If you don't have anything nice to say...

There's nothing like a new haircut. New outfits can be changed.  New lipstick can be removed. And new kilos can be lost (with a few extra miles). But new haircuts are here to stay for a while and I think they should be handled with care. I had nearly four inches cut two days ago. My hair hasn't been this short for at least 20 years.

Day one.  I left the beauty parlour with soaking wet hair at 3pm. I suppose no one says beauty parlour anymore, but the salon sounds too fancy for me and the hair place would only reinforce my limited vocabulary. Anyway, the beauty parlour makes me think of Gert.  She had one at the intersection of two country roads in my home town.  It had a hairspray smell, bright green walls and bad lighting. I went to school with Gert's grandson and somehow that made me feel like more than just a customer's kid. She let me go in the private staircase that led to her house and I think she gave my mom coffee in a real mug.  Maybe the walls were orange and the lighting might have been bright, I'm not sure.  But I really do think there were stairs that led somewhere that made me feel special.      

Day one. Take two.  I left the beauty parlour with soaking wet hair at 3pm. I was surprised when the beautician (That's the lady that works in the beauty parlour.  Stylists work in salons.) told me to return to the sink after the cut.  She said that she'd combed it so much she had to wet it again so I could make my 'bus stop curls'. She'd remembered that the time I waste waiting for the bus is just enough to wrap chunks of wet hair around my finger to form a few ringlets.  But she'd forgotten that I'd ridden my bike to the beauty parlour and I'd be smashing on my helmet and heading home with squashed bangs and dripping locks, so the bus stop curls wouldn't last long.

No one in Italy leaves the salon with wet hair.  Italians are afraid of the colpo d'aria (http://10leaves.blogspot.com/2013/10/living-with-a-bunch-of-old-wives.html ) and of being seen around town in any form but the finest.  For example, I have a friend that gets up early and puts on a sweatsuit.  An hour later she gets dressed to drop her kid off at school.  Period.  Just to drop her at the curb.  She goes home and puts the sweatsuit back on.  And she gets dressed again after lunch to pick the kid up. (That's not exactly like clean underwear in case you have a car accident.) So if you have to be properly dressed just to be in your car, you can imagine the pomp and circumstance when you leave the beauty parlour.  Most women plan coffee and dinner dates on haircut day.  They leave feeling even more coiffed than usual and they're ready to see and be seen (even more than usual). 

My haircut day consisted of painting the back of the house blue (adding some unintentional highlights to my new do), raking the yard and taking five wheelbarrows (I'm sure I'm not the only one who always thought that word was "wheel barrel".) of clippings (backwards foreshadowing?) to the field behind my neighbor's house.  There wasn't a lot of seeing or being seen and not even an opportunity to catch a glimpse of my new look in the reflection of boutique windows or the mirrored-wall behind my favorite barrista. That being said, there were no comments on day one.

Day two.  I had a couple of early morning lessons at home with men my age.  For the first, I put in a tiny ponytail seconds before he came to the door because I was afraid it was too poofy.  Seeing that the day before he'd left saying that he loved me (in the way one says they love gelato and pizza) I didn't want to risk losing him by drastically changing my librarian look.

The second guy hadn't had a lesson for a year. I found the courage to take the ponytail out.  I took his lack of comment as the fact that he probably didn't even remember how it used to be.  

Then I had some afternoon lessons in town which means I had the time for bus stop curls. The first student said she loved the cut.  That's one.  The next said nothing (a man my age).  And the last actually asked if I'd cut my hair.  Her hair is past her waist (that's a little more believable now that high-waisted pants are in) and she's the type that would notice a haircut. 

That's where the trouble started. She asked and I answered. And the seconds of silence that followed my answer were so awkward that I quickly changed the subject to put HER at ease for having made ME feel uncomfortable.

It's put a new twist on "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."  I used to think that meant that I shouldn't say nasty things.  But now I take it literally.  If you don't have anything nice to say, (really).....don't say anything at all.  And an addition should be, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't ask a question", because that leads to the next problem---"Silence speaks louder than words."  The kind of silence I got from the other students was just silence. But the kind of silence I got after I answered her question ("Yes, I got a haircut.") spoke a thousand words. 

It's important to watch what you say. But don't forget to watch what you don't say.

Just sit right back.

It's time to introduce you to my island.  I don't want to tell you her name (in Italian islands are feminine) because I don't want her to come up in any more searches.  

I could call her La Casa Gialla. But the place is filled with yellow houses (and blue and green and red and orange).

I like the name The Turquoise Window, but my windows aren't tourquoise anymore.  I had to paint them black due to a building code that I'm trying to crack. 

Fisherman's Island would work because that's what she is.  But I have wonderful memories from another Fisherman's Island in Michigan.

High Water Isle is out because they've resolved the problem of acqua alta.  The pieces of wood they attached to the bottom of the doorway to keep the rising water out were in my attic.  I've turned them into kitchen shelves. 

I almost went with The Moon Also Rises because where else can you see the sunrise, sunset, moonrise and moonset all in one day?  Well, I guess you can see that on any small island.  I just never thought I'd live on one.  Anyway, I googled it and there's already a book with that title.

I considered La Bella Vita Island, Paradise Island and Sunset Lagoon but they're a bit cliche'.

Hut Island is okay because her beach is covered with rustic huts.  It just doesn't have a very nice ring to it.  But it does remind me of what some American visitors said last month.  They called it Gilligan's Island.  And maybe they're right.  No phone, no light, no motor car, not a single luxury.  Like Robinson Crusoe, it's primitive as can be. 

The only phones that work are the landlines.   Primitive.   If I want to use my cell phone I have to go outside.  And the truth is, there are lights (even lampposts like in Venice with the green posts and soft pink lanterns).  And some people do have cars but there are a lot more bikes.  

As for luxuries......just because I go to the beach in the winter to collect wood for my woodburning stove doesn't mean everyone else does.  Most people have real heat.  And we do have a grocery store with four aisles, but I prefer the one that holds a maximum of 10 people (including the deli guy, butcher, cashier, bagger and stockboy which is usually all the same person). The fruit lady comes with the fruit truck a couple of times a week and there's a cheese truck.  And if you don't feel like going to the sea to catch mussels or clams you can always find a fisherman selling fresh fish from his boat in the lagoon.  That's luxury.

I think you get the picture.  That's precisely why I don't want to tell you her your name.    It's best to keep her a secret for as long as we can.  So for now, just sit right back and you'll hear a tale.   

Away with Words

When I moved to Italy I promised myself that I'd only buy books written in Italian.  And since I usually only buy books at the secondhand shop, you can bet they're all in Italian.  Almost all.  Until the day I hit the jackpot.  It seems the other English speaker in town either died or decided she needed more room on her bookshelf because I found 17 books in English and I bought all of them.

Having broken my promise about only buying Italian books I was tough on myself and left them unread for nearly a year.  But when I decided to spend most of August on the beach I found one of the books irrestible.  On the cover in small print was praise from the Chicago Tribune, "Riveting.....the perfect summer-by-the-lake read."  Summer-by-the-lake or August-on-the-Adriatic.  It's the same difference.  

It's not like I haven't read anything in English in the past 6 years.  My emails and most of what I read on the internet are in English.  But the beach book was filled with things I hadn't thought about in ages.  The fake news about Mr. Trump doesn't use these words and phrases and I don't use them with my students either. 

They may seem like everyday terms to you, but for some reason they made me chuckle.  (And that's just the kind of word I'm talking about.)      

-lug everything back.

-the queen of cream cheese.

-shuck the corn.

-Join the club!

-If you want to go on the boat you'd better smarten up.   (Straighten up rings a bell with me.)

-Hi-C, Pop-Tarts, Easy Mac and Tretorns.

-nestled sets of measuring spoons.

-"Don't be such a spaz!"

-purple lint and dryer sheets.

-a clunker of a van.

-Hallmark cards.

-muzak coming from above.

-the milk in the fridge was iffy.

-the sprawling stripmall ugliness of Wal-Mart and Rite-Aid.

-coleslaw.

-Putt-Putt.

-after school reruns.

-he yanked it away.

-he cracked his window for some fresh air.

-A:  "I'm going to the bathroom." 
 B:  "Hope everything comes out all right."

-making his voice crazy like the commercials for the monster-truck show

-Cheetos, Fritos and dusty cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli


Rereading the list makes me wonder if they're not just words from a different country, but words from a different era.  Would a car in Chicago have been a clunker or just an old, beat-up car?  And in the nineties I think I would've opened a window, not cracked it.  Maybe this book was written in a Michigan dialect.  The dialect of my childhood.  The dialect of a contadino.  And maybe that's why I found it so riveting.

The Way Things Were (Movie Titles, 14)

When American friends ask if I've seen a particular movie I can't answer until I check to see what it's called in Italian.  Movies should have one title. They did it right with the Italian film La Vita e' Bella.  In America it was called, Life is Beautiful.  A nice, clear translation.  It might not tell you what the movie is about, but Italian and American viewers alike entered the theater with the same information.  Kramer contro Kramer and il Paziente Inglese are translatable, too.  If only it were always that easy to pick out an old DVD in an Italian thrift shop.  I scan the titles, but I'm sure I've passed right by a lot of old classics.

L'attimo Fuggente (translation: The Fleeting Moment)--Dead Poets Society
Buon Compleanno Mr. Grape (translation: Happy Birthday Mr. Grape.  Why not Signor Grape?)--What's Eating Gilbert Grape?
Quasi Amici (translation: Almost Friends)--The Intouchables (not to be mistaken for The Untouchables)
Quei Bravi Ragazzi (translation: Those Good Boys)--GoodFellas
 a Spasso con Daisy (translation: Walk with Daisy)--Driving Miss Daisy

But it seems Chicago will always be Chicago.  At least some things never change.      


The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Say Cheese, 13)

This is the only orange cheese I've seen in Italy.

If mozzarella is called mozzarella cheese and parmesan is called parmesan cheese, shouldn't this be called burger cheese instead of cheese burger?   Italian grocery stores always make me smile and no one even has to say "cheese."
















The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Warm Greys, 12)

Just because the black and white world I live in has few greys doesn't mean everything is either hot or cold. Some things are warm....but not in Italy.

A warm spring day in Chicago is not hot.
And an Indian summer day isn't hot either.
Pools, lakes and seas aren't hot.  And neither are baby bottles.
All of those things are 'warm' in America, but in Italy they're caldo.  And caldo means hot.
The dictionary defines warm as caldo.  And it says that hot is caldo, too.

But some of the best things in life are warm.....socks, hugs, mittens, breezes, blankets, welcomes, slippers, sand, and apple pie.

I guess if I want Italians to start feeling the warms, it's time I start seeing the greys.
 

I took this in black and white and it seemed cold.

And then I tried it in color and was surprised to see the warm pavement.

The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (I'll Have a Beer, 11)

una birra media, rossa

Ordering a beer with my Italian friend in Chicago was never easy.  He simply said, "I'll have a beer."  When asked what kind, he could never answer.  I'd struggle to help the frustrated waiter, apologize for my friend and explain that you can't just order "a beer".  Not in the US anyway.  But in Italy that's just what you do.  La birra comes in three sizes: piccola, media and grande.  There's a slim chance the subject of dark or light will be mentioned, but it's slim.  "I'll have a medium beer, please."  I dare you to try it the next time you go out for a burger.










The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Per Serving, 10)

My move to Italy has improved more than my language skills.  Whenever I'm on one of my I've-got-to-start-eating-better binges, I get the chance to brush up on my math skills, too.  It's not that I ever actually consumed what the inventors of the 'serving size' thought was the correct 'serving size', but I got used to their suggestions (and often multiplied by two or three).  It's a lot harder to figure things out when it's based on 100grams.  When a 750-gram bottle of something has 17 grams of fat per 100 grams it takes a little imagination and good math skills to figure out the damage. First, how much fat is in the whole bottle.  Then, visually divide the bottle into seven sections (or so), decide how many of those sections I'm going to eat and multiply it by 17.  Fortunately, I probably burn a few calories figuring it all out.  A friend just came back from Miami with a bag of Reese's Minis.  What a treat.  22 grams of fat per serving.  Serving size, one package. Just open it and eat.

I made two large bags of Reese's Miniatures from my July visitors last until the end of January.  I still had the tinfoil from the last cup in my pocket the day I was restocked.

The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (The Mail, 9)

The fine print says:  Last collection 12:00a.m.

Whoever said that Italians were lazy apparently didn't know that il postino (the mailman) is out picking up the mail in country towns at midnight.  At least that's what the fine print says.  If only it were true.  For those of us in the know, the last pick up is really at noon (a bit early in my opinion).  And if you miss it on Friday you'll be waiting until Monday because there's no service on Saturday either.

                            

The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Change, 8)

I never thought of pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters as things I wanted to get rid of.  I liked the noise they made in my dad's pocket,  I liked stacking, organizing and counting them and I liked spending them as if they weren't real money, because it meant the bills (real money) were still in my wallet.   So you can imagine the thrill of the euro...a currency that comes with eight coins.  

one cent, two cents, five cents, 10 cents, 20 cents, 50 cents, one euro, two euros

It didn't take long to realize that Italian cashiers fancy the coins, too.  I rarely (if ever) pay for anything in Italy without being asked for something smaller or the right change.  It happened so seldom in the States that when I was asked I knew the cashier was in difficulty and  needed my help because the previous ten customers had also paid with twenties.  And I usually dug through my lint trying to help out.  But every time I'm asked in Italy I say no.  And I say no simply because I'm asked every time.  I don't pretend to check my pockets or change purse and I don't feel the need to apologize when I don't come up with anything  (even though I'm lying).  Keeping their cash registers supplied with coins doesn't seem like my responsibility so I simply say no and happily accept the change that comes from my intentional blunder of having a bill too big to buy a gelato.  

My friends seem embarrassed that I don't even do the fake check.  They start searching their bags for the perfect centessimi (cents) to please the disgruntled cashier.  Then I say, "Don't worry, it's no problem.  I don't mind having a pocket full of change," to make the cashier feel like I think she's really just trying to help me out.

The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Squat Toilet, 7)

An especially cheerful hole-in-the-ground toilet
 in one of my favorite pizzerias.

The internet calls them squat toilets but I call them hole-in-the-ground toilets.  At first look (it takes more than a glance) one thinks, "Oh no!"  But by the 25th use they come with a sigh of relief.  The only thing you have to (or might accidently) touch are the foot pads and I've never worried much about the bottoms of my shoes (well, I suppose it depends on the shoes).  So I invite curious Americans to come give them a try.  They're everywhere......except the US.  My first experience was in Turkey more than 20 years ago so it would make sense to use their Italian name, bagno alla turca (Turkish toilet). 









The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Fruit and Veggie Truck, 6)

An Italian roach coach---hold the fat.

It's the closest thing we have to a roach coach. The fruit and veggie truck comes to the corner every Wednesday morning.  It's kind of like meeting at the fountain in a small village in Africa (which they did here until not all that long ago!)  I don't buy a lot from the truck, but the fruit guy always honks when he passes me biking in  nearby towns and when I had a dislocated shoulder he even tied my running shoes.  

Gemma has been featured in several posts throughout the years. She brings me fresh eggs and homemade-handmade pasta and I help her dig up edible weeds.  When I find lumache (slimy snails in English, escargot in French) near my flower pots I holler and she comes over to get them. I don't deliver.  

 

The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

Santa Claus in January

I like seeing Santa Claus in the mall a few weeks before Christmas and I always hope to see him in the wee hours of the twenty-fourth.  But I always thought after his all-nighter on Christmas Eve he headed back to the North Pole.  I assumed he might take a break for a couple of weeks and then get back to his daily job of organizing the elves in the workshop.  But now I've learned that's not the case.  He actually goes to Italy and works until January 6th.

I'm slowly getting used to the holidays in Italy.  Many Italians put up their Christmas trees on December 8 (an official holiday) and leave them up until a bit after the Epiphany on January 6 (another official holiday).  In America I was never one that put the tree up on Thanksgiving Day, but by the beginning of December I was in the mood.  And by New Year's Eve I was more than out of the mood and ready to take it down.  Sometimes the undecorating slipped to the first week of January, but it always made me feel uncomfortable, like there was something on my to-do list that wasn't getting done.  And I can remember having a dream a long time ago that my tree was still up on January 12 and I was in a real panic.

In Italy the first fifteen days in January many of the lights are still twinkling.  I suppose it helps that most trees are fake and they haven't lost all of their needles.  I guess the duration is the same....for me it was the firstish to the firstish and for them it's the eighthish to the eighth-ninth-or-tenthish. But it still seems strange for me to see Christmas trees and think "Christmas" in January.  So seeing Santa Claus on January 6 was a bit of a shock. 

I knew that the Befana came on the 6th.  Depending on where you live in Italy, you might even get to see her.  The tradition is to leave a sock (otherwise known as 'stocking') out the night before and the Befana (nothing but an old lady) flies to all the houses on her broom and when you wake up in the morning the sock is filled with little gifts.  But in my country town in northern Italy the Befana comes on a wagon that's pulled by a tractor.  And another wagon pulled by another tractor is filled with  Christmas carolers.  And I suppose it's worth mentioning the parade of people dressed up like the Three Kings and some other characters I don't know who walk at the pace of donkeys, because that's what leads the procession.

The neighbors take out vin brule (hot wine) and cookies and cakes and the parade stops right out front so the Befana can personally deliver gifts to the neighborhood kids.  The sign on the corner said that she was supposed to arrive at 2:15pm.  I didn't go out until I heard the carolers singing Jingle Bells accompanied by music amplified by a megaphone.  You're right.  It all has a certain dorky charm. Until you get to the Santa Claus part.  There he was on January 6 helping the Befana pass out the gifts.  He seemed about as out of place as George Clooney and John Travolta in Italian TV commercials.         

      

The Way Things Were (Normal-Sized Spoons, 5)

I've learned to live without normal-sized spoons.  It's taken several years but the huge one and the tiny one finally seem normal.  So what am I going to do with the new set of 6 that arrived from Chicago for Christmas?  In the past I'd have eaten a little cup of applesauce with them, but the tiny ones make more sense.  They were always just right for cereal, but now that I eat my cereal from a glass, they're too big.  They were perfect for Spaghettio's, but those are Franco-American, not Italian.  Gelato?  It means I'd finish it faster.  Sugar for my tea?  I'd only be adding more sugar.  I guess I'll just save them for my American guests.  They usually only stay for a week and that's definitely not long enough to get used to tiny spoons.


 The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Internet, Anyone?, 4)

Meet my Pocket.

I'll be the first to admit that my computer skills are far from savvy.  But I do think it might all be a little easier if I had a reliable internet connection.  I often blame myself when a picture doesn't load or what I'm typing simply disappears and can't be found again, but it's not always my fault.  DSL doesn't exist where I live so my options are a big, expensive antenna on the roof or this little black thing called a "pocket" that I can take wherever I go.  Like me, the "pocket" seems to prefer life away from home.  When we go into town it's as happy as can be!  But if it has to work at home, it doesn't always work.  The fact that I live on "Via Valli" (Valley Road) has its ups and downs.  It's great for country runs and olive groves, but not so great for Skype (pronounced "sky-pee" in Italian) and Netflix.   So for now I still pay for international calls and buy DVDs at the secondhand store.  Maybe we can talk about the 2018 Oscars from a pay phone in a few years when the DVDs show up in my local thrift shop.


The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Sales, 3)

SALDI....Sales

When I shopped in Chicago my first stop was always at the sale rack in the back of the store (if I was someplace other than Goodwill or Salvation Army).  Be it April, June or November I could almost always find something for $9.99.  In Italy that opportunity only comes twice a year.  Instead of a little treat on a rainy day in spring, shopping for something on sale in Italy feels like an obligation.  If my running pants will be ruined by next November, I'd better remember  to buy them now or I'll be without until January 2018.  T-shirts?  Underpants?  Plan ahead.  Get 'em now.  Back-to-School specials?  Nope.  Sales are regulated by the country.  They're twice a year.  Once in the winter.  And once in the summer.  Period.   



The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Way Things Were (Coffee Pots, 2)

3 Italian coffee pots

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. 3 pots to heat water or milk for tea or chocolate.

It takes a village. When the internet guy or the man who delivers your firewood comes, you use the tiny coffee pot. When the piano tuner brings a friend, you use the middle one.  And if you have a few friends for dinner, you pull out the big one (and you might even have to make two pots or a combo of the big one and the middle one).  I'm not a coffee drinker, but in America I only remember one.  You simply adjusted the coffee and water combinations (I think).  And then there was the tall seventies green one only used for graduation parties in the garage and baby showers.  I think that one was called a percolator.


The Beginning of The Way Things Were
Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

The Ways Things Were (Store Hours, 1)

Call me what you will, but I call myself an emigrant....an emigrant who should stop talking about her homeland every day.  (Expat has too many rich, white person connotations and immigrant is what my Italian friends call me.)  Many years ago, my foreign (expat) friends in Chicago continually pointed out the differences between life in their countries and life in Chicago.  I might be mistaken, but their use of the word 'different' often sounded a bit like 'better'. 

Not long after moving to Italy (about three hours) I started doing the same thing.  It has finally dawned on me that if my friends in Italy think like I used to think (if it's better in your country why don't you go home?) it might be wise to keep my American mouth shut in Italy and share my thoughts with the other side of the world.  Hereafter, when I notice something different, be it better or just different, I'll (try to) hold my tongue and add it to my list of The Way Things Were.

My goal is to keep it simple with a few words and a photo,  giving the readers the choice of better...or just different.   With more reflection I'll probably realize that some of the "betters" are here and some of the "betters" are there.  In the end maybe they really are just "differences."

Welcome to The Way Things Were.

Someone might buy  these sneakers, beat-up but glittered and marked down from 560euros ($678) if the store had better hours. I'll do the military time translation for you: Monday through Friday from 9:45am-12:45pm and 3:30-7:30pm.  Saturday from 9:30am-12:30pm and closed on Sunday.  That's six hours and forty-five minutes Monday through Friday, and three hours on Saturday morning.  This is a bit exaggerated.....most stores open at 9:30am.

This isn't the sign from the shoe store.  Their hours were hidden by the SALE sign.  But shop hours in Italy are more or less the same.