Sing, sing a song...

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...

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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We were stumped.

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

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Oh, well.

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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?

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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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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.

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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...).

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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?

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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.

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

Mamma Mia!

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

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

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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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...

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!

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.

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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:

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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.

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Now you're talking!

Get a load of this...

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

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

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

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!

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

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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).

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

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

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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.

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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).

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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).

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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.

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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..."

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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.

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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.

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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

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

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

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

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...

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

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.

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

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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"

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!

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!