Tag: Italy

4Aug

Homeiversary

Snapshots of a late morning walk:

There are always 60-year-old women roaming near the pharmacy as if on patrol. They each have a bag with the familiar green plus sign stamped on the side, and they eagerly show the contents to each other: hemorrhoid medicine, cellulite cream, bunion ointment, pills for a number of increasingly shocking maladies. They lift up their breezy shift dresses to show off injuries amid sympathetic tsk tsks. Many times, the conversation prompts a tirade against doctors or a medical horror story that happened to a friend of a friend of their cousin’s son’s hairstylist (or both!), and a glorious time is had by all. By noon, the patrol is over; the women separate to shop for support bras in the nearby merceria or pick up a loaf of bread for lunch, armed comfortably with medicine and gossip alike.

A large group of young teenagers is clumped around, on, and occasionally under a row of scooters in my parking lot. This is their social epicenter, their designated spot on earth to discuss trivial things with great importance until they grow wrinkled enough do the same in smoky wood-paneled bars. One of the teenagers has brought a car (his mother’s?), and the prettiest girls of the group keep climbing in and out to appreciate the leather against their long tanned legs. (The driver simply appreciates the legs.) The younger teens who are not cool enough to associate with cars or long tanned legs stand around their scooters. They are joking constantly, by the looks of it, or at least making a concerted effort to have fun. A few of them have lollipops, which they try to pass off as cigarettes. They look hopelessly young, peach-fuzzed babies with scooter licenses and budding opinions of the world.

The parks are deserted today except for a few hyperactive pigeons. I don’t know if this is because August is national vacation month or if it simply too hot this morning for children to be allowed outside (they might sweat!), but the swings hang limp and sizzling and forgotten. In one month, these little neighborhood playgrounds will be swarming with babies in strollers, grubby toddlers trying their hardest to eat the gravel, and caregivers trying their hardest to leave the gravel where it belongs. The boisterous older children that are usually here clambering up slides or jumping off see-saws will be in classrooms learning how to become useful members of society. These parks will sparkle with tiny voices, and mornings will cool into an easy rhythm once again.

***

One year ago yesterday, we arrived in Italy. One year ago today, we were exploring our new niche in the world—what doorways in this lovely neighborhood led to produce or ice cream or matches or clothes. I have a hard time believing we’ve been here a year, but the differences are obvious when I let myself see them. For example, I step out of the house with purpose now, or at least little purposes arranged along my route. My feet know where to go for baby formula, for blood tests, for phone cards, and I am so grateful to be out of the haze of unknowing. Also, and more significantly, I understand almost everything people say to me now—80% from this person, 98% from that. (Occasionally 2%, but that’s usually a matter of the speaker’s dialect and/or number of teeth. Or, uh, the amount of sleep I got the night before.) I have not sat down to study Italian since our first month here, but the language has crept into my consciousness little by little until I suddenly realize my vocabulary has doubled. Maybe tripled. I am so relieved to be able to communicate; it feels like power and friendship and one step closer to fitting in.

I can think of so many more ways that I wish I were taking advantage of this sunny Umbrian life, but that will come in time I think. We’ve had a lot on our plates this last year, what with moving in and scavenging for documents and having babies and all, but I’m slowly starting to find my footing here. Next year will seem more natural, as will the year after that, and who knows? Maybe one day I’ll wake up and realize I’m one of those 60-year-old women chatting animatedly outside the pharmacy. (Though I promise you now, I will never show you the contents of my bag.)

16Jul

Dichotomous Days

Tension:

  • Lead-blanket tiredness, every single morning and sometimes until bedtime. I hung onto today by a thread of willpower and finally gave up at noon, when I put my haggard self to bed. (Coffee helps, though I suddenly stopped liking the taste last month. Coffee in a chocolate-coconut frappuccino courtesy of my blender-wielding husband definitely helps. Sleep, exercise, and nutrition do not.)
  • Owning a house during a major housing slump and losing our renters. Taking care of our house when we lived in it was enough work, but figuring out the details from across the ocean? Without the extra income? Wondering how soon the place will fall into ruin without tenants and become just a pile of bricks swallowed by crabgrass? There’s a chance that worrying about this has impacted my sleep…
  • Huge possibility of having to move to another city next summer. I knew this home wouldn’t be permanent, but I’ve come to love our friendly little neighborhood and the old, old streets of downtown, not to mention the people who have welcomed us into their families. (Benefits of moving: Will be closer to Florence, Dan’s brother, and IKEA. Very much closer to outlet mall. The other city is still beautiful, AND we may finally get a large-enough house. Oh, and the transfer has the possibility of being long-term. Really, I need to just get over this and be excited already.)

Ease:

  • Summer-colored fruits and veggies, fresh or bread-crumbed or slathered in yo-cream or drizzled with balsamic vinegar. I love how easy it is to eat healthy in warm weather—salads and fruit drinks every day, and we’ve reduced our grocery budget by €40 a week. I feel all earthy and bright at the thought, like I’ve just discovered a secret.
  • August just around the corner. We spent our vacation budget (uh, for the next five years) on Sophie’s emergency room trip, so we’ll be coming up with fun and relaxing things to do around here. Which, really? Could not make me happier. I mean, we’re already in Italy; might as well enjoy it! I’m planning to serve meals on paper plates and read books somewhere breezy.
  • A certain member of the family finally being potty-trained. After what felt like seventeen years of Pull-Ups and puddles and uncontrollable weeping (on my part), we have autonomy. Also, another member of the family recently contracted mobility, and the crawling, cruising, and self-congratulatory giggles are almost too fun to stand! Almost.
  • Exciting new changes coming soon, like school for Natalie! And hopefully well-scheduled days for me during which I can write and write and write! Plus, a significant raise and talk of a winter ski vacation with the in-laws. Exclamation point!

C’est la vie, non?

9Jun

Euro2008 LIVE!

Lucky you! I’m live-blogging the Italy/Netherlands soccer match, though I don’t even know which cup it is. Is it a cup? I don’t know. Also, I know only a smidgen more than nothing about soccer, but my husband is out in his blue team jersey watching the game with a group of hardcore Italian buddies, and I’m hoping to impress him upon his return. So.

8:44 – The Italian team is singing the national anthem, which has exactly 472 stanzas. Every player knows every word, and most of them are singing with their eyes closed.

8:46 – The Netherlands team is not singing its national anthem. In fact, the players look extraordinarily bored, but at least the song is over in eleven seconds.

8:48 – Kick off! Do they say kick off in soccer? I don’t know.

8:49 – The commenter has RAISED HIS VOICE. SOMETHING EXCITING IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN, AND IT IS THIS: A SWEATY ITALIAN GUY IS ABOUT TO KICK THE BALL. WILL HE MAKE A GOAL?

8:49 and 30 sec. – No, he will not.

8:54 – Some Italian players just trampled a Dutch player. The crowd goes wild.

8:55 – Another Dutch player tramples himself, looks around for sympathy.

8:56 – Penalty kick for the Netherlands. The studly Italian goalie, who is the only player whose name I know, is shouting. Though I cannot hear him, there are wisps of obscenity-laced smoke spewing from his ears; I assume he is pissed. His name is Buffon (pronounced boo-PHONE), which I find funny because it looks so much like buffoon. Of course, other Italian players have names like “mattresses” and “shrimp,” so I’m sure he’s not complaining.

8:56 and 30 sec. – The Dutch player kicks, but Buffon catches the ball and tries to look cool like it was no effort at all. I understand. If I were a soccer player, my athletic ability would also be holding the ball in one hand and tossing back my long, sweaty hair in ease.

8:57 – An Italian player throws himself in the air to block a goal shot by the Netherlands and lands with his knees on two different sides of the field. This, my friends, is why my husband has a biomechanics job here.

8:58 – A Dutch player takes out an Italian one and runs away clapping. The Italian player bounces twice, contorts in agony unto death, and once he realizes no one is paying attention, jumps up to play again.

9:02 – Dutch player nearly scores, but Buffon runs out and trips him.

9:03 – Another Dutch player nearly scores.

9:04 – The Netherlands try (tries?) to score again, but kick (kicks?) the ball clear over the goal. No obscenities from the goalie this time, though if you ask me, the Dutch have been playing 400% better tonight. Maybe because they didn’t waste their strength singing the world’s longest national anthem.

9:07 – I stopped paying attention for a while, and now Italy has a penalty kick, which has turned into a mosh pit of sweat and unbridled hatred.

9:11 – The Netherlands tries several more times to score and SUCCEEDS after a beautiful team play! Buffon was too busy tackling one of his own teammates to block the ball.

9:14 – An Italian player and a Dutch player are chasing the ball while clawing each other’s chests off. There WILL be blood. Hehe.

9:16 – The Netherlands scores again. They really are playing fabulously. I wonder how many bad words my husband is hearing right now?

9:18 – Italy tries to score, but the Dutch goalie catches the ball and immediately throws his body over it as if to protect it from the shrapnel of Italian obscenities.

9:22 – People are kicking the ball and so forth. I go to make myself a salad for dinner.

9:27 – I am back in time to see The Netherlands almost score again, but Buffon blocks the ball with his chest. Do they make bullet-proof vests for goalies?

9:29 – Four or possibly fourteen Italian players gang up on a Dutch player who makes it through the gauntlet still standing. I know which team I would root for if it didn’t mean getting beat up by EVERYONE IN THIS COUNTRY.

9:31 – The camera zooms in on an Italian player whose head is literally gushing sweat. He reminds me of Freaky Walt in the second season of “Lost” when he keeps whispering gibberish and impersonating waterfalls to scare people. And folks? European soccer players scare me even more.

9:32 – Commercial break!

9:35 – My favorite commercial is on, a black and white drama starring George Clooney. He is walking the red carpet and looking so smooth and pouring himself a martini, but wait! The ice bucket is empty! Whatever will he do?

9:36 – Don’t worry. A sexy woman draws her sword and lops the balls off an ice sculpture dog to cool his drink. And now he is saying “Magnifico!” and sipping his testiculini with a smile. I love Italian commercials.

9:39 – Commentators are arguing about the first round of the game. Do they call them rounds in soccer? I don’t know.

9:42 – More commercials!

9:45 – The Catholic church is running a commercial for itself. Why haven’t other religions thought of this?

9:46 – The game is back. Apparently, it is called Euro2008 and thus not a cup at all. I’ve learned something!

9:47 – An Italian player slugs a Dutch one and then puts his hands up like, “See? My hands are up here, way up in the air! There’s no way I could have slugged that guy writhing on the ground beside me!” The ref doesn’t buy it.

9:50 – A Dutch player is down. The five Italians standing right next to him are completely innocent. See their hands?

9:52 – A yellow card is being given to Gattuso. I think he’s the one with a goatee. I didn’t see what happened, but I assume he didn’t get his hands in the air quickly enough.

9:55 – Another Dutch player is down, slammed in the head by an Italian player’s armpit. Pits of steel!

10:00 – A Dutch player just got a yellow card, but his teammates don’t seem bothered. They are passing the ball down the entire field using their heads, and I am distracted because each of their last names has at least nine vowels. How does one pronounce Ooijer?

10:03 – A sweaty Italian player just gave the ref a hug and a wink. Do they have a little something-something going on there? I am intrigued.

10:05 – Del Piero is now on the field. I remember him scoring an amazing goal in the last soccer game I watched, so I like him despite the fact that he is 105 in soccer years.

10:07 – The coach is extremely well dressed. Such a nice suit, and is his shirt silk? He’s being very sedate so as not to wrinkle his clothes. Something tells me that my noticing this about the game will fail to impress my husband.

10:11 – Del Piero runs and kicks and almost scores, and the commentators are practically orgasming with delight. Just imagine what would happen if he HAD scored!

10:14 – DEL PIERO IS RUNNING! TOWARD THE BALL! SO EXCITING!

10:16 – The Italian players have stepped up their game, but no one is scoring. The crowd briefly began to sing, but that dwindled off. I am now recalling that the middle half of all soccer games are boring, so I’m going to work on something else. Back later.

10:20 – I looked up in just in time to see the Netherlands score again, but wow! Buffon blocked the ball with his FACE and then ran back to guard the goal. Unfortunately, one of his own teammates accidentally kicked the ball in, but I’m still impressed by Buffon’s complete disregard for his own safety, well-being, or nasal structure.

10:25 – All the orange-dressed fans are singing. Could someone please explain why the Netherlands’ team color is orange even though its flag is red, white, and blue? Or why the Italian team color is blue even though its flag is red, white, and green? And why are the goalies dressed in black and green, respectively? And who was allowed to decide that white shorts were a good idea?

10:30 – The well-dressed coach has moved his hands to his hips and—whoa! He almost jumped all the way off the ground! The game is now exciting enough to endanger his suit.

10:31 – The commentators keep saying “Del Piero.” Just like that, an entire sentence: “Del Piero.” They are smitten.

10:35 – We have arrived at “Full Time.” Is that like half-time? Or is the game over? I don’t know.

10:36 – The Italian players have given their jerseys to the Dutch players, so I guess it’s over. The Dutch players are shaking hands with the ref, but alas, there is no winking. Del Piero and Buffon look sad, and my husband’s friends are probably crying right now. But the Dutch goalie is hugging his daughter, and it’s all very precious and happy and ORANGE, and they really did play the best tonight, so there you have it.

Will Dan be impressed? Stay tuned.

22May

Bibbidee-Bobbidee-Boo

On Tuesday night, Dan and I went on a double date with our friends Tom and Lindsey to a magical little agriturismo tucked away in the Umbrian hills. As with most meals here, the combination of gorgeous food and wine led to the kind of eager, overlapping conversation that Italians are famous for. And somewhere between the Sagrantino gnocchi and the profiterole, I found myself telling our love story—the well-worn details of meeting and connecting and promising.

It struck me later, as we walked through herb gardens back to the car, that this was the first time I had recounted our romantic history without feeling defensive. See, Dan and I got engaged only two months into dating, and I often felt like I had to justify our relationship to others, lay it out in neat mathematical terms so they would approve. It wasn’t easy. We went to a small Christian university where students were concerned with finding the Right Person to marry. Ironically, the divorce rate among our former classmates is higher than average, but I suppose it makes sense—a lot of Mr. and Mrs. Perfects showed themselves to be less-than-perfect after the wedding, and oops! Destiny must have loaded the wrong program. Ctrl + Alt + Delete, UndoMarriage, Restart.

I wish someone—maybe Dr. Phil?—would have sat the lot of us confused college students down and said, “Listen. Life is not a fairytale. There is not one custom-made person floating around somewhere in the world with your future happiness in his hands. Prince Charming? Is gay. So stop worrying about perfection and marry someone who helps you bloom into a better, brighter self. Choose someone you can laugh with and cry with and charge into the future with, and then be prepared to work hard for your relationship ‘til death do you part.”

I never knew what people meant when they told me, “You’ll know which one is The One.” No divine decree conked me on the head when I met Dan, and I often doubted our relationship simply because no fairy godmother was singing “bibbidee-bobbidee-boo” at us. However, I adored him. We could walk comfortably through each other’s minds, and our personalities clicked from the start. More than all, we wanted the same things in life, and our future together shone with delighted promise. I hated having to explain our relationship to cynical friends. They were looking for complicated magic—a mile-long wish list being checked off by one person—whereas what we had was simple: We loved each other, and we were willing to put our lives’ efforts into caring for that love.

I don’t often blog about marriage because I feel like there are fine lines between the honest and the pretentious (“We have it all figured out”), the sugar-coated (“Our marriage is a 24-7 makeoutfest!”), and the complaining (“My husband is a horrible person who would rather see me writhe in agony than put his dirty socks in the laundry basket”*). And while parenting is often a one-sided struggle, marriage is a very intimate haven requiring respect and discretion. Not open for public viewing

At the same time, I’m always encouraged to hear about other couples learning how to love each other through life’s inevitable storms and whirlpools and doldrums. Also, I can’t help wondering if there’s some other woman out there wondering if she’s chosen the right husband, terrified that any argument could lead to divorce. So this is what (nearly) five years of marriage have taught me:

Making time to talk about little things is hard.

Making time to talk about big things is harder.

Making time (and finding courage) to talk about the huge and ugly things, the ones you really don’t want to bring up, the ones that make you scared or weepy or furious, is incredibly hard,

BUT

Those conversations are the ones that propel a relationship forward, and if you can get yourself to say the unsayable, to work slowly and painfully through problems together, and maybe even to hug in the middle of a fight, you’ll delve deeper into the kind of love that far transcends checklists and fairy godmothers.

* For the record, my husband always puts his socks in the laundry, no writhing required. I like him, yes I do.

7May

Pulitzer by December

Last year, whenever a new acquaintance asked what I did, I would reply, “Oh, nothing right now.” Or, if I felt the need to impress, “I used to teach English; I’m just on a break.” The truth, however, was that I was writing whenever I could–an hour here, two there, an illicit midday rendezvous with Starbucks–but I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t feel like I could call myself a writer before getting published. Plus, if people knew I was working on a story, they would expect me to… you know, finish it.

Right after we moved to Italy, however, we were invited to a dinner party where Dan let it slip that I love to write. “Oh, wow!” everyone exclaimed (in Italian, of course). “That’s wonderful! What have you written? Who are you writing for? What kinds of things do you like to write?”

“Uhhhhhhh…” I replied eloquently.

The moral of that charming anecdote is this: If you want to be motivated to finish those stories gathering megabytes of dust in your “Unfinished” folder, tell a group of Italians that you’re a writer. They will 1) cheer you on with infectious enthusiasm, and 2) ask you about your projects so often that you end up finishing if only to feel less like an international loser.

This afternoon, I finally submitted a story for possible publication. Initially, I freaked out a little, but once I calmed down, I was able to FREAK OUT A LOT. Sending that manuscript felt like packing my snackable little Sophie into a basket with a red bow on top and leaving her in the middle of Cannibals ‘R’ Us.

(See?
Delicious toes Definitely edible.)

However, I’m completely enthralled by the fact that I took my first step into a world I want to inhabit. My story may not be accepted, but I’m okay with that (stop laughing, Dan); I’ll send it somewhere else. What makes the most difference to me right now is that I, a notorious procrastinator and fraidy-cat, finished something. I didn’t know I had that final “oomph” in me, and now that I do, I’m seeing possibilities pop out of the woodwork on all sides. My next story goes out a week from tomorrow (I finished the rough draft today, ::happy dance::), and then, who knows? A Pulitzer by December?*

I’ll be spending the rest of my day scattered in giddy pieces all over the rug. Please feel free to join me!


* Of 2052?

2Mar

Fortune

We’ve reached the best moment–the drowsy hum just after a huge Italian lunch but before espressos. The scent of coffee is already twisting through the air in those soft, bohemian swirls artists love to paint, and sunlight settles warm and heavy on our eyelids. Now, a deep breath, a half-hearted effort to stay awake… One more nibble of dark chocolate…

It’s a time machine, this moment, like a Dear Diary peek into the future. It’s a snippet of home video, showing our girls grown up into their own beauty and our little family traditions as familiar as furry slippers. It’s a glimpse into the connectedness we share, hot coffee together after lunch in twenty, thirty, forty years.

Maybe it’s just a drowsy mid-afternoon daydream… but I’ll take it as my fortune. Any day.

20Feb

When In Rome

When in Rome…

Breathe slowly under the ancient weight of the Colosseum. Inhale the centuries of legend engraved on its stones, the faint anxiety that history waits to repeat itself in this place. Exhale under its watchful shadow, now the keeper of Metro stops, busy streets, and bustling gay bars. Breathe. Stand. Marinate in your smallness.

Colosseum portals - Picasa remix

Let your heart race at the sudden sparkle of turquoise on white, the Trevi Fountain against a backdrop of stars. Caress the sculptures with your eyes, following each curve, each breathtaking intricacy. Kiss for the camera, but really for love. Close your eyes and intoxicate yourself with lips and tingling breath and the sensuous rush of waterfalls at night.

Kissing by the Trevi Fountain

Navigate the mid-morning crowds surging toward the Vatican. Weave in and out and around and through–the tourists with their guidebooks and cameras and perpetually open mouths–the devout Catholics with their quick, reverent footsteps trailing determination like a wake–the vendors with their wiry glances and blatant flouting of personal space. Join a line inside the gates, a line like an eternal wave, carrying you around and up and crashing down finally in the most sacred spot on earth.

St. Peter's Basilica 3

Forget about nonessentials like speaking and thinking and breathing the instant you step inside St. Peter’s Basilica. Just see, look, gaze. Let your eyes understand lavishness for the rest of your body, at least until they overload on gold scrollwork two minutes in. Give yourself mental vertigo by realizing that people, real, living, human humans made this gargantuan cathedral, this redefinition of opulence. Get goosebumps.

Bronze canopy in St. Peter's

Ride the Metro plastered in graffiti. Wander through the open market. Take pictures of funny signs. Ascend slowly to reality; decompress. Come, see, conquer, and leave dizzy with the hope of returning.

TOO MANY Ns

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