Day One
When I was roughly 12 years old, I announced that I wanted to be a diver. This declaration followed three consecutive summers of domination at the Veasy Regatta diving contest. Off a non-springy diving board mounted on a wooden float, I had mastered a jack-knife and a back dive. My competition were mostly front divers with their legs splayed. I grew cocky.
When summer ended, I was eager to develop this talent further. My dad was not one to settle for the local YMCA diving team, no, he signed me up for a state team that required try-outs. On a chilly fall day, he and I headed to the Harvard University pool. It boasted an impressive array of springy boards at varying heights, along with a dozen young athletes who would have given Greg Louganis a run for his money. These kids could flip and twist and half gainer until the cows came home. My carefully pointed toes on my front dive did not impress.
I can still feel the horror of realizing I was so far out of my league that I searched for a corner to crawl into. At the Harvard pool tryouts my solution was to change roles and to play hostess; I ushered the real divers to cut in line in front of me so I would not have to dive. This strategy won me temporary friends, but not teammates. I was in over my head.
My first dinner at the American Academy in Rome gave me that same gutted-to-the-core feeling, or as my dad would say, I was too far out over your skis.
I arrived in Rome after my exhilarating two days in Venice. The train south was flawless and I was giddy with excitement when I arrived at the Academy. My room, the grounds, Rome itself – everything was incredible! Dinner was to be served at 8pm. Naturally I arrived at 7:45pm. I was alone. Not a soul in sight. I assumed this mixed-up communication was my fault but the cook assured me dinner would commence soon.
At exactly at 8pm the crowd arrived. All types. Every one of them waltzed past me without so much as a nod of recognition. As I entered the dining room and quickly surveyed the scene, I had to make a crash-course strategic decision – do I sit with the older crowd - or do I choose the youth group that had a bit of a spring to their step?
I chose youth. Bad decision.
Immediately I sensed trouble when the wine bottle remained untouched and no one offered to pass it. I tried to engage, but it was far from my A-game. I was overstimulated with Rome, jetlagged from my train journey, and more than a little parched. When the conversation turned to linguistics and the relationship between Latin and Japanese, I froze. My mind raced, searching for something – anything - I could contribute. Would they be interested in Ricky Martin’s upcoming tour? A healthier twist on California rolls made with cauliflower rice? When they started speaking Latin and Japanese, I summoned the courage to ask for the wine bottle.
I felt defeated. After dinner I consulted my brother. He informed me that when I talk about art, it doesn’t always make sense to everyone. He suggested that I sit and listen.
Ahhhh, then the obvious hit me, I am here to learn.
Skis on.
When I was roughly 12 years old, I announced that I wanted to be a diver. This declaration followed three consecutive summers of domination at the Veasy Regatta diving contest. Off a non-springy diving board mounted on a wooden float, I had mastered a jack-knife and a back dive. My competition were mostly front divers with their legs splayed. I grew cocky.
When summer ended, I was eager to develop this talent further. My dad was not one to settle for the local YMCA diving team, no, he signed me up for a state team that required try-outs. On a chilly fall day, he and I headed to the Harvard University pool. It boasted an impressive array of springy boards at varying heights, along with a dozen young athletes who would have given Greg Louganis a run for his money. These kids could flip and twist and half gainer until the cows came home. My carefully pointed toes on my front dive did not impress.
I can still feel the horror of realizing I was so far out of my league that I searched for a corner to crawl into. At the Harvard pool tryouts my solution was to change roles and to play hostess; I ushered the real divers to cut in line in front of me so I would not have to dive. This strategy won me temporary friends, but not teammates. I was in over my head.
My first dinner at the American Academy in Rome gave me that same gutted-to-the-core feeling, or as my dad would say, I was too far out over your skis.
I arrived in Rome after my exhilarating two days in Venice. The train south was flawless and I was giddy with excitement when I arrived at the Academy. My room, the grounds, Rome itself – everything was incredible! Dinner was to be served at 8pm. Naturally I arrived at 7:45pm. I was alone. Not a soul in sight. I assumed this mixed-up communication was my fault but the cook assured me dinner would commence soon.
At exactly at 8pm the crowd arrived. All types. Every one of them waltzed past me without so much as a nod of recognition. As I entered the dining room and quickly surveyed the scene, I had to make a crash-course strategic decision – do I sit with the older crowd - or do I choose the youth group that had a bit of a spring to their step?
I chose youth. Bad decision.
Immediately I sensed trouble when the wine bottle remained untouched and no one offered to pass it. I tried to engage, but it was far from my A-game. I was overstimulated with Rome, jetlagged from my train journey, and more than a little parched. When the conversation turned to linguistics and the relationship between Latin and Japanese, I froze. My mind raced, searching for something – anything - I could contribute. Would they be interested in Ricky Martin’s upcoming tour? A healthier twist on California rolls made with cauliflower rice? When they started speaking Latin and Japanese, I summoned the courage to ask for the wine bottle.
I felt defeated. After dinner I consulted my brother. He informed me that when I talk about art, it doesn’t always make sense to everyone. He suggested that I sit and listen.
Ahhhh, then the obvious hit me, I am here to learn.
Skis on.
