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.

Italy was(n't) Jinxed on Halloween

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.     

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.

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     

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.