Juliet's Answer
One Man's Search for Love and the Elusive Cure for Heartbreak
By Glenn Dixon
Table of Contents
About The Book
Eat, Pray, Love meets The Rosie Project in this fresh, heartwarming memoir by a man who travels to Verona and volunteers to answer letters addressed to Shakespeare’s Juliet, all in an attempt to heal his own heartbreak.
When Glenn Dixon is spurned by love, he packs his bags for Verona, Italy. Once there, he volunteers to answer the thousands of letters that arrive addressed to Juliet—letters sent from lovelorn people all over the world to Juliet’s hometown; people who long to understand the mysteries of the human heart.
Glenn’s journey takes him deep into the charming community of Verona, where he becomes involved in unraveling the truth behind Romeo and Juliet. Did these star-crossed lovers actually exist? Why have they remained at the forefront of hearts and minds for centuries? And what can they teach us about love?
When Glenn returns home to Canada and resumes his duties as an English teacher, he undertakes a lively reading of Romeo and Juliet with his students, engaging them in passions past and present. But in an intriguing reversal of fate and fortune, his students—along with an old friend—instruct the teacher on the true meaning of love, loss, and moving on.
An enthralling tale of modern-day love steeped in the romantic traditions of eras past, this is a memoir that will warm your heart.
When Glenn Dixon is spurned by love, he packs his bags for Verona, Italy. Once there, he volunteers to answer the thousands of letters that arrive addressed to Juliet—letters sent from lovelorn people all over the world to Juliet’s hometown; people who long to understand the mysteries of the human heart.
Glenn’s journey takes him deep into the charming community of Verona, where he becomes involved in unraveling the truth behind Romeo and Juliet. Did these star-crossed lovers actually exist? Why have they remained at the forefront of hearts and minds for centuries? And what can they teach us about love?
When Glenn returns home to Canada and resumes his duties as an English teacher, he undertakes a lively reading of Romeo and Juliet with his students, engaging them in passions past and present. But in an intriguing reversal of fate and fortune, his students—along with an old friend—instruct the teacher on the true meaning of love, loss, and moving on.
An enthralling tale of modern-day love steeped in the romantic traditions of eras past, this is a memoir that will warm your heart.
Excerpt
Juliet&s Answer
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene
Dear Juliet,
I am no longer young, but there was a time, yes, there was a time when I believed in love. I can sound out the names of lovers and draw up their faces, each one, so clearly. And then they are gone. Why is it that love comes so easily for some but refuses to stay for others? Why should it be so? Why should it twist our souls so grievously?
I read the letter all the way through. It looked like the others in the pile, nothing terribly special about it. These letters are all handwritten—matters so close to the heart cannot be typed—then they are folded into hopeful envelopes and mailed to Juliet, care of Verona.
Giovanna appeared at my door. “Ciao,” she said. “Would you care for a coffee?”
“No, I . . . I’m okay.”
Giovanna wore pearls even in the afternoon. She swept into the room, glanced at the letter in front of me, and read my thoughts. “Some are quite moving, are they not?”
“I’m not sure how to answer this one.”
“Ah,” she said, scraping a wooden chair in to sit beside me. She bent over the letter, tipping her reading glasses slightly. “Many of the letters are full of sadness. They are poetry too sometimes.”
“So how should I answer?”
She peered at me. “Sometimes it is enough for them just to write.”
“This woman writes so beautifully. I’m not sure I—”
“The answer,” she went on, patting the letter, “is often contained in their words.”
“But—”
“You must be like a fortune-teller. You must watch for signs. The writer will tell you what they want to hear.”
“I don’t know.”
Giovanna looked at me as if I were slow. “She needs to know that her life is good, that she is worthy, that she is important. She needs to know that. That’s what you must write.”
“And then I sign it ‘Juliet’?”
“If you wish. Or you can sign ‘Juliet’s secretary.’?”
“Okay.”
Giovanna stood and straightened her dress. “We take this responsibility very seriously.” She turned on her heels and walked to the doorway, where she hovered, a slender hand on the doorframe.
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“No coffee then?” She fixed me with a final stare.
“No, thanks. I’ll just get to work.”
“Va bene.” She lingered, watching, then brushed out of the room.
There is no Juliet, of course, though the tourist board of Verona would certainly like you to believe there is. Verona is an ancient city. Around it lie the fields of Valpolicella, valley of the cellars, some of the oldest vineyards in the world. Julius Caesar spent his summers here. Dante came in exile to finish his Divine Comedy. But nothing is as singular to the city as the legend of Romeo and Juliet.
When I first crossed into the old town, I passed through a gate in the towering medieval walls. On a bronze plaque there, bolted to the stones, were the words THERE IS NO WORLD WITHOUT VERONA WALLS, BUT PURGATORY, TORTURE, HELL ITSELF.
That was Romeo’s line. He didn’t exist either, at least not exactly.
Plaques like these are all over Verona, marking the major events in Shakespeare’s play—a story that was not written here, a story that was made famous centuries before, in a different language and a different country.
I arrived in Verona at the end of July, two years ago, with a pocketful of questions. I was here to learn something. Something about love and maybe something about Shakespeare. Already I could see the crowds ahead of me, bunching and yammering, cameras at the ready, and I knew exactly where they were headed. The throngs funneled past gleaming shopwindows, past the cashmere sweaters and five-hundred-dollar shoes on display, and I was swept along with them. The street opened into a square on our left, but the crowd veered right and then, suddenly, there was an arch and a passageway before us and a sign that read CASA DI GIULIETTA—the House of Juliet. Here we were at last. We grew silent and reverent. I’ll admit I was cynical. Many of the younger women were enraptured, dragging along boyfriends desperately feigning interest. “It’s not real!” I wanted to call out. “It’s just a story!”
We shuffled under a stone archway and emerged into a courtyard. And there it was: the famous balcony. It jutted from the wall, ten feet above us. Vines, perfect for climbing, tangled up the old stones. It was a little too perfect. The balcony itself is actually an ancient Roman sarcophagus. It was incorporated into the wall in 1937 to lure gullible tourists like us. You can go inside the house too—it’s a sort of museum—and various young lovers come out on the balcony to get their photographs taken. Below, crowds cheer when they kiss. Cameras click. Texts are sent.
By the steps to the entrance, a placard tells the history of the house. I squeezed through the crowd to get close enough to read it: THIS HOUSE, it said, HAS BEEN IN THE POSSESSION OF ONE FAMILY SINCE THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. Above the arch is their emblem, the insignia of the Cappello family—a rounded hat like a bowler, as the Cappellos were, apparently, hatmakers.
Now, that surprised me. The Capulet name was obviously derived from Cappello. How would Shakespeare have known that? I looked around. Had he been here? There are lost years in his life—years when he may have been traveling overseas, but it’s not generally believed that he ever made it to Verona. The answer is simpler, as most answers are. Shakespeare almost certainly adapted Romeo and Juliet from an earlier work, and that work—an epic poem—had in turn been adapted from an Italian story dating back to around 1530.
This old courtyard, then, has been a place of pilgrimage for at least two hundred years. Charles Dickens came to see it and write about it. He didn’t like it much. The house had degenerated at that time into a miserable little inn with a brutish dog at the door and geese waddling across the courtyard. Now it flapped with tourists. Dickens probably wouldn’t have liked that either. In one corner stands a bronze statue of Juliet, her eyes cast downward, demure, her long fingers self-consciously clasping the folds of her diaphanous gown.
For reasons I don’t completely understand, you are supposed to gently cup your hand over her right breast and make your wish to the gods of love. One by one, the pilgrims step up to fondle her breast. The bronze there is polished to a golden sheen. Her face, meanwhile, is darkened with a charcoal patina.
For some time, I watched the crowds, until I noticed an elderly woman strolling the yard in contemplation. She moved from one feature to another, lingering at each, reading the placards, standing before the statue and then, just before leaving, she hesitated. She turned to take in the balcony one last time, then nodded before disappearing under the stones of the archway. And where the woman had been standing, a bright red wooden letter box appeared. I hadn’t noticed it until that moment. It was hand-tooled, intricate in its carpentry, painted crimson, and mounted on the brick wall by the entrance to the house. I edged over to it. POSTA DI GIULIETTA, it read. Letters to Juliet.
When letters to Juliet started arriving in Verona in 1937, no one knew what to do with them. They were propped up against the gravestones at the Monastery of San Francesco, long said to be the home of Juliet’s vault, and the groundskeeper there took it upon himself to answer them. By the ’50s, a poet had taken over the task, and by 1989, a baker named Giulio Tamassia had stepped in to answer the steady flow of letters. Giulio eventually retired from the confectionery business and opened up the first official office for the letters to Juliet. Hundreds of them were pouring in to Verona by this point, and Giulio set himself to the task of answering—for the next twenty-five years.
Giovanna, Giulio Tamassia’s daughter, took over the operations from her father and now manages the Club di Giulietta, whose staff sort the letters into languages, answer them, and then catalogue the originals. Giovanna complains that the city is not paying them enough to cover their postage, that they don’t help with the rent on the office, but still the letters flood in, overflowing boxes and spilling off counters.
I’d e-mailed Giovanna months before to ask if I could come to Verona and volunteer to answer letters to Juliet. Of course, my motives went deeper. I had a situation of my own that I was trying to figure out, but that’s not what I told Giovanna. I was a writer, I said. I’d been a teacher for a long time. I’d taught Romeo and Juliet and maybe I could help with the letters—the English letters, at least.
The day I arrived, she picked me up at my hotel—barely an hour after I’d clumped up from the train station. She parked nearby and strode up the sidewalk to where I was waiting.
“You are Glenn Dixon?”
“Giovanna?”
“Yes. Come, I am on my way to the office now.”
She didn’t say much. I wondered if she had seen this all before—if it was quite common for foreign volunteers to show up, earnest and eager, but maybe not up to the task. I wondered if this was all really a bit of a bother to her.
“Here is the Roman arena,” she said at one point, breaking the silence, looking out the windshield at the wide piazza in front of us.
“Okay,” I said, but I was too new to the city to know what she was talking about. I sat rigid in the passenger seat and we turned right, under medieval battlements the color of burnt umber. We crossed a bridge, the Ponte Nuovo, skirted a cemetery, and then wound down into an industrial area of offices and warehouses. At number 3, Via Galileo Galilei, we pulled in. A blue bicycle was tipped against the wall and the front door was propped open. Inside, it looked just like any other office reception room, with a potted plant and a front counter that faced the door.
Giovanna waved me in and pointed to a chair at a round table just in front of the counter. She sat down beside me and began to talk. First, she spoke about her father—he’s still alive—and I asked her a bit more about the history of the place.
“It is a long story,” she said, glancing back at the counter and the piles of paperwork there.
“But it all happens here. All the letters are answered here?” I pressed.
“Yes, of course. We are very busy.”
The place was in a state of organized frenzy. Opera posters and framed photographs obscured the walls. Books and papers lined the counters, tall and squared, like military squadrons ready to tumble. “So,” I said, “how many letters do you get a month?”
“Come,” she said, rising abruptly. I trailed her down a corridor to a smaller office at the back. Office is a euphemism. It was more like a warehouse. Shelves ran along two of the walls, sagging under the weight of a dozen or so cardboard boxes. All of the boxes brimmed with letters, and each was labeled according to language: Russian, Chinese, Swedish, French. Along the third wall was a counter with chairs pulled up to it as a sort of makeshift desk. An English box had already been placed there. Someone had set up a little workstation for me with a stack of stationery and envelopes. They’d even laid a pen out, just so, parallel to the papers.
“It will take some time for you to read them all,” Giovanna said, pointing at the box. There were several hundred letters in just this one box. Maybe even a thousand. My smile faded.
I scooped up a handful of letters. Many were in pale violet or thick, creamy envelopes, as if they were wedding invitations. But there were also loose scraps of paper, letters hastily written and, I imagined, dumped at the last minute into the letter box at Juliet’s house. I picked up one that was simply scrawled on the back of a train ticket. The return address: Brazil. I dropped it back into the box.
“Would you like to begin now?” Giovanna asked. “You can sit here.”
I did as I was told. It was going to be a long afternoon.
“Write your answers on these,” she said, tapping the stack of four-by-six sheets she’d left for me. “Then tuck them into the envelopes—but do not seal them.”
I looked at the return envelopes. They were printed with a graphic of Juliet on the balcony. Her hair was whipping in the wind, her hand outstretched imploringly. She looked more like a pinup girl from the 1950s than anything from Shakespeare.
“I will be out front if you have any questions.” She eyed me for a moment, then swept out of the office more quickly than I would have liked. I thought there’d be a little more in-service, maybe some training. I wasn’t sure I was ready.
I heaved the English box a little closer and the letters within shifted like sand. A few slid onto the counter and I reached for the nearest one. The letter was from the United States—California. I opened the envelope and began to read: “George left us on April 7, 2014. He and I were married for twenty-five years.”
Ah. A tragic tale of loss. But then I kept reading.
“I have recently met again with an old love of mine, Harry. Is it too soon? Is it too soon to feel these feelings again?”
What could I say to that? I didn’t even know Harry.
I pushed back my chair, ready to call Giovanna, but thought better of it. How could I admit defeat on the first letter? I read the letter all the way to the end, paused, then picked up a pen and paper.
“Dear Jane,” I wrote. “You will find the answer in your heart.”
I looked down at my page. What a load of bunk. I balled up the sheet and began again. I wrote another trite cliché, reread it, then crumpled up that answer too. I dropped Jane’s letter back into the box.
Maybe that was just a hard one. I needed to start off easier, something that wasn’t so complicated. I plucked another from the pile.
Dear Juliet,
I have been excepted [sic] into a university far away from where I live. It’s a very good university and a very good opportunity for me. The only thing is, I have just met a guy. He lives here. Please, what should I do?
Ha, I thought, I can answer that. I thanked her for her letter, then urged her to go on to university. I told her that the guy would wait for her—if he was worth anything at all. Then I added Polonius’s line from Hamlet: “To thine own self be true.” I thought that sounded good. I put my reply in an envelope and picked up the next letter.
“Dear Juliet,” it read. “I am sixteen years old. I have waited for so long to meet my Romeo. When will he appear?” Oh, honey. You’re sixteen. You have a whole world of pain ahead of you. Don’t worry. I didn’t write that. Instead, I wrote that she should be patient. That she should go and do the things she loved to do and that she might then find her love engaged in similar pursuits—and wouldn’t that be perfect?
Letter by letter, response by response, I fell into a rhythm. Each answer was two or three paragraphs long. I made sure to offer lots of reassurance that love would come, even if it had been lost. I used the “To thine own self be true” line embarrassingly often. As I wrote, I imagined writing letters to my younger self. It helped me with the answers, though truthfully, most of the time I felt like a high school guidance counselor, doling out advice that was likely irrelevant.
For the rest of the morning, I answered letters—thirty maybe—and read many more. The letters were mostly from the UK, the U.S., and my home, Canada. I answered letters from as far away as China, India, Mexico, and Poland. Sometimes the English was broken and simple, but the sentiments were all the same. All of them were asking about love. All were asking about this soul-wrenching experience that is both our deepest sorrow and our greatest joy.
I’d had my own problems in love. And part of the reason I had come to Verona was to learn something more about this all-encompassing force in our lives. To learn something, anything, that would help me understand my own heartbreak and help me, maybe, trust in love once more.
Until relatively recently, romantic love was thought to be a cultural construct. The idea of romantic love arose, allegedly, in the early Middle Ages, probably in France. It came to us through the etiquettes of courtly love, immortalized in the songs of troubadours and in the mores of chivalry.
Of course, that’s not quite right. Love has been around for much longer than we can imagine. And it’s not particular to any one culture. Everyone everywhere experiences love. No one had to invent it. In a recent study across fifteen thousand people in forty-eight countries, romantic love appeared in every culture. It’s now believed to be among two hundred universally human traits—like the ability to use language to communicate, or to create and enjoy music, or the presence of laughter. Scientists actually keep track of this sort of thing. The ability to love, it seems, is central to being human.
We all feel attraction to others, something that goes beyond sexual desire. In one study, five-year-olds reported being in love just as frequently as eighteen-year-olds, and it wasn’t their teddy bears they were talking about. The children had all the symptoms of adults—butterflies in the stomach, a helpless yearning, and an overwhelming need to be noticed by the object of their affections.
I certainly remember my first love. When Shannon Mahoney appeared at the door to Mrs. Acton’s grade-seven math class, I was completely smitten. I don’t know why. I just remember that it was instantaneous. She was thirteen, I was twelve, and for the next two years I was madly in love with her—though I don’t think I ever said more than, “Could you please pass the pencil crayons?” to this earthly angel. I dreamed up all sorts of fantasies about her, mostly elaborate escapades where I’d rescue her from distress, scenarios that usually involved water, because I was a really good swimmer.
And then one day, my feelings suddenly faded away.
Why any of this should be is not well understood. Why is it that I fell for that one girl in particular? Why Shannon Mahoney? Why did I fixate on her above all the other girls in my junior high school? Was it pheromones? Was it how she looked? Was it something about our particular genetic makeup? What the hell was it?
As I sat reading letter after letter at that counter in Verona, decades and numerous heartbreaks after the unforgettable Shannon Mahoney, I was struck by the fact that so many people were asking versions of these same questions, all wanting to know from “Juliet,” this supposed paragon of romantic wisdom, how love worked. Some of the letters spoke of the pinnacles of happiness and joy, the high points of love. One woman wrote that she was in Verona on her honeymoon. “Thank you, Juliet,” she gushed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Others—I would say the majority of the letters—seared with the agony of rejection. “Why?” they asked. “Why is this happening to me?”
“Your time will come,” I wrote again and again. But I wasn’t sure that was true. My time had never come. Often I felt like an imposter and a cheat as I wrote “Juliet’s” answers. When I thought about my own life, I knew full well that I hadn’t fared well in the game of love. I was as lost as any of these sad hearts, and, really, who was I to advise them? Who was I to tell them anything about love?
The phone rang in the main office. Giovanna answered and spoke in Italian. I couldn’t understand anything she was saying. She sounded a little exasperated, and a few moments later, she appeared at my door.
“The Korean Broadcasting System has telephoned.”
“The Korean . . . what?”
“They’re bringing a camera crew here.”
“What? Now?” I put down my pen.
“Yes. In fifteen minutes. They want to film what we do here.”
“Okay.”
“Va bene,” she said. “You will be on camera.” She whirled and disappeared down the hall.
I was promoted to the front office before the camera crew arrived. Giovanna called out to two of the other secretaries—both young women—and gathered us around the front table so that we looked like an ad hoc book club. When the Korean Broadcasting System arrived, there were only two of them, with a small handheld video camera between them. I immediately felt suspicious: Korean Broadcasting System, my ass. These guys looked like they were making a YouTube video.
The taller of the two seemed to be in charge. He bounced in, speaking flawless Italian, which caught all of us off guard. He held the camera in one hand and floated around the table taking swooping shots, hovering over us as we wrote letters with wobbling pens in hand. The second man was shorter. He stayed in the background and didn’t say much. I don’t think he understood Italian. He hummed a lot and spoke in short sentences—in Korean—to the guy with the camera.
“Hmm,” the shorter guy said, eyeing me, as if he’d just had a thought. He said something to the taller one, and the camera wheeled around to hover in front of my face.
“What you do here?” the taller guy asked from behind the tiny camera lens. Giovanna had already explained that I was a volunteer from Canada. The red light was blinking expectantly in my face.
“You mean why have I come here, to Verona?”
“Yes, why?”
“To answer the English letters to Juliet. I used to be a teacher. I taught Romeo and Juliet, so . . .”
“Teacher. Yes, you are teacher?”
“I was, but now I’m here. And I’m just . . . interested in learning something about love.”
“You know love?”
“Um. I know something. I hope.”
“You like love?”
This was going nowhere. I turned to Giovanna and she spoke to the man in Italian. The camera swiveled her way and they launched into an extended interview. Halfway through, Giovanna dismissed the rest of us and I fled back to my little back office and the rows of cardboard boxes.
Half an hour later, the shorter of the two men poked his head in at me.
“Hello,” I said.
“I understand you are interested in learning about love,” he said. He spoke in almost perfect English.
“Um, yes.” I pushed back my chair. “That’s the idea.”
“Very interesting.”
There was a pause. I wasn’t sure what to say. “Listen, are you guys really with the Korean Broadcasting System?”
“Yes,” he said, or rather, hummed. “I am the producer for this show. And the host. Every week we feature a different city around the world. We are doing Verona now.”
“You’re the host?”
“Yes. I don’t speak Italian, so Hyun-ki is my handler here. My show is called Backpack Travels. This episode will air at the end of September.”
“All across Korea?”
“KBS Global, yes.” He was looking past me now at the piles of letters spread across the counter. “Hmmm. Do you have any letters from Korea?”
“I think so,” I said. “But the letter I have is written in English.”
“Many Korean people speak English,” he said.
I fished through the papers in front of me. I’d been pulling out scores of letters, ten at a time. I had some notes of research too. Papers lay in mountains around me. “Here,” I said, holding out a plain white sheet of paper. The paper crinkled and rustled as he smoothed it against the counter. Out front, the handler was chattering away to Giovanna.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“It is a familiar Korean problem.”
“What is ‘a familiar Korean problem’?”
He lowered the paper. “A two-culture problem. She is fighting with her father about who she should marry. The younger generation wants to be like you Americans.”
“Canadian.”
“Same thing.”
“Not really, but okay.”
“Young people in my country want to marry for love. The father wants a marriage between two families.”
“An arranged marriage?”
“No, not exactly. But not a marriage strictly for love either. A marriage for the family. A marriage for business. For many reasons.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Listen,” he went on, reading out loud: “?‘I tried saying I love you once and my dad said, “What are you, American now? You think this is The Brady Bunch? You show you love me when you can support me.”’?”
“You know The Brady Bunch?” I asked.
“Everyone in Korea knows The Brady Bunch.” He broke out into song. “It’s the story of a lovely lady.”
“Yeah,” I said, quickly cutting him off, “I haven’t seen that show in years.”
“Have you seen the movie?”
“The movie? Of The Brady Bunch?”
“No. Letters to Juliet,” he said. “Have you seen it?”
“I have. I watched it before I came.”
He nodded.
In the movie, a woman writes a letter to Juliet, but it gets lost and doesn’t resurface until many years later. One of the newer secretaries insists that an answer still must be properly delivered, and then of course the two lovers, now old, find each other again after all these years.
“That is your Hollywood,” he said. “Always the happy ending.”
“I don’t believe in that either,” I said. “Life isn’t that simple.”
Hyun-ki appeared at the door, the camera jiggling in his hands. The two Koreans spoke together and then they filmed the Brady Bunch letter, our host holding it up in his hands as if he were reading it.
Then, almost as suddenly as they had appeared, the Koreans announced their departure. I followed them to the reception area, where they exuberantly thanked everyone for their time and walked toward the door, humming and nodding. Giovanna, her smile tight, ushered them out. “Ciao,” she said, then, “Ciao,” again, when they stalled at the entrance, bowing to each of us in turn. She was on her third “Ciao” when they finally squeezed out the door and everything became quiet again. Giovanna shot me a look and I fled back to my office.
An hour or so later, I was done. The endless letters were blurring my vision. I made my way to reception, where I found Giovanna by herself at the round table. She had a small pile of letters in front of her.
“You still answer letters?” I asked.
“Twenty or thirty letters a day, every day.”
She has been doing this for more than two decades. I did some quick calculations in my head—that was at least three thousand letters a year, and maybe over a hundred thousand letters over the course of the time she’d been working here. I began to see my day’s paltry efforts as a whisper in a hurricane, a pebble on a mountaintop.
“Arrivederci,” I called at the door and Giovanna looked up from writing with a genuine smile, the first I’d seen from her all day.
“I will see you tomorrow?” she asked, laying her letter aside.
“You will,” I answered. “You will.”
The next morning, I headed to the office on my own. The Old City sits in a loop of the Adige River, and I made my way through the narrow streets. Church spires and red-tiled roofs rose above me until I passed through a gate in the medieval walls and a wide piazza opened before me. Off in the distance, the ancient Roman coliseum sat like a crumbling crown. I headed east onto the bridge, and on the other side, I dipped under a cement overpass and came along the Via Galileo, a long, straight boulevard that took me, at last, to the offices of the Club di Giulietta.
Giovanna stood behind the front counter. “Ah,” she said, when the door wheezed open. “Buon giorno.”
“Hi.”
She tipped her head. “Your office is waiting for you.”
I took that to mean I should get to work. I smiled at her and walked down the hallway to the little room at the back. I answered letters, uninterrupted, for most of the morning.
On the second day of answering letters, I began to see patterns in them. The vast majority were from young women, but there were outliers. One older woman wrote that she was not asking for advice for herself. She had three daughters, she said, two of them happily married but the oldest was alone. Could Juliet help?
“Every daughter, and every son too,” I answered, “should wish to have a mother as thoughtful as you.”
Only occasionally were there letters from men, and almost immediately, I could spot the difference in the tone and sentiment. Sergei from Russia wrote: “Women don’t like me. I can’t lead them to close relationships and then to sexual relations.” Oh, Sergei. I’m pretty sure I see your problem. I wrote back to him that by writing to Juliet in the first place, he was showing a softer, more sensitive side of himself and that maybe he should work on showing that side to women.
“Dear Juliet,” wrote a younger boy, “I’m so sorry that everybody puts his hand on your boob. It’s really stupid. You are sweet and you make people believe in true love. Thank you.”
And that was about as charming as a young man could be.
There were problems with translation too. A Chinese girl wrote of her English boyfriend and her struggles to communicate with him. She was fluent in English, but still the nuances were hard for her. “Speaking English,” she wrote, “is like being underwater, and speaking Mandarin is like coming up for air.”
Toward the end of the morning, Giovanna appeared at my door. She studied me silently.
Finally, she said, “Glenn, I am having some problems with this one.” She laid a letter down in front of me and I saw with some pride that it came from Canada. The first line read: “I am married to a man who can be quite a doofus at times.”
“This word,” Giovanna said, jabbing at doofus. “I do not understand it.”
“It’s slang,” I said. I grinned at Giovanna, but she remained impassive. “It’s a sort of, well . . .” I stumbled on. “I can answer that one, if you like, and maybe you can take this one.”
I shuffled through the pile and found my very first letter, the one from the woman whose husband had died, the one about Harry. Giovanna scanned it quickly. “Yes,” she said, “I can answer this one.” She disappeared down the corridor with the letter and I heard her whisper the word doofus to herself, committing it to her considerable English vocabulary.
I worked through the afternoon, feeling generally overwhelmed by the heartache in most of the letters. This was supposed to be fun, something I could tell my students about when I got back to Canada. But there was more to it than that. I was looking for patterns in my own thinking. I was looking to learn from these letters. I was looking for some hint of what I should do about my own situation. I had to admit, so far, I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.
By four o’clock, I’d had enough. I packed up my things and headed down the hallway. Giovanna looked up from the table at the front. She’d been sitting, again by herself, answering letters.
“Ah,” she said rising, “you are still here. Can you help me with something?”
“Um . . . okay.”
She went behind the front counter. “There,” she said, pointing at a cardboard box. “Could you carry that outside for me?”
The box was filled with letters like all the others. On the side, written in black felt pen, were the words SENZA INDIRIZZO. I wriggled my fingers under the base of the box to lift it. The damn thing probably weighed a hundred pounds. “Where do you want this?”
“In my car. Wait, I must find the keys,” she said, rummaging through her purse.
I struggled across the office, trying not to spill the letters. Outside, Giovanna opened the passenger door of her car. “Here, in here.”
I thumped the box down onto the seat. “What does senza mean?” I asked, straightening and stretching out my clenched fingers. “Senza something?”
“Senza indirizzo. It means there is no return address. We cannot answer these ones.”
“But,” I said, trailing her back into the office, “where are you taking them?”
“The inferno,” she said.
“Hell? You’re taking them to hell?”
Giovanna shook her head. “No, no. What is the word . . . incendiary?”
“An incinerator?”
“Yes, That’s it. We do not throw them out with the rubbish. They are . . . too important.”
“But surely there must be . . .”
Giovanna stared me down and I went silent for a moment. Then I remembered. “In Romeo and Juliet,” I said, “there’s a letter that is never delivered. It’s the one thing that could have prevented the whole tragedy.”
Her eyes softened. “Sit down,” she said. “I will tell you something.”
I sunk into a chair at the round table.
“It is sad,” she began, “that all these people feel they cannot tell the person they love of their concerns. They write to Juliet instead.”
“Juliet’s not real,” I said.
“No, she’s not. But she is a symbol.”
“I understand that.”
“What did I tell you on the first day?”
“That I should be a fortune-teller?”
“Before that.”
“You said that it is enough for people to write.”
She nodded. “We are human. We all feel love. Maybe the senders feel they cannot send their message to the people who most need to hear it, but it’s enough that someone, anyone, should hear their declarations.”
“But they need an answer. Isn’t there something we can do?”
“If there is no return address, we cannot write back. If there is, then we give them acknowledgment.”
“But is acknowledgment enough?”
“For now, they are overwhelmed, you understand? All of them are feeling love and it is only for us to give them our ears.”
“I guess so.”
“It is an honorable thing that we do here.”
I knew what she was trying to tell me, though the whole letter-answering thing felt like a bit of a grim slog. “Yes,” I answered. I felt like I should add “ma’am,” but I didn’t.
“Now,” she said, waving a hand at the pile of letters in front of her, “I have work to do. Yes?”
“Okay.”
“Va bene.” Giovanna pursed her lips and tipped her glasses to scrutinize another letter. I slipped toward the door.
“We will see you tomorrow?” she asked, looking up at me just before I left.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene
Dear Juliet,
I am no longer young, but there was a time, yes, there was a time when I believed in love. I can sound out the names of lovers and draw up their faces, each one, so clearly. And then they are gone. Why is it that love comes so easily for some but refuses to stay for others? Why should it be so? Why should it twist our souls so grievously?
I read the letter all the way through. It looked like the others in the pile, nothing terribly special about it. These letters are all handwritten—matters so close to the heart cannot be typed—then they are folded into hopeful envelopes and mailed to Juliet, care of Verona.
Giovanna appeared at my door. “Ciao,” she said. “Would you care for a coffee?”
“No, I . . . I’m okay.”
Giovanna wore pearls even in the afternoon. She swept into the room, glanced at the letter in front of me, and read my thoughts. “Some are quite moving, are they not?”
“I’m not sure how to answer this one.”
“Ah,” she said, scraping a wooden chair in to sit beside me. She bent over the letter, tipping her reading glasses slightly. “Many of the letters are full of sadness. They are poetry too sometimes.”
“So how should I answer?”
She peered at me. “Sometimes it is enough for them just to write.”
“This woman writes so beautifully. I’m not sure I—”
“The answer,” she went on, patting the letter, “is often contained in their words.”
“But—”
“You must be like a fortune-teller. You must watch for signs. The writer will tell you what they want to hear.”
“I don’t know.”
Giovanna looked at me as if I were slow. “She needs to know that her life is good, that she is worthy, that she is important. She needs to know that. That’s what you must write.”
“And then I sign it ‘Juliet’?”
“If you wish. Or you can sign ‘Juliet’s secretary.’?”
“Okay.”
Giovanna stood and straightened her dress. “We take this responsibility very seriously.” She turned on her heels and walked to the doorway, where she hovered, a slender hand on the doorframe.
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“No coffee then?” She fixed me with a final stare.
“No, thanks. I’ll just get to work.”
“Va bene.” She lingered, watching, then brushed out of the room.
There is no Juliet, of course, though the tourist board of Verona would certainly like you to believe there is. Verona is an ancient city. Around it lie the fields of Valpolicella, valley of the cellars, some of the oldest vineyards in the world. Julius Caesar spent his summers here. Dante came in exile to finish his Divine Comedy. But nothing is as singular to the city as the legend of Romeo and Juliet.
When I first crossed into the old town, I passed through a gate in the towering medieval walls. On a bronze plaque there, bolted to the stones, were the words THERE IS NO WORLD WITHOUT VERONA WALLS, BUT PURGATORY, TORTURE, HELL ITSELF.
That was Romeo’s line. He didn’t exist either, at least not exactly.
Plaques like these are all over Verona, marking the major events in Shakespeare’s play—a story that was not written here, a story that was made famous centuries before, in a different language and a different country.
I arrived in Verona at the end of July, two years ago, with a pocketful of questions. I was here to learn something. Something about love and maybe something about Shakespeare. Already I could see the crowds ahead of me, bunching and yammering, cameras at the ready, and I knew exactly where they were headed. The throngs funneled past gleaming shopwindows, past the cashmere sweaters and five-hundred-dollar shoes on display, and I was swept along with them. The street opened into a square on our left, but the crowd veered right and then, suddenly, there was an arch and a passageway before us and a sign that read CASA DI GIULIETTA—the House of Juliet. Here we were at last. We grew silent and reverent. I’ll admit I was cynical. Many of the younger women were enraptured, dragging along boyfriends desperately feigning interest. “It’s not real!” I wanted to call out. “It’s just a story!”
We shuffled under a stone archway and emerged into a courtyard. And there it was: the famous balcony. It jutted from the wall, ten feet above us. Vines, perfect for climbing, tangled up the old stones. It was a little too perfect. The balcony itself is actually an ancient Roman sarcophagus. It was incorporated into the wall in 1937 to lure gullible tourists like us. You can go inside the house too—it’s a sort of museum—and various young lovers come out on the balcony to get their photographs taken. Below, crowds cheer when they kiss. Cameras click. Texts are sent.
By the steps to the entrance, a placard tells the history of the house. I squeezed through the crowd to get close enough to read it: THIS HOUSE, it said, HAS BEEN IN THE POSSESSION OF ONE FAMILY SINCE THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. Above the arch is their emblem, the insignia of the Cappello family—a rounded hat like a bowler, as the Cappellos were, apparently, hatmakers.
Now, that surprised me. The Capulet name was obviously derived from Cappello. How would Shakespeare have known that? I looked around. Had he been here? There are lost years in his life—years when he may have been traveling overseas, but it’s not generally believed that he ever made it to Verona. The answer is simpler, as most answers are. Shakespeare almost certainly adapted Romeo and Juliet from an earlier work, and that work—an epic poem—had in turn been adapted from an Italian story dating back to around 1530.
This old courtyard, then, has been a place of pilgrimage for at least two hundred years. Charles Dickens came to see it and write about it. He didn’t like it much. The house had degenerated at that time into a miserable little inn with a brutish dog at the door and geese waddling across the courtyard. Now it flapped with tourists. Dickens probably wouldn’t have liked that either. In one corner stands a bronze statue of Juliet, her eyes cast downward, demure, her long fingers self-consciously clasping the folds of her diaphanous gown.
For reasons I don’t completely understand, you are supposed to gently cup your hand over her right breast and make your wish to the gods of love. One by one, the pilgrims step up to fondle her breast. The bronze there is polished to a golden sheen. Her face, meanwhile, is darkened with a charcoal patina.
For some time, I watched the crowds, until I noticed an elderly woman strolling the yard in contemplation. She moved from one feature to another, lingering at each, reading the placards, standing before the statue and then, just before leaving, she hesitated. She turned to take in the balcony one last time, then nodded before disappearing under the stones of the archway. And where the woman had been standing, a bright red wooden letter box appeared. I hadn’t noticed it until that moment. It was hand-tooled, intricate in its carpentry, painted crimson, and mounted on the brick wall by the entrance to the house. I edged over to it. POSTA DI GIULIETTA, it read. Letters to Juliet.
When letters to Juliet started arriving in Verona in 1937, no one knew what to do with them. They were propped up against the gravestones at the Monastery of San Francesco, long said to be the home of Juliet’s vault, and the groundskeeper there took it upon himself to answer them. By the ’50s, a poet had taken over the task, and by 1989, a baker named Giulio Tamassia had stepped in to answer the steady flow of letters. Giulio eventually retired from the confectionery business and opened up the first official office for the letters to Juliet. Hundreds of them were pouring in to Verona by this point, and Giulio set himself to the task of answering—for the next twenty-five years.
Giovanna, Giulio Tamassia’s daughter, took over the operations from her father and now manages the Club di Giulietta, whose staff sort the letters into languages, answer them, and then catalogue the originals. Giovanna complains that the city is not paying them enough to cover their postage, that they don’t help with the rent on the office, but still the letters flood in, overflowing boxes and spilling off counters.
I’d e-mailed Giovanna months before to ask if I could come to Verona and volunteer to answer letters to Juliet. Of course, my motives went deeper. I had a situation of my own that I was trying to figure out, but that’s not what I told Giovanna. I was a writer, I said. I’d been a teacher for a long time. I’d taught Romeo and Juliet and maybe I could help with the letters—the English letters, at least.
The day I arrived, she picked me up at my hotel—barely an hour after I’d clumped up from the train station. She parked nearby and strode up the sidewalk to where I was waiting.
“You are Glenn Dixon?”
“Giovanna?”
“Yes. Come, I am on my way to the office now.”
She didn’t say much. I wondered if she had seen this all before—if it was quite common for foreign volunteers to show up, earnest and eager, but maybe not up to the task. I wondered if this was all really a bit of a bother to her.
“Here is the Roman arena,” she said at one point, breaking the silence, looking out the windshield at the wide piazza in front of us.
“Okay,” I said, but I was too new to the city to know what she was talking about. I sat rigid in the passenger seat and we turned right, under medieval battlements the color of burnt umber. We crossed a bridge, the Ponte Nuovo, skirted a cemetery, and then wound down into an industrial area of offices and warehouses. At number 3, Via Galileo Galilei, we pulled in. A blue bicycle was tipped against the wall and the front door was propped open. Inside, it looked just like any other office reception room, with a potted plant and a front counter that faced the door.
Giovanna waved me in and pointed to a chair at a round table just in front of the counter. She sat down beside me and began to talk. First, she spoke about her father—he’s still alive—and I asked her a bit more about the history of the place.
“It is a long story,” she said, glancing back at the counter and the piles of paperwork there.
“But it all happens here. All the letters are answered here?” I pressed.
“Yes, of course. We are very busy.”
The place was in a state of organized frenzy. Opera posters and framed photographs obscured the walls. Books and papers lined the counters, tall and squared, like military squadrons ready to tumble. “So,” I said, “how many letters do you get a month?”
“Come,” she said, rising abruptly. I trailed her down a corridor to a smaller office at the back. Office is a euphemism. It was more like a warehouse. Shelves ran along two of the walls, sagging under the weight of a dozen or so cardboard boxes. All of the boxes brimmed with letters, and each was labeled according to language: Russian, Chinese, Swedish, French. Along the third wall was a counter with chairs pulled up to it as a sort of makeshift desk. An English box had already been placed there. Someone had set up a little workstation for me with a stack of stationery and envelopes. They’d even laid a pen out, just so, parallel to the papers.
“It will take some time for you to read them all,” Giovanna said, pointing at the box. There were several hundred letters in just this one box. Maybe even a thousand. My smile faded.
I scooped up a handful of letters. Many were in pale violet or thick, creamy envelopes, as if they were wedding invitations. But there were also loose scraps of paper, letters hastily written and, I imagined, dumped at the last minute into the letter box at Juliet’s house. I picked up one that was simply scrawled on the back of a train ticket. The return address: Brazil. I dropped it back into the box.
“Would you like to begin now?” Giovanna asked. “You can sit here.”
I did as I was told. It was going to be a long afternoon.
“Write your answers on these,” she said, tapping the stack of four-by-six sheets she’d left for me. “Then tuck them into the envelopes—but do not seal them.”
I looked at the return envelopes. They were printed with a graphic of Juliet on the balcony. Her hair was whipping in the wind, her hand outstretched imploringly. She looked more like a pinup girl from the 1950s than anything from Shakespeare.
“I will be out front if you have any questions.” She eyed me for a moment, then swept out of the office more quickly than I would have liked. I thought there’d be a little more in-service, maybe some training. I wasn’t sure I was ready.
I heaved the English box a little closer and the letters within shifted like sand. A few slid onto the counter and I reached for the nearest one. The letter was from the United States—California. I opened the envelope and began to read: “George left us on April 7, 2014. He and I were married for twenty-five years.”
Ah. A tragic tale of loss. But then I kept reading.
“I have recently met again with an old love of mine, Harry. Is it too soon? Is it too soon to feel these feelings again?”
What could I say to that? I didn’t even know Harry.
I pushed back my chair, ready to call Giovanna, but thought better of it. How could I admit defeat on the first letter? I read the letter all the way to the end, paused, then picked up a pen and paper.
“Dear Jane,” I wrote. “You will find the answer in your heart.”
I looked down at my page. What a load of bunk. I balled up the sheet and began again. I wrote another trite cliché, reread it, then crumpled up that answer too. I dropped Jane’s letter back into the box.
Maybe that was just a hard one. I needed to start off easier, something that wasn’t so complicated. I plucked another from the pile.
Dear Juliet,
I have been excepted [sic] into a university far away from where I live. It’s a very good university and a very good opportunity for me. The only thing is, I have just met a guy. He lives here. Please, what should I do?
Ha, I thought, I can answer that. I thanked her for her letter, then urged her to go on to university. I told her that the guy would wait for her—if he was worth anything at all. Then I added Polonius’s line from Hamlet: “To thine own self be true.” I thought that sounded good. I put my reply in an envelope and picked up the next letter.
“Dear Juliet,” it read. “I am sixteen years old. I have waited for so long to meet my Romeo. When will he appear?” Oh, honey. You’re sixteen. You have a whole world of pain ahead of you. Don’t worry. I didn’t write that. Instead, I wrote that she should be patient. That she should go and do the things she loved to do and that she might then find her love engaged in similar pursuits—and wouldn’t that be perfect?
Letter by letter, response by response, I fell into a rhythm. Each answer was two or three paragraphs long. I made sure to offer lots of reassurance that love would come, even if it had been lost. I used the “To thine own self be true” line embarrassingly often. As I wrote, I imagined writing letters to my younger self. It helped me with the answers, though truthfully, most of the time I felt like a high school guidance counselor, doling out advice that was likely irrelevant.
For the rest of the morning, I answered letters—thirty maybe—and read many more. The letters were mostly from the UK, the U.S., and my home, Canada. I answered letters from as far away as China, India, Mexico, and Poland. Sometimes the English was broken and simple, but the sentiments were all the same. All of them were asking about love. All were asking about this soul-wrenching experience that is both our deepest sorrow and our greatest joy.
I’d had my own problems in love. And part of the reason I had come to Verona was to learn something more about this all-encompassing force in our lives. To learn something, anything, that would help me understand my own heartbreak and help me, maybe, trust in love once more.
Until relatively recently, romantic love was thought to be a cultural construct. The idea of romantic love arose, allegedly, in the early Middle Ages, probably in France. It came to us through the etiquettes of courtly love, immortalized in the songs of troubadours and in the mores of chivalry.
Of course, that’s not quite right. Love has been around for much longer than we can imagine. And it’s not particular to any one culture. Everyone everywhere experiences love. No one had to invent it. In a recent study across fifteen thousand people in forty-eight countries, romantic love appeared in every culture. It’s now believed to be among two hundred universally human traits—like the ability to use language to communicate, or to create and enjoy music, or the presence of laughter. Scientists actually keep track of this sort of thing. The ability to love, it seems, is central to being human.
We all feel attraction to others, something that goes beyond sexual desire. In one study, five-year-olds reported being in love just as frequently as eighteen-year-olds, and it wasn’t their teddy bears they were talking about. The children had all the symptoms of adults—butterflies in the stomach, a helpless yearning, and an overwhelming need to be noticed by the object of their affections.
I certainly remember my first love. When Shannon Mahoney appeared at the door to Mrs. Acton’s grade-seven math class, I was completely smitten. I don’t know why. I just remember that it was instantaneous. She was thirteen, I was twelve, and for the next two years I was madly in love with her—though I don’t think I ever said more than, “Could you please pass the pencil crayons?” to this earthly angel. I dreamed up all sorts of fantasies about her, mostly elaborate escapades where I’d rescue her from distress, scenarios that usually involved water, because I was a really good swimmer.
And then one day, my feelings suddenly faded away.
Why any of this should be is not well understood. Why is it that I fell for that one girl in particular? Why Shannon Mahoney? Why did I fixate on her above all the other girls in my junior high school? Was it pheromones? Was it how she looked? Was it something about our particular genetic makeup? What the hell was it?
As I sat reading letter after letter at that counter in Verona, decades and numerous heartbreaks after the unforgettable Shannon Mahoney, I was struck by the fact that so many people were asking versions of these same questions, all wanting to know from “Juliet,” this supposed paragon of romantic wisdom, how love worked. Some of the letters spoke of the pinnacles of happiness and joy, the high points of love. One woman wrote that she was in Verona on her honeymoon. “Thank you, Juliet,” she gushed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Others—I would say the majority of the letters—seared with the agony of rejection. “Why?” they asked. “Why is this happening to me?”
“Your time will come,” I wrote again and again. But I wasn’t sure that was true. My time had never come. Often I felt like an imposter and a cheat as I wrote “Juliet’s” answers. When I thought about my own life, I knew full well that I hadn’t fared well in the game of love. I was as lost as any of these sad hearts, and, really, who was I to advise them? Who was I to tell them anything about love?
The phone rang in the main office. Giovanna answered and spoke in Italian. I couldn’t understand anything she was saying. She sounded a little exasperated, and a few moments later, she appeared at my door.
“The Korean Broadcasting System has telephoned.”
“The Korean . . . what?”
“They’re bringing a camera crew here.”
“What? Now?” I put down my pen.
“Yes. In fifteen minutes. They want to film what we do here.”
“Okay.”
“Va bene,” she said. “You will be on camera.” She whirled and disappeared down the hall.
I was promoted to the front office before the camera crew arrived. Giovanna called out to two of the other secretaries—both young women—and gathered us around the front table so that we looked like an ad hoc book club. When the Korean Broadcasting System arrived, there were only two of them, with a small handheld video camera between them. I immediately felt suspicious: Korean Broadcasting System, my ass. These guys looked like they were making a YouTube video.
The taller of the two seemed to be in charge. He bounced in, speaking flawless Italian, which caught all of us off guard. He held the camera in one hand and floated around the table taking swooping shots, hovering over us as we wrote letters with wobbling pens in hand. The second man was shorter. He stayed in the background and didn’t say much. I don’t think he understood Italian. He hummed a lot and spoke in short sentences—in Korean—to the guy with the camera.
“Hmm,” the shorter guy said, eyeing me, as if he’d just had a thought. He said something to the taller one, and the camera wheeled around to hover in front of my face.
“What you do here?” the taller guy asked from behind the tiny camera lens. Giovanna had already explained that I was a volunteer from Canada. The red light was blinking expectantly in my face.
“You mean why have I come here, to Verona?”
“Yes, why?”
“To answer the English letters to Juliet. I used to be a teacher. I taught Romeo and Juliet, so . . .”
“Teacher. Yes, you are teacher?”
“I was, but now I’m here. And I’m just . . . interested in learning something about love.”
“You know love?”
“Um. I know something. I hope.”
“You like love?”
This was going nowhere. I turned to Giovanna and she spoke to the man in Italian. The camera swiveled her way and they launched into an extended interview. Halfway through, Giovanna dismissed the rest of us and I fled back to my little back office and the rows of cardboard boxes.
Half an hour later, the shorter of the two men poked his head in at me.
“Hello,” I said.
“I understand you are interested in learning about love,” he said. He spoke in almost perfect English.
“Um, yes.” I pushed back my chair. “That’s the idea.”
“Very interesting.”
There was a pause. I wasn’t sure what to say. “Listen, are you guys really with the Korean Broadcasting System?”
“Yes,” he said, or rather, hummed. “I am the producer for this show. And the host. Every week we feature a different city around the world. We are doing Verona now.”
“You’re the host?”
“Yes. I don’t speak Italian, so Hyun-ki is my handler here. My show is called Backpack Travels. This episode will air at the end of September.”
“All across Korea?”
“KBS Global, yes.” He was looking past me now at the piles of letters spread across the counter. “Hmmm. Do you have any letters from Korea?”
“I think so,” I said. “But the letter I have is written in English.”
“Many Korean people speak English,” he said.
I fished through the papers in front of me. I’d been pulling out scores of letters, ten at a time. I had some notes of research too. Papers lay in mountains around me. “Here,” I said, holding out a plain white sheet of paper. The paper crinkled and rustled as he smoothed it against the counter. Out front, the handler was chattering away to Giovanna.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“It is a familiar Korean problem.”
“What is ‘a familiar Korean problem’?”
He lowered the paper. “A two-culture problem. She is fighting with her father about who she should marry. The younger generation wants to be like you Americans.”
“Canadian.”
“Same thing.”
“Not really, but okay.”
“Young people in my country want to marry for love. The father wants a marriage between two families.”
“An arranged marriage?”
“No, not exactly. But not a marriage strictly for love either. A marriage for the family. A marriage for business. For many reasons.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Listen,” he went on, reading out loud: “?‘I tried saying I love you once and my dad said, “What are you, American now? You think this is The Brady Bunch? You show you love me when you can support me.”’?”
“You know The Brady Bunch?” I asked.
“Everyone in Korea knows The Brady Bunch.” He broke out into song. “It’s the story of a lovely lady.”
“Yeah,” I said, quickly cutting him off, “I haven’t seen that show in years.”
“Have you seen the movie?”
“The movie? Of The Brady Bunch?”
“No. Letters to Juliet,” he said. “Have you seen it?”
“I have. I watched it before I came.”
He nodded.
In the movie, a woman writes a letter to Juliet, but it gets lost and doesn’t resurface until many years later. One of the newer secretaries insists that an answer still must be properly delivered, and then of course the two lovers, now old, find each other again after all these years.
“That is your Hollywood,” he said. “Always the happy ending.”
“I don’t believe in that either,” I said. “Life isn’t that simple.”
Hyun-ki appeared at the door, the camera jiggling in his hands. The two Koreans spoke together and then they filmed the Brady Bunch letter, our host holding it up in his hands as if he were reading it.
Then, almost as suddenly as they had appeared, the Koreans announced their departure. I followed them to the reception area, where they exuberantly thanked everyone for their time and walked toward the door, humming and nodding. Giovanna, her smile tight, ushered them out. “Ciao,” she said, then, “Ciao,” again, when they stalled at the entrance, bowing to each of us in turn. She was on her third “Ciao” when they finally squeezed out the door and everything became quiet again. Giovanna shot me a look and I fled back to my office.
An hour or so later, I was done. The endless letters were blurring my vision. I made my way to reception, where I found Giovanna by herself at the round table. She had a small pile of letters in front of her.
“You still answer letters?” I asked.
“Twenty or thirty letters a day, every day.”
She has been doing this for more than two decades. I did some quick calculations in my head—that was at least three thousand letters a year, and maybe over a hundred thousand letters over the course of the time she’d been working here. I began to see my day’s paltry efforts as a whisper in a hurricane, a pebble on a mountaintop.
“Arrivederci,” I called at the door and Giovanna looked up from writing with a genuine smile, the first I’d seen from her all day.
“I will see you tomorrow?” she asked, laying her letter aside.
“You will,” I answered. “You will.”
The next morning, I headed to the office on my own. The Old City sits in a loop of the Adige River, and I made my way through the narrow streets. Church spires and red-tiled roofs rose above me until I passed through a gate in the medieval walls and a wide piazza opened before me. Off in the distance, the ancient Roman coliseum sat like a crumbling crown. I headed east onto the bridge, and on the other side, I dipped under a cement overpass and came along the Via Galileo, a long, straight boulevard that took me, at last, to the offices of the Club di Giulietta.
Giovanna stood behind the front counter. “Ah,” she said, when the door wheezed open. “Buon giorno.”
“Hi.”
She tipped her head. “Your office is waiting for you.”
I took that to mean I should get to work. I smiled at her and walked down the hallway to the little room at the back. I answered letters, uninterrupted, for most of the morning.
On the second day of answering letters, I began to see patterns in them. The vast majority were from young women, but there were outliers. One older woman wrote that she was not asking for advice for herself. She had three daughters, she said, two of them happily married but the oldest was alone. Could Juliet help?
“Every daughter, and every son too,” I answered, “should wish to have a mother as thoughtful as you.”
Only occasionally were there letters from men, and almost immediately, I could spot the difference in the tone and sentiment. Sergei from Russia wrote: “Women don’t like me. I can’t lead them to close relationships and then to sexual relations.” Oh, Sergei. I’m pretty sure I see your problem. I wrote back to him that by writing to Juliet in the first place, he was showing a softer, more sensitive side of himself and that maybe he should work on showing that side to women.
“Dear Juliet,” wrote a younger boy, “I’m so sorry that everybody puts his hand on your boob. It’s really stupid. You are sweet and you make people believe in true love. Thank you.”
And that was about as charming as a young man could be.
There were problems with translation too. A Chinese girl wrote of her English boyfriend and her struggles to communicate with him. She was fluent in English, but still the nuances were hard for her. “Speaking English,” she wrote, “is like being underwater, and speaking Mandarin is like coming up for air.”
Toward the end of the morning, Giovanna appeared at my door. She studied me silently.
Finally, she said, “Glenn, I am having some problems with this one.” She laid a letter down in front of me and I saw with some pride that it came from Canada. The first line read: “I am married to a man who can be quite a doofus at times.”
“This word,” Giovanna said, jabbing at doofus. “I do not understand it.”
“It’s slang,” I said. I grinned at Giovanna, but she remained impassive. “It’s a sort of, well . . .” I stumbled on. “I can answer that one, if you like, and maybe you can take this one.”
I shuffled through the pile and found my very first letter, the one from the woman whose husband had died, the one about Harry. Giovanna scanned it quickly. “Yes,” she said, “I can answer this one.” She disappeared down the corridor with the letter and I heard her whisper the word doofus to herself, committing it to her considerable English vocabulary.
I worked through the afternoon, feeling generally overwhelmed by the heartache in most of the letters. This was supposed to be fun, something I could tell my students about when I got back to Canada. But there was more to it than that. I was looking for patterns in my own thinking. I was looking to learn from these letters. I was looking for some hint of what I should do about my own situation. I had to admit, so far, I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.
By four o’clock, I’d had enough. I packed up my things and headed down the hallway. Giovanna looked up from the table at the front. She’d been sitting, again by herself, answering letters.
“Ah,” she said rising, “you are still here. Can you help me with something?”
“Um . . . okay.”
She went behind the front counter. “There,” she said, pointing at a cardboard box. “Could you carry that outside for me?”
The box was filled with letters like all the others. On the side, written in black felt pen, were the words SENZA INDIRIZZO. I wriggled my fingers under the base of the box to lift it. The damn thing probably weighed a hundred pounds. “Where do you want this?”
“In my car. Wait, I must find the keys,” she said, rummaging through her purse.
I struggled across the office, trying not to spill the letters. Outside, Giovanna opened the passenger door of her car. “Here, in here.”
I thumped the box down onto the seat. “What does senza mean?” I asked, straightening and stretching out my clenched fingers. “Senza something?”
“Senza indirizzo. It means there is no return address. We cannot answer these ones.”
“But,” I said, trailing her back into the office, “where are you taking them?”
“The inferno,” she said.
“Hell? You’re taking them to hell?”
Giovanna shook her head. “No, no. What is the word . . . incendiary?”
“An incinerator?”
“Yes, That’s it. We do not throw them out with the rubbish. They are . . . too important.”
“But surely there must be . . .”
Giovanna stared me down and I went silent for a moment. Then I remembered. “In Romeo and Juliet,” I said, “there’s a letter that is never delivered. It’s the one thing that could have prevented the whole tragedy.”
Her eyes softened. “Sit down,” she said. “I will tell you something.”
I sunk into a chair at the round table.
“It is sad,” she began, “that all these people feel they cannot tell the person they love of their concerns. They write to Juliet instead.”
“Juliet’s not real,” I said.
“No, she’s not. But she is a symbol.”
“I understand that.”
“What did I tell you on the first day?”
“That I should be a fortune-teller?”
“Before that.”
“You said that it is enough for people to write.”
She nodded. “We are human. We all feel love. Maybe the senders feel they cannot send their message to the people who most need to hear it, but it’s enough that someone, anyone, should hear their declarations.”
“But they need an answer. Isn’t there something we can do?”
“If there is no return address, we cannot write back. If there is, then we give them acknowledgment.”
“But is acknowledgment enough?”
“For now, they are overwhelmed, you understand? All of them are feeling love and it is only for us to give them our ears.”
“I guess so.”
“It is an honorable thing that we do here.”
I knew what she was trying to tell me, though the whole letter-answering thing felt like a bit of a grim slog. “Yes,” I answered. I felt like I should add “ma’am,” but I didn’t.
“Now,” she said, waving a hand at the pile of letters in front of her, “I have work to do. Yes?”
“Okay.”
“Va bene.” Giovanna pursed her lips and tipped her glasses to scrutinize another letter. I slipped toward the door.
“We will see you tomorrow?” she asked, looking up at me just before I left.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
Reading Group Guide
This reading group guide for Juliet’s Answer includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Glenn Dixon. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book. Just be aware that this material may contain spoilers!
Introduction
A lovelorn, seemingly “star-cross’d” English teacher takes the trip of a lifetime to heal a broken heart and better understand the nature of love in this charming memoir that is part Eat Pray Love, part Under the Tuscan Sun, and part Shakespeare.
In fair Verona where we lay our scene . . .
After his long-burning love for a friend goes unrequited for the last time, and in spectacularly dramatic fashion, Glenn Dixon seeks a new perspective on love in the most hallowed setting imaginable: Verona, Italy. A longtime English teacher, Dixon hopes that the setting and historical context of Shakespeare’s classic Romeo and Juliet will help him untangle his own feelings. While in Verona, Dixon joins the Secretaries of Juliet, a group dedicated to answering each and every one of the love letters from around the world addressed to Juliet. His new, temporary role helps him cope with his own heartbreak while learning that love is a force no matter the language.
While in Verona, Glenn also surveys the historical and cultural impact of Romeo and Juliet. Is their story in fact true? How and why did Shakespeare fictionalize aspects of it? How does this midsize city handle all the tourism—and heartache? Upon his return, Glenn brings the story to life in the classroom, trying to impart the power of love and the brilliance of Shakespeare to his students.
Juliet’s Answer is a highly personal and historical chronicle of love for the modern age.
Topics and Questions for Discussion
1. What was your reaction to learning that there is an enterprise behind answering letters to Juliet? Is there a responsibility to answer the letters?
2. Do you think that seeking advice from a semifictional character from a romantic tragedy is either romantic or tragic?
3. Is there a common trait shared by the secretaries? Do you think you could manage to be one of them?
4. What has your experience with reading Shakespeare been like throughout your life? Do you think you read and appreciate him differently as an adult than you did as an adolescent? Why or why not?
5. Can you think of any other literary settings so uniquely tied to their books and characters as Verona in Romeo and Juliet? Have you or would you ever visit any of them?
6. How would you characterize Glenn’s teaching style? Does he remind you of any teacher you had during your school years?
7. Were there any new revelations for you about Shakespeare and/or Romeo and Juliet?
8. Describe Glenn and Claire’s relationship. Are they wrong in how they treat each other? How would you describe Glenn’s reaction to Claire’s big reveal?
9. Has the digital age changed how we experience love? If so, do you think it’s for better or for worse? If not, then explain your reasoning.
10. Have you ever taken a trip to heal yourself? Was it cathartic? Do you think that going on an adventure to somewhere new and different helps us learn and heal?
11. What role do you think timing had to play in Glenn and Desiree’s budding relationship? Do you think that “timing is everything,” acts as a principal factor in all relationships?
12. How do Glenn and Desiree complement each other? What type of future do you envision for them?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. A knowledge of Shakespeare’s play is crucial in reading and understanding this book. Watch a production of Romeo and Juliet, be it on-screen or onstage, before discussing Juliet’s Answer.
2. Write your own letter to Juliet to read to the group. For anonymity’s sake, ask the group members to type their letters and put them into a bowl to be selected at random. Briefly discuss the letter and provide a group response.
3. Have each group member name a travel destination to learn more about love and explain his/her reasoning. Why did s/he choose this place and why is it so evocative? If the group is able to reach a consensus, take a trip together to a nearby place to do some reflecting and talking in a new setting.
A Conversation with Glenn Dixon
The book ends on a happy note, but it still begs the question: What is your current relationship status? If we are to judge from your social media accounts, you are still together and happy.
Yes, things are great. This really is the best relationship of my life. Desiree and I travel often. In fact, we were just in Verona for another visit, and we managed to see almost everyone mentioned in the book. They’re all doing well, too. And as the epilogue suggests, Desiree and I go to Mexico (and other warm places) in the gloom of the Canadian winter. She surfs and works on documentary films. I’m building up the courage to start another book. We support each other and both of our lives are the better for it. She’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.
Was it at all hard revisiting your relationship and feelings for Claire while laying them bare for readers? Is there any type of relationship left with Claire?
It was tremendously difficult. Those are very painful memories. I thought long and hard about even wanting to write about them, but I thought if I’m going to write a book about love, then I need to be honest about everything. Of course, when I began the book, I had no idea what was waiting for me, but once it happened, I knew it had to be in the book. It would be a complete sham if I left that out. Unfortunately, Claire and I barely talk anymore. She has her life and I have mine, but I do want to be very clear that I wish her loads of happiness in the life she’s chosen. I believe I said that in the acknowledgments. I’m quite worried that she’ll be hurt by this book, but this certainly was not my intention. I’ve done everything I can to protect her privacy while still being able to tell the story. I know she’ll be a great mother to her son. I know that and respect that. Maybe someday we can be friends again. I’d like that. But it will take time, probably years, and I guess that’s how it has to be.
Was the structure of the book—alternating between your personal story and travels, the classroom, and research about the nature of love—one you envisioned from the outset? Or was it something that happened organically, weaving itself together as you wrote?
Ha. I often say now that about halfway through the writing, I realized that I wasn’t writing this book anymore, this book was writing me. My agent was phoning me almost every week, asking, “What’s happening now? My God, what’s happening now?” I couldn’t possibly have predicted what took place. I had no idea at all of the calamitous events awaiting me when I first had the idea to go to Verona and answer letters. And of course I had no idea about Desiree. If you must, call it star-crossed. I’m just saying that I couldn’t possibly have planned any of this. This was the surprise of a lifetime.
Writing about a topic as broad and universal as love had to be a daunting task. Were there any such moments that felt that way? As a writer, what was your process for synthesizing such a big theme?
I looked at a tremendous amount of research on love before I began to write. Initially I thought I’d include a lot more of it in the book, but the story sort of took over and the research largely got left behind. Still, it gave me a grounding and an overview. I think for me, there was always that . . . well, tension is not the right word, but push and pull between synthesizing the research and the very real things that were happening to me (and what was happening to the hundreds of people whose letters I answered). I guess all of it was also wrapped around Shakespeare’s exquisite story, too, something I knew inside and out from my long years of teaching. In the end, it all came together: all the pieces of the puzzle fit, and I do think that I was given a real answer about love. I hope something of that comes through in the pages of this book. I hope that every reader will find part of his or her own answer in this book.
Any advice for teachers about bringing Shakespeare into the classroom? What did you find that worked well to engage students? What caused them to tune out?
Shakespeare is meant to be acted, not read. I think that’s key. A line-by-line analysis is dead boring, even if Shakespeare did produce some of the greatest writing in the English language. More than anything else, Shakespeare is meant to be seen and heard. I never had the students read silently on their own; we always read it together—out loud, sometimes even in a Scottish accent. We analyzed the films, too, acting as film critics. We looked at how texts can be adapted and what decisions directors make in filming. I think all of that is important in today’s world. We live in a media culture, and I wanted the students to have some familiarity with how films are put together, what works emotionally and what does not. And of course they were at the age when sex and love is predominant in their brains, so it wasn’t really that hard to get their attention with Romeo and Juliet. I’d like to think there were takeaway points, things they could apply to their own lives. And that is pretty much why Shakespeare is so great. His stories and his words really do transcend time and place. He really does speak to what’s human in all of us.
While you are teaching Romeo and Juliet, you have to handle the fact that one of your students is being thrust into an arranged marriage. What was it like having classroom discussions on the power of love and the sacredness of marriage, but then realizing that it’s not always a possibility for others in some cultures? Do you regret involving yourself?
For most of my career as a teacher, I worked at a high school that was incredibly diverse in terms of the students’ cultures and language groups. I’d done a M.A. in sociolinguistics, so I was always fascinated by different mind-sets and how those are encoded in language or clothing or, yes, even different ideas concerning sex and marriage. We spoke openly in class about all of this. The story of the girl in the arranged marriage was absolutely true (though of course I can’t say anything about the actual student it happened to, only that her name wasn’t Sadia), and the situation did end the way it ended in the book. We were also lucky to have at that school some tremendous outside resources—cultural interpreters (not just translators) who worked with families and, yes, in that particular year, a social worker who specialized in working with immigrant families. It might not have turned out that way if these people had not been in place. I just drew on their resources.
Were there any other Shakespeare plays that you enjoyed teaching? Why? Just for fun and purely hypothetically, could you see a project similar to Juliet’s Answer based upon another Shakespeare work?
I taught a few other Shakespeare plays—although not every semester, not like Romeo and Juliet.. I did also teach (and love) Macbeth, and yes, I’ve toyed with the idea of writing about that. It would involve not love, but aggression and ambition and assassination, and I’m not sure I’m ready to take that on. I also loved Hamlet and taught it many times. There’s no doubt in my mind that it is the single greatest work of literature in the English language. There, I’ve said it. The soliloquys of Hamlet (and not just the famous one) are pure genius. There’s no other way to put it.
Are you at all in touch with the Secretaries of Juliet? It appears that you were in Verona in September 2016. If so, what was it like to be back?
Yes, absolutely. They are all thrilled about this book. As I mentioned, Desiree and I were just back in Verona. Among other things, we filmed interviews with Giovanna and Manuela and Anna (and Elena, who was mentioned only briefly in the book, but who has been working there for a long time). We asked them very simply what they had learned from answering all these letters over the years. You have to think that they may be among the world’s leading experts on love because of this experience, and they really did have some wonderful wisdom to impart. Look for the video. We’ll post it shortly. It was lovely to be back in Verona again. It really is a beautiful ancient city, with so many things to see. I know I’ll be back again and again and again.
You have done some extensive travel writing throughout your career. How was this project different than previous assignments? Any advice for aspiring travel writers?
In my previous books, I basically wrote about a different place in each chapter (drumming in Ghana or lost languages in the Amazon, so many things). I covered a lot of ground. Juliet’s Answer was the first time I wrote an entire book based in a single city, but what a remarkable city it is. I think my advice for aspiring travel writers would be not to write about the place so much as to write about the stories of the place or, better yet, write about the people you meet there and the stories they tell you. I can say that this is true of all of my books. I always seem to run into the most amazing people, and their experiences and stories and insights, not mine, make the writing great. You need to see the place through their eyes. That’s how you get closest to the truth of a place.
What three tips would you offer to the lovelorn?
Wow, that’s a difficult one. I think, though, I would say first: Be hopeful. Love will come again. I think one of the secretaries said it best when she said that you must look after yourself. You must love yourself first and then others can and will follow your example. It’s not easy when you’re heartbroken, but you must pick yourself up. Go do the things you love to do. Be with yourself. Find your bliss, as they say, and you’ll be surprised at what happens. I have no doubt that what’s most attractive to people is not looks at all. It’s happiness. It’s confidence. It’s being okay with who you are and what you have to offer the world.
Introduction
A lovelorn, seemingly “star-cross’d” English teacher takes the trip of a lifetime to heal a broken heart and better understand the nature of love in this charming memoir that is part Eat Pray Love, part Under the Tuscan Sun, and part Shakespeare.
In fair Verona where we lay our scene . . .
After his long-burning love for a friend goes unrequited for the last time, and in spectacularly dramatic fashion, Glenn Dixon seeks a new perspective on love in the most hallowed setting imaginable: Verona, Italy. A longtime English teacher, Dixon hopes that the setting and historical context of Shakespeare’s classic Romeo and Juliet will help him untangle his own feelings. While in Verona, Dixon joins the Secretaries of Juliet, a group dedicated to answering each and every one of the love letters from around the world addressed to Juliet. His new, temporary role helps him cope with his own heartbreak while learning that love is a force no matter the language.
While in Verona, Glenn also surveys the historical and cultural impact of Romeo and Juliet. Is their story in fact true? How and why did Shakespeare fictionalize aspects of it? How does this midsize city handle all the tourism—and heartache? Upon his return, Glenn brings the story to life in the classroom, trying to impart the power of love and the brilliance of Shakespeare to his students.
Juliet’s Answer is a highly personal and historical chronicle of love for the modern age.
Topics and Questions for Discussion
1. What was your reaction to learning that there is an enterprise behind answering letters to Juliet? Is there a responsibility to answer the letters?
2. Do you think that seeking advice from a semifictional character from a romantic tragedy is either romantic or tragic?
3. Is there a common trait shared by the secretaries? Do you think you could manage to be one of them?
4. What has your experience with reading Shakespeare been like throughout your life? Do you think you read and appreciate him differently as an adult than you did as an adolescent? Why or why not?
5. Can you think of any other literary settings so uniquely tied to their books and characters as Verona in Romeo and Juliet? Have you or would you ever visit any of them?
6. How would you characterize Glenn’s teaching style? Does he remind you of any teacher you had during your school years?
7. Were there any new revelations for you about Shakespeare and/or Romeo and Juliet?
8. Describe Glenn and Claire’s relationship. Are they wrong in how they treat each other? How would you describe Glenn’s reaction to Claire’s big reveal?
9. Has the digital age changed how we experience love? If so, do you think it’s for better or for worse? If not, then explain your reasoning.
10. Have you ever taken a trip to heal yourself? Was it cathartic? Do you think that going on an adventure to somewhere new and different helps us learn and heal?
11. What role do you think timing had to play in Glenn and Desiree’s budding relationship? Do you think that “timing is everything,” acts as a principal factor in all relationships?
12. How do Glenn and Desiree complement each other? What type of future do you envision for them?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. A knowledge of Shakespeare’s play is crucial in reading and understanding this book. Watch a production of Romeo and Juliet, be it on-screen or onstage, before discussing Juliet’s Answer.
2. Write your own letter to Juliet to read to the group. For anonymity’s sake, ask the group members to type their letters and put them into a bowl to be selected at random. Briefly discuss the letter and provide a group response.
3. Have each group member name a travel destination to learn more about love and explain his/her reasoning. Why did s/he choose this place and why is it so evocative? If the group is able to reach a consensus, take a trip together to a nearby place to do some reflecting and talking in a new setting.
A Conversation with Glenn Dixon
The book ends on a happy note, but it still begs the question: What is your current relationship status? If we are to judge from your social media accounts, you are still together and happy.
Yes, things are great. This really is the best relationship of my life. Desiree and I travel often. In fact, we were just in Verona for another visit, and we managed to see almost everyone mentioned in the book. They’re all doing well, too. And as the epilogue suggests, Desiree and I go to Mexico (and other warm places) in the gloom of the Canadian winter. She surfs and works on documentary films. I’m building up the courage to start another book. We support each other and both of our lives are the better for it. She’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.
Was it at all hard revisiting your relationship and feelings for Claire while laying them bare for readers? Is there any type of relationship left with Claire?
It was tremendously difficult. Those are very painful memories. I thought long and hard about even wanting to write about them, but I thought if I’m going to write a book about love, then I need to be honest about everything. Of course, when I began the book, I had no idea what was waiting for me, but once it happened, I knew it had to be in the book. It would be a complete sham if I left that out. Unfortunately, Claire and I barely talk anymore. She has her life and I have mine, but I do want to be very clear that I wish her loads of happiness in the life she’s chosen. I believe I said that in the acknowledgments. I’m quite worried that she’ll be hurt by this book, but this certainly was not my intention. I’ve done everything I can to protect her privacy while still being able to tell the story. I know she’ll be a great mother to her son. I know that and respect that. Maybe someday we can be friends again. I’d like that. But it will take time, probably years, and I guess that’s how it has to be.
Was the structure of the book—alternating between your personal story and travels, the classroom, and research about the nature of love—one you envisioned from the outset? Or was it something that happened organically, weaving itself together as you wrote?
Ha. I often say now that about halfway through the writing, I realized that I wasn’t writing this book anymore, this book was writing me. My agent was phoning me almost every week, asking, “What’s happening now? My God, what’s happening now?” I couldn’t possibly have predicted what took place. I had no idea at all of the calamitous events awaiting me when I first had the idea to go to Verona and answer letters. And of course I had no idea about Desiree. If you must, call it star-crossed. I’m just saying that I couldn’t possibly have planned any of this. This was the surprise of a lifetime.
Writing about a topic as broad and universal as love had to be a daunting task. Were there any such moments that felt that way? As a writer, what was your process for synthesizing such a big theme?
I looked at a tremendous amount of research on love before I began to write. Initially I thought I’d include a lot more of it in the book, but the story sort of took over and the research largely got left behind. Still, it gave me a grounding and an overview. I think for me, there was always that . . . well, tension is not the right word, but push and pull between synthesizing the research and the very real things that were happening to me (and what was happening to the hundreds of people whose letters I answered). I guess all of it was also wrapped around Shakespeare’s exquisite story, too, something I knew inside and out from my long years of teaching. In the end, it all came together: all the pieces of the puzzle fit, and I do think that I was given a real answer about love. I hope something of that comes through in the pages of this book. I hope that every reader will find part of his or her own answer in this book.
Any advice for teachers about bringing Shakespeare into the classroom? What did you find that worked well to engage students? What caused them to tune out?
Shakespeare is meant to be acted, not read. I think that’s key. A line-by-line analysis is dead boring, even if Shakespeare did produce some of the greatest writing in the English language. More than anything else, Shakespeare is meant to be seen and heard. I never had the students read silently on their own; we always read it together—out loud, sometimes even in a Scottish accent. We analyzed the films, too, acting as film critics. We looked at how texts can be adapted and what decisions directors make in filming. I think all of that is important in today’s world. We live in a media culture, and I wanted the students to have some familiarity with how films are put together, what works emotionally and what does not. And of course they were at the age when sex and love is predominant in their brains, so it wasn’t really that hard to get their attention with Romeo and Juliet. I’d like to think there were takeaway points, things they could apply to their own lives. And that is pretty much why Shakespeare is so great. His stories and his words really do transcend time and place. He really does speak to what’s human in all of us.
While you are teaching Romeo and Juliet, you have to handle the fact that one of your students is being thrust into an arranged marriage. What was it like having classroom discussions on the power of love and the sacredness of marriage, but then realizing that it’s not always a possibility for others in some cultures? Do you regret involving yourself?
For most of my career as a teacher, I worked at a high school that was incredibly diverse in terms of the students’ cultures and language groups. I’d done a M.A. in sociolinguistics, so I was always fascinated by different mind-sets and how those are encoded in language or clothing or, yes, even different ideas concerning sex and marriage. We spoke openly in class about all of this. The story of the girl in the arranged marriage was absolutely true (though of course I can’t say anything about the actual student it happened to, only that her name wasn’t Sadia), and the situation did end the way it ended in the book. We were also lucky to have at that school some tremendous outside resources—cultural interpreters (not just translators) who worked with families and, yes, in that particular year, a social worker who specialized in working with immigrant families. It might not have turned out that way if these people had not been in place. I just drew on their resources.
Were there any other Shakespeare plays that you enjoyed teaching? Why? Just for fun and purely hypothetically, could you see a project similar to Juliet’s Answer based upon another Shakespeare work?
I taught a few other Shakespeare plays—although not every semester, not like Romeo and Juliet.. I did also teach (and love) Macbeth, and yes, I’ve toyed with the idea of writing about that. It would involve not love, but aggression and ambition and assassination, and I’m not sure I’m ready to take that on. I also loved Hamlet and taught it many times. There’s no doubt in my mind that it is the single greatest work of literature in the English language. There, I’ve said it. The soliloquys of Hamlet (and not just the famous one) are pure genius. There’s no other way to put it.
Are you at all in touch with the Secretaries of Juliet? It appears that you were in Verona in September 2016. If so, what was it like to be back?
Yes, absolutely. They are all thrilled about this book. As I mentioned, Desiree and I were just back in Verona. Among other things, we filmed interviews with Giovanna and Manuela and Anna (and Elena, who was mentioned only briefly in the book, but who has been working there for a long time). We asked them very simply what they had learned from answering all these letters over the years. You have to think that they may be among the world’s leading experts on love because of this experience, and they really did have some wonderful wisdom to impart. Look for the video. We’ll post it shortly. It was lovely to be back in Verona again. It really is a beautiful ancient city, with so many things to see. I know I’ll be back again and again and again.
You have done some extensive travel writing throughout your career. How was this project different than previous assignments? Any advice for aspiring travel writers?
In my previous books, I basically wrote about a different place in each chapter (drumming in Ghana or lost languages in the Amazon, so many things). I covered a lot of ground. Juliet’s Answer was the first time I wrote an entire book based in a single city, but what a remarkable city it is. I think my advice for aspiring travel writers would be not to write about the place so much as to write about the stories of the place or, better yet, write about the people you meet there and the stories they tell you. I can say that this is true of all of my books. I always seem to run into the most amazing people, and their experiences and stories and insights, not mine, make the writing great. You need to see the place through their eyes. That’s how you get closest to the truth of a place.
What three tips would you offer to the lovelorn?
Wow, that’s a difficult one. I think, though, I would say first: Be hopeful. Love will come again. I think one of the secretaries said it best when she said that you must look after yourself. You must love yourself first and then others can and will follow your example. It’s not easy when you’re heartbroken, but you must pick yourself up. Go do the things you love to do. Be with yourself. Find your bliss, as they say, and you’ll be surprised at what happens. I have no doubt that what’s most attractive to people is not looks at all. It’s happiness. It’s confidence. It’s being okay with who you are and what you have to offer the world.
About The Author
(c) Desiree Bilon
Glenn Dixon
Glenn Dixon was the 2014 writer-in-residence for the Vancouver International Writers Festival. He has traveled through more than seventt countries and written for National Geographic magazine, the New York Post, The Walrus, and The Globe and Mail. He taught Shakespeare for twenty years, but it’s his hunger for travel and adventure that made him the perfect choice to become one of Juliet’s secretaries.
Product Details
- Publisher: Gallery Books (February 7, 2017)
- Length: 272 pages
- ISBN13: 9781501141850
Awards and Honors
- Paradies Lagardere Non-Fiction Airlines Pick
Resources and Downloads
High Resolution Images
- Book Cover Image (jpg): Juliet's Answer Trade Paperback 9781501141850
- Author Photo (jpg): Glenn Dixon (c) Desiree Bilon(0.1 MB)
Any use of an author photo must include its respective photo credit
