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.