It doesn't take much to remind me that I no longer live in the States.
Reminder number 1. Last weekend's homemade nachos went like this. Chips,
borlotti beans that I put in the blender to make them mushy like refried
beans, Asiago cheese (that comes from Asiago, a touristy mountain town an hour from my house), Greek yogurt that looks just like sour cream, and what are nachos without some good ol' spicy ketchup?
Reminder number 2. Italians eat nachos with a fork.
Reminder number 3. The nacho fest brought to mind the Super Bowl. "Hey!" I hollered, "Is this Super Bowl Sunday?" Hold on to your nachos for the reply..... "What's Super Bowl Sunday?"
It's not that I'm a big fan or anything, but it sure would be nice to laugh (or bawl) at the commercials with someone. I don't suppose the reruns on Monday morning will have Italian subtitles, will they?
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."
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Thursday, October 11, 2018
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Just sit right back.
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.
Monday, August 27, 2018
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.
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.
Monday, March 12, 2018
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."
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
The Way Things Were (Say Cheese, 13)
 |
| This is the only orange cheese I've seen in Italy. |
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."
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
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.
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."
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."
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