A BIG AIRPLANE (AND MY ARMENIAN GRANDMA)
I flew out of Detroit Metro Airport, dropped off by my sister after a short visit at her house.
The airport was not especially busy, but not empty, and I was raring to go. Euros in my wallet, electronic devices charged and loaded with audiobooks and e-books for the long flight, and a fuzzy sweater on my body. Coat safely under the airplane in my luggage so I wouldn't have to worry about it. I was feeling good. Prepared. Cozy. Ready.
When the plane boarded, I felt like country mouse. THE PLANE HAD STAIRS, guys. STAIRS. The only plane I've ever known of to ACTUALLY have stairs is the plane in that movie where Jodi Fosters daughter disappears 10,000 feet in the sky. But that was in a movie!
I didn't get a picture of the stairs, because I didn't want to be that person but I did get a picture of us all boarding.
As I approached my reserved spot, I saw an elderly couple in the two seats next to mine. I smiled wide as I approached and pointed at the empty window seat.
(Smiling is my armor of choice. It is my attempt to tell these people I do not know that I am a non-threatening-black-girl who is full of sunshine and roses.)
The smile worked, and I was greeted with return smiles and a stream of words. Non-English words to be specific. I sat, we all settled in, and we got ready for take off.
The couple was probably in their late 60s or early 70s. They were Armenian. I know this because they told me through a system of pointing, smiling, and my amazing powers of deduction. Ok, she pointed at herself and said the word Armenia. Moving on.
The wife, we'll call her Marta, was having a little trouble with the seatbelt and asked me for help. That one gesture changed the trajectory of the trip. We held hands when the plane took off. I helped them set up the language preferences on their entertainment screens. When I nodded off for a moment, they made sure I got my food. Marta and I went to the bathroom at the same time, you know, like besties.
When the flight attendant was making her way down the aisle, Marta let me know she wanted water. She showed me her empty 20 oz water bottle, and Google Translate tells me the word she said was "Õ»Õ¸Ö‚Ö€". The husband, we'll call him Gustav, was smiling. I gestured to find out if he wanted water too. He gave me the biggest smile, shook his head, and conspiratorially tells me "Gin!"
When the plane was dark and we all settled in for the night, Marta slumped a little bit in sleep, her soft Grandmotherly bulk leaning on my left shoulder.
I leaned into her.
THE AIRPORT (A SIGN OF THE TIMES)
The signage at the airport is odd to my eyes. Specifically, the exit sign.
The color is all wrong. Green means go, yes, but not go OUT. It means go as in continue.
And the person! The person looks like he is running. Legit running for the hills with a pack of rabid dogs at his heels. I don't know why he is going so quickly, but this innocuous exit sign is so incongruous in my mind, that it has a light menace to it. I realize that it is rather ridiculous, but Italian Exit Signs scare me.
I prefer my exit signs red, signaling that my time in this place is ending. Calmly. With no running people.
MUSIC, A CAB RIDE, AND A YELLOW POST-IT
I stood in line for a taxi outside of the Bologna airport. Surrounded by Italian voices, I clutched a yellow post-it note. It was my life line. A crucial bit of information that would keep me connected with my world. It had the address of the hotel. If it got lost, I was lost. I did not want to be lost.
A youngish cab driver gathered my luggage into the trunk, and threw a stream of Italian at me, which could have meant either "Hey, crazy lady, why are you clutching that yellow post-it so hard?" or "Where do you want to go?" Both are feasible. In response, I handed him the post-it, he nodded his head, said "ok" and began to pull away from the airport.
The radio was on in the car, playing what sounded like Italian pop music. I settled into my seat, ready to listen to the similarities and differences in the music and rhyming patterns, but before we were 15 seconds away from the taxi stand, the driver's hand shot out towards the radio frantically and tapped buttons until he finally settled on a station playing "September" by Earth, Wind, and Fire.
Now, I can never find fault with Earth, Wind, and Fire. Maurice White was a gift from above. But I couldn't help but be a tiny bit saddened by the missed opportunity. I was looking forward to riding through Bologna in the back of a taxi, watching the sunshine hit the buildings while listening to local music on the radio.
I think the driver was trying to be kind. He knew I didn't speak the language, and wanted to give me music that made me comfortable. It was a kind thought.
GRAFFITI (A PHOTO HAIKU)
under porticos
tattoos fill the city walls
naming bologna
PICTURE BOOKS AND A QUIET ROOM
I sat in my room alone that night. I had followed the advice everyone gave and stayed awake. My phones GPS in my pocket, and one earbud in my ear, Google Maps guided me through the streets of Bologna. I found a great place to eat, I took some pictures, I got myself lost and I found my way back to this room. Quietly, I sat and thought about the day - excited to write my first blog post for this trip.
But this trip is about the book fair, not about being a tourist. And then it hit me. All day I had been learning about picture books.
Picture books use words and image to communicate. Sometimes they just use image and color. Sometimes textures. They find ways to communicate with the smallest of us who are still figuring out the CONCEPT of communication.
My Armenian Grandparents and I communicated a lot. The only English word we shared was "Gin" but we shared laughter and fear and camaraderie. We communicated need and wants, and we assisted each other.
The exit signs communicated, and although I had to mentally translate the cultural connotations, I understood the intent.
My Taxi Driver and I had a wall of miscommunication. The outcome was not what I wanted, and he quite likely wanted to listen to the music he had on at first. Yet he communicated his desire for me to be comfortable after my body language likely communicated discomfort.
The walls of doomed Pompeii are still covered with ancient tags. "Satura was here" and the equivalent of "for a good time call" are everywhere. (I see you, Satura! You go girl!) The town may be dead and tragically gone, but these people of the past, the everyday common people, live on. They communicate with us across the ages their hopes, their passions, and their dramas: petty, substantive, and imagined. I can not read the words on the portico walls in Bologna, but the lines of the art... They are fierce, soft, intense, hurried, careful, amateur, artistic, rough. And they all tell us something.
These experiences in the travel to Bologna are at the core of experiences with picture books. We immerse ourselves in the pages, in the text, in the art. We glean meaning from all of them in different ways and amounts, and we learn something.
I am so ready for day two.