour or so each evening, and then wake early to post them each morning on Facebook.  I suppose having two college kids is a contributor as well, as mine are divided between east and west coasts.  Most mornings during our trip I was treated to a barrage of text messages from our progeny who, rather disconcertingly, had yet to go to bed from the night before. 

But besides the blogs, the kids, and the occasional annoying email—each enough to prevent deep REM cycles—I am most plagued by the unnatural distrust of my wake up management system.  When you have an early morning international flight, you simply must get up.  There is such a heavy penalty for failure that it is not an option.  This is why I require a fail-safe system with overkill squared.  I set alarms on both my cell phone and my husband’s—5 minutes apart—and also request a wake-up call from the hotel.  But this is not enough.  The phones must be positioned on the other side of the room, requiring that I get out of bed to shut them off.  This lowers (but does not eliminate) the possibility of falling back to sleep.  And even after checking and double checking that they are set properly, I still get out of bed several times during the night to check that I did not inadvertently switch them off while checking them earlier.

My diligence is never rewarded with prolonged or restful slumber.  When I actually succeed in drifting off, I awake in 15-minute increments.  I check for indicators that the power has not failed silently during the night—usually by leaving a light on in the bathroom to give off a telltale glow through the crack in the door.  Normally during these painfully long nights I regret the last post-apocalyptic television show I watched (Revolution comes to mind). 

There have been several incidents that have brought me to my current level of insane wake-up paranoia.  I once fell asleep studying late into the night for a final, awaking with the morning sun and dashing in slept-in hair and wrinkled clothes to the exam.  Only days after my son was born, my husband traveled alone to a close friend’s wedding.  He never received the hotel’s promised wake up call and missed the nuptials completely.  My poor son had an alarm malfunction before his very first college midterm, arriving too late to be admitted to the room.  (Never fear; that one had a happy ending.)  Once, with his cell phone on silent, he missed his 4am alarm and the 4:30 taxi that was to take him to the airport for his winter break trip home.

For years I traveled for business, hopping early morning flights to westward time zones, trying to arrive at clients’ offices by start of business.  Without fail, I would toss and turn before those flights, waking again and again in anticipation of the alarm.  I would always make it to those appointments, but I am sure that restless lifestyle took years off my life.

It was a familiar scene last night as I booby-trapped the hotel room with my wake-up devices.  My husband no longer attempts to dissuade me from my system.  It works well, even if he does shake his head and chuckle to himself.  After all, he is able to sleep like a baby, knowing that he has the most effective alarm system ever invented at his disposal—me.

Italy, in Italics

My wonderful second honeymoon is drawing to a close.  We have come full circle, arriving back in Rome after glorious excursions to Venice and Florence.  I have been on the road long enough that my clothes are beginning to smell musty in the suitcase, even as they are ever more displaced by tax-free spoils meant mostly for my children.   I am becoming weary of vacationing just in time to bear the flight home, confirming that the trip has been long enough.  I cannot wait for the predictable comfort of my own bed, its groove timeworn to fit my body, my own pillow fluffed to the perfect supporting height for my head.  I carry memories of sites and sounds and smells—forever etched upon my sensory center, capable of evoking nostalgia from the trip of a lifetime.

Italy is as I always knew it would be; it did not disappoint.  That being said, it has not been without a few bumps and quirks along the way.  Foreign countries being what they are, there are always things that seem, well, foreign.  In anticipation, I took great care to learn a few words and customs just to avoid the specter of the ugly American.  I wielded my ‘buon giorno’ and ‘arrivederci’ and ‘grazie’ in an effort to be polite.  I’ve come to discover, however, that English is the national language of Italy.  Everyone, from waiters to ticket clerks, speaks English fluently.  For some reason, this makes me sad—worried for the day that Italians abandon their beautiful language altogether, resorting to the sloppy and non-lyrical English of Americans.

On the other hand, I love that all the hotels have doorbells on the rooms.  There is something quaintly civil about a housekeeper’s ringing.  It seems to ask, “May I enter?” rather than demanding access with an agitated knock followed quickly by unauthorized entry.

The cuisine also gives me food for thought.  I come to Italy recently enlightened on matters of healthy eating.  Here, you are not only allowed to eat pasta and drink wine, you are strongly encouraged to do so—at least twice a day.  In fact, there are different stratifications of drink for before, during, and after meals.  And after training my palate in the “nutty goodness” of whole grains, the concept of avoiding over-processed foods is absent here.  There is a broad spectrum of things that can be done with enriched white flour, and these are brandished shamelessly in every pizzeria and trattoria.

Cows are apparently an endangered species in Italy, as veal dishes far outnumber beef on every menu.  I wondered more than once how to reconcile the short life expectancy of cattle against the rather large leather goods industry.   Pizza is different here as well, made on the thinnest of crusts with a maximum of only three ingredients (including tomato and cheese).  It is intended to be consumed in its entirety by one person, and it is better than any over-configured monster I have had in the States, whether frozen or delivered.  And artichokes!  All I can say is there are more ways to eat artichokes than one might imagine.

One nice feature of Italy is that there is virtually no tipping.  It only took us one or two taxi rides before comfortably paying just what is on the meter, perhaps only rounding up to the nearest Euro (because the smaller denomination coins are just a nuisance for everyone).  Restaurant waiters know about an American’s penchant for adding 18 to 20% gratuities.  They have learned to spot us coming and going, whispering when they bring the check that although there is a 12% service charge, tipping is extra.  In fact, the service charge does go to the house, but waiters are well paid and do not live on their tips as in the US.

Beautiful Venice was a bit of a challenge for me personally.  It is a beautiful, museum-like city that glows with color like the Painted Ladies of San Francisco by day, and shimmers with undulating pools of light by night.  But its other-worldly quality is quickly vanquished by the prevalence of steps.  As a knee-challenged person, I had difficulty enjoying the #1 tourist activity—“getting lost in Venice.”  The uneven cobblestones and random-height steps up and down every bridge made it an obstacle course for me.  I spent far too much time watching where I was walking and not enough time absorbing the charm of the city.

When not in Venice, driving by car is quite an experience.  There are virtually no traffic laws, or if there are, they are not immediately apparent to foreigners.  You can drive on sidewalks, in any direction down narrow alleyways, and even in line with trolley tracks.  On another note, plumbing can be a bit of an adventure.  There is some wonky type of plumbing in every Italian bathroom.  Things that we have come to take for granted—such as toilet seats, flushing, running water—are not necessarily a given.

There are more Hard Rock Cafes in Italy than any other country in Europe.  I haven’t looked this up; I just know it instinctively to be a fact.  Also, there is a strange Italian law of nature:  each Ferrari retail store you pass will be bigger than the last. This is true even if you walk repeatedly around the same block.  And, you can bargain almost everywhere, especially if you pay cash.  Italians are heavily taxed and live in constant fear of the “guardia di finanzia”, but when you pull out cash they will make a deal at almost any price. 

The most important thing I learned is that in Italy, as in life, there is far too much to see and do, no matter how much time you allow.  Like all good things, it is best to save something to enjoy next time.

A Goliath Among Pilgrimages

Growing up I always thought of myself as hopelessly anachronistic.  I prefer classical music to The Who, Jane Austen to Stephen King, and Masterpiece Theatre to Monday Night Football.  My life has been spent looking backward in awe of the monuments and milestones of man more so than forward at the latest techno gadget or fashion trend.  For this reason, I am a sucker for travel.  It is not enough for me to study the past; I long to visit the shrines of civilization in situ, extracting from them what inspiration they care to impart to me.

Most people call it a bucket list—a defined set of “things” to do before you, er, kick the bucket.   My bucket list is actually a set of pilgrimages.  There are places, as well as landmarks of human and artistic achievement, that have inspired or driven me since childhood.  Numbering just over a dozen, these are not simply destinations for me.  I journey as a mission-driven pilgrim to these sites, seeking meaning and ruminating on the significance of the moment.  In practice, I love to build anticipation, lapping up every relevant fact, myth, and urban legend, and then, after much anticipation, set out in the early hours to face the object of my obsession.  

Over the years, I have journeyed like this to many places that have meaning or fascination for me—either for their geographical or historical importance—knocking off the bulk of my sacred list.   My list contains works of art, ancient wonders, as well as geographical spots.  I do not pay much attention to internal consistency of my list.  It becomes a pilgrimage if it speaks to me.  For example, my visit to the Berlin Wall was fascinating, but not a pilgrimage.  On the other hand, a thrilling moment for me was standing with my husband and just-turned-one son on the Four Corners, a point where you can stand simultaneously in Colorado, Utah, Arizona and New Mexico (now how cool is that?)

My pilgrimages have included seeing the Book of Kells at Trinity College in Dublin, an illuminated manuscript of the Four Gospels dating back to 800.  I journeyed to the acropolis to see the Parthenon (twice), but had to add another pilgrimage to the British Museum to see that same ancient temple’s priceless Elgin Marbles, stolen by the English for safekeeping.  I derive a particular joy from seeing the enduring qualities of centuries-old man-made achievements.  I love the persistence of the things themselves, as well as participating in mankind’s preservation of history and treasure.

It was very moving to be able to stand at the Western Wall, tucking a private prayer in the crevices among so many others.  I also felt a spiritual and intellectual calling to visit certain monuments of other faiths.  Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, as well as Notre Dame and Chartres in France, were artistic and architectural icons that made for moving personal pilgrimages.

Today was another of those long-awaited days of pilgrimage.  Although it is hyped beyond reason in Italy, I have yearned for decades to cast my eyes upon Michelangelo’s David.  Certainly there are enough photos and websites and reproductions to keep any girl happy, but I needed to feel the spirit of David up close and personal.  In truth, the city of Florence is an embarrassment of artistic treasures each as beautiful and significant as Michelangelo’s young hero.  But I think of David the way most women my age think about George Clooney.  I am here in Florence to see him.

David was originally sculpted to stand at the entrance to the Palazzo Vecchio, where now a superfluous reproduction stands mockingly.  Dozens of tourists snap their cameras at the faux David; I wonder how many of them think they are seeing the real thing.  The real man is the showpiece of the Galleria dell’Accademia, a building that was formerly the workshop of Michelangelo and others.  There, he is displayed upon a high pedestal much as he was intended as an outside sculpture, but he is protected from the elements as well as the constant shock of flash bulbs.

I always worry that my quest will end with disappointment.  Some works of art, such as the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, or American Gothic at the Chicago Art Institute, end up being much smaller in real life that you imagine when you see them in books.  The sculpture of David is just the opposite.  Mere photographs cannot do justice to the power of this figure.  Reaching 17 feet high, the larger than life hero seems more like Goliath than the diminutive boy who felled him with a rock. 

David’s physique is not only beautiful (yeah, he’s a hunk!) it is carved purposely in such fascinating detail.  With a 360-degree view, I was able to see for the first time the story that Michelangelo is telling.  David is standing on his right leg, his slingshot draped over his left shoulder.  He looks to his left, sighting his oversized opponent.  The leg that bears his weight ripples with muscle flexion.  The veins in his right hand dilate as he fingers the fatal stone.  With his left foot, his toes curl to grasp the ground beneath him, readying himself to transfer his weight from one leg to the other.  I can imagine the movement as he follows through with the attack, hurling the rock and striking the target.

I was elated to circle around and around David, barely able to believe I was finally standing there.  I tried to imagine the rectangular chunk of marble on which Michelangelo toiled to liberate this image.  In the pathway leading up to David, there are several unfinished sculptures, those that Michelangelo abandoned, the promise of an image stillborn in stone.

But the day was bittersweet.  Even as I crossed another pilgrimage off my list, I realized that there are so few items remaining.  It is another subtle reminder that the years are piling on.  Perhaps I should consider it a sign of a life well-lived and look forward for once—to those items that have been hard to cross off.  The remaining destinations:  Falling Water, the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids, and a Concentration Camp.

The Price is Right

Long before I packed my bags or set foot on a plane I knew one thing:  I was going to the island of Murano to claim the ultimate souvenir of my first trip to Italy.  Even as the train from Rome pulled into the Venice station, I was looking off-shore towards the famed island where glass factories have been making exquisite creations since the 14^th Century.  Thus, I put my blinders on as I embarked from the Vaporetto onto the dock in front of my hotel, turning my head away from the hawkers who try to entice passersby with plastic masks, Chinese-made glass gondolas, and colorful drops suspended from chains or earwires.

A Murano excursion requires an early start before the sun reaches its burning point in the sky.  We arose early to catch a public boat, but the hotel concierge stopped us.  Pulling out a brochure, he offered a free ride directly to a “wonderful factory” with which they had private arrangements.  We had set our sites on visiting some other shops further down the main strip; however, we were assured that we could visit those easily.  Boarding this convenient water taxi, we made a beeline for an exclusive destination on the tip of the island.

We were greeted by our own assigned salesman, who did not leave our side and perversely eavesdropped on our private conversations.  We enjoyed the glassblowing demonstrations, and then passed through the shipping room where, we were assured, our purchases would be safely crated and shipped tax free to our home.  The showrooms were impressive, although I was beginning to tire of the sales guy’s hovering.  I had to be very careful not to linger too long on any one object, or to point out any interesting characteristics to my husband.  Anything more than passing disinterest opened up a carnival of hard-handed salesmanship.  The piece was whisked onto a lighted platform, wiped down with glass cleaner, after which we were treated to a lengthy description of artist and process.  The price, we were assured, was high, but this was to be expected with a piece of such quality.  When I inevitably turned my attention to something else, the show began again.  After a while, I realized that a series of showrooms had become littered with the road kill of my shopping adventure.  But the works I loved most—a set of wine glasses layered with emerald green glass—were apparently beyond my reach.  The sales hound clicked his tongue and admonished, “Madame, these glasses are over 900 Euros EACH.”  There was no show, no chance to hold them in my hands.  They sat on the shelf and kept to themselves until such time as Kate Middleton, or some other worthy soul, lavished the proper attention upon them.

Sales guy made a vain attempt to refocus our attentions, but when we rebuffed him he disappeared.  Before we were out the door, he was already at the dock, attaching himself to his next victim.  Feeling that we had to be surreptitious, we extricated ourselves out the back courtyard and made our way into the main part of town—a narrow canal surrounded by endless shops on each side.

I came to Murano to buy something for my house.  I always buy artsy household objects on vacations.  This way, our home becomes an album of memories from our various trips.  But in such a touristy location, it took dozens and dozens of shops to find the truly unique pieces that combined originality, artistry, and function.  As with most things, I knew it when I saw it.  It was a mirror, but not a traditional “cotton candy” Venetian mirror.  This mirror was contemporary, framed by tiny mosaic pieces, many of which were themselves Murano millefiore treasures. 

The price made me laugh, more so when I did the conversion to US dollars.  But I was determined that this piece could be wrestled into my budget--my one big splurge of my vacation.  I always try to get my husband to negotiate price.  Being a tough negotiator is not, shall we say, feminine.  Tom is a nice guy, and nice guys are pushovers.  He only wanted to rationalize the high price, reckoning that the hours and the materials with a reasonable mark up could easily add up.  He looked at the shop clerk, but could not form the words of a hard bargain.

Frustrated, I turned around to face the clerk, boldly offering him half of the quoted price.  He feigned surprise, even outrage, launching into a heavily accented tirade on the gold in the tiles, the thousands of tiny pieces, the setting of each by hand, and the one-of-a-kind nature of such a piece.  I stood quietly and stared into his eyes, using a rare genetic trait to raise one eyebrow high in an inquisitive fashion.  He came down 50 euros—not what I was looking for, but at least he joined the dance.  “You are going to have to do much better than that,” I said, smiling.  I came up 100 euros on my original offer.  I glanced around the gallery, making note that we were the only customers.  He picked up a phone and called downstairs, beckoning the owner to take over.  The owner spoke no English; holding a calculator, he typed prices into its display.  I held my line as he continued to drop the price 50 euros at a time.  Eventually, he stopped, but not before he fell 50 euros below his imposible price.   It wasn’t my favorite number, but it resembled it close enough.

I will love having this mirror in my house, perhaps even replacing the one that currently hangs over our fireplace.  But more than anything, I will enjoy the memory of the day spent treasure-hunting and haggling in one of the world’s greatest tourist traps.