The first time Google popped up on Halloween morning it was a creative logo to celebrate the holiday. Moments later I was informed that if you clicked on the logo a little video came up. (I really didn't know you could click on the Google logo.) I was happy to start my day with a little American cheer and decided it might be a nice addition to the day's English lessons. When I shared it with my first student and asked if she'd understood the subtleties, she hadn't.
To her it was only a lonely ghost on a mission to find a Halloween costume and a place to fit in. When the ghost (named Jinx) was dressed as a witch and flew into a tree leaving a half-hat and broomstick protruding from the trunk she wasn't reminded of the most popluar Halloween decoration in America. Trees in Italian neighborhoods aren't full of crashed witches (yet). And when the little ghost wrapped up like a mummy comes unwrapped and leaves the trees covered with shreds of toilet paper, it wasn't seen as a house being "TPd". It was normal. Where else would toilet paper from a flying ghost end up?
Later that afternoon I decided to watch the video again to see what other clever details I'd missed. I had turned the computer off in the morning and when I turned it back on it the home page came up in Italian. And with the Italian home page, Google showed up in it's normal primary colors instead of in the spirit of Halloween. The only way to find Jinx was to google "Halloween 2017 Google Logo Video". And that's where I found an article written about why it wasn't used in Italy as Google's logo for the day.
The article describes it as a very sweet and funny animated video which is impossible to play and admire in Italy. It says that the video is available as the home page in many countries around the world including Great Britain, France, Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, Romania, Bulgaria, Croazia, Austria, the Czech Republic, Poland, Russia, Sweden, Norway, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Canada, Argentina, Uruguay, Chile, Peru, Columbia, Japan, Vietnam, New Zealand, Taiwan, Indonesia, and the Phillipines but it's been cut in Italy. Due to the numerous protests every year from the Catholic communities that consider American Halloween celebrations extraneous to Italian culture, the logo wasn't shown in Italy. Although there's been an increase in Halloween activites and enthusiasm in the five years that I've been living here, the holiday is still not a treat for eveyone.
Italian kids love Halloween. Dressing up isn't a new idea, they've been dressing up for Carnevale for years. But going door to door for candy has its appeal. And fortunately for Italian kids, they don't have to go to school the next day because it's All Saints Day and that's the real holiday in Italy. I say, let the kids have some fun on Halloween and then the adults can take flowers and candles to the cemetery the day after. And they can wear their fancy clothes and take the biggest flower arrangement and make sure they're noticed and recognized (unlike Halloween) because that's what All Saint's Day seems to have become. It's like a fashion show at a cemetery.
I think a lot of Italian Catholics could have learned something from Jinx if the Pope had let them. He was just a friendly ghost looking for a way to fit in. Dressing up and disguising himself wasn't the answer. He kept searching for the perfect costume, but none worked. He was finally accepted just being himself. That seems like it should be worth a homily from the Pope in his funny costume.
Friday, December 1, 2017
Thursday, October 12, 2017
The Tiny-House Movement
According to realtor.com I've been living in a sensory deprivation tank.
I laughed when I got an email the other day that said, "I'm ready to sell our house and live in a 'tiny house'. Do you know what tiny houses are?" Maybe I'd never told her my house was 350 square feet. I not only know what tiny houses are, I'd say I'm a pro. I really thought she was just trying to make a point that she wanted a small house. What I didn't know is that "tiny houses are the big rage now," as the email said. And getting back to realtor.com, "Unless you've been living in a sensory deprivation tank, you're probably familiar with the tiny-house movement invading all corners of the U.S." That's when I realized that living in a small town (in a tiny house) in northern Italy is like living in a sensory deprivation tank. For me a tiny house was nothing more than the one I live in. I wasn't trying to make a statement. I was just living.
Sensible things are often overlooked until a movement shows up. Did we need the smart-car movement to see that a smart car is one that doesn't use a lot of gas and is easy to park? And when did moms realize that SUV stands for Sport Utility Vehicle not School Utility Vehicle? I suppose it probably dawned on them when the anti-SUV movement came along.
It seems someone else has to tell us something is cool before we are willing to accept it. Take women's hats. Years ago hats were hip (like in "big hat films" where they wear noisy dresses and ride around in carriages). They weren't really very sensible, but they sure looked good. Then came the hatless years. Nobody wanted hat head. Years later we took a big turn and went for sensible hats that gave you hat head, but it was acceptable because everyone was donning them. I call it the "it's-okay-to-stay-warm-in-the-winter-and-wear-a-hat movement."
Next come tennis shoes. Or gym shoes or sneakers or whatever they're called now. I'm not sure what's happening with them in America, but as I mentioned in Stick People Families on the Move, Italians have finally decided that comfortable shoes aren't a bad idea. As I waited to get off the vaporetto in Venice the other day, I counted. Of the 23 pairs of feet I could see, only one pair was wearing pink suede shoes with blue dots. For the time being, my fortune in Ferragamos is out of fashion, but still in use. Unless of course I want to buy the Ferragamo Donna Sneakers for 560 euros. That's all it would cost to join the tennis shoe movement. A cheaper alternative would be my old running shoes that were maxed with miles, but look like new. But for me, as for Italians in the past, running shoes are for running.
I've been told by friends that most Italians don't sit on steps or on the ground. The few that I've convinced don't join me until they've pulled a newspaper out of their bag, opened a magazine or unfolded a kleenex from the little kleenex travel packs that Italians are never without. A couple of years ago I went to a concert in the auditorium of an old orphanage. By the time I arrived there were no seats, so I stood in the lobby and leaned on the wall. Once the music started and my friends could only reprimand me with a look, I slid down and sat on the floor. They weren't thrilled, but they'd started getting used to me. What they weren't expecting came ten minutes later when the rest of the people (Italians) that came too late for a velvet seat sank down on the cold marble floor in the lobby just like I did. My friends looked so silly standing, they sank, too, and then spent the whole concert worrying about the old man in the corner that they were certain would never be able to stand up again.
Sitting on the Spanish Steps in Rome has been happening for decades. I think they're always packed because it's the only place Italians feel comfortable doing what's comfortable for the rest of us all the time. (On the other hand, it's so touristy, maybe there are no Italians there at all.) Maybe they're called the Spanish Steps because people in Spain actually sit on steps. Instead of going to bars, Spaniards show up in the plaza (piazza, square) with a brown bag full of beer and sit down for the night with no protective magazine or kleenex.
Other than the Spanish Steps, Italians didn't use to sit anywhere except at a cafe table or on a bench. But I'm happy to say that the "it's-cool-to-sit-on-the-steps movement" has arrived. In Bassano del Grappa, you can now sit on the steps outside one of the oldest bars in the piazza (on a cushion, of course). You can't bring your own beer and you certainly can't just sit down in the middle of the piazza, but it's a STEP in the right direction.
As for tiny houses in Italy, I think they just might work. Even people that I know with big houses do everything in one room. It's called the kitchen. The before dinner drink is at the table. Dinner is at the table. And coffee is at the table. Sometimes kitchens come with a sofa, a TV and a fireplace, kind of like a great room (if you can call a 150-square foot room with everything you own all that great). But you still spend five hours at the table.
Don't be afraid to make a move without a movement. And if you start something new and no one follows, bravo! You might just realize it's nice to be the only one on the vaporetto with pink suede shoes.
I laughed when I got an email the other day that said, "I'm ready to sell our house and live in a 'tiny house'. Do you know what tiny houses are?" Maybe I'd never told her my house was 350 square feet. I not only know what tiny houses are, I'd say I'm a pro. I really thought she was just trying to make a point that she wanted a small house. What I didn't know is that "tiny houses are the big rage now," as the email said. And getting back to realtor.com, "Unless you've been living in a sensory deprivation tank, you're probably familiar with the tiny-house movement invading all corners of the U.S." That's when I realized that living in a small town (in a tiny house) in northern Italy is like living in a sensory deprivation tank. For me a tiny house was nothing more than the one I live in. I wasn't trying to make a statement. I was just living.
Sensible things are often overlooked until a movement shows up. Did we need the smart-car movement to see that a smart car is one that doesn't use a lot of gas and is easy to park? And when did moms realize that SUV stands for Sport Utility Vehicle not School Utility Vehicle? I suppose it probably dawned on them when the anti-SUV movement came along.
It seems someone else has to tell us something is cool before we are willing to accept it. Take women's hats. Years ago hats were hip (like in "big hat films" where they wear noisy dresses and ride around in carriages). They weren't really very sensible, but they sure looked good. Then came the hatless years. Nobody wanted hat head. Years later we took a big turn and went for sensible hats that gave you hat head, but it was acceptable because everyone was donning them. I call it the "it's-okay-to-stay-warm-in-the-winter-and-wear-a-hat movement."
Next come tennis shoes. Or gym shoes or sneakers or whatever they're called now. I'm not sure what's happening with them in America, but as I mentioned in Stick People Families on the Move, Italians have finally decided that comfortable shoes aren't a bad idea. As I waited to get off the vaporetto in Venice the other day, I counted. Of the 23 pairs of feet I could see, only one pair was wearing pink suede shoes with blue dots. For the time being, my fortune in Ferragamos is out of fashion, but still in use. Unless of course I want to buy the Ferragamo Donna Sneakers for 560 euros. That's all it would cost to join the tennis shoe movement. A cheaper alternative would be my old running shoes that were maxed with miles, but look like new. But for me, as for Italians in the past, running shoes are for running.
I've been told by friends that most Italians don't sit on steps or on the ground. The few that I've convinced don't join me until they've pulled a newspaper out of their bag, opened a magazine or unfolded a kleenex from the little kleenex travel packs that Italians are never without. A couple of years ago I went to a concert in the auditorium of an old orphanage. By the time I arrived there were no seats, so I stood in the lobby and leaned on the wall. Once the music started and my friends could only reprimand me with a look, I slid down and sat on the floor. They weren't thrilled, but they'd started getting used to me. What they weren't expecting came ten minutes later when the rest of the people (Italians) that came too late for a velvet seat sank down on the cold marble floor in the lobby just like I did. My friends looked so silly standing, they sank, too, and then spent the whole concert worrying about the old man in the corner that they were certain would never be able to stand up again.
Sitting on the Spanish Steps in Rome has been happening for decades. I think they're always packed because it's the only place Italians feel comfortable doing what's comfortable for the rest of us all the time. (On the other hand, it's so touristy, maybe there are no Italians there at all.) Maybe they're called the Spanish Steps because people in Spain actually sit on steps. Instead of going to bars, Spaniards show up in the plaza (piazza, square) with a brown bag full of beer and sit down for the night with no protective magazine or kleenex.
Other than the Spanish Steps, Italians didn't use to sit anywhere except at a cafe table or on a bench. But I'm happy to say that the "it's-cool-to-sit-on-the-steps movement" has arrived. In Bassano del Grappa, you can now sit on the steps outside one of the oldest bars in the piazza (on a cushion, of course). You can't bring your own beer and you certainly can't just sit down in the middle of the piazza, but it's a STEP in the right direction.
As for tiny houses in Italy, I think they just might work. Even people that I know with big houses do everything in one room. It's called the kitchen. The before dinner drink is at the table. Dinner is at the table. And coffee is at the table. Sometimes kitchens come with a sofa, a TV and a fireplace, kind of like a great room (if you can call a 150-square foot room with everything you own all that great). But you still spend five hours at the table.
Don't be afraid to make a move without a movement. And if you start something new and no one follows, bravo! You might just realize it's nice to be the only one on the vaporetto with pink suede shoes.
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Don't let time get the best of you
Mrs. Farley had the coloring of a rooster......the black, white and red kind. Her hair matched the black net she used to hold it back. Her skin was as white as a bar of Ivory soap. And her lipstick was exactly the same color as a rooster's comb and wattle.
She looked the same every time I saw her. Fortunately it wasn't very often because I was afraid of her. I grew up in the country and she was my neighbor. I was probably too old to keep going out for dinner with my parents every Friday night, but I was too scared to stay home alone in case Mrs. Farley came over.
The scariest part was that she always came to the back of the house. Rather than walk down her long driveway to the street and then back up my long driveway, she cut through the woods that separated our houses. There was no path and it took a bit of effort to push back the brush and nettles, but she always showed up at the door of the screened-porch looking like she'd just stepped out of a 1970's commercial for some sparkling dishwashing liquid.
She knocked on the screen door. It had an intimate sound, as if she were already in the house. Fortunately there was a little hook which kept the door locked....as "locked" as you can keep a screen door. The lock was only there to keep the door from blowing in the wind and letting flies in. It wouldn't have done much to keep Mrs. Farley out.
If I'd been making noise when I heard the knock, there was no escape. I couldn't pretend I wasn't home and hide against the rough-sawn cedar wall where the dates and measurements of me and my brothers were recorded in pencil. That was the only place in the house where you couldn't be seen from a window, in the reflection of a window, or in the reflection of a door with high gloss stain. That was the place to go when someone rang the doorbell. When I ran there for cover I stayed until my mom and dad came home.
I'm sure Mrs. Farley knew that I was home alone when she came. I wonder if she knew I was scared to death of her. Once she brought over what seemed like half of her lilac bush. I could tell she was a little upset when I crushed the flowers squeezing the giant bouquet through the tiny opening I allowed in the screen door. As she bent down to retrieve the fallen sprigs I quietly relatched the little hook.
In retrospect, I'm not sure what I was afraid of. She was just an old lady with bright red lipstick who thought I was the one that had stretched out the elastic in her long underwear. That's the kind of stuff she came over to tell me. She was sure it was me that had dug the tunnel under the woods so I could sneak in and wreak havoc on her elastic. If I'd had my wits about me I would've asked her why she hadn't used the tunnel to get to my back door instead of cutting through the woods. Instead, protected by nothing more than a screen door, I just stood there listening to all the damage I'd caused.
I was afraid of the Rooster Lady and she was afraid of the Elastic Stretcher, when the real culprit was Time. Time had taken its toll on the elasticity of both her mind and her long underwear. It's scary when Time sneaks up on you and you're not prepared. I'm trying to learn to spend it wisely, enjoy it, keep track of it, share it and not waste it and then there's nothing to be afraid of. I have to stop worrying about it and realize it's a gift. And who's ever heard of a fear of gifts?
The common man is not concerned about the passage of time, the man of talent is driven by it.
--Schopenhauer
She looked the same every time I saw her. Fortunately it wasn't very often because I was afraid of her. I grew up in the country and she was my neighbor. I was probably too old to keep going out for dinner with my parents every Friday night, but I was too scared to stay home alone in case Mrs. Farley came over.
The scariest part was that she always came to the back of the house. Rather than walk down her long driveway to the street and then back up my long driveway, she cut through the woods that separated our houses. There was no path and it took a bit of effort to push back the brush and nettles, but she always showed up at the door of the screened-porch looking like she'd just stepped out of a 1970's commercial for some sparkling dishwashing liquid.
She knocked on the screen door. It had an intimate sound, as if she were already in the house. Fortunately there was a little hook which kept the door locked....as "locked" as you can keep a screen door. The lock was only there to keep the door from blowing in the wind and letting flies in. It wouldn't have done much to keep Mrs. Farley out.
If I'd been making noise when I heard the knock, there was no escape. I couldn't pretend I wasn't home and hide against the rough-sawn cedar wall where the dates and measurements of me and my brothers were recorded in pencil. That was the only place in the house where you couldn't be seen from a window, in the reflection of a window, or in the reflection of a door with high gloss stain. That was the place to go when someone rang the doorbell. When I ran there for cover I stayed until my mom and dad came home.
I'm sure Mrs. Farley knew that I was home alone when she came. I wonder if she knew I was scared to death of her. Once she brought over what seemed like half of her lilac bush. I could tell she was a little upset when I crushed the flowers squeezing the giant bouquet through the tiny opening I allowed in the screen door. As she bent down to retrieve the fallen sprigs I quietly relatched the little hook.
In retrospect, I'm not sure what I was afraid of. She was just an old lady with bright red lipstick who thought I was the one that had stretched out the elastic in her long underwear. That's the kind of stuff she came over to tell me. She was sure it was me that had dug the tunnel under the woods so I could sneak in and wreak havoc on her elastic. If I'd had my wits about me I would've asked her why she hadn't used the tunnel to get to my back door instead of cutting through the woods. Instead, protected by nothing more than a screen door, I just stood there listening to all the damage I'd caused.
I was afraid of the Rooster Lady and she was afraid of the Elastic Stretcher, when the real culprit was Time. Time had taken its toll on the elasticity of both her mind and her long underwear. It's scary when Time sneaks up on you and you're not prepared. I'm trying to learn to spend it wisely, enjoy it, keep track of it, share it and not waste it and then there's nothing to be afraid of. I have to stop worrying about it and realize it's a gift. And who's ever heard of a fear of gifts?
The common man is not concerned about the passage of time, the man of talent is driven by it.
--Schopenhauer
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Not So American Way Days
Imagine how hard it is to describe a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup to an Italian. First of all, many think peanut butter is butter with peanuts mixed in. Some peanut lovers even asked if it could be substituted for regular butter in a recipe. Then you have to explain the tiny little chocolate cup with the ridge marks from the wrapper.....like a cupcake wrapper. But that doesn't work because few know what a cupcake is. In the end I just had to wait for my next American visitor, because as hard and as often as I look, there are some things I still haven't found in Italy.
I'm lucky to have enough visitors to be treated to some of my old favorites from time to time. And what doesn't make it in a suitcase with a friend is often sent the old-fashioned way. Nestle's Chocolate Chips, Libby's 100% Pure Pumpkin, Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup (not for the soup, for the magic ingredient in green bean casserole) and Heath Bars have all safely crossed the border.
The only thing that was confiscated at the airport was Girard's Champagne Salad Dressing. Who's really going to remember they've got salad dressing in their suitcase when they do the final mental-liquids-double-check before jumping in the taxi? Do I have the right size toothpaste, is my deodorant solid, where's the sunscreen and do I have too many tubes of lipgloss are the standard questions we ask ourselves. But remembering where you've packed the salad dressing isn't on everyone's normal list. What a pity.
Fortunately, it didn't take long to realize that when there's a gap between visitors there's hope that American Days at Lidl won't be far off. Lidl is a discount grocery store. I learned about it when I was told I couldn't shop at the grocery store for the nearby American military base which is reserved for members of the military. I never wanted to be a member of Sam's Club or Costco, but I wouldn't refuse a membership card to the military grocery store if Uncle Sam offered me one.
American Days lasts one week. The flyer is covered with the American flag and says, "Scopri il Sogno Americano"--Discover the American Dream. All of the items are packaged in red, white and blue and all of the products are the brand "MCENNEDY. AMERICAN WAY.' It seems to me like a slaughtering of McKennedy, which would really be the Irish Way, wouldn't it? Or maybe I've just never heard of the American McEnnedy clan. Anyway, as long as they keep producing BBQ Marsh Mallows, I won't complain.
They also make BBQ Sauce Whisky, BBQ Spare Ribs, BBQ Salad Dressing and BBQ Cruspies (peanuts with some kind of breaded shell that also come Sour Cream Flavoured and Hamburger Style and are actually very good). The truth is the BBQ Marsh Mallows are just regular old marshmallows. I can picture the marketing team sitting around the table designing the bag when someone interjects that Americans cook them on a fire. Voila! BBQ Marsh Mallows.
You can find "Cheese For Burgers" which is sliced gouda and "Jelly Extra" which comes in cranberry and blueberry (isn't grape America's best seller?). The American Style Snack Box has Chilli Cheese Nuggets and Chilli Dip (they sound Mexican to me), Mozarella Sticks (American mozzarella?) and Onion Rings. There's a "pre-baked" baked potato in a box with quark cheese, which I learned after checking is a common cheese in Germany, Poland, Austria, Switzerland and several other European countries but not very common in the U.S.
I'm still trying to figure out what Sandwich Sauce and Hamburger Sauce are. I don't think either have ever made it on the list of condiment choices at Big Boy, but according to the Mcennedys, they're American.
I"ll probably never try the Spicy Pepperoni frozen pizza. I wonder how many Italians have stocked up on those during American Days? Keep in mind, these are grocery stores in small towns all over Italy. The Mcennedy American Way products aren't stocked to delight the random American passing through. The products are there for Italians to get a little taste of America.
We all know a pepperoni pizza is the most popular pizza in America, right? The only problem is, if you order a pepperoni pizza in Italy you get a pizza with red and yellow peppers. And if you want the kind of pepperoni pizza you're used to eating in America you have to order a pizza diavola (devil pizza).....that's a pizza with spicy salami.
If reading this has whet your appetite, I think you can find Lidl in the States. If you're lucky, maybe it will be the week of Italian Days and you can get a taste of La Dolce Vita. They'll probably carry Pasta Alfredo, Vodka Sauce and a nice grated parmesan/olive oil mix for dipping your bread--a few things my Italian friends have never heard of.
P.S. There are no spelling mistakes in this piece. According to the Mcennedys, Chilli is spelled with a double l, Cruspie shouldn't be Crispy and Marsh Mallows is two words.
Friday, March 10, 2017
Rome Wasn't Built in a Day
The only thing fast in Italy is a Ferrari. Everything else is really slow.
The post office can take up to an hour and that's with only three people in front of you. It's a place to pay your bills, do your banking and send registered mail (a frequent occurrence in Italy due to the lack of trust people have in one another). There's a popular Italian proverb that says, "Fidarsi e' bene ma non fidarsi e' meglio" which means, "Trusting is good, but not trusting is better." A sad truism worth looking into another day. Back to LA POSTA. I seem to be the only one in town that uses the post office to send letters and boxes. My transactions take about five minutes, but I have to plan for an hour.
You should never plan to go to the post office and the doctor on the same day. If you pay for a private doctor, you can make an appointment. If you happen to live in a town where the public doctor that you're required to use takes appointments (rare), you're lucky. If not, you go with the masses to the doctor's office and wait. I've found that what works best for me is going an hour before the office opens. Waiting outside in a heavy winter rain for an hour doesn't seem all that bad if you know you're first in line. But an hour in the horrible little waiting room (with plastic flowers and framed posters with fold marks) memorizing the order the patients arrived and hoping there are no disputes when it's my turn to enter isn't for me.
Public transportation? You have to be there 15 minutes early for some of the bus drivers that just might come early and wait an extra 15 minutes for most of the drivers that come late. Fortunately I don't have to take the bus to the post office or the doctor's office.
An 11:00a.m. wedding means blocking out the whole day. It starts with breakfast at the bride and groom's parents' houses. That means as soon as you get up you have to put on your fancy clothes for the 9:30a.m. buffet. Next comes the ceremony. They're always long because there's no such thing as a non-Catholic wedding in Italy, is there? After the ceremony there are pictures in the church just like in America. Then the bride and groom drive all over town to be photographed at famous monuments and sights and the guests go to the reception place for a snack while they're waiting. The snack is a heavy buffet. When the couple arrives the lunch begins (right after the heavy buffet). Italian lunches last at least three or four hours. As they're clearing away the long lunch they bring out another little buffet. After that, many relatives and older guests head home. The younger folks (like me) stay for the arrival of the B list. Those are the people (like work colleagues) that were only invited for an evening of dancing and.......yet another buffet! And this part of the evening winds down around 2:00a.m. when the pizza comes. That's 16.5 hours in your fancy clothes.
Live performances with classical orchestras, Italian gospel choirs or four guys playing accordions often have paid emcees. They're usually overly enthusiastic women in sequinned gowns. They make a lot of announcements in the beginning and then reappear between every piece to give you a little more of everything except the music you came for. A concert goes from 90 minutes to 150 in the blink of a few sequins.
Even the removal of Italian garbage takes a long time. Running on a little gravel road through some fields I saw a pile of black trash bags. Each one had a sticker that said, "This garbage has already been reported. It will be inspected and picked up as soon as possible." A week or so later I ran in the same place and saw the same bags with new stickers that said, "This garbage has been inspected to investigate unlawful administration." All I could think of was the old guy in the field with his tractor and trailer (considering the fact that I've never seen another runner or pedestrian in the fields leads me to believe it's just old guys on tractors). He sees the trash and doesn't haul it away, but instead calls City Hall. The City Hall guy goes out to the field (in some type of truck or utility vehicle capable of hauling away a few bags) confirms that yes indeed, there is some trash in the field, slaps stickers on the bags to say that he's seen the trash on a particular date and drives away without the trash. Several days later another City Hall guy heads out (not in
running shoes, but with a vehicle that could haul) to see what's in the bags, slaps on more stickers that say the bags have been checked and leaves without collecting them. I think it takes less Polish (insert the country of your choice) guys to screw in a lightbulb.
As far as what's quick in Italy, all I can really think of is a cup of coffee. Some people leave their cars running on the curb and dash in to down a little cup. They can be in and out before a barista at Starbucks would have enough time to say, "Tall non-fat cocoa extra hot no whip." (Or do they call it hot chocolate?) After 25,000 stores in 75 countries, rumor has it the first Starbucks will open in Italy in 2018. The rumor used to be 2017, but like everything else in Italy, it's slow to come.
I understand why Rome wasn't built in a day. It's Rome. But what I don't get is why everyday activities in Italy seem to have become as monumental as building the Colosseum.
The post office can take up to an hour and that's with only three people in front of you. It's a place to pay your bills, do your banking and send registered mail (a frequent occurrence in Italy due to the lack of trust people have in one another). There's a popular Italian proverb that says, "Fidarsi e' bene ma non fidarsi e' meglio" which means, "Trusting is good, but not trusting is better." A sad truism worth looking into another day. Back to LA POSTA. I seem to be the only one in town that uses the post office to send letters and boxes. My transactions take about five minutes, but I have to plan for an hour.
You should never plan to go to the post office and the doctor on the same day. If you pay for a private doctor, you can make an appointment. If you happen to live in a town where the public doctor that you're required to use takes appointments (rare), you're lucky. If not, you go with the masses to the doctor's office and wait. I've found that what works best for me is going an hour before the office opens. Waiting outside in a heavy winter rain for an hour doesn't seem all that bad if you know you're first in line. But an hour in the horrible little waiting room (with plastic flowers and framed posters with fold marks) memorizing the order the patients arrived and hoping there are no disputes when it's my turn to enter isn't for me.
Public transportation? You have to be there 15 minutes early for some of the bus drivers that just might come early and wait an extra 15 minutes for most of the drivers that come late. Fortunately I don't have to take the bus to the post office or the doctor's office.
An 11:00a.m. wedding means blocking out the whole day. It starts with breakfast at the bride and groom's parents' houses. That means as soon as you get up you have to put on your fancy clothes for the 9:30a.m. buffet. Next comes the ceremony. They're always long because there's no such thing as a non-Catholic wedding in Italy, is there? After the ceremony there are pictures in the church just like in America. Then the bride and groom drive all over town to be photographed at famous monuments and sights and the guests go to the reception place for a snack while they're waiting. The snack is a heavy buffet. When the couple arrives the lunch begins (right after the heavy buffet). Italian lunches last at least three or four hours. As they're clearing away the long lunch they bring out another little buffet. After that, many relatives and older guests head home. The younger folks (like me) stay for the arrival of the B list. Those are the people (like work colleagues) that were only invited for an evening of dancing and.......yet another buffet! And this part of the evening winds down around 2:00a.m. when the pizza comes. That's 16.5 hours in your fancy clothes.
Live performances with classical orchestras, Italian gospel choirs or four guys playing accordions often have paid emcees. They're usually overly enthusiastic women in sequinned gowns. They make a lot of announcements in the beginning and then reappear between every piece to give you a little more of everything except the music you came for. A concert goes from 90 minutes to 150 in the blink of a few sequins.
Even the removal of Italian garbage takes a long time. Running on a little gravel road through some fields I saw a pile of black trash bags. Each one had a sticker that said, "This garbage has already been reported. It will be inspected and picked up as soon as possible." A week or so later I ran in the same place and saw the same bags with new stickers that said, "This garbage has been inspected to investigate unlawful administration." All I could think of was the old guy in the field with his tractor and trailer (considering the fact that I've never seen another runner or pedestrian in the fields leads me to believe it's just old guys on tractors). He sees the trash and doesn't haul it away, but instead calls City Hall. The City Hall guy goes out to the field (in some type of truck or utility vehicle capable of hauling away a few bags) confirms that yes indeed, there is some trash in the field, slaps stickers on the bags to say that he's seen the trash on a particular date and drives away without the trash. Several days later another City Hall guy heads out (not in
running shoes, but with a vehicle that could haul) to see what's in the bags, slaps on more stickers that say the bags have been checked and leaves without collecting them. I think it takes less Polish (insert the country of your choice) guys to screw in a lightbulb.
As far as what's quick in Italy, all I can really think of is a cup of coffee. Some people leave their cars running on the curb and dash in to down a little cup. They can be in and out before a barista at Starbucks would have enough time to say, "Tall non-fat cocoa extra hot no whip." (Or do they call it hot chocolate?) After 25,000 stores in 75 countries, rumor has it the first Starbucks will open in Italy in 2018. The rumor used to be 2017, but like everything else in Italy, it's slow to come.
I understand why Rome wasn't built in a day. It's Rome. But what I don't get is why everyday activities in Italy seem to have become as monumental as building the Colosseum.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
A Romantic Chunk of Wax Dinner
Candles are meant to be burned. When it's not dark there's no need for them because according to several dictionary definitions (and me) candles are burned to give light. During the day they're on deck waiting to shine later.
An unburned candle is just a piece of wax. And if you have no intention of burning it, why not buy a little sculpture of a frog that doesn't have a wick coming out of it's head or a colored vase for flowers that might reflect in the sunlight instead of a cylindrical piece of wax?
I have a friend that had the same two tapers in her candlesticks for more than a year. In the summer they got so hot from the sun shining through the window that they melted. I liked them better that way. It seemed like they'd been burned a little.
`
The three candles I gave an Italian friend as a hostess gift were still sitting on her shelf several weeks later in the same way they'd been presented---a small glass with a blue handmade candle in it and two red tapers tied to the side with twine, all worth about 75 cents. When I asked why she hadn't burned them she said she wants to keep them as a gift. This is the mom of an 8-year old girl that comes for English lessons and at the end of every lesson we toast marshmallows on candles at my kitchen table. I thought my gift might inspire the same activity at home, but apparently at her house candles aren't meant to be burned.
Things that are shapes and figures shouldn't be candles. I received a gold, glittery Christmas tree candle this year which I lit right away. After a few minutes it was a tree with a big hole in the top and gold glitter oozing down its sides, but I enjoyed the temporary glow a lot more than a gold tree with an unlit wick where the star should have been. My red, white and blue stars for the 4th of July didn't have a point (no pun intended) after the first few minutes. I've had fish that turned into jellyfish, an Easter bunny that went deaf and mini-apples that became applesauce. All of these little disasters make me think the dictionary definitions are right.
Collins: a candle is a stick of hard wax with a piece of string called a wick through the middle.
You light the wick in order to give a steady flame that provides light.
MacMillan: a stick of wax with a string in it that you burn to give light.
Oxford: a cylinder block of wax with a central wick which is lit to produce light as it burns.
Dictionary.com: a long, usually slender piece of tallow or wax with an embedded wick that is burned to give light.
But then there's Merriam-Webster: a usually molded or dipped mass of wax or tallow containing a wick that MAY BE burned (as to give light, heat or scent for celebration o votive purposes).
So according to Webster it MAY BE burned but it doesn't have to be. Fortunately, my favorite dictionaries have always been Oxford. Candles have a purpose and if you take away their purpose they just sit there doing nothing. Isn't it better to shine and live a little than just sit there doing nothing?
An unburned candle is just a piece of wax. And if you have no intention of burning it, why not buy a little sculpture of a frog that doesn't have a wick coming out of it's head or a colored vase for flowers that might reflect in the sunlight instead of a cylindrical piece of wax?
I have a friend that had the same two tapers in her candlesticks for more than a year. In the summer they got so hot from the sun shining through the window that they melted. I liked them better that way. It seemed like they'd been burned a little.
`
The three candles I gave an Italian friend as a hostess gift were still sitting on her shelf several weeks later in the same way they'd been presented---a small glass with a blue handmade candle in it and two red tapers tied to the side with twine, all worth about 75 cents. When I asked why she hadn't burned them she said she wants to keep them as a gift. This is the mom of an 8-year old girl that comes for English lessons and at the end of every lesson we toast marshmallows on candles at my kitchen table. I thought my gift might inspire the same activity at home, but apparently at her house candles aren't meant to be burned.
Things that are shapes and figures shouldn't be candles. I received a gold, glittery Christmas tree candle this year which I lit right away. After a few minutes it was a tree with a big hole in the top and gold glitter oozing down its sides, but I enjoyed the temporary glow a lot more than a gold tree with an unlit wick where the star should have been. My red, white and blue stars for the 4th of July didn't have a point (no pun intended) after the first few minutes. I've had fish that turned into jellyfish, an Easter bunny that went deaf and mini-apples that became applesauce. All of these little disasters make me think the dictionary definitions are right.
Collins: a candle is a stick of hard wax with a piece of string called a wick through the middle.
You light the wick in order to give a steady flame that provides light.
MacMillan: a stick of wax with a string in it that you burn to give light.
Oxford: a cylinder block of wax with a central wick which is lit to produce light as it burns.
Dictionary.com: a long, usually slender piece of tallow or wax with an embedded wick that is burned to give light.
 |
| These are chunks of wax that I don't consider candles. They're the leftover applesauce, bunny legs and fish lips that didn't burn. They're waiting to be melted, molded and wicked to shine again one day. |
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Stick People Families on the Move
Stick people families have just started moving to Italy. They look just like the American families, but their names all end with vowels. A lot of them ride around in SUVs, just like in America. I guess I should mention that SUVs haven't been around all that long either. Ten years ago the biggest cars in Italy were station wagons. And now that Americans are finally wising up and getting Smart cars, Italians are buying SUVs.
A lot of Americans think of Italy as a place of fashion and style and firsts. That might be true in Milan, but does anyone (in America or Italy) really wear the clothes from Milan runways? As for my little town in northern Italy I find it far from fashion forward. For example, finding an interesting pair of shoes means a trip to Paris or Serbia or Berlin. One day I was googling my favorite brand and discovered that they were sold in my town, so I ran (in my running shoes) to the store. They only had a few styles and it was the end of winter, so I asked when they'd be getting the spring line. They said they wouldn't be carrying them anymore because the styles are too avant-garde for people in Bassano. Imagine! German shoes that I bought in Brussels in 2008 are too avant-garde in Veneto in 2017.
Speaking of shoes, I'd like to address the stereotype about Americans and their sneakers. I think even guidebooks used to say that if you didn't want to stick out like a real tourist in Italy you shouldn't bring your tennis shoes. I'm not sure if they've edited that page, but it's no longer true. The only thing I don't see around here are white aerobics shoes, but anything else that falls under the heading of gym shoes exists. They even have some dress shoes hidden in a sneaker design that cost 300euro.
So who's following who?
Fixed gear bikes. I'm not sure that's what they're called or what it means, but I remember this new trend in Chicago nearly ten years ago. Now it's here.
Gray, brown, black and stainless interior design. It looks just the same here in 2017 that it did there in 2010.
Wedding invitations with raffia and rice paper. Nothing new.
How much longer do I have to wait for the good stuff to start showing up? Stuff like free refills, an aisle of salad dressing, hardware stores open on Saturday afternoon and Sunday (isn't that when we really need them?), travel mugs, heat in cafes, over-the-counter cold medicine and frequent flyer miles?
I wonder why the stick people have decided to move here and if they'll miss that stuff as much as I do. Maybe they're coming to Italy to get away from Trump. It's a shame no one told them about Berlusconi---one of the few things Italy had first.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Brown Paper Packages
Brown paper packages tied up with strings are one of my favorite things. I don't remember when it started, but it was so long ago that the only brown paper I could find was in the section with the postal supplies and I usually bought it at Woolworths. I'm not sure why I started using it, but I imagine it's because it was a lot cheaper than the decorated stuff. In those days you couldn't find brown wrapping paper next to the Christmas rolls with reindeer and snowmen.
I've always loved wrapping presents. As soon as I figured out there was no Santa Claus, I started to help my mom wrap. I got so good at it that one time when I was home alone and sulking I unwrapped all of the presents under the tree and then rewrapped them. I kept it secret until I was sulking another time and yelled to the family, "And just so you all know, in 1979 I unwrapped all of the Christmas presents and rewrapped them. So there."
My gifts never have tape and there are never knots in the bows. When my niece and nephew saw someone struggling to open one they used to say, "It's a Tenley present. You just have to untie the bow and the whole package will open."
Several years ago when other brown gifts started showing up, I decided to adorn mine with polka dots and letters cut from scraps of Japanese paper lying around my studio. I'm not going to give up on the brown because, like everything else, it will go out of style again one day. Recently I've strayed a bit and sometimes use the brown paper placemats my friends don't soil when we go out for pizza or the rolls of off-white wallpaper I've found in my attic.
This holiday season was anything but brown paper packages tied up with strings. (Other than the 77 that I wrapped.) Almost all of the gifts I received were in bags. Little bags, big bags, cloth bags, paper bags and cellophane bags. What happened to good old candycane Christmas wrap and a pre-stapled bow on a small sticky square that never really sticks to the present? I can remember coming back from the mall with the rolls of wrapping paper and a bag of un-sticky bows. The tubes floated around in the shopping bag with all of their weight at one end and there was the constant order from Mom not to crush the bows in the bottom.
Fortunately a few of my favorite things in Italy come wrapped. The grocer wraps the parmigiano, the pastry chef wraps the tray of sweets and the gelato guy wraps the ice cream when you get it to-go. Here getting ice cream to-go doesn't mean walking away from the gelateria with a cone or cup. It means spending more than 20 euros on a little styrofoam tray filled with 16 scoops. I like to watch them wrap my little treats. They hold the paper tight in the middle, make creases at the corners of both ends and then fold them in to make the triangle flap just like I do (but they use tape).
Even if my birthdays and Christmases in Italy are filled with opening bags instead of unwrapping presents, I'm hopeful that as commonplace as well-aged parmigiano, mini-tiramisu and gelato have become in my life, they'll always seem like little gifts.
Every day is a gift if you live in the present. --Tenley Ysseldyke (maybe)
(Can I take credit for this quote? As I walked away from writing this piece I said it to myself out loud. I didn't think I'd heard it before so I googled it. I found, Every day is a gift. That's why they call it the present. But I didn't find mine and I like it.)
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