"Kitchen Table Chatter"
Matera, Italy
April 17, 1984
Dear Folks,
There are some aspects of my life before the worldwalk I used to consider so mundane that I would go out of my way to avoid them. One such thing was what I often referred to as "kitchen table chatter." You know what I mean: Dad moaning about the grass turning brown; the brother-in-law telling for the umpteenth time of the water pipes freezing last winter; Sis jealously rambling on about the other girls in her high school class.
I remember so vividly how I'd squirm in my seat at the kitchen table during breakfast or dinner and try my best, as the "wiser older brother," to let it all go in one ear and out the other. All the while of course I'd smile or nod at appropriate intervals. And all the time there'd be a tiny voice somewhere in the back of my mind groaning, How boring! The world's on the verge of all-out destruction and another Great Depression, and all they can talk about is that?
Ah, but now? Now I'd give anything to be seated again at that wobbly old wooden table and to be listening to such golden words. Yes, that's right...golden. Golden because now I realize those oftentimes silly bits of chit-chat are the "language" of family and close friends--persons I haven't laid eyes on for over a year now.
Oh I've had many conversations around many kitchen tables since departing from home. But it's not quite the same "quality" of drivel. For one thing, their relatives have wierd names like Franco and Fatima, and they are too unknown for me to truly appreciate their eccentricities. And, most of the time, the others at the table want to do all the talking, for it is their curiosity of the USA that initially attracted them into inviting me into their homes.
Or, or worse, because I'm a journalist they seem to think that I'd prefer not to discuss anything beneath the level of politics or nuclear proliferation. It's all I can do to keep from asking--begging!--them to tell me something more homey, like how the neighbor's wife filed for divorce again, or how little Bruno's school marks unquestionably hint at his being the next Einstein.
Oh for a big bowl of cornflakes, a steaming cup of cofee, and an earful of good ol' dumb gossip. For, you see, if there is one thing all my observations of various families in this world is teaching me, it's that life is mostly a succession of little and seemingly insignificant events. And those who don't learn to find such tiny events interesting and enjoyable--who live only for the "important" things--are denying themselves a lot of joy.
Luckily, every so often I manage to meet someone on this side of the globe who comes darn close to being a worthy "kitchen table chatterer." The basic requirement, of course, is that he/she must be a fellow American, and indeed some of the best chats I've had recently around a kitchen table were with such persons as the Jaquiths in Marrakech and the marine guards at our embassy in Algiers. The marines in particular were a super bunch. They shared their rambling old house with me for two days and nights, while I haggled with Algerian officials about getting a one-month visa extension. (Compared to all the other places I stayed in Africa, the marines' residence was like a place in some fantasy novel: a happy-go-lucky Scot cook whose brownies could have gotten him elected president; recently videotaped American sitcoms and movies being shown on a large color television; cupboards and a refrigerator!stuffed with food; and, best of all, a hot shower--the only one I had in the entire 1,200 miles across Northwest Africa.
However, the best kitchen table chatterer I've met, since leaving the USA, has been a Navy cook from Lawrence, Kansas. I met him this past week, when I arrived in Rome by train to pick up money and mail from home. The cook, Brian McCanon, and his Witchita-raised wife, Brenda, had me stay overnight at their modern apartment as I was on my way back to Matera (about where the heel of Italy's "boot" is joined to its sole), where I then resumed my walking.
Like myself, Brian had been a restless wanderer in his teens and early 20's. and he had frequently hitchhiked across the USA's vast midwest, usually with hardly any money in his pockets. As a result of our chats, we quickly discovered that we had had many of the same kinds of adventures.
Like longtime buddies, we talked for hours in the apartment's kitchen, laughing dellightfully at our "the time I got stuck with all the wierdos in Austin, Texas," kinds of stories and other similar nearly-forgotten tales that probably wouldn't have met much to those who've never hitchhiked.
The same sort of talk that used to make me groan was now providing me some of the best moments of my life, and I couldn't help thinking that not only do the best things in life come in little packages but perhaps, too, in little stories.
On the morning that Brian drove me to the train station, I asked him what he missed the most in the seven years he and Brenda had been living away from the USA.
He parked his old Alfa Romeo and thought for a moment.
"I miss not being able to just jump in the car and driving over to a relative's or a friend's house to talk," he said slowly. "Phone calls here are too expensive, and I'm not much of a letter writer."
He sighed.
"Yep, I guess that'd be the biggest complaint I got...not being able to just start talking with the family, when I feel like I need to."
I stared silently at the waiting train.
Steven
Comments
I once picked up Brian when he was hitching in front of a local grocery store. I knew him, he had lived with my high school boyfriend and I offered a lift. I was going to a high school cast party, and offered for him to join us.It's there he met my best friend Brenda.
And they lived happily ever after LOL.
PS. She's really from Lawrence KS.
Posted by: Friend | March 16, 2008 7:41 AM