Italy | Bethany Bassett

Tag: Italy

American Pi–Cookies

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

The girls’ school has asked me to come in tomorrow morning and talk about where I’m from. Any details beyond this were vague, and I suspect it’s just a ploy by the teachers to get some homemade chocolate chip cookies. Fortunately for them, it’s working. Unfortunately for me, I have no idea what I’m going to say.

The United States really aren’t all that different from Italy. Americans drive on the same side of the road, eat with the same utensils, and wear the same clothing styles as Italians (with the possible exception of the tubithongotard which needs to die a swift death anyway). We speak a different language, but mandatory English classes start in preschool here, and the girls’ classmates sang a forty-two chorus version of “We Are the World” for their Christmas play; neither the English language nor Michael Jackson is new territory for them.

I’m oversimplifying, of course. There are plenty of cultural nuances to take into account—the ways people relate to each other, to food, to sports—the ways politics are run or rigged—the ways humor is understood—but I doubt a roomful of three-to-five-year-olds would appreciate a lecture on sarcasm vs. slapstick.

My leading idea at the moment is to walk in wearing a cowboy hat, say “Poop!”, wait for the riotous laughter to subside, and lead everyone in forty-three choruses of “We Are the World” while passing out cookies. I’d be an instant hit with the kids, but I’m not sure the teachers would be amused (different understanding of humor and all). Anyone have a suggestion not involving fashion lamentations, scatological humor, or bribery by cookies? Because I’ve totally got those covered.

2Feb

Handful of Confetti

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

Culturally, expat life in Italy is the stuff of daydreams; logistically, it can be more of a nightmare. Just to apply for a local driver’s license, one first has to acquire a residence card, a requirement for which is a permesso di soggiorno—permission to stay in the country, for which one must have a visa which must be applied for in one’s native country but with documents that must be gotten in Italy. Each step in the process requires energy, patience, and a therapeutic sense of humor to keep sanity in place.

Say, for example, that you are ready to apply for your permesso. One of the documents you are required to bring is an official form certifying your housing situation, so you go ask your landlord for a copy. Your landlord doesn’t know anything about any such form. You do some research and finally figure out where he can go to apply for this form. Only he has had renovations done on the house that are not yet documented with the government, and what’s more, he doesn’t want to document them with the government because he neglected to apply for his permission to make those renovations in the first place. He stalls. You do more research and find that it is actually illegal for him to be renting to you without this housing form. He finally relents, finds a way to work around the system (you try not to think too much about this part), and applies for the form. After a few weeks, you are called to the housing office to verify information about how many people are living with you, only when you arrive, you discover the office is on vacation for the month. When the month is up, you return and find out that your American birth certificate needs a special stamp to guarantee its legitimacy before the office will accept it. You mail you birth certificate with fear and trembling to the States where it is stamped and mailed back to you (without getting lost en route, thank goodness), and you return once again to the housing office. All goes smoothly this time, but the form you are waiting on will not be ready for awhile. “Don’t worry,” the housing officials assure you. “We will mail your landlord a letter when the form is ready to be picked up.” And that’s just for one document.

Tobias Jones describes the process of dealing with Italian bureaucracy “like trying to catch confetti: having to race from one office to another, filling in forms and requests, trying to grasp pieces of paper which always just elude your grasp.” I would agree with that except that it sounds like a whirl of activity whereas most of our experience with government offices here has centered around waiting… and waiting… and waaaaaaiiiiiittttttiiiiiiinnnnngggg.

This country has our hearts firmly in its grasp though. We willingly jump through the hoops—or more accurately, wait in the lines—to wake up to the Appennine sun luring fog out of the valley to incandesce with it in open air. We do it for day trips to Etruscan villages, for “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” sung in two languages, for lunchtime chats with our favorite pizzaiolo while he twirls our pizza to perfection in his brick oven. Even Italians think we’re crazy for giving up the American Dream for a life swathed in red tape, and maybe of course we are. But this is home to us. Living here is worth the frustration of trying to do so legally.

And you know, the struggle, the confetti-grasping, and the forced cultivation of patience are exactly what make small victories like this morning’s trip to renew health cards all the more precious.

22Dec

No Morale of the Story

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 11 Comments

My Top 5 Expat Blunders (because everyone loves an embarrassing story… or five):

5) Shortly after we moved to Italy, I was trying to get to know some of the women around my age at church despite my struggles with the language. I tried breaking the ice one Sunday morning by complimenting two of them on their retro jewelry. “In fact,” I continued, “when I was young—” Immediately, they doubled over laughing. I later learned that the word “young” in Italian applies to people from ages 14 to 40, and I might as well have started the sentence, “When I was middle-aged.” Oy.

4) In the early days of life here, even simple trips to the grocery store were daunting. I had to memorize vocabulary lists just to make sure I ended up with toothpaste instead of antifungal cream, and it took me a couple of weeks before I worked up enough courage to order from the deli counter. I had taken careful mental notes when shopping with Dan though, and I knew how to specify whether I wanted mild cheese or sharp, aged or soft, sliced or in a wedge. I also knew I should ask to taste a sample before ordering, so I cleared the trepidation from my throat and ventured, “Can I taste, please?” The counter attendant raised one eyebrow and asked, “Come again?” “Um, can I please taste?” The attendant shook her head in confusion. I tried another approach: “Can I taste a piece?” Nothing. I pointed at the cheese we were discussing and enunciated carefully, “I want to taste this cheese please.” Now both her eyebrows were raising and lowering in quick succession. I finally gave up, ordered the cheese unsampled as it was, and hurried home where I discovered that I had gotten the word for “taste” confused with the similar-sounding one for “dry.” Why yes, I had just spent several minutes trying to convince the deli attendant to let me dry her cheese. On the upside, I haven’t gotten the two words confused since.

3) Once upon a time, we took a stroller, my pregnant belly, and a week’s worth of grocery purchases on a bus. You can read all the painful details here.

2) Two winters ago, we went with a large group of friends on a settimana bianca—a week in the mountains at a ski resort. The lodge we were all staying in provided meals in a giant mess hall, so I didn’t have to worry about packing anything more than my snowboarding gear. As it turns out, I should have worried about packing more than my snowboarding gear. I realized within minutes of arriving that my fleece hoodies and wool sweaters would stifle me to death in the lodge’s near-tropical heat, and that left me with only my undershirts as viable tops. And within seconds of arriving at supper that first night, sweating in my jeans, snow boots, and thermals, I realized that meals on a settimana bianca are formal affairs. Our friends were utterly elegant in their high heels and ties, and I looked like Frosty the Snowslob in the middle of a meltdown. It was a long week.

1) Today was dedicated to the girls; I took them to a special kids’ event at a local restaurant this morning, and then we had fun getting together their costumes for this evening’s school play. The theme for the play was “A world without borders,” and Natalie got to don my sparkly pink cowgirl hat to portray an “americana” while Sophie was transformed into history’s cutest wolf with furry ears, a homemade tail, and lovingly hand-drawn whiskers. Most of the children in their class were assigned the same costume—“jeans + lupetto bianco”—but I didn’t have a chance to see the other wolf costumes until Dan and I were settled in our seats and the curtains rose. There on stage was a choir of preschool angels, adorable in matching white shirts and golden halos… plus one set of shaggy lupine appendages. Sophie was the only wolf. The horrible suspicion that dawned on me was easily confirmed: “lupetto” also means turtleneck. We dashed out as soon as the play ended, but I still have to show my face at the girls’ school tomorrow. I could use a stiff shot of tequi morale right about now.

Friends, this is your time to shine. If you value my dignity more than I do at the moment, share your own embarrassing moments and spare me the necessity of running off to Greenland and having to start this whole expat process again.

1Dec

Placeholder

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

A peddler approached me in the grocery store parking lot this morning while I was lugging my purchases to the car. I briefly noticed her baggy coat, wrapped around her like a dingy comforter, before I lowered my head and stepped up the pace.

“Buon giorno, signora,” she said in a halting African accent.

I mumbled that I wasn’t interested as I shut my groceries in the trunk.

“Please, signora,” she persisted, holding out her wares.

“I’m not interested,” I reiterated, hurrying into the front seat before she had a chance to corner me.

As I was pulling the door shut, I caught one last sentence from her: “Thanks anyway, and have a good day.”

Something about her tone, the quiet defeat in it, made me look at her for the first time. She had turned away from me and was standing simply in the parking lot, a tier of mismatched wool hats the only buffer between her and the cold December drizzle. She was carrying an armful of cheap umbrellas and a package of men’s socks, and I wondered why I hadn’t even bothered to find out what she was selling before saying I wasn’t interested. It’s not that I needed a new umbrella, but it wouldn’t have hurt me to at least look at her earlier, to notice more than my own annoyance.

Now that I was noticing, her weary stance settled in my stomach like a rock. Her face was passive, but the way she stood like a forgotten monument, like a placeholder for someone else’s name, expressed more than words could have. I caught a glimpse of the woman beneath all the layers and of the dignity I had failed to acknowledge when she invaded my personal piece of parking lot. I felt like scum.

I wish-wish-wish it weren’t so instinctual for me to treat some people like I’m a superior being just because my husband’s income allows me to shop at the grocery store rather than peddle accessories outside. That has everything to do with privilege and nothing to do with betterness; my head knows this well, but the concept is taking time to soak into my reflexes. (Case in point: this post from a year and a half ago.) Of all the things I wish I could change about myself, this automatic discrimination ranks high.

I drove away without speaking to the woman again. I didn’t want to raise her hopes that I wanted to buy an umbrella after all, and I felt I had already missed my chance to do the right thing—to make eye contact, smile, treat her with respect. However, I did whisper how sorry as I was as I pulled out of the parking lot where she stood motionless in the rain. I’m letting that image of her, a woman like me holding umbrellas nobody wanted while the sky dripped unchecked on her face, rest heavily in my mind in the hopes that I’ll get a do-over some day… and that when I do, my instincts will be trumped by kindness.

4Nov

Who needs an MBA?

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

How to run a successful business at the open market:

If your customer wants to know if the black boots are waterproof, say, “Are you kidding me? They’re made for water!”
If your customer is waffling over an €8 scarf, say, “I’ll give that to you for €7. Wait, did I say €7? I meant €6. You know what, we’ll just go ahead and make it 5 for €29.”
If your customer can’t find a belt in the right size, offer to punch some extra holes in one, “as a gift.”
If your customers seem to be enjoying the free cheese samples, start cutting a wedge for them to buy. If they try to protest, say, “Oh, I’m sorry; you wanted more than this?”
Put a cage of baby animals at the front of your stall—kittens, chipmunks, turtles, they’re all guaranteed to draw a crowd.

How not to run a successful business at the open market:

Talk loudly and importantly on your cell phone. If a customer asks you a question, roll your eyes and huff dramatically before you answer, then return to your conversation.
Walk around with your merchandise in a plastic bag and try to sell it to customers of a rival shop. If they decline, start asking invasive personal questions. If they mention the police, run away.
Sell felted, fringed Peruvian panchos. No one wants to buy felted, fringed Peruvian panchos.
Stare morosely at your merchandise, your customers, and the world at large that just doesn’t understand what it’s like to be you. Earphones are a nice touch as well, particularly if they’re blasting emo.
Hang a garment that is any combination of tube top, leotard, thong, and adult onesie at the front of your stall and watch the business melt away.

20Jul

Eclipse LIVE!

Posted by: Bethany in Live-Blog 3 Comments

Disclaimer #1: As much as it hurts the English major in me to do so, I have to admit that I like the Twilight books. True, they are the literary opposite of Hemingway, but sometimes a girl just wants to curl up and devour 500 delicious pages of sap. That said, the first two films convinced me that the entire cast had missed the bus to the World Poker Tour and was taking its collective lack of expression out on teenage girls everywhere.

Disclaimer #2: Nothing else terribly appealing was showing in the theater yesterday. Not that “Eclipse” was a strong contender, but I wasn’t in the mood for big explosions or family dramas. Process of elimination + expiring movie coupons + the girls at a babysitter’s + a too-filling lunch that precluded the possibility of a dinner date = me with red cheeks whispering into the ticket window that I would like two for the 8:00 showing please.

Disclaimer #3: Dan and I brought a bag of M&Ms into the theater with us to turn the cinematic torture into a kind of drinking game: one M&M each time an actor said a line without any emotion whatsoever, two each time a girl in the audience squealed, three each time a glaring plot hole presented itself, and four each instance of gratuitous shirtlessness.

Disclaimer #4: I would like to apologize to my longsuffering husband, my remaining scraps of dignity, and teenage girls everywhere.

Disclaimer #5: This live blog is 100% organic and spoiler-free.

—

8:19p – The lights dim. The music starts. We ready our bag of candy.

8:23p – We realize our plan is shot. The lively inflection in the Italian dubbing raises the quality of acting so much that the movie is actually watchable.

10:15p – The movie ends. Dan is disappointed that a certain lead female character wasn’t killed off, and I am disappointed that the hilarious awfulness in which I planned to revel failed to materialize.

10:16p – We go out to dinner after all.

4Jun

Buzzkill

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

My grocery list has been blank for the better part of today. The cursor and I blink at each other, neither of us sure where to start. It’s not like me to be paralyzed at the thought of food; after all, I’ve built up a pretty good repertoire by now of seasonal menus that manage to be both healthy and delicious, inexpensive and simple. But this morning, I read about yet another lifestyle diet, and my easily susceptible guilt center went into lockdown.

Over the last year or so, I’ve heard a lot of buzz about eating local. The arguments in favor of organic produce, free-range eggs, and grass-fed beef are still going strong as well. Then there’s the vegetarian voice, which I hear in the back of my own mind from time to time, vying to be heard over the supporters for veganism. The case to go gluten-free chimes in from multiple angles, and fans of a raw diet cheer from the sidelines. Each new way of eating promises energy, balance, and happiness while passively decrying anyone unwilling to follow it, and I’m left feeling thoroughly muddled. If we only ate local, organic, vegan, gluten-free, raw food, our meals would consist entirely of olive oil.

I have no doubt that our eating habits could be healthier, but I don’t have hours a day to devote to food preparation. We don’t have the funds to swap our usual produce haul with its organic equivalent, and it’s not like we have a Whole Foods around here anyway. If we gave up meat or dairy, we would offend every single Italian cook who invited us to dinner, and beyond that, sausage is near and dear to my little family’s heart. And dessert… Let’s just say that at my table, you will never bite into a key lime pie and discover pureed avocado.

I’ve been pretty far down the road of dietary deprivation before, and I know that it is not the right journey for me or my family, especially considering the food-adoring culture we’ve joined. I truly believe that the effort I put each week into designing a custom menu is valuable. Mealtimes at our house are happy occasions, and we each get up from the table feeling nourished (with the possible exception of the resident two-year-old who suspects vegetables to be poison). We neither have to wrestle with our beliefs nor risk indigestion when we accept dinner invitations, and I am so grateful my girls can grow up in a home where food is a peaceful subject (unless broccoli ends up on the two-year-old’s plate, of course).

I just wish I didn’t let myself feel so confused and judged by people whose right way of eating is different than mine. Don’t get me wrong—olive oil has its merits. But so do the foods we love drizzling it on. Perhaps that’s precisely where this week’s grocery list should start…

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