Italian Moments

2010-07-27T10:39:00.004-04:00

We're back from the mountains, and had a lovely time. Thanks to everyone who made comments and emailed after my last post. Nice to know you're still out there. :-)

Our Internet connection here is still spotty, so I'll post in small bits. That way, I won't lose posts that have taken, say, 20 minutes to compose, and then vanish after I hit the "post" button. And then maybe I won't have to rip out my hair at the roots in frustration, because I like having hair.

But I disgress.

In the mountains, as in all regions of Italy, flower boxes abound. Even the most crude stone house will have a cheerful box of geraniums adorning its windowsills. But even when the buildings are bursting with flowers, it's still not enough for the Italians.

Check out one of the many woodstacks we saw...

...ready for winter stoves and fireplaces, yet not quite ready to admit that summer will eventually come to an end.

Kind of like me.

Welcome to the Cocco Bar!

2010-07-16T05:11:00.005-04:00

Hello? (tapping the microphone....) Is anyone still out there? (now blowing into the microphone...)
.

It's been 18 months since I've posted, so if anyone out there still checks in periodically to see if I'm alive, thank you. :-)
.

For this first post, I've decided to show you what my 8-year-old daughter picked out at the toy store. Yes, it's the ever-popular....Cocco Bar! Step right up and order a drink with a paper umbrella, 'cause it's Happy Hour for 8-year-olds aaaaaaaaat the Cocco Bar !!!
.

As I've posted before, bars in Italy are not the same as bars in the U.S. The most-consumed drink in Italian bars is coffee, and there's often a gelateria inside. Very innocent.
.

But still, when my husband and daughter came home with this, the first words out of my mouth were: "I've got to post this on my blog."
.

And so I have.
.

We're off to the mountains for a week without Internet access, so I'll be back next week with another post.
.

Ciao for now,
Natalie

Not guilty...finally!

2009-01-25T14:43:00.005-05:00

Since my husband and I are both teachers and have the summers off, we'll be going back to Italy for most of July and August. And thanks to Barack Obama, I can finally return to Italy guilt-free.

I've traveled to many places--over a dozen countries on 5 continents--and everywhere I go, I'm asked about American politics. Italy is no different. Italians love to ask: What do you think of Bush? What about the war in Iraq? Did Iraq really have weapons of mass destruction?

My answers are always the same:
1. Not much.
2. It's awful.
3. Um, I have no idea.

Everyone always begins my interrogation with a smile. After all, here's their chance to talk to a real live American! And ask anything they want to! Hey, Mario, get a load of this--she's American!

Granted, I'm only one person. But this fact seems to get lost somewhere along the way, and by the end of these questioning firing squads, I somehow feel like everything America has ever done wrong is indirectly my fault. Or the collective fault of every American on the planet. Even when I explain that I've never voted for anyone named Bush, people still shake their heads and challenge me with something like: "Why was he re-elected then?"

Answer: Because the U.S. government lets other people vote, not just Natalie. I know, it's shocking, really, that I don't have more power.

But Italians seemed to have gone ga-ga over Obama, so when I return to Italy this summer, I'll do so without any of the Bush-is-our-president guilt. Unless Obama somehow messes up...(for you Americans, I'm knocking on wood, and for you Italians, I'm touching my nose. All of which is not easy while typing this post).

As the Italians say: Speriamo bene--let's hope for the best.

I already am.

2009-01-01T13:47:00.002-05:00

This is our first holiday season back in the States since 2003. After 5 consecutive Italian Christmases, I thought I'd list the top 5 five ways that an Italian Natale differs from an American Christmas:

1. Gift Wrap
In Italy, you can have gifts wrapped for free right at the cash register. Here in the U.S., I had to buy the paper, bows and tags, which I then stored in my basement until Christmas Eve, when the wrapping marathon began. I also had to come up with cunning hiding places for the gifts this year, since one peek into a shopping bag would have given everything away.

2. Speaking of wrapping paper...
I don't know what your family's opening-of-the-gifts routine is, but our Italian and U.S routines are polar opposites. In Italy, Babbo Natale (a.k.a. my father-in-law) visited the house laden with gifts for one and all. As soon as he left, the unwrapping frenzy would commence--paper flying, ooh's and ahh's, people asking to pass the scissors to cut those ribbons that had been expertly tied by shopkeepers. I kid you not, the entire process was over in five minutes. No one paid any attention to who was opening which gift, and it often took a good 15 minutes post-frenzy to figure out who had given which gifts to whom. In contrast, my family in the U.S. always takes turns, one at a time. Even the kids. Everyone ohh's and ahh's, asks for the scissors to be passed (albeit less frequently, since most of us just use quick-and-easy self-adhesive bows). The gift-giver is properly thanked, then we move on to the next gift-opener. Once in awhile, the wrapping paper and the extra-fruffy bows are even saved for another occasion.

3. Christmas Eve
In Italy, most people go to midnight mass, and the gifts are opened afterwards. Having small children, we always went to an earlier mass. It wasn't until we went to the Christmas Eve service this year that I remembered how kid-friendly churches in the U.S. are. The whole service was centered around kids who sang and acted out the story of Christmas Eve. Reading the program for the evening, there were notices about Sunday school and other kids' events. In Italy, they have catechism classes and First Communion prep classes , but not during the mass. Mass is usually very solemn, and there is no Sunday School with its Bible stories and crafts made of felt and Popsicle sticks. If parents want to actually listen to the mass in peace, there is only one solution: grandparents. My father-in-law was always outside the church playing with my kids more than he was inside. (Although I think he actually preferred it that way...)

4. The Nativity Scene
Il presepio is huge in Italy, and all churches and most homes have elaborate Nativity scenes--we're talking fountains with real water, lights, camels on tread mills, the whole works. Most families add one new thing to the scene each year; they start with the basics--the holy family, wise men, all the principal players. Then each year they'll add a man with a cart, a woman and her spinning wheel, a few extra donkeys...the cast is limitless.

We had a modest one in our home in Italy, and had it displayed where the kids couldn't reach it. This year, however, we had nowhere to put it, really, except within reach of the kids. So Mary and Joseph ended up chatting with Spiderman, and they all put on a Cheetah Girls performance, led by my daughters. My 3-year-old son wanted to put the Baby Jesus down for a nap, and he (Baby Jesus) hasn't been seen since. My mother-in-law would be appalled.

5. Christmas Cards
Italians don't send Christmas cards, although I always used to send them. Up until last year, that is. I just ran out of time, and felt surprisingly not guilty about the whole thing. This year I haven't sent any, either, but am reminded everywhere I go that Christmas cards are part of our culture. So for those of you out there who used to get Christmas cards from me, there's still hope...for a January card. Or one in February. Or, you know...sometime after that.

In the meantime...no matter how you celebrated, I hope your holidays were happy!

Sick in America

2008-12-13T07:19:00.004-05:00

Let me begin this post by declaring this: it is a universal injustice that people who dutifully get their flu shot end up with the flu. I know, there are different strains of the flu virus, blah, blah, blah. Still.

Being sick in America is a bit different than being sick in Italy. Here are some of the major differences:

1. In Italy, doctors still make house calls. Granted, you need to be pretty sick for this to happen. Either that, or have an insistent mother-in-law. Which pretty much covers a good chunk of the population.

Once I had (what turned out to be) strep throat with a fever of about 102. My mother-in-law had brought lunch over and insisted I take my temperature. She then insisted I call the doctor and tell him to come over right away, since it was a blustery January day. He asked what my symptoms were, and then said something like: "Can't you just come in yourself?" to which I answered, "Sure, I can come in." That's when my mother-in-law took over, berating the doctor for not coming over when I'd asked, and making it sound like I was on my death bed.

Long story short (er), he showed up on his motor scooter about 30 minutes later. Under the eagle eye of my mother-in-law, he examined my throat, felt my forehead, and did that awful throat culture thing that makes you gag. When my mother-in-law was out of ear shot, he whispered, "You could have come in, you know." I gave a subtle nod toward my mother-in-law and whispered back, "Yes, I know." He did one of those peripheral glances her way and nodded, as if to say, "I know. I have one of those at home, too."

2. Speaking of throat cultures, the thing the doctor sticks down your throat is called a tampone in Italian. Last month my 9-year-old daughter asked the pediatrician if she had to have a tampone when she had strep throat. Nice. Bless him, he didn't even raise an eyebrow. I taught her the term "throat culture" right there on the spot.

3. Another major difference between being sick in America and ammalata in'Italia is that no one from work stopped by my house to see if I was really sick. In Italy, many employers do this, making it hard to play hooky from work. Hard, but not impossible. They do have the courtesy of telling you when they'll be stopping by--they usually give you a 2-hour window.

4. Lastly, one of the things I appreciate most about being sick in America is prescriptions. In Italy, the directions aren't printed for you on the label. I discovered this the hard way. As the doctor was telling me what the dosage was, I nodded and said, "Si, si, va bene," which translates to: "Okay, okay, just give me the paper so I can get to the pharmacy and put myself out of this misery."

Well, I should have listened. There was no label, and I had to slog through the enclosed pamphlet in Italian and figure out the dosage by weight (in kilos, of course).

But the best part about being sick in America? I have 3 (or is it 5?) words for you:

24-hour drive-thru pharmacy

God Bless America

Feeling Thankful

2008-12-03T19:41:00.004-05:00

This Fall season has flown by. I can't believe Thanksgiving is over and Christmas is only 3 weeks away. Here are a few things we've been thankful for this Fall...

1. Trick-or-Treating in a land of trick-or-treat experts.
For the past 5 years, we had to create our own Halloween in Italy. Sure, the shops were festooned with jack-o-lanterns and witches, but that's where all the orange and black fun ended. No one actually carves pumpkins or goes trick-or-treating. All the costume fun comes later, during Carnivale.

We started a trick-or-treating tradition with our neighbors, but we had to buy the candy ahead of time, put it into small bags and tie the bags to their doorknobs. That way our kids would get candy even if the neighbors weren't home. And most weren't, because why should they be at 7:30pm, when most people are just getting off work? This year, it was so nice to go door to door and get free candy. For the kids, or course...it all went to the kids.

2. Fall leaves
The most common kind of trees in Trieste seemed to be pine trees. There were other kinds whose names escape me, but very few turned color in the fall. Those who did were beautiful, but their hues were mild, understated. The fall colors here on the east coast of the U.S. took my breath away.
3. Thanksgiving
My Italian relatives have all seen the traditional Turkey-Day dinner in American movies, of course, so they were all excited when the end of November rolled around. This meant that Natalie had to prepare the turkey and all the fixin's herself. Everyone worked on Thanksgiving, so they all showed up right before dinner was served. Italian table manners dictate that you must dive in as soon as the food is set before you (a sign of respect for the food and the cook, because who wants to eat cold food?). No matter how much I planned, I was always slow on the gravy uptake, and my in-laws would inevitably finish the dinner while I was out in the kitchen stirring up the gravy. This meant more gravy for me, however, so it wasn't all bad.

This year we went to my parents' house, and my mom was in charge of the dinner. She would tell my sister and I when to stir this, how much butter we needed to add to that, which we dutifully did while the three of us chatted away. I loved it.

Hope everyone had a peaceful, happy Thanksgiving!

Tip for the Dryer-Challenged

2008-10-20T14:44:00.004-04:00

Those of you who have followed this blog from its inception know how I feel about doing laundry in Italy. One of things I missed most was my American clothes dryer.

Fluffy clothes.

Warm towels.

Not waiting days for your clothes to dry because it's been raining for the last
week but it's too warm in the house to turn on the radiators and drape your laundry over them.

What's not to love?

So we've been in our home here for about 6 weeks, and I'm loving my clothes dryer. Then about 10 days ago, I notice that the clothes aren't drying like they should. I'd been using the second highest heat setting so as not to ruin our bought-in-Italy clothes that were not made to withstand the high heat of a dryer. But as the days go
on, the loads of laundry are more and more damp at the end of the cycle.

So I ramp it up to high heat. No messing around now--we're talking the Cotton Cycle. I figure the Italian-made clothes will just have to bear the heat or get out of the dryer--with 3 kids, I don't have time to weed out American vs.Italian clothes. The survivors earn a place in our dresser drawers. Those who can't take the heat are destined for the scrap pile.

The Cotton Cycle worked for about 2 days. Then the damp seeped in once again, and I found myself needing to run the clothes through a cycle and a half. Then two. I thought I was destined to have to pay for a new motor, or worse, a whole new dryer.

Then this morning, I went down to take out another load (which was finally dry after the third cycle). I'd forgotten the laundry basket, so I needed to pile the laundry on top of the dryer in order to switch the other set of clothes from the washer to the dryer.

I clear off the top of the dryer (boxes of stuff we haven't unpacked yet), and there it was.

The lint trap door.

The one I'm supposed to be cleaning out after each load.

Oops.

Now, here's what you probably find in your lint trap:

The lint I heaved out of my lint trap was monstrous. I would post a photo, but we can't find the recharger for our digital camera (it's probably in one of the boxes that was stacked on top of the dryer). But if/when I do, I will add a photo to this post.

I kid you not, the lint is 3 inches thick.

Just goes to show what 5 dryer-less years out of the country can do...

It's the pedal on the right, people.

2008-09-07T14:37:00.004-04:00

We all know that Italian drivers have quite a reputation. They speed. They tailgate. They treat stop signs like yield signs. They illegally pass slow cars (the Italian definition of "slow" being anyone who's only going 10-20 km over the speed limit). Mrs. Hall, my high school Driver's Education teacher, would be appalled.

When we first moved to Italy, we shipped our mini (behemoth) van with us. It wasn't exactly the sleek, hairpin-curve-hugging driving machine that one normally associates with Italian roads. It didn't fit in parking spaces. It didn't even really fit in parking garages. Whenever I'd descend down the narrow, spiral ramp into the darkened bowels of an Italian parking garage, my kids would actually cheer if they didn't hear the telltale metallic scrape of the side of my car against the concrete wall.

After a few months, I realized that my sense of personal driving space had narrowed in that not-so-mini van of mine. I no longer gasped when someone shot out from behind me and passed me on my right. At red lights, I barely noticed when motor scooters zipped past me in their rush to get to the front before the light turned green. And stop signs? Schmtop signs. I became as guilty as all the rest of the crazy Italians on the road.

But although I eventually became more comfortable behind the wheel, it was always "me" (the sane, safe driver) and "them" (the crazy Italians).

Until I moved back to the States.

I am now in a land where drivers put their turn signals on for each. And. Every. Turn. Even when no one else is around.

Where "speeding" means going 10-15 miles over the speed limit, and you could actually get a ticket.

Where people wait to turn left at a green light, even when they've got a good 30 seconds before oncoming traffic will be entering the intersection.

And I am behind all of these people as I drive to work each morning.

Little did I know that 5 years in Italy would turn me into an Italian driver. A watered-down, American version of an Italian driver, perhaps, but an Italian driver nonetheless. I am no longer that driver who slows to 5 mph 25 yards before making a right turn on a one lane road. Nay. I'm now the one behind that driver, who grumbles: "Come on, sweetheart. It's the pedal on the right."

More stateside observations....

2008-08-24T16:23:00.005-04:00

Yowsa...I can't believe it's been a whole month since my last entry. We're getting into the swing of things, and just when I think I'm getting used to the whole American thing, something crops up that surprises the Italian in me. Here we go with three more Americanisms:

1. We bought a car--on a Sunday. If you're American, you're probably wondering why this is on my list. If you're Italian, you're thinking that the word "Sunday" must be a typo.

In Italy, you'd be hard-pressed to buy a liter of milk on a Sunday. Well, you could, but you'd have to go out of your way to one of the larger grocery store chains, because everything else is closed.

But a car?? That's right. We saw it on the Internet at a car dealer, called Friday night, went to see it on Saturday, liked it, made a deal, returned on Sunday to sign the paperwork and drive our new car home. Just like that. And did I mention it was a Sunday?

2. Walk-in freezer--I've heard of these things, but had never been in one until I went to Shopper's Food Warehouse the other week. I was stuck in the cereal aisle with my indecisive kids (why can't they make up their minds? There are only 246 kinds to choose from...) while my husband went to pick up some beer. He couldn't find it, so we headed off together. We finally found it--in a walk-in freezer the size of a 7-11 store, I swear. My (Italian) husband opened the door, stuck one foot inside, withdrew his foot, closed the door, and said: "I'm not going in there. It's freezing!"

If you're new to this blog, or Italian culture in general, you might not know that Italians don't like cold (or even cool) breezes blowing on them-especially on their neck. Over the door to this freezer was a machine that was spewing Arctic air on anyone who dared enter this beer tundra. So I left my husband standing there with the kids and braved my way through the doors. Before the door shut, I heard my daughter say, "I want to go with Mommy!" I turned back to see my husband grasp her hand and shake his head, then look at me like I was going off to Siberia. I got the beer, then headed back into the slightly less-frigid air-conditioned store. And I didn't even catch pneumonia.

If the Italian government wants to put an end to alcoholism in Italy, all they have to do is install one of these walk-in-freezers wherever alcohol is sold. No one would enter. I'm not kidding.

3. I know I've spoken of waiting-in-line etiquette before, but I was still surprised the other day when I was in line at the grocery store, and a cashier opened up a new line right next to mine. I was third in line, with two people behind me. I was ready for the mad dash, but when I turned to the newly-opened line, no one was there yet.

"Just my luck!" I thought. "No one else heard the cashier say the line was open!"

As I glanced at the person behind me to size up my competition before sprinting away, the lady behind me said: "Please, go right ahead."

All the sprint wooshed out of me. "Are you sure?" I said.

"Of course," she replied. "You're ahead of me." And she was right. I was ahead of her.

In Italy, I would have had my toes run over by the cart-pushers mowing me over from behind.

Here in America, grocery shoppers' toes are safe. Just watch out for those walk-in-freezers.

adjusting

2008-07-23T22:03:00.003-04:00

We've been back a whole week now, and it feels more like a month.

More good American things I'd forgotten about:

1. customer service--everyone is so friendly here. I went to the bank to have something notarized, and when I learned that the notary guy wasn't in, the bank lady called a nearby branch to make sure the notary was in, then she Yahoo-ed directions to that branch and printed it out, along with the other branch's phone number. And that's not the only example--I could go on. And on.

Italians are friendly, too, just not in shops (unless they know you). I once went to buy a measly pair of tights for my daughter at a shop in Italy. I had my three kids in tow, the youngest of whom was whiny (to put it mildly). I must have waited 5 minutes (which is more like 10 when you factor in the cranky toddler) while the shop keeper blabbed with her friend. During their conversation, I said things to my toddler like: "I'm sure our turn will be soon, honey" in a loud voice, but to no avail. She never once looked my way, or said anything like: I'll be right with you.

Italians are many wonderful things, but public servants they are not.

2. lines--everyone waits in line here. In orderly lines. Patiently. The lines in Italy aren't linear--they're blob-shaped. Waiting in an Italian line is not for the faint-hearted. You need to be quick. You need to pay attention. You need your elbows at the ready. The worst line cutters are the grandmothers. They look innocent, but I am here to tell you they are not. Their grandmotherly (apparent) innocence is their secret weapon. They pretend not to see you (picture a "Who, me?" expression) and while you're off guard, they shout out their coffee order ahead of you.

In a U.S. line, I could be reading a book, and the guy behind me would say, "Excuse me, but aren't you next?" In Italy, I could read War and Peace from cover to cover and still have the line cutters silently stream around me.

And now for some not-so-great things:
1. The Fuzz--not that I'm a fugitive of the law, or anything, but it's a little disconcerting to see policemen everywhere. I don't know about you, but whenever I see a police car while I'm driving, I automatically hit the brakes, even if I'm obeying the speed limit. The other day I was driving during morning rush hour, and there was a cop by the side of the road pointing a big 'ol radar gun my way, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, looking like the sheriff of his own little median strip.

Sure, I used to see Italian policemen, but I've never seen an Italian speed trap. Probably because the policemen are afraid they'd trap their own mothers, since everyone speeds in Italy.

2. Lockdowns--Have you ever heard of those? If you aren't a kid in this post 9-11 era, you probably haven't heard this term in regards to an elementary school. I'm a teacher who will be teaching in a year-round school that starts soon. (I know, it's not even August yet. Tell me about it). We had our first staff meeting the other day, and the principal was going over safety procedures. So we cover fire drills. Fine. Then tornado drills. Okay. Then we cover the procedures to follow if:
a.) there's a threat outside the school (if someone has robbed a home in the neighborhood and is on the loose),
b.) if there's a bio-chemical hazard outside the school, and finally
c.) the lockdown, if there's a threat in the school building. If this happens, we have to lock our classroom doors, draw the blinds, tape paper over the window in the door that leads from the classroom to the hallway, and have the class huddle in the corner furthest from the door.

I don't even know what to say to this. Maybe all of this is necessary in Italy, too, but they don't know it yet? I hate to think of my daughters practicing these drills come September, and asking "Why?".

Suddenly, those Italian grandmothers in the blob-shaped lines don't seem so bad...

We're back!

2008-07-17T08:04:00.002-04:00

We got in last night, and we've been up since 4:00 this morning, but all in all the trip went well.

In the week before we left, I took lots of photos to post about what I'll miss/not miss about Italy, and have now lost my camera. Oy. If it turns up, I'll post the photos. If not, I'll have to resort to a thousand words.

A few first impressions:
1. Air conditioning. Whoa.
2. Soft, fluffy towels. Ahhhh.
3. Three things I'd totally forgotten about: English muffins, cranberry juice, hash browns.
4. TV is everywhere. Even in the customs line in the airport. Which is a good thing when you have a tired 2-year-old. He saw a baseball game on TV, pointed and shouted: "Basketball!" There was also a TV in the hotel breakfast room this morning. A big TV. And no one was talking to anyone. Even we got sucked in, and all that was on was the Washington, D.C. traffic report.

More later...

What I WON'T miss about Italy (post #1)

2008-07-10T02:54:00.004-04:00

After getting all misty-eyed over the things I'll miss, it's only fair that I show you what I WON'T miss about life in Italy. Take a look at the photo below. Can you figure out what's going on here?

It might be difficult to see behind the reflection on the windshields, but there aren't any drivers in these cars. They're parked. Note the car all the way on the left, and the car behind it. These cars are parked legally, next to the curb. Fine.

Now look at the middle car up front--the Mercedes. That parking position is what Italians call in seconda, which means it's parked in the second parallel position next to the curb. It's illegal, but you probably won't get a ticket as long as you keep your eye on your car, ready to move it at a moment's notice. This parking technique is often used when Italians dash into a bar to get a coffee.

Look closely and you'll see another car behind the Mercedes. If anyone on the inside wants to get out, all they have to do is lean on their horn, and the owner of the cars in seconda will materialize and move their cars. Or the seconda drivers might leave their cell phone numbers scribbled on a piece of paper left on the dashboard for you to call and tell them to get their cars out of the way.

Now enter our car. The blue one all the way on the right. We went to the beach on this day, and there was no spot in sight. Not even in seconda. So my husband invented a place--in terza, I suppose you could call it. It's literally right in the middle of the road. But it's the perfect spot--we're not blocking anyone in, and there's room for other cars to get by. Illegal? Schmillegal.

I must admit, parking in the middle of the road would have never occurred to me. I've parked on sidewalks, mind you, and in the occasional bus lane. But this time, I would have driven right by this prime parking spot, muttering that all the spaces were filled.

While I admire the Italians for their parking prowess, I yearn for the wide spaces in the Target parking lot. I used to lament when the only free space at the mall on the morning of December 24 was all the way at the end, a kilometer away from the nearest entrance. Now? I'll never curse another American parking lot again.

What I'll miss about Italy (post #3)...

2008-07-07T07:10:00.003-04:00

...walking through the citta vecchia (old city), former home of the Ancient Romans.

If you look closely at the lower left of the yellow building in the photo below, you'll see the exposed stone from the original structure. Many older houses leave that peek into the past for all to see. Here's the view of the strip of sky above me, sandwiched by the buildings in the alley:

It still amazes me that people walk these streets every day and don't pause to think about the history that surrounds them. For Italians, 300-year-old buildings are simply part of the landscape.

What I'll miss about Italy (post #2)...

2008-07-05T03:08:00.004-04:00

Roofs, Roofs... ...and more terra cotta tile roofs.

What I'll miss about Italy (post #1)...

2008-07-03T06:51:00.006-04:00

...is living an hour and a half away from this floating city: ...where boats (although rarely gondolas) are the main form of transportation.

Venice is a dream destination for thousands of people around the world, and yet we can say: "Let's spend the day in Venice." And we have, countless times. The road signs on the autostrada that say: Venezia still strike me as exotic, even if they don't merit a second glance from Italians.

It was the same way for my Italian husband when we lived in Virginia--he used to see Beltway signs for Washington, D.C. and still find it hard to believe that we lived so close to such a famous city. I love Washington, but to my eyes, it can't compare to Venice.

On our way out...

2008-06-29T07:30:00.005-04:00

After 5 wonderful years in Italy, we're headed back to the States on July 16. Italian Moments will soon dwindle to a sprinkling of posts here and there, but it won't die altogether...I'll blog about re-entry culture shock as we get used to life in the States again, and then I'll be posting each summer, as we'll be back during July and most of August each year (my husband and I aren't independently wealthy, in case you're wondering why we get to "summer" in Italy...we're both teachers).

I began this blog a year and a half ago as a way to capture snippets of our expat life here in bella Italia. I also wanted to give family and friends back home a glimpse of our lives across the pond. As it turns out, Statcounter tells me that Italian Moments has between 685 and 1,903 unique visitors each month from over 36 countries. And no, I don't have that many friends and family back home...

Some of those visitors stumbled upon my blog when googling things like: italian game shows, easter bunny in italian, and translate happy birthday in italian (all according to the aforementioned Statcounter). Others are probably disappointed in the content of my blog--those would be the visitors who found my blog by googling the following phrases (and this is just a smattering, believe me): naked breasts, italian bare breasts show, well endowed breasts mature, and italian breasts tv. For those of you who have found my blog in this way, I'll save you some time by saying that, yes, I've blogged about breasts, but there ain't no photos. Sorry.

But for those of you who are not hindered by the lack of photographed breasts, I've added a feature where you can sign up to have new posts sent to your email inbox (just look on the left side of the blog for the link).

Starting tomorrow and up until our move, I'll be posting a collection of photos showing what I'll miss (and not miss) about about Italy, so stay tuned!

Soccer, Borders, and Continents

2008-06-21T16:54:00.004-04:00

I can't believe it's been almost a month since my last post! School just got out yesterday (I'm a teacher, for those who don't know) so now I feel like I can breathe. And post. Definitely post.

Well, it's that time again, when grown Italian men are glued to the television, and shouts can be heard throughout the city during certain hours of the evening--shouts of joy and anguish, depending. That's right, it's the European Cup Soccer Tournament (if you didn't guess this, don't feel bad...I only know this because I'm married to an Italian).

As I type this, Russia is playing Holland, and they're tied 1 to 1 (note: Holland beat Italy 3-0 at the start of the tournament. Ouch.) So my husband is glued to the television, and I say: "Hey, wait a minute. Is Russia part of Europe?" I think not. Geographically, they're in Asia. At least mostly. Right?

But husband shakes his head. "No. Russia has always played in the European Cup."

I raise an eyebrow. (Actually, I don't know how to raise my eyebrow without pushing it up with my finger. But I've always wished I could. So just humor me...). So I raise an eyebrow and say: "But that doesn't make them European. Russia is in Asia." I thought some more, concentrating on raising my other eyebrow. "Although it sounds strange to say they're Asian. So what are they?"

My husband: "They're in the European Cup, aren't they? They're European."

For him, that's good enough. The European Cup Soccer League (or whatever their governing body is called) has spoken.

I'm not convinced. What do you think?

Books for Bambini

2008-05-26T15:25:00.009-04:00

I've been tagged for another meme by a friend and children's writer. Here's what I have to do:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people and post a comment to Vijaya's blog once I've posted my three sentences. (My five people are three of my critique partners, Julie, Kip and Cynthia, and children's writers Mary and Robin.)

Okay, so the book in closest proximity to me is actually a board book for toddlers called Alla Ricerca di Christopher Robin (In Search of Christopher Robin), and since it has a mere 26 pages, I can't exactly tell you what's on page 123.

Next up is a 162-pager, E.L. Konigsburg's From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, a novel for middle grades (ages 9-12). Without further ado, here's what I've found on page 123:

He thought a minute and then said, "I haven't been a tightwad all my life, have I?"

"As long as I've known you," Claudia answered.

"Well, you've known me for as long as I've known me," he said smiling.

I'm in the middle of reading this story--an adventure/mystery about a brother and sister who run away from home and stay at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC. The last time I heard this story was when my all-time favorite teacher, Mrs. Smith, read it aloud to our 4th grade class. That was a looong time ago.

While we're on the topic of children's literature, I thought I'd bend the subject around to Italian children's books. Many books for kids here are stories translated from English into Italian. But even stories I was familiar with as a child take on a different bent when they're translated into Italian. Take Puss in Boots, for example.

Here's the cover:

So far, so good. The story goes along as you'd expect it would...the clever cat promises his master fame and fortune in exchange for a pair of boots. Fair enough. The master gives the cat some boots, and the cat finagles a marriage proposal for his master to the king's daughter. Here's the big moment where the master is asking the king for his daughter's hand:

You've got food, drink, the cat (boots included), the master is smiling, the princess is beaming, and even the king looks pleased. Why is the king happy? Not because his daughter is about to get engaged. Nay. Let's have a closer look:

It says that the king was won over by the good manners and apparent wealth of his daughter's suitor. And he also realized that his daughter was, indeed, in love. Awww.

Then the king decides to announce that he will give his blessing for the wedding.

Here we go:

Al termine del banchetto, dopo aver bevuto cinque o sei bicchieri di vino, gli disse: Caro Marchese, sarei felice di avervi per genero. Vi offro in sposa mia figlia!

This happy Hallmark moment translates as: At the end of the banquet, after having drunk five or six glasses of wine, the king said: "Dear Marchese, I would be happy to have you as a son-in-law. I offer you my daughter in marriage!"

Sniff. It brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it? Through wine, all things are possible, I suppose. Especially in Italian kiddy lit.

It's the Mammas who rule...

2008-05-12T08:15:00.004-04:00

In honor of Mother's Day, I thought I'd post this photo I took about two weeks ago at the First Communion of a friend's daughter. Having arrived late (as usual), we spent the whole time at the rear of the church looking at the back of everyone's heads. We'd never been to this particular church before, and I was starting to doubt we were in the right one since I couldn't spot our friends anywhere. After the mass we milled about until we finally found them. Turns out this is why we hadn't spotted them earlier: They had been seated just beyond the front row of pews in these reserved seats. You'll have to click on the photo in order to read the signs, which both say: RISERVATI AI GENITORI which means: Reserved for parents.

Makes sense.

But look at the fine print. In the lower right hand corner of the sign in the front row it says: (mamme)--mothers. And in the lower right hand corner of the second row sign it says: (papa')--fathers.

So they reserved the first row for moms while the dads were relegated to the second row?

I've blogged about the mamma mia phenomenon before, and this is a prime example.

You may think I'm a day late in wishing everyone a Happy Mother's Day.

Nah.

It doesn't matter when I say it--in Italy, every day is La Festa della Mamma.

What Italian Papas are looking for...

2008-05-01T03:38:00.010-04:00

Here's a lift-the-flap book that my kids have enjoyed over the years. The title means "Search and Find" and readers have to guess what each family member is looking for, then lift the flap to see if they're correct. Here are some samples of what Italians are searching for...

What's Mamma looking for? A little sanity, maybe? (Perhaps that's just me...)

Oh, yes. Her keys! This I can relate to, unfortunately.
What's the Nonna searching for?
No, it's not someone to cook for (at least not this time). It's....her reading glasses! All the better to spy microscopic smudges of mud on her grandchildren's knees and scrub them into submission.
How about the Papa'? He's looking for something under his jacket on the chair. (I know, it's hard to tell that's a jacket, since a chunk has been peeled off by my 2-year-old). Is he searching for his tie? His cell phone? His Blackberry? The newspaper? Or is he simply on his hands and knees praying for a way to pay for his kids' college education?

The answer to all of these is, of course, no. Especially the college one, as university is practically free here. And I've yet to see a Blackberry in Italy, so that's not it, either. No, ladies and gentlemen, this papa' is searching for...drum roll...

His helmet! (cymbal crash).

Italians love their motorscooters, and they're part of the landscape here. In fact, Italian mammas and papas even bring their kids to school on scooters. The kids don their mini-helmets and cling to their parents from behind like baby koalas. I'm dying to get a picture of this, but I never have my camera with me when I see it.

My dad had a motorcycle for a short time when I was a kid. He wanted to take me for a spin around the block, and my mother said absolutely not. I was crushed. In fact, I think she said absolutely not to the whole motorcycle idea, because my dad sold it after a few months.

My husband has offered to take my girls for a spin on the scooter. I said absolutely not. They're crushed.

I said they could ask me again when they're 30.

New uses for a bidet...

2008-04-07T12:22:00.009-04:00

In yesterday's post, I told you that we don't use our bidet...at least not for its intended use. Here are the top four most common uses of the bidet in our house.

Handy-Dandy Bidet Function #1:
toothbrushing spit receptacle...

Handy-Dandy Bidet Function #2:

The Barbie (Sometimes Co-ed) Day Spa... Handy-Dandy Bidet Function #3:

Car/Truck One-Stop Wash...(no drying service available, though. All vehicles will be drip-dried as they are carried throughout the house.)

Handy-Dandy Bidet Function #4:

DVD cleansing station--for all your audio/visual cleanliness needs...

So there you have it.

If you're European, you probably cringed your way through my bidet photo essay. If you're American, you probably thought: Cool! My kids would love this.

Mine sure do.

What's a bidet, anyway?

2008-04-06T15:04:00.003-04:00

If you're not American, you might be wondering: Why would she post a photo of a bidet on her blog? If you are an American (like me), you may be asking yourself: Why is she posting a photo of a mini bathroom sink on her blog? Before I lived in Europe, I'd heard the word bidet (pronounced beh-DAY) but didn't exactly know what it was used for. Okay, I had NO idea what it was used for.

Now I do.

Ew.

But in our house, the bidet is not used for its intended purpose. In fact, it's been taken over completely by my three kids, who have come up with...shall we say...unique uses for the bidet.

Tune in tomorrow for the photos...

Buona Festa del Papa'

2008-03-20T12:57:00.005-04:00

As promised, here's a photo of the gift my third grader made at school for Father's Day:

Yup. It's a bottle of wine, with the label designed by my daughter. For those who may remember, my daughter's class took a field trip last fall where they learned how wine is made. They actually took off their shoes and socks and smushed the grapes themselves. That was in September. Six months later...a bottle of wine!

It's not half bad, either (as long as you block out the image of all those toes in your wine...)

Tap, tap, tap...

2008-03-18T17:20:00.002-04:00

...is this thing on? (blows into microphone)...testing...testing....

I'm back, and my apologizes for waiting so long to post. All is well, I've just been busy with writing assignments/tasks/revisions, and I've neglected my blog, once again. My mother thought her computer wasn't working because she kept getting the "same old post" and another friend (Hi, Sharon!) emailed me asking whether or not I still existed, so I thought I'd check in.

My last post was about Carnevale, and I fully intended to post more pictures, but all of the parades, festivities, etc. were doused with freezing rain. Which can happen when you schedule a major holiday with outdoor festivities in...February. I mean, come on, people.

But as tomorrow is Father's Day here in Italy, my next post will be a photo of the gift my third grader made at school for her papa'. It's not your regular pencil holder/tie organizer/bar-b-que apron kind of gift. Oh, nay. You'll never guess. ;-)

More soon...

Carnevale has arrived!

2008-02-02T04:35:00.001-05:00

Carnevale season began this past Thursday, but the costume frenzy began in mid-January. If you're Italian (child or adult), your mother or nonna (grandmother) might make your costume. Or you could buy one at a store like the one we visited last weekend.

You could start with a mask:
Add a hat:

Or go all out from head (note the wigs in the background) to toe:

Here's the line-up of children's costumes:

A fireworks display...

...and kilos of confetti and string--enough to make you thankful you're not an Italian street cleaner.

This will be the 7th Carnevale I've spent in Italy, and I must say that this next item was a new one for me:

If you can't make out the writing, it says: Hill Billy Teeth. Do Italians really know what a Hill Billy is? I asked my Italian husband what he thought Hill Billy meant, and he said: "It's the guy's name, right?" (In Italy, people often introduce themselves and sign their names with their last name first, then first name. As in: "Hi, I'm Hill, Billy. Nice to meet ya.")

Um--no.

I'm guessing the store won't be selling out of this item anytime soon.

I'll post some more Carnevale photos later this week.

P.S. Today is the first blogiversary of Italian Moments!

Guten Tag from...Italy, of course!

2008-01-19T04:27:00.000-05:00

A few weekends ago we went to a village called Sesto. It's nestled in the Italian Alps (Dolomites) in a region called Alto Adige. Also known as South Tyrol. Also known as Bolzen. Oh, and Bolzano.

Confused? You're not alone. One skiiable mountain divides this Italian region from Austria. After WWI, the Austrian-Hungarian Empire lost this zone to Italy, even though over 90% of its residents spoke German. And still do. They speak German at home, in school, in shops, and will switch to German-accented Italian only when pressed. Signs are both in German and Italian. Here's a local bakery run by the Happacher family. Note which language takes first billing.Reflected in the window is one of those gingerbread-looking houses that are scattered up the mountain-sides and throughout the villages of this region. (It appears that I'm quite the photographer here, doesn't it? But I must say that I didn't even realize there was anything reflected in the window until I looked at the photo a few days later...).

Here's the house where we always stay when we go to Sesto:

The paintings around the windows are also very typical here. Here's a close-up of the front door:

Two things to notice here:

1. Above the door, in German, it says that the house was built in 1698, and rennovated in 1973.

2. The chalk writing on the top of the right-hand door was for the Epiphany--villagers dressed as the Three Wise Men come to everyone's door and leave their initials: G+M+B surrounded by the numbers of the new year, 2008.

It feels like you've stepped into a story book. With good food.

Skiing is the main industry in the winter, and that's just what we did. Although, I use the term "we" loosely. My husband learned to ski in this village when he was a boy, he skis like poetry-in-motion. Whereas I ski more like a third-grader's-essay-on-momentum-in-motion. Which means I hang with our two-year-old while our girls ski with my husband. Usually. Here's a shot from the gondola:

This is my favorite part of skiing...the rifugo at the top of the mountain where you can drink hot chocolate or warm vin brule.

They also had this snow sculpture at the top next to a playground (My kids are the three dressed in snowpants and jackets):

Arrivederci...and Auf Viedersehen!

In bocca al lupo, times thirteen!

2008-01-13T13:03:00.000-05:00

The Italian translation of "good luck" is buona fortuna, but that's not what most Italians say. If I wanted to wish you luck here in Italy, I'd say: In bocca al lupo, which literally means "in the mouth of the wolf." Then you would say: "Crepi!" which means "Die!"

I know...it's a rather strange comeback considering I'm wishing you luck, isn't it? But what we're really saying is this:

Me: You don't really need luck, because you're the kind of person who would come out on top, even if you were to find your head in the jaws of a slobbering, extra mean wolf with bad breath (okay, so I embellished that last part a bit). But just in case, good luck, anyway.

You: If I ever find myself with my head in the mouth of a wolf, may the wolf die instead of me!

It's a bit gothic as far as sentiments go.

But, I'd like to take this opportunity to wish Jay Asher good luck tomorrow! Jay wrote a fantastic book for teens called Thirteen Reasons Why, and tomorrow the the American Library Association will announce the winner and runners-up for the Michael L. Printz award for excellence in Young Adult Literature.

No matter the outcome tomorrow, kudos go to Jay's book for opening up dialogues in schools across the country about teen suicide prevention (check out this latest post on the blog he writes with two other children's authors, Robin Mellom and Eve Porinchak, called the The Disco Mermaids here).

So here's to you, Jay: IN BOCCA AL LUPO! :-)

UPDATE: Thirteen Reasons Why was chosen for three incredible lists by the Young Adult Library Services Association (YALSA):

* Best Books for Young Adults
* Quick Picks for Reluctant Young Adult Readers
* Selected Audiobooks for Young Adults

Congratulazioni, Jay! If you were here, Italian social norms would require that you take everyone out for a celebratory drink, so be glad you're in the U.S.!

(See how effortlessly I weave in children's literature with lessons on life in Italy?? Very smooth.)

Aaaaand it's a wrap.

2008-01-12T02:39:00.000-05:00

The holiday season finally ended here in Italy with the Epiphany on January 6. On the night of the 5th, a good witch called La Befana visits Italian bambini as they sleep, leaving gifts. In case you've lost count, that's three--count 'em--three gift-getting occasions for Italian kids in the space of one month (including San Nicolo on December 6, and Christmas). Italian parents are now officially out of money.

If you haven't heard the legend of the Befana, you might want to check out Tomie dePaola's picture book here. But basically, it's the story of a cranky old lady who watches the procession of the Three Kings pass by her door. When a boy tells her that they're on their way to visit a baby king, she decides she doesn't want to miss out. She follows the northern star, but by the time she gets there, the holy family is long gone. (Obviously, showing up late has been a recurring theme in Italian culture for thousands of years...).

Italian children don't put out stockings for Babbo Natale (Santa Claus), but they do for the Befana.

According to legend, the Befana is supposed to sweep up before she leaves. I'm not sure what type of broom she's using, but it's the kind that leaves all the big dust bunnies behind. I'd like to see her update to one of those fancy vacuum cleaners that vacuums up the dust and washes the floors at the same time. Maybe even a rider vacuum (do they have those?).

She's only supposed to sweep the rooms where the children sleep, though. That's okay...next January 5, I'll have one kid sleep in the kitchen, one the living room, and the other in the garage.

How about you--are you glad the holidays are over?

Ringing in a Super New Year

2008-01-02T09:14:00.000-05:00

Whether your New Year's Eve outfit is a ballgown or a pair of sweats, your underwear should be red, according to Italian tradition. Apparently, it brings luck. It's probably safe to say that quite a few red-underwear-clad Italians did, indeed, get lucky on New Year's Eve.

I'm thinking Superman must have been Italian--perhaps his real name was Clarko Kento?

P.S. Speaking of super men, Happy Birthday to my Dad today!

Tanti Auguri is like saying Best Wishes, and Italians use it for all occasions. They actually say it more often than Buon Compleanno, which means Happy Birthday. In fact, the Italian Happy Birthday song goes like this:

Tanti Auguri a te,

Tanti Auguri a te

Tanti Auguri a Dad (this line doesn't flow as well, does it?)

Tanti Auguri a te!

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Buone Feste!

2007-12-27T02:32:00.000-05:00

For those of you who celebrate Christmas, I apologize for the belated greeting, and I hope your Christmas was a happy one!

The Italian word for Christmas, Natale, is only one vowel away from my name, Natalie. I must admit that when I stroll through the city at this time of year, I feel famous. Buon means good, so at first glance, it appears that all the shops are festooned with signs that read: Good Natalie! Love that.

The Italian way to say Happy New Year is Felice Anno Nuovo. I'd just like to point out the critically important second n in the word anno. About 12 years ago, I was writing out holiday cards to family and friends in the States, as Davide, my Italian boyfriend (now husband) looked on. At the bottom of the cards, I had written: Buon Natale e Felice Ano Nuovo. (Note the lack of the second n in anno.) Davide started to laugh--one of those laughs where he can't speak for a good 60 seconds, complete with tears streaming down his face. When he finally pulled himself together, he told me about the missing n.

Apparently, I was wishing my loved ones a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Anus. Oops.

So with all the n's in tact, allow me to wish you all a Felice AnNo Nuovo and a prosperous , healthy 2008!

P.S. Here's another double-n greeting--this time for my mom. Happy Birthday!

Ye Olde Pig's Foot

2007-12-16T02:48:00.000-05:00

Close your eyes. Now picture your holiday table laden with a scrumptious feast. What do you see? Turkey? Ham? Latkes? Your great aunt's marshmallow yam casserole? Okay, now feast your eyes on this:

Look closely. Yes, nestled on a bed of lentils is...a pig's foot. Complete with manicured toenails, it appears. Zampone is typical fare during the holiday season in Italy, and it's most common on New Year's Eve. The lentils are thought to bring luck. Not to the pig, apparently.

I've tasted this, and actually it's quite good. But it's only good if you're not staring at the actual pig's foot while you eat. I know, I'm a hypocritical carnivore--I love eating meat, I just don't want to be reminded what it looked like before it came to my plate. If you'd like to surprise your family this holiday season, click here for cooking instructions. Although you might want to have them taste it first before you reveal what it is.

Buon Appetito!

Holiday Wake-Up Call

2007-12-06T15:41:00.000-05:00

Today is la festa di San Nicolo here in Italy--the festival of Saint Nicholas. Saint Nick is considered the patron saint of children, sailors, ships and the needy (proving that saints were multi-tasking as early as the 3rd century).

Last night, San Nicolo came to our home while we slept, and left gifts for our three children. This year, like most years, the holiday snuck up on my husband and me--er--San Nicolo. By the time San Nicolo got his act together and finally went out to buy gifts for my kids (at 7:00 last night), it was slim pickins in the toy shops. My youngest daughter wanted some battery-operated talking parrot. But last night there were none to be had. Of course, San Nicolo brought a talking parrot to two kids in her Kindergarten class, and these kids brought the parrots in today for show-and-tell. When my daughter pointed out the unfairness of this, I said that San Nicolo was obviously not on the ball this year, but he'd certainly pass her request on to his cousin, Santa Claus.

In other European countries, including Germany, children put out their boots, and Sinter Klaus fills them with oranges and candy. Lucky, lucky parents.

However, I choose to look at the failed talking parrot incident as a wake-up call. I vow to get my Christmas shopping done before December 24th this year. For once. Mark my words. And if I can get ahold of the coveted talking parrot, I will post a photo on my blog.

Until then, here's wishing you small crowds and ample parking near the front of the store. And if those things elude you...lots of online shopping with a high speed internet connection.

It's alive!

2007-11-21T10:10:00.000-05:00

My blog, that is. After almost a month of neglect, I found it gasping for breath, eyes closed, pulse weak, begging for a glass of water.

I wanted to post about Halloween, and the fact that no one goes trick-or-treating, even though the shops are all festooned with Halloween decorations in October. And then I wanted to explain that we always have a Halloween party for our children and their friends, and take them trick-or-treating in our building, but we have to distribute bags of candy ahead of time to the neighbors so they'll have something to give when the kids come by. And how some of the neighbors had to be taught trick-or-treating basics 101, because the first year, some of them would dump the all the candy in one kid's bag, wave to the rest of the candyless kids, smile, then shut the door.

But no one wants to read a Halloween post on the eve of Thanksgiving, so I'm moving on to Turkey Day--a brief post today, then more tomorrow.

Every year I make Thanksgiving dinner for my husband's family, who are all Thanksgiving experts, of course, because they've seen American Thanksgiving dinners in movies.

A few years ago on Thanksgiving, my father-in-law gathered my daughters up onto his lap, and said in his let-me-tell-you-a-story voice:

"Girls, today is a very special day for Americans."

My girls looked at him expectantly.

He continued: "Today is the anniversary of the day the Americans won their independence from England."

In the end, it's all about food and family.

Happy 4th of--er, Thanksgiving, to all!

The most expensive treats I've ever made...

2007-10-24T12:10:00.000-04:00

Today I made some treats for my daughter's class, per her request. She chose this recipe because it's quick, and my family loves these. However, one of the main ingredients is a rarity here in Italy.

And expensive.

No, I didn't make Caviar truffles. I made...Special K Crispy Bars. And that rare, expensive ingredient?

Peanut butter.

That's right--most Italians have never even tasted peanut butter. And for those who have....are you sitting down?.....most of them don't like the taste.

I know...how can they function as a society without peanut butter? It's a mystery.

If you can find peanut butter in Italy, it's often in the foreign foods section of the supermarket--right next to the soy sauce and taco shells. In one store, it was actually in the refrigerated foods section--Italians obviously don't know that peanut butter has (at least) a 57-year-shelf life.

When you do find peanut butter, it only comes in tiny jars, like this:

And since demand (and supply) is so low, p.b. prices are high. This miniscule jar my daughter is holding set me back 4 Euros and 4 cents. That equates to--count 'em--

FIVE.

DOLLARS.

AND.

SEVENTY-FIVE.

CENTS.

For anyone who's interested, here's the crispy bar recipe. (Note: Not recommended for denture-wearers. Highly recommended for anyone who has at least 2 or 3 pairs of pants with spandex/Lycra--anything that stretches. You'll need these pants immediately after polishing off half the pan.)

Ingredients:

2 cups sugar

2TBS. butter

2 cups Karo light corn syrup (If you live in Italy, get someone from the U.S. to send you a bottle. Not my mom, though--she's my American baking ingredients supplier, so she's got her hands full)

6 cups Special K cereal, crushed

1 1/2 cups peanut butter

1 package chocolate chips

Melt butter in a large pot and then add sugar and Karo syrup. Stir constantly. Bring to a full boil and let boil for one minute. Remove from heat. Add peanut butter and stir until creamy. Add Special K and stir until well-mixed. Press mixture onto cookie sheet. Melt chocolate chips in the microwave and spread over mixture. Let cool until top has hardened. Cut into squares. Eat. And if your Italian friends don't like them, this just means there's more for you.

Buon appetito!

Water Fountain Drinking 101

2007-10-21T11:20:00.000-04:00

During our visit to the States this past summer, I realized my daughters weren't up to speed on American kid culture--when their cousins talked about things like Hannah Montana and American Girl dolls, my girls had no idea what they were talking about. I could have predicted that--after all, we don't get American television stations and commercials here.

But there were other things they didn't know that I never would have predicted.

One day, my 8-year-old daughter stopped to get a drink from a water fountain while we were shopping at the mall. She finished, and I saw that her shirt was wet. Not just damp, mind you--she had water splashed all down the front.

Me: Honey, what happened to your shirt?
Daughter: Nothing. I was just getting a drink.
Me: Is the fountain broken? Did the water squirt out too fast?
Daugher, eyebrow raised: Noooo. Why?
Me (wondering how in the world she got her shirt that wet from a water fountain): Can you show me how you took that drink?

So my daughter pressed the button, and up came the stream of water. She stuck out her tongue and started lapping up the water, getting her shirt even wetter.

Me: Honey, what are you doing?
Daughter (now exasperated): Getting a drink! (The "What does it look like I'm doing??" was implied).

And then I remembered, and I had to laugh.

When Americans go to Italy, one of the things they notice is the lack of drinking fountains. But Italy has water fountains, they're just disguised. Here's one in the photo below:

It look more like a bird bath, or a place where the village washerwoman rinses out the clothes, doesn't it? Not many people drink from these fountains--mostly joggers and kids. When you do, the water comes rushing out in a turbo gush, and you have no choice but to try and lap it up as best you can. So that was my daughter's drinking fountain point of reference. When I did an American drinking fountain demo for her, she laughed, tried it again, and drank like a pro.

When in America...

Boats, boats, and more boats

2007-10-15T10:57:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the annual Barcolana, a regatta held just off the coast of Trieste. It attracts sailing enthusiasts from all over the world, transforming little 'ol Trieste into a bona fide tourist attraction.

The day was gorgeous but wildly windy, and many smaller sailboats had to bow out of the race. Here are a few shots:

The leaning sail on the left side of the photo is the Alpha Romeo, which won the race in a record 55 minutes. The speck in the sky is a helicopter carrying people who make sure everyone follows the rules. Not an easy task, if Italians drive their boats the way they drive their cars.

Here are some spectators on the boulders that line the coast, with the Castello Miramare off in the distance. Many of them were sipping wine. I don't know about you, but I'd say wine just doesn't mix with jagged boulders surrounded by a swirling, frigid sea. Go ahead--call me prudent.

Here's a view of the 1800 boats as seen over the terracotta rooftops of Trieste.

And here is my first attempt at embedding my own video. I wasn't actually tryng to capture the scenery as much as the sounds...the church bells tolling, the sea and the wind. As it turns out, the sun was so bright that I couldn't see a darn thing I was filming. If you take that into account, it's not that bad. But even if you do take the blinding sun into account, you'll see that I won't likely be nominated for any film awards this year. Enjoy!

A little Italian opera...

2007-10-06T08:00:00.000-04:00

Listen to what this man does with a few Italian words. If this doesn't make your day, I don't know what will.

Thanks to children's author Mary Hershey for the link.

The best part about having a blog...

2007-10-01T13:50:00.000-04:00

A woman named Barbara emailed me a few weeks ago saying she had found my blog when she googled laundromat and Trieste. Why would someone google those two words? Good question. Her husband had been invited to a conference at the Abdus Salam International Centre for Theoretical Physics here in Trieste, and she was coming along to see the sights (of Italy, not the Physics Centre). She wanted to know where she could get her laundry done. More specifically, she wondered if she would have access to a clothes dryer. Ah, Barbara.

So I said I'd check into the landromat situation for her, and if she'd like to meet for coffee, I'd be happy to treat her. When she arrived, she said that she'd passed the link to my blog along to some of the other wives, and wondered if they could come for coffee, too. Certo! I said, and that's just what we did.

Here's a photo of the group, from left to right: Pat, Bea, Barbara, Phyllis, and me*.

* Hair disclaimer: It rained off and on that day, so in this photo, my hair appears to be straight on one side, and then there's some sort of frizz action going on with the other side. My hair does not normally do this...only for photos that I want to post on the world wide web. Sigh.

Anyway, all four women are wives of physicists who were attending the conference on Accelerators Operations (thankfully, none of them really knew what this entailed, so I didn't feel left out). After leading them astray a few times, I finally found the historic Caffè Tommaseo, and we had one of the best cups of coffee I've had in Italy. Ever. Granted, coffee at the Caffè Tommaseo costs three times the normal price, but it was worth it.

We chatted about traveling and Trieste and their families and mine, and they were all lovely, warm people. I wished I could have spent the whole morning with them and show them around the city, but my babysitting fairy godmother (a.k.a. husband) had to go back to work, leaving me with our 21-month-old son and an illegally-parked car.

In the end, the ladies ended up treating me (Grazie!), and I realized I never did give Barbara the address of a laundromat, so I hope she made it to Venice in a freshly-laundered state.

The next time there's a conference on particle accelerators, Barbara, I'll have the laundromat address ready. And the coffee's on me!

2007-09-29T03:29:00.001-04:00

To follow up my vendemia post, I wanted to share a few photos, courtesy of my daughter's teacher. This first shot shows the kids picking the grapes from the stems, and dropping them into the bucket.

And now the fun begins! Here's my daughter (that's her orange sleeve on the left) embracing two classmates as they stomp and squish and smush the grapes in their bucket.

Her teacher told me yesterday that the grape juice they mushed with their tootsies will be made into wine, and the kids will get to bring home a bottle at the end of the year. I love Italy.

Mommy, where does wine come from?

2007-09-22T01:11:00.000-04:00

My 8-year-old daughter asked this question at dinner the other night. She wasn't satisfied with my answer (the grocery store), so my Italian husband filled her in on the wine-making process. He's not a wine expert, by any means. His wine I.Q. is average--for an Italian. Which is waaaaay above my wine I.Q.

The reason my daughter asked this question is because her 3rd grade teacher had planned a field trip to a local village where they'd be participating in a vendemia--a grape harvest. Our daughter informed us (with that What-kind-of-parents-are-you? look on her face) that every child in her class had attended a vendemia, except for her. I just hope no one calls Social Services.

So yesterday the class went and learned how wine is made. They cut the grapes from the vines, tossed them in big buckets, removed their shoes and socks, and started squishing. (My daughter reports that this was both icky and fun at the same time). After the last of the grape juice was washed off of their 8-year-old toes, they heaped the grape-y mess onto sieves, then tasted the grape juice that filtered through. My daughter isn't clear as to whether they actually drank the juice that their bare (and who knows how clean?) feet had touched. I kind of hope not.

The whole class filed off the field trip bus happy and tired, each child toting a bag of small, purple grapes that taste like sweet dessert wine. The teacher carried two bottles of wine (unopened) in her arms. After a day of wine-making with 25 third-graders, I suspect those bottles came in handy.

Laundry Beasts Unveiled

2007-09-16T10:23:00.000-04:00

Thanks for all your guesses! The moment has arrived to reveal the winners, so without further ado, let me introduce you to the beast that plagues my laundry from May to September...(cue movie theme song to Friday the 13th)...

Yes, it's the dreaded grasshopper. Not the cute green grasshoppers that grow no longer than your pinky finger. Oh, no. My laundry beasts can get as long as the palm of my hand, and they squirt this brown stuff that doesn't wash out of our clothing (I'm not even going to try and guess what the brown stuff is. I've decided I'd rather not know). Not only that, but if one of these suckers gets trapped in an article of clothing that I've tossed into the ironing pile, it eats its way out. That's right--it munches holes in our clothes. I know they don't hurt people (no biting or stinging), but you have to admit it: they're gross. Really gross.

The photo above is a stock photo I got off the internet, as my husband left the chord we need for the digital camera in his office. However, when he brings it back home, I'll post the photo I took of a laundry beast on a pair of khaki shorts.

Okay, now that the shuddering has subsided and you're once again thankful for your laundry-beast-free clothes dryers, here's the first winner. The envelope please....our first winner is Julie C.! She's the only one who guessed grasshopper, so she'll be getting a shipment of chocolate in the mail! Woo Hoo!

However, there are two more winners! Unfortunately for me, another species of laundry beast emerges in the fall and winter. Just as the grasshoppers retreat to their underground winter abode, another beast emerges...(cue music from any horror movie of your choice)...

The stinkbug. These babies are only about as big as a dime, but they're still gross. And since we wear lots of brown, gray and black in the winter, these suckers blend right in. Oh, and have I mentioned they fly? So if one gets inadvertantly brought in with the laundry, we might hear it buzzing around the room at night. The buzzing always ceases when the lights go on...sly little devils.

And they love to hide at the bottom of socks. Once when we went to the mountains, I felt a pricking sensation on my toe after I'd gotten dressed that morning. When I removed my sock, there was the sinkbug--having survived being folded up into my socks, placed in my sock drawer, packed in my suitcase a few days later, and having my foot shoved into the very sock that the stickbug had called home. And yet, I felt no pity for the stinkbug. There wasn't time, really, as I screamed, hopping on one foot across the room and flinging my sock out of the window onto the surprised passersby below.

So...who wants to move to Italy now? Huh? As I don't see any raised hands, we'll move on to the second round of winners...

First, there's Joan--she said a stinkbug was one of those lime green bugs, but I'll give her the chocolate, anyway. And then we have Tina, who mentioned beetles...good enough for chocolate, in my opinion.

Woo hoo! Now if the winners will email their addresses to me, I'll get the chocolate (or pitcher, whichever they prefer) off in the mail.

A big thanks to cynjay, katia, africakid, danette haworth, katrina, and sruble for playing! I'll have another contest up next month, so I hope you'll stop by. And Katia, please pass the wine, as I'm trying to muster up the courage to bring in a load of laundry...

I'm back...with another contest.

2007-09-08T09:22:00.000-04:00

Thanks for everyone's comments, and I want to apologize (once again!) for letting so much time pass in between posts. All is well, we've just been really busy settling back in. I'm going back to teaching this year at the international school here in Trieste--I'll be teaching 4th grade--so I've also been busy getting the classroom ready for Monday when the kids come (ack!).

My husband got a new digital camera this summer, and I still don't know how to transfer photos to my computer. BUT...I do promise to make him teach me in the next few days so I can do another post--a laundry post (you didn't think the laundry posts were finished, did you??) So in the next few days, you can look forward to a post entitled: Laundry Beasts.

Come to think of it, this has contest potential, doesn't it? If you can guess what laundry beasts refers to, I'll send you a pitcher from Trieste. For a photo, click here to see the one I sent to Jeff and Sue, the winners of my first contest. Although, I must say that the pitcher I'll be sending this time will be about half the size of Jeff and Sue's pitcher...although I love Jeff and Sue, it costs about a million dollars to ship one of these babies.

Okay then, let's say your answers have to be in the comments section of this post by Wednesday, September 12 (I'll check them when I wake up on Thursday morning). You can take as many guesses as you wish. In the event of a tie, I'll choose a name from a hat.

Buona fortuna a tutti! :-)

We're leavin' on a jet plane...

2007-08-19T07:33:00.000-04:00

Note: I meant to post this before we left, but it didn't post, for some reason. The trip went well, and I'll post again soon (after my jet-lagged brain recovers).

Our summer stateside vacation is finally over, and we leave for Italy later tonight. Aside from family and friends, here are the top three things I'll miss most about the U.S.:

1. the clothes dryer, and all the warm, soft, fluffy clothes that it produces. Sigh.

2. caramel frappucinos

3. ample parking

Here are the top three things I'm looking forward to when we return:

1. The clinking sound of real cups and saucers when I go into a bar for coffee. Since Italians never get coffee to go, there are no paper/Styrofoam cups with lids in Italy. The clinking comes from people setting their cups onto saucers, baristi clearing the cups and saucers from the bar and then stacking them in the sink to await washing. It's funny--I never paid much attention to the clinking until I got here and noticed it was missing.

2. pizza--As much as I love American pizza, I've missed the Italian version. It's not that one is necessarily better than the other. Like chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter cookies--both are good. But different.

3. sagras--These are outdoor cookouts with live music held all over the city and its outskirts. The menu's usually the same--grilled meats, french fries, sauerkraut, Nutella-filled crepes--yanno, food that's bad for you. Can't wait!

The Big 4-0

2007-08-14T11:23:00.000-04:00

Today's my 40th (eek!) birthday.

If I were in Italy today, my Italian friends would not have taken me out for lunch or a celebratory birthday drink. Nope. I would have been expected to take them out and buy them a round of drinks for my b-day. That's right. As the birthday girl, I would also be the one to bring my own cake. At least I wouldn't be expected to buy my own gifts, though. There's always that.

The Italian translation of "Happy Birthday" is Buon Compleanno, but Italians usually don't say this to you on your birthday. Instead, they say Tanti Auguri, which means "Many Good Wishes." Come to think of it, Tanti Auguri is probably best tranlated as: "I wish you happiness, health, and above all, prosperity, so you can take me out and buy me a drink on your birthday."

Tanti auguri to you all!

My first meme

2007-08-03T09:02:00.001-04:00

CynJay tagged me with this meme ages ago, so I think it's about time I followed through! If you've never heard of a meme before, here are the rules:

Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

Since this is a blog about ex-pat life in Italy, I'll try to list 8 things that also offer insight into la bella vita Italiana. Here goes:

1. I've been married twice
...to the same guy. We had a wedding in the U.S. on December 21, and another one in Trieste on December 26. I got to wear my wear my wedding gown twice! And we got to share our special day with friends and family from both sides of the ocean.

When my Italian in-laws saw the video of our American wedding reception, their first comment wasn't about the beautiful inn, decorations, cake or guests. No. The first thing out of their mouths was: "No one is smoking!" Hadn't thought of that, but they were right.

2. I wore a cowboy hat at my wedding.
No, I'm not Texan (although I did live there from 5th-8th grade), and I only wore it for about 2 minutes. And it wasn't my idea. Or even my hat. At Italian weddings, friends of the bride and groom plan scherzi (jokes or pranks) for the happy couple, which can range from silly to downright embarrassing. For one of these scherzi, my husband and I had to wear cowboy hats (because all Americans are cowboys, of course), sit in chairs facing each other, and hold a spoon in our mouths with a lighted candle on each ( the candle was stuck to the spoon with wax, so no balancing act was required, thank goodness). We were then given water pistols, and the first to put out the other's flame won. I, of course, emerged victorious.

3. I've had purple hair.
Okay, so it wasn't purple purple. But still. We had spent the summer in Italy, and I decided to get my hair colored before we went back home. I'm naturally a brunette with a hint of red highlights. So when the hairdresser asked if I wanted a reddish tinge added to the brown color, I agreed. When I took a gander at the finished product, my hair was brown. But in the right light, it had a purple sheen. Yikes. And my sister's wedding was a few weeks away. I later learned that when my family picked us up from the airport, my mom and sister were mouthing "OMG! Her hair is purple!" behind my back.When Americans color their hair, the goal (usually) is for it to look natural. Italians, on the other hand, figure they're paying an arm and a leg for salon-styled hair, so they might as well show it off.

4. I once taught a princess a thing or two.
When I first came to Trieste, I taught Kindergarten at the International School of Trieste. One of my students was actually a princess who lived in a real castle, the Castello di Duino. And she and her mother (also a princess) were two of the most down-to-earth, pleasant people I've ever met.

5. I've attended mass at the Vatican.
My parents, sister and I went to Rome for spring break, and we got tickets to the Vatican for Easter mass. Being Methodists, we felt like we were infiltrating Vatican City, but the pope didn't seem to notice. We filed in and took our seats in the pews, waiting for the pope's entrance. When he entered, I was expecting a solemn atmosphere worthy of one of the most famous, revered people on the planet. Instead, the crowd cheered, whooped, hollered, whistled, jumped up and down, and waved signs that said things like: "Brazilians love the pope!" It was akin to being at a European soccer match when the players take the field. Those crazy Catholics!

6. I crossed the finish line of a 10K race...from the wrong side.
Many road races in Italy are not timed. I didn't know this when I showed up for my first Italian 10K. Not only are the races untimed, but there's a 2-hour starting window, which means you can show up anytime from, say, 9:00 to 11:00, and start the race. My husband and I showed up closer to 11:00 (this was when we used to sleep in on weekends, before we had kids, obviously). By 11:00, most people had started and finished the race, so there was no pack for us to follow. The trail was supposed to meander through the countryside, but it wasn't well-marked and we got lost. Really lost. The race turned out to be more like 15K by the time we finally straggled across the finish line. From the opposite direction.

7. I didn't know my husband's name until we started planning our wedding.
I knew his first and last name, but there was a bit of confusion about his middle name. When we were first getting to know each other, I asked him what his middle name was. He said: "What do you mean, my middle name?" I didn't realize at the time that Italians don't usually have middle names. So I said: "You know, the second name your parents gave you, after your first name." He said: "Boris." Ouch. (No offense to any blog readers named Boris). We both agreed that it...wasn't the best of names, and had a good laugh.

When it came time to have our wedding invitations printed up, I said that it was traditional to have our full names printed on the invitations. I teased him, saying he should include "Boris." Come to find out, Boris is not my husband's middle name. My husband doesn't even have a middle name. When my in-laws were coming up with names for my husband before he was born, Boris was second on their list. Whew! That was close.

8. I've sunbathed topless.
If you've followed my blog, you'll know that breasts are everywhere, and they're not a big deal. When I got to Italy and realized that topless sunbathing is the norm, I thought maybe I should try it--"When in Rome," and all that. But what if I ran into someone I knew? My students? The parents of my students? A colleague? Nope. I just couldn't do it. But then we went to Lago di Garda, a gorgeous lake hours away from Trieste. When I saw that we were surrounded by sunburned Germans (also topless), I knew I was safe. So I did it. And it wasn't bad! Since then, I do sunbathe topless, but only when I'm faaaaaar from home. With plenty of sunscreen. And no cameras allowed.

Now I'm supposed to tag 8 people, but most everyone I "know" has already done this meme, so I'm tagging two children's writers, Rose and Mindy, and Edna a children's writer/illustrator).

We speak English. Sort of.

2007-07-24T08:02:00.000-04:00

At home, we often speak in an Italian-English mix. With our Italian relatives and friends, we stick to straight Italian (or dialect, in my husband's case). My kids speak Italian as if they were born and raised there-- in fact, people are often surprised when they discover that my children also speak English.

When we came to the U.S. this summer, I knew my kids would need help with some English words initially, but then I assumed they'd sound like native English speakers in no time. In the past month, surprisingly, they've only asked for help with a few words--usually for things that don't exist in Italy (like Rice Krispy bars and Heelys--those shoes with wheels).

However.

They don't sound like native English speakers. A speech therapist friend told me that it's not their accent, per se; it's the cadence and inflections that give my kids away. I've also noticed a few constructions and wordings that American kids would never use. Here are some examples:

1. My daughters saw a baby rabbit hop into some bushes. An American kid would say something like: "Oh, how cute!" My 5-year-old said: "The bunny--it is so beautiful!"

2. My 8-year-old told us that one of her cousins had a Popsicle, and wanted to know if she could have one, too. When I asked which cousin had the Popsicle, my daughter pointed and answered: "She."

3. In Italian, the words for bride, groom and to marry are similar: sposa, sposo, and sposarsi. We went to see The Little Mermaid play, and in the scene where the hypnotized prince is about to unknowingly marry the evil witch instead of Ariel, my 5-year-old yelled out: "No! Don't bride her!"

I'm torn when I hear my children speaking this way. Things that make adults go "Awww," can make kids go "Huh?" and I don't want my children's classmates to make fun of them when we move back to the U.S. next summer. But I know these linguistic gems will fade within a few months, never to return. My older daughter has already added cool and wha'sup? to her vocabulary, and I've even heard her call her father Daddy a few times, instead of Papa.

When my daughters were toddlers, I recorded some of the cute things they said in a notebook, but I haven't made any new entries in years. I think it's time to pick up my pen once again.

Kiddie Culture Shock

2007-07-14T20:19:00.000-04:00

When I was in elementary school, my family lived in Germany on a U.S. Air Force base where my dad was stationed. In those pre-internet days, I had no idea what my peers were up to back in the U.S. We had one television channel on base that mostly played reruns, which meant my friends and I mostly played outside, climbing trees and building forts. Sounds idyllic, right? It was.

Until we moved back to the states.

I'd seen the changing of the guard outside of Buckingham Palace, touched the Berlin Wall, and sailed past Norwegian fjords. But I'd never heard of the new hit TV show Laverne and Shirley, and some blockbuster movie showing coast to coast called Star Wars. Kids at school asked what my favorite bands were and which radio station I listened to. Huh? The only time I ever listened to the radio was when my parents had it on in the car. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly the coolest kid on the block.

I know my own kids will go through some of this culture shock/cluelessness when we move back to the U.S. next summer. I thought I'd take advantage of the time we have here this summer and help them catch up on some good 'ol American culture. Here's how it's going so far:

1. My 8-year-old knows the value of the European coins, so I decided to teach her about American coins. I explained which presidents were on each coin, and how much the coins were worth. The next day I was watching The Today Show, and Willard Scott came on. My daughter asked, "Is that George Washington?"

2. Today we went to a water park called "Water Country USA." I've been working with my 8-year-old this summer on reading in English, and she read the sign, pronouncing USA as OO-zah (the way it would be pronounced if it were an Italian word). I told her it was U.S.A., and asked if she knew what the letters stood for. She had no idea.

My problem is I don't know exactly what my kids know and don't know about America. I'll assume they know what something is--like a bagel or a fire hydrant--only to find out that they don't know. I've definitely got my work cut out for me.

Impressions of America

2007-07-08T13:00:00.000-04:00

Once again, I must apologize for not posting in awhile. I think I'll blame it on the American keyboard, which is slightly different from Italian keyboards...just enough to throw me off and cut my typing speed in half.

Here are three random things I love about America that I'd forgotten about:

1. shopping carts: They're gigantic. Almost twice as wide as Italian carts, and longer. If I were pushing one of these bad boys down an Italian supermarket aisle, it'd have to sport one of those neon yellow "wide load" signs on the side. There's enough room in there for...I don't know...at least a week's worth of groceries.

2. grocery baggers: I love these people. I'm trying to work out the logistics of luring one of them into my suitcase for my trip back to Italy.

3. seedless grapes: Call them genetically altered, if you want. But their seedy Italian cousins just don't measure up.

And here are the three coolest things about America, according to my daughters (8 and 5):

1. squirrels: My 8-year-old daughter came racing into the house the first day we were here, screaming, "Come quick! No, come NOW!" I fully expected to see my 5-year-old in a sobbing heap on the driveway, nursing a scraped knee or two. But no. My daughters had sighted five squirrels frolicking in the front yard. Yup. Squirrels. Who knew? Not my daughters.

2. toast: I've never seen a toaster in an Italian home, although I have seen them in stores. In Italian bars, you can get toasted ham and cheese sandwiches (called, conveniently enough, toast). And Italians buy packages of fette biscottate, which are pre-toasted pieces of bread about the size of a playing card. So Italians do eat toast-- they just don't make it.

When I whipped out the toaster this morning, my 8-year-old wanted to toast her own bread. No problem. But instead of waiting for the bread to pop up, she tried to lift the lever after the bread had been in there all of 5 seconds. She didn't know that the bread automatically popped up when it was done. Now I'm thinking I need to come up with some kind of American reintegration program for my kids...

3. sprinklers: Since Italians aren't big on lawn care, you don't see sprinklers much, if ever. My kids ran through the sprinkler with their cousins, and now my girls want to pack a sprinkler in their suitcase to take home. I told them it'll depend on how much space the grocery bagger takes up...

We've arrived!

2007-06-24T20:56:00.000-04:00

This will be a short post--I wanted to thank everyone for your good wishes/karma/thoughts...they must have worked, because the trip went fairly well.

I have, indeed, re-qualified for living saint status once again. My saint name shall now be Our-Lady-of-Airports-Who-Must-Literally-Run-With-Three-Children-in-Tow-in-Order-to-Make-Her-Connecting-Flight. It's a bit of a mouthful, and might be difficult to engrave on the back of a medallion bearing my likeness, but there you have it.

More details later, once jet lag has worn off...

Volare...Oooooh oh!

2007-06-20T02:26:00.000-04:00

Sorry I haven't posted in awhile--we're leaving for the U.S. (yay!) tomorrow, so getting ready has been a little crazy. We leave for Venice this afternoon, and we'll spend the night there and then fly out early Thursday morning.

I'm supposed to be packing right now...shhhhh! Here's my not-very-packed suitcase...But I did want to quickly post here to say that I'll still be blogging about life in Italy while I'm with my family this summer. We haven't been back to the U.S. in almost 3 years (!) so I'm sure I'll also blog about American things that I wasn't expecting, too. And I'll definitely post a photo of me hugging my mom's and/or sister's clothes dryer. Fluffy towels, here I come!

A request: Please send good thoughts/karma/chocolate my way, as I'll be traveling alone with my three kids (does it make sense to say "alone" and "with three kids"? Anyway, you know what I mean...). My husband can't take 2 months off of work (poor thing) so he'll join us next month, then we'll all fly back together in August.

I've done this trip before when my daughters were 2 1/2 and 5 1/2...now they're 5 and 8, and my son is 18-months--the age where you can't say: "Honey, you have to stay buckled up because we're taking off now," or "No, we can't run up and down the aisles because the food cart is coming." I could say these things, of course...but I doubt my son will hear me over the howling tantrum.

After my last trip, I bumped myself up to sainthood status. I called myself: Our Lady of the Skies-Who-Flies-Alone-With-Two-Kids-One-of-Whom-Doesn't-Sit-Still-for-Longer-Than-Two-Minutes. I'll let you know my new, super-duper saint name once I arrive in the U.S....

Avoiding breasts

2007-06-11T03:00:00.000-04:00

Spring has been unseasonably hot here in Trieste, which means the Triestini have been hitting the beach in droves. A few weeks ago, we strolled around Barcola, the beach front in Trieste. There's no sand--just a brick boardwalk, then boulders, then the Adriatic. There is a tiny area (la spiagetta) with a little pebble beach instead of boulders where parents with small children can go. There are also a few areas with circular, concrete platforms with ladders that descend into the sea. But if you're sunbathing anywhere else along the waterfront, you've got to scramble over the boulders, say a short prayer, then throw yourself into the sea. It's quite invigorating. (??)

Anyway, as we were walking along Barcola and the kids were clambering up the slide at one of the playgrounds, I thought: These would make some nice photos for my blog. So I took my camera and got to work.

But there was a problem. Breasts.

Every time I lifted my camera to take a shot, someone's breasts were inevitably in the picture. As you may know, many Italians sunbathe topless. Not just sunbathe, actually. People hang out (pun intended) playing cards, sipping cappuccini in the outdoor bars along the beach, swimming and chatting. Half naked.

So my dilemma was how to capture the rugged beauty of Barcola without having an X-rated post. I first looked to my left. Ahhh, the marina. I aim, then lift my camera up, over the breasts, over people's heads, a bit more....aaaannnnnd click: There it is, the marina against the hills of Trieste, sans breasts. Then comes the castle...you can't take photos of Barcola without including the Castello Miramare that juts out into the sea. So again I aim, leaving the topless women out of the photo, replacing them with LOTS of sky. Click.

The playground where we were is under a canopy of giant pine trees, which is where I was standing when this sailboat glided by. After a few tries, here's a shot where some bathers are actually still wearing their tops. Maybe they'd just arrived, who knows.

Here you can also see part of the brick walk, and the tips of a few boulders (one is right behind that guy's knee..the guy who's probably telling the lady beside him that she should take off her top now.)

Trieste doesn't get many American tourists--they all come as far as Venice and then go home. But when they do come, they're fairly easy to spot on the beach, especially the men. They're the ones with the I-can't-believe-my-good-fortune look on their faces.

When I first came to Trieste, I'll admit it was weird to talk to a topless woman on the beach. No matter what we talked about--the weather, politics or where to find the best deals on new sandals--I couldn't help but repeat to myself: This woman isn't wearing a top. This woman isn't wearing a top. This woman isn't wearing a top... And then I'd miss the name of the store with the great deal on sandals. And of course, you have to spend the whole conversation avoiding looking down. Lots of eye contact.

The other day my daughter received a bathing suit for her birthday, and it was a two-piece. The gift-giver said that she knew we'd be in the U.S. this summer, and she'd heard that little girls in America wear tops with their bathing suits. A few other mothers overheard her and their eyes grew wide. "Really?" they asked. "Why would a little girl wear a top?"

Hmmm. I was stumped. Why, indeed?

Are Italian children geniuses?

2007-06-07T05:02:00.000-04:00

I'd always known the time would come when I wouldn't be able to help my kids with their homework--when they start taking courses like high school chemistry, for example. So you can imagine my surprise when my ignorance showed up early--this year, in fact. With my 2nd grader. Ouch.

I do speak Italian, although I certainly don't speak like a native. But some things had me stumped this year. In the page below, my daughter divided up sentences into the parts of speech: subject, predicate and "expansion." Maybe it's me admitting my ignorance on a public forum, but I've never heard the term expansion used as a part of a sentence. So when my daughter asked me to help her with her homework, my response was, "Huh?" My daughter looked at me as if to say: "Didn't you learn anything in second grade?"
Luckily, she had the following page in her notebook, explaining that an expansion is the where, when, how and what of the sentence. "Oh," I said, trying to redeem myself in my daughter's eyes. "The expansion is the object of the sentence." She just rolled those eyes and shook her head. "Expansion it is, then," I said.

Then they started diagramming sentences, and naming the function of each word. In the page below, my daughter has written: Una cantante canta, which means "A singer sings." She labeled the subject and predicate, then went on to note that:

Una= indefinite article, feminine, singular (thank God we just have plain 'ol a or an)

cantante (singer)= common noun, feminine, singular (thank God--again--that all our nouns are androgynous)

canta (sings)= verb (later in the year she goes on to add labels like "third person, present tense")

Come on, people--definite vs. indefinite articles in 2nd grade? I don't know about you, but I never did this kind of thing when I was seven.

But that's okay--I know my parts of speech as well as the next Italian mamma, and was able to help her with this homework assignment.

Then came the nouns. Italian nouns that end with an "o" are masculine, and those that end with an "a" are feminine. Usually. But not always. And those exceptions are the ones that the teacher gives for homework, of course, sending me back to the dictionary time after time. By now, my daughter's wondering if I've ever been to school at all.

Then they started learning about the different verb tenses--the next page shows present and future. Again, simple enough--I know these. What I don't know is this crazy past tense called passato remoto that they use for things that happened a looooong time ago. You see it a lot in stories, and it's totally different from the infinitive form of the verb. Northern Italians don't use it when they speak, so I rarely hear it. I know, I know....I should read more.

And then you've got the subjunctive tense, as in: "If I were really fluent in Italian, I wouldn't have to keep running to the dictionary to help my second-grader with her homework." In that sentence, were is in the subjunctive. The only problem is that Italians use this tense for a gazillion other situations that we don't. For example, if I say "She is at home, " or "I think she is at home," I've used "is" in both cases. Not so in Italian. They use the subjunctive for the second sentence, because it expresses doubt. Just like I'm starting to doubt whether I sound half-way intelligent when I speak Italian, because I frequently forget to use the &$%/£* subjunctive tense.

Now, to cement my ignorance even further, I made the mistake of expressing my surprise when my daughter's teacher taught them to write in cursive at the end of 1st grade. When I was a teacher in the U.S., we introduced cursive in 3rd grade. Yup. 3rd grade.

And writing in pen. When did you first write in pen at school? I seem to think it was middle school, if I remember correctly. Here they use a special pen with the ink on one end, and a white-out type tip on the other end for covering up mistakes. And they use this pen for math. Mercy.

So then I get to thinking, why are Italian bambini learning all of this stuff so early? Are they geniuses? And then it hit me: There are no spelling tests in Italian schools.

That's it!

Italian is a phonetically regular language, so what'cha see is what'cha say. American kids have to slog through all of those word families and rules and phonics exercises so they can pass that spelling test every Friday.

Whew! I felt better already. We're not so slow, after all. Italians may have their tricky verbs, but we've got to figure out the difference between threw and through, pair, pare and pear, and ate and eight.

No wonder American kids don't write in pen.

Wrap it up...I'll take it.

2007-06-01T09:33:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was our daughter's 8th birthday, and here's a photo of one of the gifts she received: The beauty of this gift is not what's inside (a puzzle)--it's the wrapping.

What's so great about the wrapping? you're probably thinking. Sure, it's gold and sparkly, and topped with a pink bow--just right for an eight-year-old girl who loves all things sparkly and pink.

But the best thing about this gift is the fact that it was gift-wrapped right in the store. For free. All stores do this, not just the outrageously-priced boutiques. No matter how much you spend, or how many hundreds of people are waiting in line behind you, you can always ask for a pachetto regalo--gift-wrapping. And not only that, if you buy a toy that needs batteries, the clerk will open the box, take out the toy, unscrew the battery compartment door, insert the batteries, close the compartment door, make sure the toy works, put the toy back in the box, and gift-wrap it for you.

When I first came to Italy in 1993 as a Kindergarten teacher at the international school here, the school held a student craft fair in December. The kids had to make something for the fair, and the parents would then come and pay big bucks (lire), which would then be donated to charity. So I had to come up with something that 5-year-olds could assemble that would be useful and look somewhat presentable, in a country without mega-craft stores like Michael's or Ben Franklin.

I know! I thought. We'll make...wrapping paper!

So I had my Kindergarteners dip sponges shaped like candy canes, reindeer and trees into red and green paint and make patterns on large sheets of paper.

When the craft fair had come and gone, I had learned three things:
1. Candy canes never made it to Italy.
2. The reindeer aren't big here. In fact, no one's ever even heard of Rudolph.
3. Italians don't wrap their own gifts.

That last point I learned after the 10th parent picked up his child's wrapping paper creation and said, "Oh! Bellissimo! It's...a painting. Of something."

When I explained it was wrapping paper, they just looked at me like: "Why would I want to wrap anything in this?"

So in the end, you may spend 30 minutes finding a parking place outside of the gift shop, another 10 minutes trying to get someone to assist you (that's for another post) and 15 minutes listening to the clerk chat with the customer in front of you about the weather. BUT...you get your gifts wrapped for free.

I'll take it.

Sing, sing a song...

2007-05-29T04:03:00.000-04:00

On Saturday, we went to our second-grader's end-of-the-school-year show. The theme this year was songs sung in Triestino, the local dialect. Triestines have a love/hate relationship with their dialect--most of them think Triestino sounds uneducated, yet they find it difficult to speak in Italian with friends and family--the dialect just sounds friendlier, and it's indispensable when you're telling jokes (jokes in Italian just don't have the same delivery).

Triestines don't want their children to speak, read, or write the dialect in school, because it might interfere with their Italian. However, this time the school made an exception.

In this photo, you can see the signs made by the children with the titles of famous Triestine songs and drawings of landmarks--the tram, the lighthouse, the castle, and in the upper left hand corner, a cloud blowing the Bora, Trieste's famous gale-force wind.
(This is off-topic, but the photo below is to show you that the windows is this gym were all closed. And it must have been 1,000 degrees in there. But we wouldn't want a draft to sneak in and cool anyone off, now...would we?)

Okay, back to the dialect and singing...

The children sang at least 10 Triestine songs that everyone in the audience knew--they aren't children's songs, necessarily--some recount a piece of Triestine history, some express an undying love for all things Triestine, and some are just meant to make you laugh.

Here are a few choice lyrics that would never make the American elementary school show circuit:

1. Da un litro de quel bon= Give me another liter of that good wine.

2. E non la me vol più ben, la prega Dio che crepo, inveze stago ben!= She doesn't love me anymore, she prays that I'll die, but I'm feeling fine!

3. E mio marì xe bon, el xe tre volte bon, ma solo la domenica me onzi col baston= My husband is a good man--he only beats me on Sundays.

That last one is an especially lovely sentiment, isn't it? (!)

On the historical end, there were songs that make fun of Austria (more specifically, the Austrian-Hungarian Empire that ruled Trieste for 500+ years), and songs that tell of Istrian cities that used to be part of Italy, and are now Croatian--a touchy subject for Italians who had to leave their Istrian homes after the war.

And interesting to me, there's a famous song about wanting to go to America, no matter type of transportation one might have to resort to--even if it's by skateboard, driving a hearse, or on the back of the horse belonging to your mother-in-law.

Considering there's an ocean between Italy and America, we can gather that whoever wrote that song was either geographically challenged, or really wanted to leave Italy.

Each grade also performed a dance that represented one of the many cultures that has passed through Trieste's ports. For example, Greek sailors used to whip out their mandolins and dance on the docks. The photo below is my daughter's class performing a Hebrew dance--many Jews sought refuge in Trieste during World War II, including Albert Einstein.

By the time the last song was sung, the parents and grandparents were all clapping and grinning and singing along with gusto, and some were even dancing in the aisles. Even though they don't want the dialect to be taught in school, I could tell that hearing their children singing the old familiar songs in Triestino was music to their ears.

That's always been one of the things I've loved about Italians--they'll take any excuse to dance and sing. I remember when I first came to Trieste in 1993, I'd go out with friends (American, Australian, and English), and it was always more fun when our Triestine friends joined us. We'd be in a bar with 100 people, and for whatever reason (wine being the most likely culprit), someone would start singing a Triestine song, and the whole bar would join in. I remember after a particularly raucous round of singing, our Triestine friends asked us to sing a song in English that we all knew.

We were stumped.

All we could come up with were TV show theme songs--The Brady Bunch, Gilligan's Island, and the like.

Oh, well.

So my children will grow up singing about good wine and the story of a man named Brady...you just can't get more well-rounded than that...

Is the grass really greener on the other side?

2007-05-23T05:31:00.000-04:00

The edge of Trieste touches the Adriatic Sea, stretches inland a bit, then quickly slopes up about 900 feet and becomes the Carso--a protected wildlife area with miles of forests and underground caves. We live in the Carso area, which befuddles our city-dwelling friends. "Why would you want to live so far from the city?" they ask. "You have to drive to the store?? How inconvenient!"

We scoff at this, of course. The city center is a 15 minute drive, and the nearest village with a supermarket is 3 minutes away by car--nanoseconds by American suburban standards. And since we have three kids, we love that they can run out the front door and play outside.

But this post isn't about convenience or commutes, it's about grass (the lawn kind, of course). Here's a photo of the field right next to our building, where our kids often play with their friends:

How nice, you may be thinking. And it does look nice...from here. Now take a gander at a close-up shot of the grass:

Yup. Brown patches, weeds, rocks. Not exactly a carpet of green grass, is it? In fact, the Italian term for "weeds" is erba matta--crazy grass. Like it's still grass, just the crazy kind. Nevertheless, our Italian city-folk friends all ooh and ahh over the bel prato--beautiful field--we have here.

This is a common area for everyone who lives in the building, and there's a groundskeeper who works year-round. Everyone says how bravo he is because he keeps the grass/weeds mowed.

In the U.S., this lawn would never do. The ground would have been plowed, sod laid, seeds sowed and a lawn chemical treatment company called upon--stat.

When we lived in the States, my Italian husband was baffled by the American lawn-care ritual. Everyone would work on their lawn on weekends--mowing, bagging, aerating, fertilizing, and then calling Chem Lawn for an appointment. Neighbors would debate the best kind of grass--should we go with Kentucky Bluegrass or tall fescue?

All of this hustle and bustle produces gorgeous lawns, of course. But one thing puzzled my husband.

"Americans don't walk on their grass," he said one day.

"What?" I answered. "Of course we walk on our grass."

"No, you don't. Not unless you're mowing it."

"But look at them, over there," I said, pointing to some kids running through the sprinkler.

"Kids venture onto the grass, but adults don't."

And he was right. Why is that? Because we don't want to trample the grass, that's why. We have porches and decks and patios and front stoops where we can hang out. Just don't tread on the grass.

Italians might not have carpet-like lawns, but they definitely earn aesthetic points with their flower boxes. They couldn't care less about their grass, but they preen and water and fertilize the flowers that adorn their window sills. In Virgina, I rarely saw a flower box. Here, I rarely see a house or building without one.

Here's a house in the village where my in-laws live. Check out these geraniums:

The flowers even match the laundry on the drying rack out front. Now that's aesthetics for you (as long as you don't focus on the rubble in the yard where a lawn is supposed to be...).

Here's a photo of the flowers on our front balcony:

Our building isn't as interesting as the stone house in the previous picture, but it would be even less interesting without the flowers, don't you think?

I've never had a green thumb, and the thought of keeping up with a yard every weekend is daunting, to say the least. Flower boxes are just my speed. I can pick off the dried-up blooms as I chat with neighbors down below, or water the flowers while my toddler throws his toys off the balcony.

Sure, the grass may be greener on the other side of the Atlantic, but the flowers bloom brighter under the Italian sun.

Mamma Mia!

2007-05-15T05:08:00.001-04:00

Since we just celebrated Mother's Day (La Festa della Mamma), I thought I'd give you the lowdown on what Italian mammas are really like.

Here's a photo of my mom (on the left) and my mother-in-law (on the right) taken last year when my parents came to visit. My parents and parents-in-law get along really well with each other, in spite of the fact that they don't speak each other's language (or is it because they don't speak the same language...?).

Anyhoo...let's review the stereotypes of the typical Italian mamma:
1. great cook
2. insists everyone eats, even after they're full
3. rules the roost--no one argues with mamma once she's made up her mind
4. loves her children above all else

Well, like many stereotypes, these are all...absolutely true.

There's a saying in Italy that goes like this: La mamma è sempre la mamma, which means: Your mother will always be your mother. Now, an American might interpret that as "Your mother will always love you and be there when you need her."

What it means to an Italian is: Your mother will always be there for you. Literally. Even when you don't need her help. Just look over your shoulder--'cause there she is.

I once saw a documentary in the U.S. on Italian mammas and their mammone--which translates as "mamma's boys." They interviewed couples where the man was Italian and the woman either American or English, and every single girlfriend or wife complained about how their boyfriend's/husband's mother hovered over them like a helicopter. One man lived in the town next to his mother's town, and he'd put his bag of dirty laundry on the bus, the mother would pick it up at the bus stop in her town, wash his clothes, iron them, and then send them back via the bus.

My first reaction to this was: Give me a break! My second (more rational) reaction was: Hmmm...I wonder if I could get my mother-in-law to do this?

In interacting with other moms my own age, I've learned a few golden rules of Italian mamma-hood.

1. Sweating is bad.
My daughter took a gym class a few years ago, where the kids would run around, get a little sweaty, and then the moms would pick them up. When I came to get my daughter, I'd greet her, ask what games they played, and take her home. Big faux pas. Little did I know that I was supposed to go to the locker room, feel her sweaty forehead, make a tsk tsk sound with my tongue and shake my head while I say: "Sei tutto sudata," which means "You're all sweaty." Then I was supposed to change her undershirt, put on a fresh shirt over that, comment again about how sweaty she was, whip out the hair dryer and dry her sweaty bangs. Then, and only then, could I take her home. This rule leads us to the next one:

2. No sweating allowed if there's any sort of breeze or draft whatsoever.
Here's my line of thinking: If it's hot outside and you're sweaty, it's nice when a breeze comes along to cool you off. Here in Italy, however, this leads to instant pneumonia. Italian bambini wear undershirts even in the summer, in case they sweat. Huh? you might say, Wouldn't the fact that they're wearing an extra shirt make them sweat even more? Correct. But the thinking here is that if your child sweats, the first line of pneumonia defense is the undershirt. You see, a breeze would blow against the dry outer shirt, while the undershirt would absorb the sweat. Then, in a practiced 3-second maneuver, your mother would change your undershirt so the process can start all over again.

3. Your child may starve if not fed every few hours.
If my 5-year-old is not eating her pasta, my mother-in-law will pick up the fork and offer to feed her. If a toddler refuses his snack, his mother (or grandmother--same difference) will chase him around the house, plying him with other snack options. When I used to tell my mom I was hungry right before dinner time, she'd say, "You're supposed to be hungry--it's almost dinner time." When I used to pick up my daughter from gym class, at 5:45 and she told me she was hungry, another mother would overhear and offer her a cookie.

I scoffed at these rules--surely I'd never become an Italian mamma. But then I started sending my kids to school in undershirts even when it was warm outside...I mean, what would the teachers think of my undershirt-less children? What if the other mothers caught on that my children were actually sweating at recess time without the pneumonia blocker? And if my kids announce their hunger in public right before dinner time, I've been known to concede the occasional cookie. I'm just doing it for appearance's sake, I'd tell myself. So the other mothers wouldn't call social services on me.

And then my parents came to visit last year. We were outside our apartment with no Italians in sight, when I told my girls to go in and get a sweater. My mom looked at me like I was from another planet. "But Natalie," she said. "It's 75 degrees outside."

Eep. She was right. I'd told my daughters to put on a sweater because a slight breeze was blowing. Argh! Although I'm not a full-fledged Italian mamma, I'm not a 100% American mom anymore, either. I am somewhere in between.

But once my kids are grown, they're doing their own laundry...

One strike, and...the kids are home

2007-05-11T04:03:00.000-04:00

Here's a photo of my daughter's school (the burnt-orange-colored building). When this photo was taken, students were inside--some walking the halls, some at their desks, some probably throwing the odd spitball or two. Teachers were teaching. And disciplining. And perhaps dodging spitballs.

But not today.

Today there's a scioppero. If you've lived in Italy, you're nodding your head right now saying, "Ah, another scioppero."

Scioppero means strike, and they are regular occurances here. Train workers go on strike. Nurses go on strike. Everyone and his brother goes on strike. And, of course, teachers go on strike.

Strikes are always announced ahead of time, both in the newpapers, on television and websites. So if you want to take the train to Rome on Monday, you check the Italian railway website Monday morning to make sure your train is still running. And if it's not? Well, then, you go to Rome on Tuesday. Pazienza (patience), as the Italians would say.

However, we did not realize that today was a teacher strike day until we got to school with the kids. Apparently, a notice had been posted in the school foyer, which we didn't see yesterday. This is perhaps due to the fact that the notice was tacked to a bulletin board along with 15,000 other notices for various summer programs.

But didn't we hear other parents talking about it? Before school? After school? In the bars? On the street? Italian children don't take school buses, so this means you must drop your kids off and pick them up every day--a chance to see and talk with other parents. So why didn't anyone tell us?

Frankly, because a strike just isn't big news here. It might be mentioned in casual conversation, as in: "I'll call you tomorrow and we'll go for coffee. Oh, wait, I can't go tomorrow--I'll be home with the kids--scioppero."

We weren't the only ones who missed the notice--5 other families showed up, read the notice, shrugged, and went home...kids in tow.

So now I have to cancel my writing plan for this morning...I'm sneaking in this blog post while my son naps and my daughters are having a snack. But at least I work from home. I feel for the parents who have to scramble to make other arrangements because they didn't see the strike coming. Actually, "other arrangements" = "take the kids to the grandparents' house" here in Italy, so I guess all's well that ends well.

What would Italy do if the mammas went on strike?

*edited to add:* One of my daughter's teachers lives nearby, and my daughter just came skipping through the door saying she'd been talking to her teacher who was working in her garden.

What? No picket lines? What kind of strike is this? The kind I'd like to go on, that's what kind.

The Prize Pitcher

2007-05-09T02:38:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I went into the city with my son to pick out the pitcher for Jeff and Sue, winners of the Get a Load of This contest. I'd promised them one of the ceramic pitchers that are typical here for serving wine--every Triestine has one of these at home. These pitchers usually have something written on them--either the name of the restaurant or a saying in the local dialect. Well, when I went to the shop that sells them, they said they don't make the ones with local sayings anymore. Ack! So the best I could do was to find one that has Trieste written on it, so I hope that's okay with Jeff and Sue. Here are the photos:

I'll get this off in the mail and into the hands of the Italian postal system (I'm not Catholic, but crossing myself nonetheless) by the end of this week. And I forgot to mention the bonus prize...aside from the pitcher, Jeff and Sue will be the proud new owners of about 5 pounds of bubble wrap!

Jeff mentioned in the comments section of the contest post that the blogger world is a small one, and he's right! When he emailed to give me his address, he revealed that he and Sue are the proud parents of Jay Asher, one third of the Disco Mermaids. For those of you who may not have heard of the Disco Mermaids, they're a group of 3 children's authors who started a blog a little over a year ago to chronicle their path to publication. During that time, all three have signed with agents, and Robin and Eve (the other 2 mermaids--both statuesque blondes, but so nice that you can't help but love them!) are on the cusp of having their first sale.

Jay had his first sale last fall, and it was a whopper. His agent sold his novel for teens called Thirteen Reasons Why, which will be released in October of this year. This news was huge in the world of children's lit, because as a first-time author, Jay's advance was, well, huge. Forget that it was huge for a first-time author...it would have been huge for a twentieth-time author. Which only goes to show how much confidence his publisher (Penguin Razorbill) has in this book.

And like Robin and Eve, Jay is down-to-earth and an all-around nice guy. To illustrate this, Jay blogged about his wife's reaction to the news that his book sold, and then she became the photographer for his blog posts showing him telling Robin, Eve, and yes, Jeff and Sue--his parents. So here's the link where you can meet Jeff and Sue: http://discomermaids.blogspot.com/2006/10/when-i-told-my-parents-jay.html when Jay told them about his book sale.

Jay, when you do this again for your next book sale (or movie deal, or Printz Award, etc.) I'll be looking for the Triestine pitcher in the background. ;-)

And the winner is...

2007-05-06T04:50:00.000-04:00

Jeff and Sue! They successfully listed all the functions of the thing-a-ma-bob in the Get a load of this contest!

Most of you were on the right track with clothes dryer, and some of you were so close with the rest of the answers...Tina and Julie almost had it with the dry cleaning idea, except you have to put the clothes in while they're wet, not dry. And I thought Debi in Holland would be the winner when she said you could add water and it becomes a steamer...except you don't actually add the water. But when Jeff and Sue came back and cinched it with their "steam ironing clothes dryer," I knew we had a winner.

This handy-dandy contraption is a:
1. clothes dryer
2. space heater
3. humidifier (as the water from the wet clothes evapoates)
4. ...and although it doesn't actually iron the clothes, it claims to reduce wrinkles (in the clothes, not my skin...although I loved the facial idea, Cyn!)

Thanks for all your creative guesses--Dana's soundproof booth for the Miss Italy pagaent, Cyn's hot air popcorn popper and little people merry-go-round (my kids would LOVE that), Debi's hairdryer idea, Danette's lamp (we could actually use a lamp in that corner...), Robin's raincoat storage, and Jeff and Sue's pasta dryer and balloon inflator.

So what's the prize? I'd intended to go out and buy it yesterday so I could include a photo today, but it rained most of the day, which means parking in the city with three kids in tow isn't exactly easy, so I've postponed the prize purchase until later this week (remember: shops are closed today and tomorrow).

BUT, I did find a link to the kind of prize this will be. Jeff and Sue have won a ceramic pitcher, much like the ones pictured here:

http://www.istrianet.org/istria/crafts-trades/household/boccaletta1.htm

...except Jeff and Sue's pitcher won't be that big...it'll probably be about as tall as my hand. They come in different sizes, and are actually really cheap since they're so common. And just so Jeff and Sue don't think I'm a cheapskate--even though their pitcher will probably cost less than $5, the shipping will be about a gazillion dollars, so that should earn me some points on the generosity scale. ;-)

These pitchers are really common here for wine, and every restaurant has their own design with the name of the restaurant on the pitcher. There's a store that sells them here with sayings written in the local Triestine dialect, and that's the kind I'll be sending Jeff and Sue. We own one of these (which is actually packed away in storage in the states) that says:

Chi beve sto vin, canta come un canarìn

which tranlates as: Whoever drinks this wine, will sing like a canary.

I'll let you know what Jeff and Sue's pitcher says once I actually purchase it--no doubt it'll have a message just as poignant as the canary one. And Jeff and Sue, you can email me at nlorenzi (at) earthlink (dot) net with your mailing address, and I'll put the pitcher at the mercy of the Italian postal system.

Thanks for all your great guesses, everyone!

Happy Communism (I mean, Labor) Day!

2007-05-02T05:09:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, May 1, was Labor Day here in Italy. Labor Day in the U.S. has always meant the end of summer, new school supplies, and the last day to wear white shoes without being ticketed by the fashion police.

Here in Italy, however, it's become a mini-celebration of communism. That's right--Italy has a communist party, and they literally paint the town red on May 1. Here's a photo of the nearby village adorned with red flags:
This is also the start of the sagra season. A sagra is an outdoor cook-out open to the public, with music and dancing. Sagras are held as fundraisers by many types of organizations, like local soccer teams, youth groups...and, yes, the communist party.

I took this photo of the knick-knack booth (sorry it's so blurry...). This cracked me up, because at the other sagras, there's often a booth with toys and balloons for sale. New toys and balloons. And the communist booth? The items were all second-hand with no fixed prices...you just gave whatever you wanted to donate.
This may not seem strange to Americans, where garage sales and thrift shops are common. But Italians never have garage sales, and I've never seen a thrift shop anywhere. If Italians have old clothes to donate, they give them to the church. So I guess it's fitting that the communists wouldn't sell anything new, just in case it might be seen as too (gasp!) capitalist.

Here's a shot of the band warming up. I'm not sure what the giant laminated pigs are supposed to represent. Frankly, with my American accent, I was afraid to ask.

Note the tuba on the right...one guy traded off between an electric guitar and a tuba. Another guy manned the accordian, and the drummer brought up the rear. I suppose we now know why communists aren't particularly known for their musical excellence.

Perhaps the communists felt better when they saw someone actually dancing to their music...my son. He loved it.

Although I did tell my husband that if our son started marching around with straight arms and legs, we'd probably have to leave. If not, someone would have surely come to revoke my American passport.

Most Italians scoff at the communists, and don't really take them seriously. An often heard sentiment is: "Sure, it's easy to be a communist in Italy, with their nice cars, fine wine and la bella vita. Why don't they go live in Russia? THEN we'll see how much they like being communist!" Lots of gesticulation is required when saying this. If you want to give it a try, here's what to do:

1. Hold out your hand, palm up.

2. Now bring your fingertips up and touch them to the tip of your thumb.

3. Wag your hand back and forth.

4. The speed of the wagging must increase with the volume of your voice.

Now you're talking!

Get a load of this...

2007-04-28T03:38:00.000-04:00

Here's something my mother-in-law ordered for me a few months ago, and it just came yesterday. Why did it take so long to arrive? No, it's not the fault of the Italian postal system (this time). The company that makes this contraption said there was such a huge demand for this thing-a-ma-jig, that it was on back order until now.

Now for the big question...what the heck is it?

That's where you come in. Inspired by the recent Disco Mermaids contest for an advance reader's copy of Jay Asher's upcoming debut young adult novel, (which I won...yay!) I'll give a prize to anyone who can guess what the thing in this photo is used for. All you have to do is post your answer(s) (you can guess more than once) here by Friday, May 5. If there's more than one correct answer, I'll draw those names from a hat to pick the winner.

So what's the prize? The winner gets a souvenir from Trieste--something you can only find here in this city. And no, I haven't picked it out yet. But I will. And I'll try not to choose something too cheesy. I promise.

Italian quiz shows...trivia and (what else?) breasts

2007-04-23T08:17:00.000-04:00

Italians love their quiz shows just as much as Americans do. There's an Italian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and several other trivia quiz shows that boast high viewer ratings.

But there's one big difference between Italian and American quiz shows: breasts.

I've blogged about this topic before (breasts and their place in Italian culture), but quiz shows are the perfect example to illustrate this.

Take a look at this photo:

The guy on the right is the host of a popular quiz show called L'Eredità (Inheritance). And the ladies on the left? Think Vanna White after a few stiff drinks. The show is on prime time--right smack dab in the middle of family hour tv. Here's how it goes:

First, the guests all introduce themselves. Fairly standard.

Now the show begins...trivia questions, close-ups of contestants' family members biting their fingernails, brilliant contestants wowing the audience with their trivia prowess, nervous contestants flubbing obvious questions (which are never obvious to me, mind you, since I'm not Italian), etc. Again, nothing new here.

Then, just when the Italian public can't take the seriousness any longer, cue the raunchy music and out comes the group of scantily-clad women shown in the picture above, who writhe and wiggle to the music for about 30 seconds. As the last note of the song hangs in the air, they strike a suggestive pose and the audience breaks into enthusiastic applause.

Then the dancing ladies slink off-stage, the host comes back, and the game recommences.

All game shows have this half-time show, dancing-girl element, not just this one. And in the photo above, I think it's significant that the women are pictured first, and the host (who is on camera for all but 30 seconds of the show) is pictured last.

Answer (for 200 Euro): The two things that make the Italian quiz-show world go 'round.

Question: Um, Alex, what are breasts?

Ding! Ding! Ding! Thaaaaaaaat's correct!

:-)

(Almost) forced to be fashionable

2007-04-19T05:34:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago I decided to finally replace my sunglasses. My kids had stretched the frames to make them fit their grandparents' black lab, and this was not good. So I went into the sunglasses store to have a look.

What did I see? Wall-to-wall sunglasses, all with gigantic lenses. I'm not a gigantic-lenses kind of person, so I asked the man behind the counter if they had anything smaller.

He raised an eyebrow. "But, Signora." Waving a hand toward the display on the counter, à la The Price is Right, he said, "Large sunglasses are the fashion this spring."

"I understand," I said. "But I'd prefer regular-sized frames."

He shrugged, offering a look of pity since I was so blatantly missing the fashion boat. "I'm sorry, Signora. We only have the larger frames. But why don't you try on a pair? I'm sure they would suit you."

Right. Okay, then. When in Rome, right? So I tried on a pair.

I felt like a bug.

Don't get me wrong...if I dressed like a fashion plate and looked something like this in huge glasses:

...then fine. But jeans and a shirt with remnants of dried toddler cookie smeared on the sleeve just doesn't ooze sophistication. I felt more like this woman:By this time, my toddler had flung his cookie at a dog that another customer had brought into the store, and was preparing to climb out of his stroller, so I started to leave.

And that's when I spotted them. In the corner of the store was a small display of last year's glasses.

Aha! I was smug as I brought a pair back to the counter to pay the (discounted) price. The man sniffed. "Oh. I'd forgotten we even had those."

They aren't the perfect pair of sunglasses--they slope up a little, and I would have preferred non-sloping frames. But at least the lenses aren't the size of grapefruits.

Here's a picture of me in my new shades taken by my 5-year-old budding photographer:

An Italian sunglass fashion "don't", I know...

Italians really do follow fashion trends, no matter what they are. All you have to do is sit in the main square, Piazza Unità, and you can tell what's in (and what's out--if I happen to be sitting in the square drinking coffee and you're looking right at me).

Last fall, orange was in, for example. Sure enough, every second person had on an orange sweater, jacket, or shirt. And those who didn't had probably just done a load of laundry, and the orange apparel was still drying out on the balcony.

I've accepted the fact that I'll be the only person in the square with reasonable-sized sunglasses. And for anyone with gigantic sunglasses who thinks I'm fashion-challenged, I have two words for you:

Tan.

Lines.

Virginia Tech

2007-04-18T03:40:00.000-04:00

I was all set to post something light-hearted when I heard about the shooting at Virginia Tech earlier this week. Being from Virginia, I know many people who attended Tech, and I'm as shocked as anyone. I read on CNN that the shooter was from the same county (Fairfax) where I'm from. But it really hit home when I learned this young man graduated from the same high school where my husband was a teacher. Although my husband never had this person in his classes, it makes me uneasy to think they walked the same halls at the same time.

People often ask me which I prefer: life in the U.S. or life in Italy. And I can never answer that question. There are things I love and don't love about both places. But for all the fun I poke at life in Italy, an event like the one at Virginia Tech reminds me of one of the best things about living in Italy: a sense of security.

My father-in-law was bewildered when we shipped our American mini-van here and he noticed the doors all lock automatically after you start up the engine.

"Why do they do that?" he asked.

"We're safer that way," I answered.

He looked puzzled, then replied: "Safer from what?"

I didn't bother going into the concept of carjacking. Or explain that Americans simply know to lock their doors when driving through certain neighborhoods. Or that "going postal" has become part of the American lexicon.

Italy has dangers of its own, of course. Drunk driving doesn't carry the same taboo that it does in the states, and no one's familiar with the concept of designated driver. At least half the people I see driving around don't even buckle up their children.

But I can walk anywhere in Trieste at night and feel safe, something I would never attempt in Washington, D.C. And with Italy's anti-gun laws, I can send my children to school without worrying about gunmen.

So which country is the safest place to raise children? I suppose it's more likely for someone to be hit by a drunk driver than become a victim of random violence. But still. If only I could combine the best of both places...that's where I'd want to raise my kids.

Buon Compleanno!

2007-04-12T05:02:00.000-04:00

In honor of my youngest daughter's 5th birthday today, I thought I'd tell you how birthdays are celebrated here in Italy.

The photo on the right was taken almost three years ago, when my now-5-year-old daughter was 2, and my almost-8-year-old was 5. My husband's great aunt has the same birthday as my oldest daughter, so here they were blowing out the great aunt's numeral "80" candles plus 5 pink candles for my daughter. (Just an aside...notice the great aunt is wearing an undershirt, house dress and a wool sweater draped over her shoulders, while my daughters both have on short-sleeved shirts--it was 80 degrees outside).

Okay, then...on to Italian birthday parties for bambini. Here's how it usually breaks down:

3:30-- starting time for the party, as written on the invitation

4:00-- The first guests start showing up, with the last guests trickling in around 5:30. As soon as you arrive with the gift (no card), the birthday child grabs it, tears open the wrapping and flings the paper and ribbons to the ground for the mother to pick up (I think this is pretty much universal). The other children all pounce on the new toy and play with it until it either breaks, or ends up somewhere under the cake table. As you might imagine, there's no way of really keeping track of who gave which present--often the parents don't even see all the gifts until after the party ends. As such, it's impossible to send thank you notes, so no one ever does.

4:00-7:30-- The children run wild, while parents sit around sipping wine. Usually there is no theme or organized games, although lately I have seen some parties where the parents hire a teenager to run some games. Most people's apartments are too small to host parties, since kids usually invite their whole class. And children's parties are often a family affair, meaning each guest comes with parents and siblings, so indoor parties are typically held either in a church hall or a gym. The acoustics in these types of venues make the children's whoops and yells seem 75,000 times louder than usual. This, in my opinion, is why the parents sip wine (or at least it's why I sip wine).

The food varies a bit, but there are always pizzette (little pizzas), cheese, bread and deli meats, and often little sandwiches made of Nutella (a chocolate hazelnut spread that's quite possibly the best food ever invented). The kids usually drink soft drinks, especially aranciata (orange soda).

7:30-- Just when you think you can't take the chaos another second longer, they roll out the cake. The kids all gather round trying to blow out the candles before the birthday child gets to, usually resulting in tears ("It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to...). You'd think the parents of the candle-blower-outers would intervene, but nay...they're usually chatting (and still sipping) somewhere on the other side of the room.

The kids sing "Happy Birthday," which in Italian isn't really "Happy Birthday"--it translates to "Many good wishes to you...". Interestingly enough, they often then launch into the English rendition, which is cute with their accents...the Italian language doesn't have the "th" sound, so it comes out more like: "Happy Bert-day to you..."

After the cake, the kids are usually given little bags of candy as party favors. Then the parents start to gather their sugared-up kids and head for home, although some hang around for another hour or so.

So what do we have planned for our daughter's party? Tonight will be the family celebration at a pizzeria, then Sunday we'll have the party with her friends. We'll still have a theme and a few games, and I'm actually making the cake--you can find American cake mixes in the "gourmet foods" section of the supermarket for about 5 bucks per box. Ouch. But since Italians almost never make their own cakes, they always assume I made mine from scratch (shhhh). So that part is American.

As for the Italian side...I don't stress when the first guest shows up a half-hour late. I don't try to plan activities down to the last minute. I've stopped insisting that we bring out the cake by 5:00. I don't send thank-you notes (solely as an attempt to honor the culture of my host country, of course). And don't forget the wine. When in Rome, and all that...

Happy Birthday, Sofia!

Italy vs. Europe

2007-04-07T06:05:00.000-04:00

Here's a link to a short video clip my friend Dana sent to me (grazie, Dana!): http://www.lifeinitaly.com/flash/

The maker of this video, Bruno Bozzetto, kindly granted his permission to use this clip on my blog, but I can't figure out how to imbed it here (argh!), so I'm giving you the link instead.

It's worth a look...my husband and I actually laughed out loud several times while watching. (Make sure the volume is turned up...)

Enjoy!

Move Over, Easter Bunny

2007-04-04T02:58:00.000-04:00

Since I'm American and my husband is Italian, we've always tried to give our children the best of both worlds--two languages, two home countries, two cultures...and two kinds of Easter eggs.

In Italy, there is no Easter Bunny, not like there is in America. That's right, the Easter Bunny DOES exist. Yup. For sure. Definitely. (Can you tell my 7-year-old daughter is reading over my shoulder?) And the Easter Bunny does visit our house...he hops right over the Atlantic, carrying baskets for my children. Nice of him to make the effort, don't you think?

Italian kids don't dye eggs, they don't do the baskets with fake grass, and there are no Easter egg hunts. What they do have are these gigantic chocolate eggs wrapped in foil. This photo was taken at my in-law's house 3 years ago when my daughters were 4 and almost 2. As you can see, the package is almost as tall as my then 2-year-old. Each egg has a surprise inside--a stuffed animal, a game, etc.

They even have eggs for adults. Last Easter, my 23-year-old niece got an egg from her grandparents with a necklace inside. Some have scarves, some even have lingerie.

Three years ago, my girls were too young to be influenced by brand names. Ah, the innocence. Now that they're older, they don't just want any old egg--nay. It has to have their favorite cartoon characters or just the right prize inside. Ah, it warms the heart to think the real Easter message is coming through loud and clear, doesn't it? (??)

If you look closely, you'll notice more foil on the table behind my girls. Since there isn't an Easter Bunny to dole out the goodies, kids receive eggs from all the adults in their families--parents, grandparents, uncles, and aunts. And in Italy, most families aren't usually scattered across the country, as they often are in the U.S.

Let me tell you, this makes for a lot of eggs. Which makes for a lot of chocolate. Which makes for a lot of weight put on by loving parents like myself who are simply trying to save their children from becoming victims of chocolate overdose.

Oh, the sacrifices we parents make for our kids. (As I reach for another piece of chocolate... )

Naps...they aren't just for kids

2007-04-02T08:59:00.000-04:00

Since my friend Tina asked about naps and the Italian workday, I thought I'd dive into that topic today.

My parents-in-law have neighbors with a yippy little dog who barks at anything that moves, including his own tail. As you might imagine, this dog is not exactly beloved by its neighbors.

One day the dog was yipping for a good 5 minutes straight, and my mother-in-law said, "How can they just let that dog keep barking? Especially at this time of day."

This time of day? I looked at the clock. It said 2:30. Not 2:30 in the morning, no. But 2:30 in the afternoon. That's when I realized Italians are serious about napping.

Most Italians start work at about 8:30 each morning, and go until 12:30 or 1:00. My daughter gets out of elementary school at 1:00 each day (and 12:30 on Saturdays). Then everyone schleps home for lunch, which usually lasts from about 1:30-2:30. This isn't the case in our house, where the mom (me) doesn't see lunch as the main meal of the day--unless you count peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as hefty mid-day fare. This means lunch at our house lasts from approximately 1:30-1:35.

Then it's time for a nap (except for parents with kids who no longer nap, of course).

Adults don't really admit they're taking a nap (una nanna) per se...they like to say they're reposing. Trust me--it's the same thing. It's kind of like the English equivalent of: "I'm not sleeping; I'm just resting my eyes." Right.

Between 3:30 and 4:30, it's back to work until about 7:30, and then home again for dinner at around 8:30.

I don't know about you, but I would completely lose steam if I went home for a nap everyday. The idea of getting out of a warm bed twice a day to go to work? I don't think so.

But on the weekends...I'm not one to shun local all customs, mind you.

Buon riposo!

Yup...I live here

2007-03-30T03:09:00.000-04:00

I visited Rome years ago and stood across the street from the 2,000-year-old Colosseum. On the road that passes right in front of the Colosseum, Italian drivers whizzed by, talking on their cell phones and completely ignoring the imposing landmark right outside their windows. I remember thinking: Don't you people know what you're missing? You've got a world-famous piece of history right in front of you, and it doesn't even merit a glance?

But a part of me understood. You move to a new place, you go and see all the sights, and then never set foot in a single tourist-attraction until people come from out of town to visit.

That's how it was when I first came to live in Trieste in 1993. I was hired to teach at the international school here, along with two other friends/colleagues from Virginia--Dana and Cathy. We fell in love with Trieste at first sight, and couldn't believe we were actually living here instead of just visiting. But inevitably, regular day-to-day tasks like work and grocery shopping diluted our awe of Trieste, and we'd find ourselves forgetting--forgetting to look at the castle that jutted out into the gulf from the shoreline. Forgetting that the buildings in the piazza where we'd just bought a gelato were 200 years old. And forgetting to take in the ruins of a 2,000-year-old Roman amphitheater as we hurried to meet friends at a pizzeria.

But every once in awhile we'd stop. We'd look at the castle, the piazza, the amphitheater. And we'd grin and say: Yup...we live here.

I had one of these moments this week after taking my daughter to the indoor pool for her swimming lesson. While she splashed around with her teacher, I was supposed to be perched on a chair outside the pool in front of ceiling-to-floor windows watching her blow bubbles, kick, and doggy-paddle her way to the side of the pool. But I wasn't perched anywhere; I was chasing my 15-month-old son around the waiting area, trying (unsuccessfully) to keep toys out of his mouth belonging to other toddlers with runny noses, steer him away from the trash can (a toddler magnet) and ply him with crackers so he would stop grabbing the other kids' cookies. And all the while, I knew my little mermaid would later say: But Mommy, you weren't watching me!

As soon as the lesson was over, I whisked my daughter into the locker room and helped her change and dry her hair. All this took no more than 10 minutes, but it seemed like 10 hours-- my son screamed the whole time at the injustice of being buckled up in his stroller when it would have been so much more fun to explore the fascinating nooks and crannies of the women's locker room.

So we finally got out to the car, and I discovered one of my son's shoes was missing. Back inside, past the reception desk, down the hair-drying hall, and into the steamy locker room again, all of us dressed in heavy coats. I finally found the shoe, and we schlepped back to the car again.

By this time, I was a weensy bit stressed.

I got the kids buckled in, put the folded-up stroller into the back, and was about to walk around to the driver's side and get in the car.

That's when I noticed it.

Here's the view I had in front of me of the old buildings along the waterfront as seen through the masts of a hundred sailboats in the marina. And to think I almost missed this.

Yup. I live here.

Buon Appetito, Fido...

2007-03-27T08:04:00.000-04:00

Most pet owners consider their dog or cat a member of the family. Nowhere is that more true than in Italy...especially when it comes to dogs.

People bring their dogs almost everywhere--in bars, stores, and restaurants--much to the delight of my children, who rush to pet any dog within a 100-meter radius. If I stop for a coffee at a bar and another coffee-drinker is accompanied by his pooch, I can pretty much count on carrying my coffee cup around with me as I try and prevent my 15-month-old from throwing himself on top of the dog.

But to really bring the Italians-love-their-dogs point home, I had to take this photo in the supermarket today. It's a big (probably a 10-pounder) bag of pasta...for dogs.

My in-laws have a pasta-eating dog, and he eats as well as we do (and when we're at my mother-in-law's, we eat well. Too well).

So pass the pesto sauce, Fido. And Buon Appetito!

Caution: Bimbo on Board

2007-03-25T08:50:00.001-04:00

Here's a "Bimbo on Board" sticker in the rear window of a car. Oodles of Italian cars have these, because there are millions of bimbos in Italy.

In Italian, bimbo (pronounced "BEEM-bo) is short for bambino, meaning child, in this case.

Nonetheless, I still refuse to put this sticker on our car, even though we have three bimbi. I'd hate for an English-speaking tourist to see me driving by and assume that I'm the bimbo on board...

Let's play "Find the Street Sign"

2007-03-22T04:20:00.000-04:00

I'll be the first to admit I have absolutely no sense of direction. Luckily, I live in an age where this flaw does not affect my survival. Had I lived in the caveman days, I would have been the one who wandered off to gather berries, lost my way back to the cave, and been devoured by a saber tooth tiger.

Although there are no saber tooth tigers in Italy (that I know of), this is not a friendly country for the directionally-challenged, like myself. To illustrate my dilemma, we're now going to play "Find the Street Sign." Take a look at this photo:

This is a pedestrian area of the old city center. There's a sign in the foreground that says: area pedonale, and a picture of a pedestrian--no cars allowed here. Now...can you spot the street sign?

No?

Look closer. Squint if you have to.

If you haven't spotted it yet, look at the building on the right with the big, dark stain up the side. See the lighter-colored, rectangular sign on the building right smack dab in the middle of the stain? That's it! Congratulazioni--you've found the street sign.

Now let's play "Read the Street Sign."

Okay--that wasn't fair. No one could read that sign. And that's my point.

The street signs in Trieste are attached to buildings, and not every intersection even has signs. They're usually the same color as the building (you lucked out with the stain this time--not all buildings have that), and the street names are carved into the stone--not very practical, and impossible to read while driving at night.

How do Italians deal with this? First of all, the majority of them live in the same city in which they were born, so they already know their way around. Second, most city dwellers take the bus.

So what are the street sign ramifications for someone like me?

Disastrous. Especially when I'm driving. If I do spot an elusive street sign, reading it isn't always an option because I'm usually simultaneously trying to swerve around cars parked in turn lanes and drivers who cut in front of me without warning.

On second thought, maybe my zero sense of direction does cut down on my chances of survival...at least in Italy.

Buona Festa del Papà!

2007-03-19T03:50:00.000-04:00

Happy Father's Day!

My girls made these boxes for my husband today...the smaller one was painted by my 4-year-old, who was more into the process than the product...and ended up with more paint on her body than the box. The larger box was painted by my 7-year-old, who found it difficult to focus on the fact that Easter doesn't factor into Father's Day (that's a fluffy yellow chick glued to the top).

You may be wondering why I'm posting about Father's Day in March...it's rainy, windy and cold here (a bad laundry day)--definitely not time to break out the grills for a summer barbeque. It's also Monday, when all (or most) of the Italian papàs go to work.

So why is today Father's Day in Italy? Being a Catholic country, Italy recognizes a different saint for almost every day of the year. And March 19 is the day they honor San Guiseppe, a.k.a. Saint Joseph--Jesus' legal father-here-on-earth.

It makes sense to have Father's Day on Saint Joseph's day--I get the connection. But why they picked March 19 to honor St. Joseph, I'm not sure...obviously no one thought about making Father's Day convenient, did they? Spain and Portugal also celebrate Father's Day on March 19, but the vast majority of the world's nations celebrate it in the summer. Some exceptions are Australia and New Zealand (September), and a few freezing cold countries who celebrate it in winter (including Russia who celebrates in February...not many barbeques going on there, I'd bet.)

I like having Father's Day on a Sunday--it's more relaxed, most people don't work, and you have time to really celebrate. And I especially love celebrating it in summer--grilling out, shorts and t-shirts, etc.

Maybe I'll write to the Pope and ask if he couldn't officially trade St. Joseph's day with some other saint's day in summer. For example, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux's day is August 20. Ever heard of him? Neither have I. Apparently, he's the patron saint of bees, beekeepers, candlemakers and wax-melters. I doubt he'd mind trading places with St. Joseph. And I don't think the bees could care less.

Or maybe there's a patron saint of barbeques? I'll have to look into that...

But in the meantime, Buona Festa del Papà!

Speaking of high speeds...

2007-03-14T07:26:00.000-04:00

In my last post, I wrote about the Bora reaching speeds of 93 miles (140 km) per hour. If you want to know what that feels like, all you have to do is venture out onto the Italian autostrada.

Here's a photo of our speedometer (I'm not driving, by the way) when we were out on the highway. We had our American car shipped over here, so the big numbers are miles per hour, and the little ones are kilometers per hour. And yes, we're going 85 miles per hour. And we're not speeding.

The speed limit on Italian highways is 130 kilometers per hour, and our measly 85 mph translates to about 136 km per hour. Believe me when I say we were one of the slow pokes traveling in the right-hand lane.

One of the things that never ceases to amaze me about Italian drivers is the tailgaters (99% of the Italian driving population). If you were to travel in the left lane going a mere 85 mph, the tailgating ritual would go something like this:

1. Glance in your rearview mirror and see a speck of a car at least a few kilometers away.
2. Wait 3 seconds.
3. Check your rearview mirror again. The speck is now full-sized, barreling toward you and closing in.
4. The driver flashes his lights at you.
5. You now have 1.359 seconds to get over into the right lane.
6. What? Other cars are in the right lane and you can't get over? Shame on you.
7. The driver now moves to within a centimeter of your rear bumper.
8. Gun the engine and race ahead of the other cars in the right lane.
9. Swerve into the right lane. Cutting off another car is completely acceptable.
10. Breathe easy as the tailgater bullets past you going at least 200 km per hour.
11. Pray that he gets a ticket, so you can honk your horn and laugh as he's pulled over by the polizia.

Number 11 on the list is actually a very American attitude...it's my attitude, in fact. I hate tailgaters. But Italians are nowhere near as offended by them as we are. If my (Italian) husband is driving and someone rides on his tail, he doesn't even make a break in our conversation. He just keeps talking and moves over. No one gives anyone the finger or shakes a fist. The tailgater even looks bored as he whizzes by. Now if you don't move over when you have space in the right lane...that's another story involving lots of gesticulating.

So if you find yourself navigating an Italian highway, stay to the right, keep both hands on the wheel, and remember to breathe. And a few Hail Mary's wouldn't hurt, either.

When the Bora blows...

2007-03-12T03:25:00.000-04:00

Trieste is a windy city--sort of like the Chicago of Italy. It's famous for La Bora...a gale-force wind that swoops down from the north and pummels the city, especially in winter. It's been known to gust up to speeds of 150 km/hour (93 miles/hour).

The old timers here say the Bora was much stronger 40 years ago, as you can see in this photo here:

Many street corners still have chains for people to hang on to. The real threat isn't being carried away alà Dorothy and Toto--it's the flying debris. After the Bora blows into town, there's always a story in the paper about someone getting hit with a flying roadsign or a flowerbox that was ripped from a windowsill.

The Bora usually lasts about three days--much longer than that, and you start to go crazy. Especially when you have three kids who are stuck inside, begging you to let them go out to play.

There is one good thing about the Bora--it usually clears out the smog and clouds, leaving behind a sparkling blue sky.

My personal Bora beef has to do with laundry. If you read my previous post on laundry, you know all about the drying racks on my balcony. Here's what happens when the Bora and my laundry collide:
Luckily, these are dark clothes, so the dirt doesn't show...too much. At least, not enough to wash everything again. With the white load...that's another story. Especially if it's rained overnight.

So why don't I just bring the laundry inside? Stay tuned, because I'll need a whole separate post to answer that question...

Buona Festa della Donna!

2007-03-08T14:42:00.000-05:00

Today is La Festa della Donna, or Woman's Day here in Italy. It always falls on March 8, and it's basically a day in which women get together and go to happy hour and hang out with their girlfriends. All except for those women who are ready to crawl into bed by 8:30 because they have a teething 14-month-old whose molars keep waking him up in the middle of the night. Nope--those women are at home. As usual. But I digress...

Women are given these yellow, puffy flowers called mimosas--men give them to the women in their lives, and women give them to each other. They were even handing some out to all the women at the supermarket today, and here are mine:
I know--they look a bit like weeds, don't they? I mean, the thought is nice, and everything, but who thought these flowers would make a good Woman's Day symbol? What about tulips? Or roses? Or jewelry? Or...I know...shoes! A nice pair of Italian leather shoes. Now that's my idea of celebrating Woman's Day.

Although my preschooler did come home today and present me with this:

Cute, huh? I guess a finger-painting of a pair of shoes wouldn't have the same effect, would it?

For all you females out there, if you don't get flowers (or colorful, puffy weeds) today, go ahead and treat yourself to a pair of Italian shoes. Or whatever floats your boat. Especially if your name is Donna (which means "woman" in Italian). Or Regina (which means "queen.") The Donnas and Reginas of the world definitely qualify for two pairs of shoes.

Happy Woman's Day!

More weird Italian baby food

2007-03-07T08:24:00.000-05:00

Those of you who read my previous post on weird Italian baby food know that Italian bambini dine on salmon, horse and rabbit. But it's not like I hadn't heard of people eating these things--just not babies.

Then today I went grocery shopping and saw something I'd never seen before. Are you ready? Are you sure? Okay...here it is:

That's right, folks...ostrich. Now, I don't know about you, but I have never heard of anyone eating ostrich, never mind babies. At least not in the U.S. and not in Italy. I bought this pack just to take the photo, but I'm definitely not feeding ostrich to my son.

Even if it does taste like chicken.

One thing to love about the Metric System...

2007-03-05T09:14:00.000-05:00

After over 6 cumulative years here in Italy, I still can't get used to the Metric System. I know--it supposedly makes more sense than the U.S. system of measurement, blah, blah, blah. Base-10, and all that. But I'm just not a metric person.

There are a few conversions I've memorized, like I know to set my oven to 177 degrees Celcius to bake a cake. And 55 miles per hour is about 90 kilometers per hour (also equivalent to "standing still" on an Italian highway, but that's for another post).

And then there are the numbers I have a vague idea about...I know that 3 degrees means it's cold outside, 25 degrees is pleasant, and 38 degrees is blisteringly hot. But I still don't know exactly what those temperatures are without converting them...I should have studied those signs outside of U.S. banks more. You know, the ones that showed the time, the temperature in Faherenheit, and the temperature in Celcius.

Anyway, there is ONE good thing about the Metric System: Kilograms. Have you ever weighed yourself on a metric scale? Here's what my bathroom scale looks like with me on it:
I mean...63.3 kilograms, people! How can I feel bad about that extra winter weight when my scale says 63.3? I mean, it's not even up to the 3-digits, like it would be on a U.S. scale! I feel like I'm weighing myself on the moon, or in some low-gravity zone.

Granted, those of you reading this who were born, raised and weighed with the Metric System may have no idea what I'm talking about. But for those of you in the U.S., the last time we saw 63 on a scale was back in elementary school, right? The trick here is, of course, that you must NEVER convert your kilos to pounds. That ruins all the fun and self-love.

So if you're trying to lose some weight before bathing suit season starts, here's my advice: Go out and get yourself a metric bathroom scale. Weigh yourself. Now go eat another chocolate chip cookie.

Nah, make it two chocolate chip cookies.

It's all about the glove...

2007-03-03T07:40:00.000-05:00

Produce shopping in Italy is not for the fainthearted. It is not for the feebleminded. And it is definitely not for the uninformed. If you're going to be buying fruit and veggies in Italy, here's what you need to know:

1. The glove--Before you even think about touching an apricot or a green bean, you need to back away from the produce bins. Slowly. (We don't want anyone getting hurt). Now pick up a plastic glove (available next to the plastic bags). Put the glove on. Then, and only then, can you deign to touch the produce.

I learned this lesson the hard way with my newly-arrived-in-Italy friends, Dana and Cathy. We hadn't been in the country for more than a week when we decided to go for some produce reinforcements. As soon as our fingertips brushed the apple skins, the owner of the little grocery shop started yelling at us. Of course, we had no idea what he was saying at the time, but we did get the message when he pointed his stubby finger at the box of plastic gloves. I later came to find out that this man was particulary grumpy, so his reaction wasn't typical of 99.7% of Italian grocers. Okay, back to the topic at hand...

2. Read the sign--Near each produce bin is a sign with the name of the fruit or veggie, plus a number. Remember this number. Without it, you will go home produce-less.

3. Weigh it--Once you've bagged your produce, you'll put it on a scale, like the one in the photo above. Then you have to find the number on the grid (you do remember the number, right?). Press the number, and a price tag pops out that you'll stick on your bag. (Note: You can always print out two price tags and stick one on your toddler's hand--always good for at least 48 seconds of entertainment.)

You're now ready to check out.

Now, I'm sure you can see the folly with this system:

First, I don't know about you, but with a teething toddler who keeps waking up in the middle of the night, I can't remember more than two numbers at a time. So I have to keep returning to the scale every couple of bags so I don't forget the numbers.

Second, there's inevitably a bag that gets buried under my other groceries and I forget to weigh it. This isn't a big deal in a small store, as they'll usually just weigh it for you. But in the larger stores, it usually means I have to choose between the bag of pricetag-less tomatoes, or spending an extra half hour to go back and weigh them, and then standing in line all over again.

And since the extra price tag I stuck to the back of my toddler's hand is only worth 48 entertainment seconds, I'm sure you can guess which option I always choose...

It's a sign...

2007-03-01T06:14:00.000-05:00

Earlier this week I went to the little grocery store in the village. It was closed, and I found this sign on the door (in Italian and Slovenian): Closed for vacation from February 26-March 5, 2007.

The small shops in the villages and the city are almost always run by families. There are no managers or assistant managers, and no name tags that read: "Mario: Sales Associate of the Month." Smaller grocery stores are usually closed all day Sunday, and Monday and Wednesday afternoons, so those are the family's days off. And at least once per year (usually in August), they literally close up shop and take off somewhere.

I'll have to scout out my favorite sign of all and take a picture for you--the "I'll be back in five minutes" sign. You see this sign in a shop window during business hours, and it means the shop owner has gone for a coffee. They literally lock the door, put out the sign, and walk to the nearest bar for a cappuccino.

So what if you, the customer, find the "back-in-five-minutes" sign right when you really need to buy something exactly at that moment? Well, you'll just have to wait. Or, better yet, go get a coffee and come back in five minutes...

The Mediterranean diet for bambini...

2007-02-27T06:10:00.000-05:00

We've all heard about how great the Mediterranean diet is for your health. But you may not have known just how early this diet begins in Italy. Except for red wine, babies eat pretty much the same stuff adults do. Here are some examples:

1. olive oil--for babies. Notice that it's made by Nestlè, it's got a kid-friendly blue bear on the label, and it's enriched with extra vitamins. It doesn't taste all that great, but Italian babies don't know that yet. 2. pasta--Italians are serious about their pasta--in any major supermarket, you'll find at least two aisles filled with seemingly hundreds of varieties of pasta. Here's a box of iron/vitamin-enriched pasta recommended for babies 5 months and older. The tiniest pasta available is for 4 month-old bambini and looks like mini-cous cous. 3. fish--You know the Mediterranean diet includes fish, but you may not have known it comes packed in baby food jars. I counted 7 different types of baby food fish, and here's a sampling of salmon with vegetables.

4. rabbit--that's right, as in bunny. I know I'm a hypocrite because I do eat (and love) meat. But bunny rabbits? And does the bunny on the package have to look so darn cute?? But if you think rabbit in baby food jars is odd, check out the next one...

5. horse--Yup. As in Flicker. Black Beauty. Trigger. And that pony you always wanted as a child.

We already had the olive oil and pasta at home for our 14-month-old. But I actually went out and bought the salmon, rabbit and horse so I could take these photos in the privacy of my own home and not look like a looney toon taking photos of baby food in the supermarket.

When I unloaded the groceries, I told my (Italian) husband: "Honey, get a load of this!" His reaction? He picked up the horse jars and said, "Great stuff--horse meat is really tasty." And he wasn't even smiling...he was completely serious.

How did I not know this when I married him ten years ago? It's just not the kind of thing you ask before matrimony. You discuss how you'll discipline the kids, sure. And how many kids you'd like to have, of course. But the question of whether or not we'd feed our kids horse and/or rabbit from a jar just never came up.

My husband is out in the kitchen now making lunch for the kids (since Italians all come home mid-day for lunch). I'd better get out there and hide those baby food jars...

We interrupt the grocery shopping posts...

2007-02-26T06:02:00.000-05:00

Today I was going to let you in on a few other idiosyncracies of Italian grocery shopping, but I wanted to share something that just happened instead...

I was at the corner store this morning getting a few groceries (I promise, this isn't about grocery shopping), and I asked the man behind the deli counter for some cheese. If you've read my "Village People" post, this man is Sonia's husband, Sonia being the lady who was telling me about her colicky granddaughter.

So as he was wrapping up the cheese, I asked about his granddaughters (he's got two--a 3-year-old and a 2-month-old). A grin spread across his face, and he said, "Do you want to see something great?" I was sure he'd show me a photo of his granddaughters. "Sure," I said. He came around the counter holding a small piece of paper to his chest so I couldn't see it. "You know those Chinese people?"

I raised an eyebrow. (Actually, I can't really do this, although I've always wished I could. In my mind, though, I raised my eyebrow). "Um, Chinese people?" I answered.

"You know, the ones on the bikes with that contraption thing in the back that holds sacks of rice?"

I'm guessing he meant a rickshaw-like contraption. "Sure," I said.

He held the paper out where I could see it and grinned. There was a sketch drawn in blue pen of a bicycle with an extention in the back that looked like a cart. He lowered his voice, like this was all top secret. "I'm going to build this," he said. "But not for carrying rice...it's for carrying my granddaughters!"

I oohed and ahhed over the sketch and the idea, and then he said, "Here, I'll show you." He waved me back into the storage room and pointed to the rafters where two used children's bicycles hung. "I got these second-hand," he said. "I'll use the wheels for the cart." And then he told me how he'd paint the cart red, put in a soft cushion covered in fake fur (not sure where this idea came from) and he'd have seat belts. And when the girls are old enough, he'd take them to Lipiza (a few kilometers away in Slovenia, with miles of tree-lined paths).

"And then," he raised his arms with a flourish, "Andrò in giro con le mie due stelline," which means he'll take a spin with his two little stars.

I've chatted with this man many times over the past few years, and he's always been friendly. But I've always thought of him as the "Deli Man," and nothing more. From now on, I'll see him as the rickshaw-building Nonno pedaling around Lipiza carting his two little stars behind him...

Grocery Shopping Italian-Style

2007-02-23T08:54:00.000-05:00

There's nothing like visiting a grocery store in a foreign country to demystify the local people. When I first came to Italy, I imagined Italians as coffee-sipping, scooter/gondola-riding, Armani-clad people with beautiful shoes.

And then I went grocery shopping.

Once I saw Italians strolling down the aisles with their shopping carts, waiting in check-out lines with fussy babies in tow, and loading bags into the trunks of their little cars, they didn't seem so different after all (except maybe for the shoes--which really are beautiful).

But their shopping carts...that's another story.

Can you guess what's in the photo above? It's part of the handle of an Italian grocery cart. When you go grocery shopping in Italy (at the bigger stores), the shopping carts are chained together. In order to get a cart, you insert a one-Euro coin into the slot, slide it into the box, and the chain will release. When you've finished your shopping, you return the cart to the corral, plug the end of another cart's chain into the box, and out pops your one-Euro coin.

The reason for all of this, of course, is to prevent people from leaving the carts scattered all over the parking lot. As of today, one Euro is worth $1.33 (in U.S. currency). I don't know about you, but that's just enough to make me schlep back and return my cart to its proper place. If we were talking 50 cents, I might be tempted to leave the cart in the parking lot, especially when I'm shopping with my 3 kids and I have to backtrack 100 yards to return the cart. But $1.33? I just can't justify walking away from $1.33.

After all, I need those Euros to buy Italian shoes...

Martedì Grasso

2007-02-21T03:55:00.000-05:00

Martedì Grasso is the Italian version of Marti Gras, or "Fat Tuesday," the last day of Carnevale before Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. It's the last chance for Italians to eat, drink and be merry before giving up whatever they give up for Lent.

Most Italian children have 2 sets of costumes, one for outdoors and one for inside. On the left is a shot of my kids--my daughters are dressed as a cow and giraffe that they wore to the parade in Opicinia (see last post). My son is dressed as Prince Charming...he doesn't have an outside costume, which is the beauty of being 14 months old--he has no clue he's missing out on anything. We just bundled him up in his regular clothes since it was freezing outside, and he was none the wiser.

The last two photos were taken at an indoor party for kids. As you can see, my giraffe and cow have both turned into Snow White, accompanied by Prince Charming (although in the last photo, we had to drop the "Charming" part and just call him "Prince").

At indoor Carnevale parties, there's usually a magician, really loud music so no one can hear what the magician is saying, and about 10 pounds of confetti per child. Kids run around wild, fueled by a sugar high from traditional treats like crostoli and frittole (fried pastries), working themselves into a confetti-throwing frenzy while the adults stand around chatting...except for me. It's hard to chat while using your body as a shield so your toddler won't be mowed over by a pack of sugar-crazed 5th grade boys play-fighting each other with balloon swords.

I didn't mind, though--at least it kept me away from the food table...

Carnevale Parade in Opicina

2007-02-21T02:33:00.000-05:00

We're back from the long weekend, so here's a recap of Saturday's Carnevale festivities...

These are some photos of the parade we saw on Saturday in Opicina, the village where my girls go to school. The village was packed with people. The weather would have been perfect if not for the blistering cold wind, but we still had a good time. Basically, parents and small children lined the streets watching the parade, while teenagers chased each other with shaving cream and spray cans of this sticky, colored stuff that doesn't wash off easily if you're caught in the crossfire (I know this for a fact).

It was funny to watch the teens...some things don't change from culture to culture. Like American teens at Halloween, their Italian counterparts were dressed in "cool" costumes (no Minnie Mouse or Donald Duck), and most of them weren't wearing jackets--a big sign advertising: "My parents are home in their warm houses, and have no idea I'm jacketless." In trying to be cool, they must have been freezing. And then watching them chase each other was interesting...it was usually initiated by the boys. If a boy had his eye on a member of the opposite sex, the ritual went something like this:

1. Grin and wave the spray can of shaving cream/silly string/colorful hard-to-wash-off goo at the girl you like.

2. Announce that you're about to spray her.

3. Your object of desire will then communicate her degree of receptivity by either a.) rolling her eyes (this is not good), or b.) shrieking and running away (this is a blantant invitation to start spraying).

Since I can't figure out how to post new photos here, I'll create a new post for yesterday's Carnevale party...

to be continued...

2007-02-17T04:55:00.000-05:00

The major Carnevale festivities begin today. My daughter gets out of school 30 minutes early today (at noon), and after lunch we'll go to the big parade in Opicina--the village where her school is. Right after that we're going skiing for a few days, so I'll have Carnevale and skiing pictures up by Wednesday of next week.

Happy long weekend to all!

I thought I'd seen it all...

2007-02-16T10:48:00.000-05:00

I really thought I'd seen all Italian parking options. Turns out I hadn't.

Yesterday I spotted this tiny Fiat 500 parked...on a crosswalk. It's hard to see because it's an evening shot, but there are actually two crosswalks perpendicular to each other. And the driver decided to leave his car in the middle of one of them.

While I stood there on the sidewalk, two police cars drove by. And no, they didn't even slow down. Maybe they were late for their coffee break...

The Village People

2007-02-15T05:05:00.000-05:00

Although there are large grocery store chains in Trieste, I usually do my grocery shopping in the village near our apartment. Here's a shot of the street where I went this morning with my son. We made 5 stops, all within 25 yards of each other. After an hour and a half, I ended up with 2 small bags of groceries. Why did it take so long?

Here's a run-down of our errands:

1. The butcher (one of the shops in the pale green building on the right)--Another customer overheard me ordering 2 steaks , and spoke in Slovenian to the butcher. When the butcher answered, the only word I understood was "Amerikanska." The customer nodded and smiled. "America!" "Ja," I said--one of a total of 4 words I know in Slovenian. The butcher then proceeded to explain my story in Slovenian (I only know this because he translated for me afterwards). Then the customer told me all about her cousin in Canada, and asked if I'd ever been to Toronto (I haven't). She played peek-a-boo with my son, and then we were on our way to...

2. The corner store (in front of the silver car on the right)--where I bought some fruit and vegetables (this shop has the best selection). I asked Sonia (the owner) how her 2-month-old granddaughter is doing. She told me all about the baby's colic, and how she goes and helps out her daughter when she can. During this conversation, two 70-something women were waiting in line behind me. One woman chimed in about her sure-fire cures for colic, and the other woman said that was a bunch of hooey, sparking a heated discussion half in the local Italian dialect, and half in Slovenian. Then my son coughed, and they all fell silent. He coughed again. Sonia asked if I'd taken my son to the pediatrician. One of the customers said to give him honey and he'll be fine. The other woman agreed, but insisted that I should get the honey from the local beekeeper, since local bees make antibodies in their honey that cures all (or most) local ailments. I smiled, thanked them, and then we were off to...

3. The bakery (on the left, just beyond the white van)--As soon as I walked in, two of the employees greeted my son by name. I ordered my bread and a caffe latte. While I stirred sugar into my coffee, I asked the lady behind the bar how her daughter was. She told me all about how well her daughter did on her first grade report card, and played peek-a-boo with my son from behind the espresso-maker. As I sipped my coffee, a man came in with his dog (pets are allowed, as they are in many restaurants, too). My son made a beeline for the dog, so I put my coffee cup down and went to scoop him up. Magdalena, the bakery/bar owner, told me I should drink my coffee in peace, so she held her arms out and called my son's name. I handed him to her over the bar, and she took him over to the cash register where 4 people were waiting in line. She started to ring up the first customer's bill, when my son coughed. I knew what was coming. "Have you taken him to the doctor?" she asked me. I said yes, that he only has a cold. She didn't look convinced. My son coughed again, so Magdalena gave him a cookie. The 4 people in line turned to me and gave me their cough remedy tips (a nebulizer, steamy bath, and honey--again). I finished my coffee, and Magdalena handed my son back to me, his mouth covered in cookie crumbs, but smiling. From there we went to...

4. The grocery store (back to the green building on the right, just past the butcher's)--When I say "grocery store," it's not like an American grocery store...it's about as big as your local 7-11. The lady who helps with the produce greeted my son by name, and he reached his arms out to her, so she held him while I put some milk and yogurt in my cart. She raved about how big he was getting (she'd just seen him yesterday), and put him on the produce scale to weigh him (10 kilos), which he loved. Then he saw the lady behind the deli counter, and wanted to go to her. She was cutting some ham for another customer, so I told him he had to wait. Then he started to cry and cough, so the lady cut a sliver of ham, put down her knife, and came around the counter to pick him up. She gave him the ham, which he immediately stuffed in his mouth. "Have you taken him to the doctor for that cough?" she asked. Then it was on to the check-out line, with 2 ladies ahead of me. My son started to cry again, so the cashier said something in Slovenian to the ladies. They smiled at me and motioned for me to go ahead of them (I love them). We checked out, and I threw my groceries into the bag while my son fussed (there are no baggers here...you have to bag your own groceries). I didn't do a very good job, however, and it looked like the groceries wouldn't fit in just one bag. The cashier expertly repacked my groceries while singing a song for my son, which calmed him down right away. She opened the door for me while the other customers waited. Finally it was on to...

5. The pharmacy (I took the photo while standing right outside)--I went here to get some pasta for my son. Yes, they make pasta just for babies and toddlers--about 50 different varieties. They have this pasta in the larger grocery stores, but not in the village store, so that's why I had to hit the pharmacy. While I waited in line, my son occupied himself by shaking the pasta box up and down. When our turn came, the pharmacist came around from behind the counter to greet my son. He asked my son if he could borrow the box of pasta to ring it up. That's when my son's smile faded, and his little fingers gripped the box even tighter. So the pharmacist picked up my son and brought him back to the cash register where he could scan the price and ring it up. "Will that be all?" he said. My son coughed. The pharmacist frowned. "I have something for that cough, if you'd like."

So now you know why it takes 90 minutes to get two bags of groceries. And why it takes a village to cure a cough...

Parking on the sidewalk...

2007-02-14T09:29:00.000-05:00

Italians are creative--there's no doubt about it. Just look at the number of famous Italian artists, from Michelangelo to Botticelli to Da Vinci. So it's no wonder that such an auspicious gene pool breeds creativity. And nowhere is this creative streak more apparent than in the modern Italian art form of...

parking.

Here's a photo of the front of the bar I showed you in my last post. Let's pretend you're an Italian in need of a cappucino. You're in your car. What do you do?

1. Head toward the nearest bar (cafè).
2. Scout out a free parking space (cue theme song from "Mission Impossible.")
3. Drive past the bar. (Theme song intensifies).
4. Realize the folly of trying to find a free parking space.
5. Turn the car around.
6. Pull up on the sidewalk right in front of the bar (avoiding any pedestrians and women with strollers, if possible).
7. Go inside, order your tiny cappucino, and down it in one gulp.
8. Head back to your car.

Note: If there were a police car outside the bar, you would proceed in exactly the same manner, except you'd put on your hazard lights--which roughly translates as: "I know I'm parked illegally, but I promise I'll be right back. Really. As soon as I drink my coffee." Then you belly up to the bar next to the policemen drinking their coffee.

Mission accomplished.

An Abundance of Breasts*

2007-02-11T04:58:00.000-05:00

* with a nod to John Green, author of the award-winning young adult novel An Abundance of Katherines

Although the Carnevale (car-neh-VAH-leh) season won't officially begin until later this week, Italians are already gearing up with decorations and a few costume parties for kids.

Can you guess where this photo was taken? No, not outside a cabaret. No, not at a night club. I took this photo outside the bar right down the street from my daughters' school. (Bars here aren't like bars in the U.S.--they're more like cafès where the beverage of choice is always coffee.)

You may notice that the writing in the center is in French--strange, since the Italians aren't France's biggest fans.

And you may notice the writing on either side of the women, announcing the upcoming Carnevale festivities in Italian on the left and in Slovenian on the right (this village is about 3 miles from the border with Solvenia).

But apart from that, what stands out most to you? I know the photo is a bit grainy, but look closely. What's peeking out above the blue and red boas?

Yup. Breasts.

I was the only one who did a double-take when I saw this display while drinking my coffee. The rest of the crowd--men, women and children--didn't pay any attention.

Breasts are just not a big deal in Italy. Newsstands openly display magazine covers with breasts. Female newscasters wear lowcut shirts that barely contain their breasts. Walk into a pharmacy, and you'll see advertisements for skin care products that showcase--you guessed it--more breasts. Even one of my daughter's preschool teachers always wears outfits that reveal her cleavage. And no one thinks anything of it.

In the summer, women of all shapes, ages, and sizes let everything hang out (literally) at the beach. Men and women meet and greet each other, drink coffee, play cards--and not one top in sight.

I'll admit, I just can't do this. I know this "breasts-are-no-big-deal" attitude is probably much healthier than our puritanical American view of breasts. But the thought of running into someone I know and carrying on a conversation while half-naked? I can't imagine. I try to take the "When in Rome..." attitude with most things in Italy. But even the Romans wore breast-concealing togas, didn't they??

It's all done with mirrors...

2007-02-09T08:08:00.000-05:00

I can't talk about driving in Italy without mentioning mirrors--one of the most important pieces of Italian driving equipment.

.
Remember the curvy street I showed you a few posts ago? The picture on the left is a shot from the opposite direction, towards the village church. On the front left side of that photo, you'll see a white wall with a small, arched opening (which houses a statue of the Madonna, by the way). To the right of the arch is a pole, and on top of that is a round, curved mirror. It's a bit difficult to see, so I included a close-up of another mirror in the top photo.

These mirrors are great, because if you're entering a road on a blind curve, you can see if another car is coming by looking in the mirror. And if that doesn't work, there's always that statue of the Madonna...

Nowhere near as busy as a bee...

2007-02-07T08:12:00.000-05:00

While we're on the topic of all things miniature, I thought you might get a kick out of these photos. These are both mini-trucks about the size of a Volkswagon Beetle.

The Coca-Cola truck looks like it can haul a grand total of four cases of Coke. Which begs the question: how many deliveries can this thing really make? It's parked outside the bar/bakery in my village, where the delivery guy unloaded a case of Coke. He then spent 45 minutes drinking coffee, chatting with the villagers, and reading the local newspaper. At this rate, it should take him all morning to deliver that Coke...no need for a large-capacity truck, now--is there?

The red truck above is called an Ape (AH-peh), which means "bee" in Italian. It must get its name from the sound of the motor--a high-pitched whine that intensifies as the driver puts the pedal to the medal, bringing the vehicle to it's maximum warp speed of about 25 mph.

At first glance, it may seem as if the front wheels are missing. But look closely, and you'll see one wheel in the front center...that's right, this thing's only got 3 wheels. It's the tricycle of the truck world. Two regular-sized adults can squish into the cab, but only if they know each other well (and get along). The Ape is popular with farmers, and you'll often see everything from hay to wood to jugs of wine hauled in the back. This model is actually the deluxe long-bed model--here's a regular-sized Ape: http://dev.null.org/_gal/i/travel/SmallCarsOfItaly/img_9285?s=V

Like the smart car from yesterday's post, I wouldn't want to travel in one of these mini-trucks, but they are cute to look at...unless you're running late picking your kids up from school (again), and you're stuck behind one of these three-wheeled wonders. Then they're not so cute...

Smart (?) cars

2007-02-06T11:04:00.000-05:00

When we moved to Italy 3 years ago, we had our mini van shipped (note: our mini van is not the car pictured on the right).

In Italy, there's nothing mini about our van...in fact, "mammoth van" would be a more accurate term. It doesn't fit into parking spots. Well, it does...as long as no one is parked on either side of you. (And if that's the case, you can't open your doors, so your exiting options are limited to the rear gate).

Italians love cars like the smart car shown in the photo here. And yes, it is officially called the smart car, written in lower case...even the letters are small. It's built for two people, and if you were sitting in the front (only) seats, you could actually reach back and touch the rear window.

So what's so smart about this car?

1. It's great on fuel economy...and gas here is more than twice the price in America, believe it or not.

2. Parking...you might notice the white lines in the photo, and note the fact that this car is only taking up roughly half its allotted space. I love parking behind these cars.

3. Parking...again. I wish I had a photo to illustrate this, but these cars can actually parallel park sideways--with the nose facing the curb and the rear end facing the traffic. Can we call this perpendicular parking?

What's not so smart about these cars?

1. They're driven in Italy.
2. Where Italians drive (see yesterday's post).
3. Yikes.

My behemoth van may not be cute. Or sleek. Or sporty. But it beats driving in a tin can. As long as I keep driving in circles and don't actually need to park...

A Two-Way Street...sort of

2007-02-05T06:08:00.000-05:00

It's time to leave my view and household appliances behind and head outdoors...

Driving in Italy is a different beast than driving in the U.S. It takes courage, know-how, and lots of luck. Especially luck.

I took this photo in a nearby village from my car this morning (not while driving...I'm not that coordinated). Would you believe this is a two-way street? The village was built hundreds of years ago, so the road is wide enough for a horse and cart--not two cars side-by-side.

And it's so curvy that you can't see the end of the street. So how does one navigate this stretch of road? If you're Italian, you do the following:

1. Maintain your speed as you approach the first curve...maybe even speed up if you're feeling lucky.

2. Hug the right wall and don't worry if there are any pedestrians around the curve--they'll (probably) get out of the way by pressing themselves up against the wall and sucking in their breath when you whiz by.

3. If you meet a car coming in the opposite direction, screech to a halt and hope the other driver does the same.

4. Eye the other driver until one of you decides to back up and let the other pass. (I must admit I have no idea how they decide who has to back up...I'm pretty sure there's some secret signal I'm missing).

5. When the way is clear, step on the gas.

6. Repeat at next curve.

The only ones who always have the right of way are bus drivers...they skip the "screech to a halt" part, leaving you about .729th of a second to throw the gears into reverse and get out of the way, lest they mow you over.

I think I'll stay home today...