Living with a Bunch of Old Wives

One might think that a hypochondriac like me would feel better in Italy because all of the ailments are already named.  They have real Italian names because they are real Italian ailments.  Italians don't make stuff up or wonder what might be wrong with them.  They know what's wrong.  They've named it.  And even if there's nothing they can do about it, at least they know what the problem is. They can probably also tell you (with a bit of regret for having been so careless) exactly where and when they were struck by the condition.
 
I'm well aware of how often I put myself in danger, yet I continue doing so.  Instead of heeding the Italians' kind warnings, I laugh.  But I'm always the only one laughing.  Well, I was always the only one laughing until I went to a dinner party with one of my students, his girlfriend, and her British English teacher.  Then the Brit and I were the only two laughing.   After that dinner, I did some research and found that plenty of other non-Italians also find these strange ailments humorous.  Other expats are taking the same risks we're taking and chuckling at the advice of their Italian friends.

I don't know much about the latest trends in fashion, but I do know that accessories come and go.  Things are in style for awhile, maybe even for quite awhile, but they almost always go out of style at some point and then return in a decade or two.  So, how do you explain Italians and their scarves?   It seems to me that scarves have never gone out of style in Italy.  And now I think I know why.  Scarves are used to protect you from the dreadful colpo d'aria.
  
The first thing the Brit and I had in common was that we'd never been struck by the 'hit of air'.  You can be hit by air in any number of places.  By that I mean any number of places on your body. Eyes, ears, necks, backs and stomachs are just a few of the zones that need protection.   Most Italians that I know are afraid of being hit by cold air.  Being struck by a colpo d'aria is sure to make them sick.  Maybe even sick enough to stay home from work for a few days.  The rest of us would just say we had a cold.  And it usually wouldn't stop us from going to work.

To arm myself for the next person that was going to warn me of the colpo d'aria, I decided to learn about colds.  In case you don't know (like my fellow Italian friends), colds come from a virus, not from a blast of cold air.  So, if you feel a cool breeze on your neck while you're hearing things over the grapevine (literally) from your neighbor with the nasty cough, there's no need to run in for your scarf.  If they pass you the virus, you're going to get the cold with or without your scarf.  And if they aren't coughing and you still get sick, it's not your fault for being inappropriately dressed.   You probably just lingered too long in the cafe drinking your macchiato and talking to the lady with the runny nose.
 
Like many other curly-haired non-Italians, I often leave the house with a wet head.  I did it in below zero (fahrenheit) days in Chicago and I do it on chilly, winter days here.  The number of times I've gone out with wet hair in Italy and the number of times I've been told that I'm going to get cervicale  are the same.  And it's a high number. I should also mention that you increase the risk of cervicale by going to bed with wet hair.  Yet another bad habit of we women blessed with curls.

Cervicale is what I would call a sore neck or a little bit of tension in my shoulders, and I'm quite sure I've never gotten a sore neck from having wet hair.    But in Italy, it's not just a little pain (in the neck).  It has a name and you should try to avoid getting it.  My cure?  I just rub my neck during dinner for ten minutes and it usually goes away.  It's never really seemed like something to worry about.   Keep in mind, you're hearing this from someone who worries about almost everything.   How do Italians cure it?  That's a good question.  I've never gotten that far on the issue.  In an effort to be polite (by that I mean to keep from laughing), as soon as I hear that someone is suffering from it I say that I hope it doesn't last too long and I try to change the subject.

And how about going out with wet hair on my bike?  That's like a giant hit of air and cervicale at the same time.  Imagine the shock I caused when I left the pool this summer without drying off.  The parts of my sundress that weren't soaked by my wet bikini were drenched by my dripping locks.  And was I really going to get on my bike and ride home like that?  Yes.  It was 95 degrees.  I wasn't afraid.  And much to the surprise of those who knew that I took this risk, I had a healthy summer.

Yesterday I went to return the tray that Gemma had delivered her fresh gnocchi on the day before. I complained to her that I'd slept all morning and I was upset that I'd wasted my time.  She suspected I was suffering from pressione bassa and asked if I'd checked it. No, I hadn't checked my blood pressure.  Isn't blood pressure something old people check to monitor their medicine?  And younger people, too, I guess, when their doctors tell them that they're overweight or eat too much salt.  But all Italians seem to have a blood pressure checker at home and they know how to use it no matter how old they are.  If they're not feeling their best, without missing a beat, they check it.  Don't  "I can't come to my lesson today, my blood pressure is low" or "I wanted to do the shopping today but I couldn't because my blood pressure was low" or  "I had to skip my walk today because my blood pressure was a bit low" all just mean "I don't want to come to my lesson, do the shopping or get my exercise because I'm a little tired?"

Back to my morning in bed.  When Gemma's 30-year old son heard me, he came out and said that I was probably suffering from the cambio di stagione.  Fortunately, I'd already read about this one.  It's October.  We're transitioning from summer to winter.  That's a change of season, hence the 'change of season disease.'  It seems that if you're tired in the dead of winter or in the middle of summer,  you're just plain tired.  But if you happen to feel a bit sluggish in the spring or fall when the seasons are changing,  you've got a real Italian ailment and you need rest.

I wish these were just old wives' tales that the younger generations weren't falling for, but they're not.  When I laugh about it with my Italian peers and even with my students 20 years younger than me, they're not laughing.  I learned the same phrase from two students on the same day.  When I said that I swim right after I eat I was warned, "Stai scherzando con fuoco!"  (You're joking with fire!)  Can you imagine a handsome, 30-year old Italian guy having serious concern for my health because I didn't wait two hours after eating my pizza to jump in the pool?

And apparently I was also joking with fire when after a workout at the gym I used to opt-out of the germ-infested locker room for a sweaty walk home to take a shower at my own house.  The warning came from a student who won't send her niece home after a full day of sweaty playing without first giving her a bath.  And if there's no time, she at least blow dries the damp neck and hair of the little princepessa.  I've even heard that some moms take blow dryers to birthday parties just in case the kids have had a little too much fun running around.  Maybe it could be a new parting party game...."Come get your colpo d'aria calda (hit of hot air) and goody bag before heading home."
  

Don't Let Your Life Stink

If you wear your slippers too often they get stinky.
Then life can start to stink a little, too.
So kick your shoes off,
but don't put your slippers on right away.
Put on your dancing shoes instead.  That's living.
Try your rubber boots for a walk in the rain.  That's refreshing.
Or your running shoes.....that's fun.
Squeeze into your stilettos.  That's sexy.
Slip into your sandals.  That's a breath of fresh air.
Wear your toe socks.  That's silly.
Put on your beautifully beat-up boots.  That's nostalgic.
Or your hiking shoes.....that's adventure.
Wear your flipflops to the beach or go to the garden in your gardening clogs.
But don't spend too much time in your slippers or they'll start to stink. 
Wear them when you really need a break.  That's relaxing.
And go barefoot sometimes, too.  That's freedom.

Fashionine, It Rhymes with Asinine

One of my English lessons usually includes a Saturday morning walk through the market in Bassano del Grappa with a lovely, 36-year old Italian girl.  We eventually end up at a cafe with cappuccinos, notebooks and dictionaries, but we usually start with a little shopping.  (Okay, I'm lying about the cappuccinos, but it makes it sound better than water.  Even acqua naturale doesn't have the same ring to it as cappuccino!)

At the market one day last summer she said she was looking for summer boots.  It sounded like an English mistake to me, so I stopped to correct her.  But instead, it was her turn to give me a lesson in fashion.  She quickly pointed out all of the women walking around in boots; low-calf suede boots, referred to by those in the know as summer boots.   Could their frilly floral dresses keep them cool enough on the top to offset sweaty feet in suede boots on the bottom?  I don't think it would work for me.   I can barely (and rarely) keep my sandals on in the car.  Resting my bare feet on the dashboard is a special summertime treat.  Summer boots?  Out of the question.  So I decided to teach her one of my favorite made-up words, fashionine, which rhymes with asinine.  That's the day I put summer boots on my fashionine list.

Each year with the arrival of spring I can't wait to kick off my boots (Winter boots, that is.)  I just get sick of wearing them everyday.  I know I wouldn't look forward to packing away my boots only to unpack my other boots.  Do these women really feel excited about donning boots in the summer or do they just have fashionitis?  (Another made-up word, I think.)

In an attempt to keep from alienating some of my dearest friends, I've decided against divulging the rest of the items on my fashionine list.  Instead I'll talk about an item that I fell for.  Skinny jeans, which in my opinion aren't skinny jeans.  They're fat jeans.

In the eighties I don't know if the fashion world used the term skinny jeans, but I know some of us did.  My skinny jeans were the jeans that I could only wear when I was skinny.  It didn't matter if they were straight leg, boot cut or bell bottoms. The important thing was that I'd found a day that I was skinny enough to wear them.  I'd call a friend and excitedly say, "Guess what?  My skinny jeans fit!"  Then we'd usually celebrate by going out for pizza.

Now my skinny jeans (the ones that say skinny jeans on the tag when you buy them) are the ones that I call my fat jeans.  They usually have some small percentage of stretch fabric so you can squeeze in even when you're pudgy.  Not like good old 100% cotton denim that didn't budge an inch.  And what else?  They're so low-waisted that you can have an awfully bloated belly for a week or be just plain fat for a couple of months and you don't miss a day in your skinny jeans.  You zip and button them up UNDER the problem.  It's as easy as pie to close them down there. What a brilliant idea, even if it is a little fashionine.

My skinny jeans have gotten a lot of use since I've been living in Italy. Going out for pizza happens more often than it used to. Pizza is for Boring Mondays and I've Got to Get out of this House Tuesdays and Let's Just Eat it in the Car Fridays and Everyone Eats Pizza Sundays. But now, instead of being the one to call friends to go out to celebrate because my skinny jeans fit, they're the ones calling me to go out to celebrate one of the aforementioned special days of the week.  I always accept the invitations and tell them that as soon as I put on my skinny jeans and winter sandals, I'll be there.


Be not afraid of being called un-fashionable.  --Adolf Loos

Face Your Fears (with one eye closed if you have to)

I used to be afraid of a one-eyed dog.  I loved running towards the mountains until the day I bumped into him.  But he took the fun out of it.  I'd think about taking off on my favorite run and then I'd remember that he might be there waiting to greet me, or eat me, and I'd decide to run in the other direction.

Then one day I took a walk with Gemma, my 73-year old neighbor.  She still had her cane, but I'd given up my crutches months earlier.  She likes to head towards the mountains, too, and since she doesn't get out for walks very often anymore, I thought we should go wherever she wanted to go.

I decided not to mention the dog.  We just started walking.  He wasn't there every time that I passed, so I thought maybe we'd be lucky.  And besides, I had Gemma by my side.  She kills chickens with her bare hands.   She hangs rabbits in trees and skins them (after she's killed them with her bare hands).  So, I was pretty sure she wouldn't be afraid of a tiny little dog with one eye.

Our walks were filled with lessons.  They weren't English lessons.  They were cooking lessons and gardening lessons and life lessons.   On this walk she was telling me that she'd collected almost enough lumache to make dinner for two.  She thought we might see some while we were walking and she asked me to pick them up along the way.  Not like 'pick up some bread at the panificio' or 'pick up some salami at the marcelleria'.  She wanted me to 'pick up some slimy snails along the road' and carry them in my bare hands for the rest of the walk.  Sure Gemma, I thought.   If I see any, I'll pick them up.
 
She was in the middle of explaining the best place to find them when I saw One Eye.  He was in the same place as always, acting like the king of the road.   As we approached, he started barking and coming towards us.  I asked Gemma if she wanted to turn around and she looked at me like I was crazy.  She asked me if I knew this dog.  I said that I knew he was often right here and that he kept me from running towards the mountains.  That's when she told me that he wasn't always in the same place.  For years he's been going to the cafe every morning for a croissant.  And the cafe was in the other direction.   That meant I had to be afraid no matter what direction I ran.  One Eye could show up anywhere at anytime.

For Gemma, it was either facing One Eye, or going home.  So, we faced him.  And really, that's all it took.  Just facing him was enough to make him a little less scary.  He kept looking at us with his one eye, but he stopped coming towards us.  And when Gemma raised her cane, he took a few steps backward, and let us pass.  He growled a lot and I was a little nervous, but we kept on doing just what we wanted to do without letting a little fear ruin our day.

For some reason, as the weeks passed, I started to forget about One Eye.  I just stopped worrying about him.  I suppose I'd invented something else to worry about like "Are these really mosquito bites or do I have some deadly skin disease?"  That's all it takes for me.  As soon as I distract myself with a new fear, I forget about the old one.  And then if the old one creeps back in a little bit, you can be sure the deadly disease is just mosquito bites again.

It wasn't too long before I bumped into One Eye.  I wasn't ready to see him without Gemma by my side, but it happened.  I panicked.  I stopped running. I just stood there for a minute trying to decide what to do.  I didn't want to turn around.  I wasn't ready to go home.  I decided it was time to face him.  So, I picked up a stick (pretending to be Gemma with her cane), looked him straight in his only eye, and kept walking towards him.  And he backed up.  All I had to do was look at him, raise my stick (which I later realized was a limp twig and would have been useless as a weapon) and keep on walking.
 
It was that easy.  He didn't eat me like I was sure he was going to.  And I didn't have to crawl to a nearby house and ask them to call an ambulance to take me to the emergency room.  And I didn't have my leg amputated . In fact, I didn't even have the big scar that was going to keep me from wearing mini-skirts the rest of my life.  And fortunately, I didn't get rabies, either.  The only thing that happened is that I kept running.  I kept doing just what I wanted to do.  I didn't let my fear of a one-eyed, croissant-eating dog take me off course.

Eat, Pray (that you're not getting too fat), Eat Again

Are Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth still around?  I think so, but maybe they've gone through some changes.  Mrs. Butterworth probably goes by Ms. Butterworth now.  When we started worrying about being politically correct, I think they had makeovers.  And I suppose Betty Crocker did, too.
 
Fortunately Italians still think their fat grandmas are good cooks.  And they're proud enough to name a line of plastic containers after them.  It's called "Nonna Rina" (Grandma Rina) and it's got a little image of a chubby old lady.  I've never paid much attention to tupperware in the past, but with my broken knee I had plenty of time to study just about everything that crossed my path.
 
Nonna Rina came with Gemma everyday. Gemma is my 73-year old neighbor. When she heard that I was home alone and couldn't walk, she started bringing me food.  Most people I know would probably think it was worth having a broken knee for awhile to get a meal made and delivered by an Italian grandma. And once we got things clear about my ridiculous eating habits, it was a treat for me, too.  She brought pasta al ragu (with parmesan on top),  mashed potatoes (with parmesan mixed in), pasta pomodoro (with a baggie full of parmesan to add at my leisure), mushroom risotto (it's really good if you pick out all of the mushrooms), vegetable soup with fresh vegetables from her garden topped with homemade croutons (if the vegetables are pureed I don't know what I'm eating so I can stomach it.  And the homemade croutons?  They sound fancy until you remember it's just old bread the cook didn't want to throw away) and the unforgettable cheese-filled tortellini with 4-cheese sauce (topped with a little more parmesan, of course).

So, that's how I got to know Nonna Rina and Gemma. (And it's also how I got a little chubby). Gemma made her way into my heart through my stomach.  I never thought I'd say that unless I was talking about the owner of a pizzeria or an ice cream parlor.  But now we're girlfriends.   We're teaching each other about life in a small town in Italy and life in a big town in America.   While Gemma was walking to the neighborhood well to get water to cook and take a bath and do the laundry I was making Spam sandwiches in a microwave.
  
I had a lot of visits from my new friends.  The cast was on for 38 days and then I had crutches for another month when I still couldn't put any weight on my leg.   So, once I could kind of walk with the crutches I had to convince her to stop bringing me food.   Instead of delivering lunch I told her she had to come take me for a walk.  We were quite a sight.  I had my crutches and she had her cane.  The first few weeks we did LESS than a mile in MORE than an hour.  After awhile, I eliminated one crutch. Then we had to switch sides so our limps and crutches complemented one another.  Before long, with the insistence of her husband, I got rid of the other crutch, too.
  
Now I can go for a two-hour crutch-free walk everyday by myself.  Then I go home and take a shower, get dressed for Gemma (she likes my hats and scarves) and head back out to take her for her walk.   Her husband tells us (everyday) to be careful and not get a speeding ticket. Then she hits him with her cane (everyday) and we head out.

Last week we celebrated her birthday.  First we went to a nearby hilltown to take a walk.  It wasn't easy for either of us.  I'm still not very secure going up and down hills and canes weren't made for cobblestones.   We window shopped and then we stopped for coffee. 

I don't drink coffee and I'd already had tea in the morning so hot chocolate (or as I like to call it, hot mud) was my only option. I remember my first Italian hot chocolate in 1997.  And I remember years later having to explain to an Australian girl in an Italian cafe in Moscow that the waiter hadn't made a mistake and brought her a cup of hot fudge, but that it was, in fact, Italian hot chocolate.  You can eat it with a spoon. 

It's not easy to finish a small cup of mud on its own and it's absolutely impossible to finish it if you're obliged to eat the unexpectedly delivered  piece of birthday meringhe on the side.  That's like having a cup of brown sugar with a side of sugar cubes.  But, in honor of Gemma's birthday, I finished almost everything.  I'm sure Aunt Jemima,  Mrs. Butterworth and Betty would have been proud.  And Nonna Rina, too.