Me and my 'cellulare'

Friday night's performance of the "Vagina Monologues" included more vibrators than you'd ever think you wold find in a theater. These were not the kind illegal to sell in Georgia, Iowa, Texas and Alabama, punishable by an up to $10,000 fine and one year of "hard labor." Instead, they're the type most college students carry around in bags and pockets, men included. They are cellular phones, and they're everywhere.

My introduction to the mobile phone world occurred during my exchange year in Italy. I went out one Sunday morning with a friend, sure I'd mentioned to my host family that I would check in with them later that afternoon. When I called at three to ask what time I should come home, they informed me curtly that since I hadn't shown up for lunch, it really didn't matter. When I returned, sheepish, a few hours later, they ordered me to buy a cell phone.

My little azure "cellulare" — or "telefonino" as my friends from Trieste called it — opened up my social world. I discovered the joy of whipping out my phone when it beeped to indicate an arriving message, of crowing "E' mio!" when the sounds of Bach's "Overture No. 2" seemed to erupt from nowhere. I learned the Italian teenager's secret code of reduced phonetics and shortened words designed to fit as much meaning as possible into text limited to 180 characters. I tripped for three weeks over the word "squillo" — literally "squeal" — in which the caller hangs up after hearing a ring, just to make contact with a friend. I was initiated into the ritual of the "ricarica," or "refill," ducking into the corner tobacco shop to buy a card whose shiny, grey stripe, once scratched off with a coin, revealed the magic numbers that, keyed into the phone, represented ten more euros of service. I never progressed to telephone flirtations, though once a guy whose eyes I accidentally met on the bus in Palermo asked me for my number.

My cell phone allowed my host families to reach me and me to reach them, whenever necessary, wherever I was.

Because I carried one with me, I was granted greater freedom to travel, both alone and with other exchangers. The cell phone gave me the flexibility to correct for mistakes: when plans changed, when trains ran late or not at all. When my friend and I found ourselves locked out of her house on my last night in Palermo, with her next-day flight rescheduled so that we would arrive in Rome too late to catch the train for Friuli, I used my cell to find alternate train schedules and hospitality with family in the city.

I brought my cell phone back to America with me, mainly for sentimental reasons. Since it doesn't work here, I do without. If I rarely take the train, does not having a cell phone necessarily put me at a disadvantage? A night spent trying to find someone on the Street says yes, but I wonder. A cell phone that cannot be turned off for the two hours of a performance, or during class, leaves its owner playing call waiting with life. When whatever you're doing, whomever you're with, gets put on hold at the sound of a ring, then you're only partially present in the present, waiting for a better opportunity to offer itself. At a typical Italian party, half of the people will be yelling into their phones or frantically keying text messages instead of interacting with those around them. Count me out. I'm content to have a cell phone save my life, but not for it to be my life. Emily Stolzenberg is a freshman from Morgantown, W. Va. She can be reached at estolzen@princeton.edu.