I love that I can hear the bells from this room. In a year (and now another week) of living here, I've never been sure if they were the bells from San Prospero or the Duomo, but either way, I love them. It makes the whole thing so much more European.
I love the view from my room, especially if you stand to the side a bit and look out slightly on an angle. The reddish of the Palazzo Vescovile turns purpleish-grayish and then maroon as dusk falls, and the sky turns such a jewel-like blue sometimes. (Incidentally, the view from my room is what is featured in that little picture on the side of the page. Or, at least, I can see a little picture. My internet prowess is not so great - read: nonexistant - so the likelihood that anyone else can see the little picture is also not so great. But anyway.)
It was nice moving back in here. It feels slightly surreal in a way: wasn't I *just* lugging these suitcases *down* the stairs in the fierce August heat just, like, five minutes ago? And now here I am dragging them back up and I have gloves and a coat on...
Good to be back, though. Like last year, when I first moved in. Such a relief, after creepy man from the Apartment of No Hot Water. I remember lovingly scrubbing the hardwood floor with hardwood-floor-scrubbing stuff and being so delighted when the dust wiped away and it started to shine. Yesterday I did that again, and cleaned the walls a bit (bizarre... I never clean the walls at home... but here they're starkly white and apparently benefit from an occasional spot of dusting). I even sforzata'd myself and took down the spiderwebs from the corners of the ceiling. Well, most of them. There's one left, and that's because there's a spider in it. He is just innocuous-looking enough that I don't mind leaving him there, partially because he is very high up and I don't particularly fancy having him land on my head if I try to get him with the broom.
Anyway, now everything is shiny and clean and I went to Esselunga and got some vegetables which I shall attempt to work up the courage to cook and it feels like this is my home again. It's very soothing.
It's nice sitting here at my newly-built desk with the bells going and the sounds of the market drifting up and over from the piazze. The swivel chair, by the way, is holding up nicely and has been supporting my full weight for at least twenty minutes despite the fact that I left out two screws and another metal-y hexagon thing when I built it yesterday morning.
I think I will go make a sandwich with some fresh mozzarella. I missed fresh mozzarella. It's good to be back.
Sunday, January 17
Saturday, January 16
Ikea
Ikea is awesome. You can go in there looking for a screwdriver, or a little table, or what-have-you, spend three hours walking through their ridiculously huge display area, fantasizing about how to furnish a Swedish/Spartan-themed mansion, and come out with a pile of random (but useful!) stuff all on a handy little cart that they will sell you for 10euro. You may or may not end up with the screwdriver you were originally looking for.
I've gotten to be a pro at Ikea shopping, though, having used it to furnish my entire life (by which I mean one single small-ish bedroom) last year. I didn't even have the use of a car last year, which made it all the more exciting. The Bologna Ikea advertises a convenient "navetta elettrica" to take you from the train station straight to Ikea and back for 5euro. The trick is that nowhere does it mention exactly in what part of the station you should wait for this bus. My strategy last time was to stand near that big clock right in the center of the train station piazza, from where I monitored to comings and goings of all buses and still missed it. This is because (it turns out) the Ikea bus is just a regular bus, but with a little placard in the front window that says Ikea. Yeah, good luck spotting that from across the street.
Anyway, plan B: I got on a train to Casalecchio, as suggested by the charming Trenitalia people, ended up in what was presumably Casalecchio (whose train station is out in the middle of nowhere) and, after five minutes spent feeling sure that I had been abandoned by the side of the road in a train station where no trains would ever come again, I picked myself up and decided to walk along the side of the road towards some signs that looked promising. Forty five minutes later, I marched my sweaty (this was last September) and dusty self into Ikea. Lesson learned: the level of safety of strolling along the side of the tangenziale is probably fairly minimal. I do not recommend it.
The other problem if you have no car is that you have to carry your purchases yourself, so last year I struggled home holding a bookshelf and a small table with a lamp and some cups stuffed into my purse. So classy. Oh, so classy. This engendered more than one "hey, I'll help you carry that" type comment from the helpful characters that hang around the train station, but I made it home in one (sweaty) piece. Note: do not respond to the characters who hang around the train station, whatever they may say.
In any case, a year and a half later, I am proud to say that the shelf is still standing, the lightbulb in the lamp has yet to go out (!) and it is sitting comfortably on the little table.
This year, I was all 'I've been living here for a year now, and it would be fun to have a desk and a chair upon which to rest my laptop and myself, respectively'. So these were purchased (in a largely similar way, except now I know where the navetta stops: if you are at the train station, turn around so that you are facing away from it, cross the street, walk towards viale Indipendenza, past the hotel Mercure, and almost to the corner, and stop under the McDonald's sign, which may or may not have a clock attached to it, if memory serves me correctly).
Building Ikea furniture is half the fun. It's all so satisfying, you know? Especially for a girl, because I never get to build stuff from scratch because... hammers and saws and stuff... they are tricky. So here comes this furniture with the pieces all tidily cut out (good, because I particularly don't feel confident about saws) and smelling like wood (or fake wood with varnish on it, but whatever) and a pile of little screws and stuff.
It kind of falls into two categories, though: the kind that has everything you need in the box (e.g. the Lack table, where you just twist the legs on and the whole process takes approximately three minutes) and the kind where you need outside help from screwdrivers and stuff. With the latter kind, I like to play a fun game, which is called "how many parts can I eliminate and still have the thing not fall over when I'm done?" Yes. It is a good game.
For example, this desk (amusingly called Flarke - I kind of wish I spoke Swedish, because isn't flarke a great word? I wish I knew what it meant and google translate is silent on this issue). It is the simplest desk Ikea has available, and yet it involves about eight nails, four screw-type things that you do with the Ikea twisty piece screwdriver thing (yeah, technical term), and a whole pile of other screws with which to attach the keyboard tray.
Yes, well, I have no keyboard and no screwdriver, so never mind about the keyboard tray. Poof! A whole pile of screws rendered unecessary. The nails are apparently to attach some bits of rubbery plastic to the bottom so that it won't scratch your floor, but I have no hammer, so I will simply build the thing on a rug and then not move it around too much and then it won't scratch my floor. Poof! We're down eight nails and a pesky hammer issue. Next: I attach the two sides to one another by means of a piece of wood that stretches across the back of the desk, using the Ikea twisty piece screwdriver thing and the four screw-type things.
It is tricky building furniture by oneself, but I manage by propping things on the bed and using all four extremities to grip things, monkey-style. (Again, so classy.) Anyway, thus connected, the two sides are now able to stand. Huzzah! All that is missing is the top. Four of the screws need to be screwed into the underside of the top so that they can drop into slots on the side parts so that it won't move around. I do not have a screwdriver, but I improvise using one blade of a set of kiddie scissors (NB: if you ever decide to try this, do not let yourself be tempted to grip the scissors by the blade - it will probably not end well). This is, as you can imagine, not as efficient as using an actual screwdriver, so I only do two of them. As far as I can tell, using knowledge garnered from a year of college physics (which I barely passed, but let's not get picky), as long as you put two of them in (any two, I think), it's probably not going anywhere. And there we go. That's how to build a desk using four pieces of (fake) wood and six screws.
Today I'm going to build a swivel chair. We'll see how that goes.
I've gotten to be a pro at Ikea shopping, though, having used it to furnish my entire life (by which I mean one single small-ish bedroom) last year. I didn't even have the use of a car last year, which made it all the more exciting. The Bologna Ikea advertises a convenient "navetta elettrica" to take you from the train station straight to Ikea and back for 5euro. The trick is that nowhere does it mention exactly in what part of the station you should wait for this bus. My strategy last time was to stand near that big clock right in the center of the train station piazza, from where I monitored to comings and goings of all buses and still missed it. This is because (it turns out) the Ikea bus is just a regular bus, but with a little placard in the front window that says Ikea. Yeah, good luck spotting that from across the street.
Anyway, plan B: I got on a train to Casalecchio, as suggested by the charming Trenitalia people, ended up in what was presumably Casalecchio (whose train station is out in the middle of nowhere) and, after five minutes spent feeling sure that I had been abandoned by the side of the road in a train station where no trains would ever come again, I picked myself up and decided to walk along the side of the road towards some signs that looked promising. Forty five minutes later, I marched my sweaty (this was last September) and dusty self into Ikea. Lesson learned: the level of safety of strolling along the side of the tangenziale is probably fairly minimal. I do not recommend it.
The other problem if you have no car is that you have to carry your purchases yourself, so last year I struggled home holding a bookshelf and a small table with a lamp and some cups stuffed into my purse. So classy. Oh, so classy. This engendered more than one "hey, I'll help you carry that" type comment from the helpful characters that hang around the train station, but I made it home in one (sweaty) piece. Note: do not respond to the characters who hang around the train station, whatever they may say.
In any case, a year and a half later, I am proud to say that the shelf is still standing, the lightbulb in the lamp has yet to go out (!) and it is sitting comfortably on the little table.
This year, I was all 'I've been living here for a year now, and it would be fun to have a desk and a chair upon which to rest my laptop and myself, respectively'. So these were purchased (in a largely similar way, except now I know where the navetta stops: if you are at the train station, turn around so that you are facing away from it, cross the street, walk towards viale Indipendenza, past the hotel Mercure, and almost to the corner, and stop under the McDonald's sign, which may or may not have a clock attached to it, if memory serves me correctly).
Building Ikea furniture is half the fun. It's all so satisfying, you know? Especially for a girl, because I never get to build stuff from scratch because... hammers and saws and stuff... they are tricky. So here comes this furniture with the pieces all tidily cut out (good, because I particularly don't feel confident about saws) and smelling like wood (or fake wood with varnish on it, but whatever) and a pile of little screws and stuff.
It kind of falls into two categories, though: the kind that has everything you need in the box (e.g. the Lack table, where you just twist the legs on and the whole process takes approximately three minutes) and the kind where you need outside help from screwdrivers and stuff. With the latter kind, I like to play a fun game, which is called "how many parts can I eliminate and still have the thing not fall over when I'm done?" Yes. It is a good game.
For example, this desk (amusingly called Flarke - I kind of wish I spoke Swedish, because isn't flarke a great word? I wish I knew what it meant and google translate is silent on this issue). It is the simplest desk Ikea has available, and yet it involves about eight nails, four screw-type things that you do with the Ikea twisty piece screwdriver thing (yeah, technical term), and a whole pile of other screws with which to attach the keyboard tray.
Yes, well, I have no keyboard and no screwdriver, so never mind about the keyboard tray. Poof! A whole pile of screws rendered unecessary. The nails are apparently to attach some bits of rubbery plastic to the bottom so that it won't scratch your floor, but I have no hammer, so I will simply build the thing on a rug and then not move it around too much and then it won't scratch my floor. Poof! We're down eight nails and a pesky hammer issue. Next: I attach the two sides to one another by means of a piece of wood that stretches across the back of the desk, using the Ikea twisty piece screwdriver thing and the four screw-type things.
It is tricky building furniture by oneself, but I manage by propping things on the bed and using all four extremities to grip things, monkey-style. (Again, so classy.) Anyway, thus connected, the two sides are now able to stand. Huzzah! All that is missing is the top. Four of the screws need to be screwed into the underside of the top so that they can drop into slots on the side parts so that it won't move around. I do not have a screwdriver, but I improvise using one blade of a set of kiddie scissors (NB: if you ever decide to try this, do not let yourself be tempted to grip the scissors by the blade - it will probably not end well). This is, as you can imagine, not as efficient as using an actual screwdriver, so I only do two of them. As far as I can tell, using knowledge garnered from a year of college physics (which I barely passed, but let's not get picky), as long as you put two of them in (any two, I think), it's probably not going anywhere. And there we go. That's how to build a desk using four pieces of (fake) wood and six screws.
Today I'm going to build a swivel chair. We'll see how that goes.
Friday, January 15
Tornata
Eccomi tornata a Reggio. The fountain, apparently not frozen, greets us with its energetic splashes of water. The Via Emilia bustles with people on their passeggiata, and the crepe guy with the erratic schedule is in Piazza del Monte. Oviesse still closes on Thursday afternoons, and Conad on Tuesday afternoons. Pan' comune is still oddly dry and crusty on the outside but fluffy on the inside, and in the cute restaurant on Via Roma with all the old-ish guys who seem to know each other, they offer us Lambrusco and I am happy to see it again. (Not because I'm obsessed with swilling Lambrusco or something, but just because it's so emblematic of this place.)
The cobblestones still snatch at my heels and they still empty the recycling bin of vetro at five in the morning with the street cleaners following close behind. Market day clogs the piazze with stalls and people. The nebbia blankets the countryside around us, though I'm proud to report that I still remember how to get to Nearby Village all on my own, nebbia and darkness notwithstanding. The blue car with its pseudo-automatic transmission still has trouble switching gears.
Speaking of which, in Nearby Village, my students have all grown about a foot each, and are fairly jumping up and down with excitment to show me their new hamster and update me on their class gossip (they're eleven).
"Allontanarsi dalla linea gialla," is still my favorite thing to hear at the train station, though I'll admit to not being able to name all the stops on the Ancona regionale anymore.
My little babysitting charge nearly leaps off the stairs at me when I pick her up from school.
"Just normal cheese," she responds when I ask her what kind she wants on her gnocchi, "grana." Obviously, says her good-natured roll of the eyes. I smile.
"Aspetta un attimo, che I need to give la Cri a hug!" the secretary interrupts her phone conversation when I walk into the school, "oh, ma questa volta non ti lasciamo piu' andare."
"Ma sei tornata?" a group of old students exclaim.
Si, son' tornata. Is there a smiley-face icon here somewhere?
The cobblestones still snatch at my heels and they still empty the recycling bin of vetro at five in the morning with the street cleaners following close behind. Market day clogs the piazze with stalls and people. The nebbia blankets the countryside around us, though I'm proud to report that I still remember how to get to Nearby Village all on my own, nebbia and darkness notwithstanding. The blue car with its pseudo-automatic transmission still has trouble switching gears.
Speaking of which, in Nearby Village, my students have all grown about a foot each, and are fairly jumping up and down with excitment to show me their new hamster and update me on their class gossip (they're eleven).
"Allontanarsi dalla linea gialla," is still my favorite thing to hear at the train station, though I'll admit to not being able to name all the stops on the Ancona regionale anymore.
My little babysitting charge nearly leaps off the stairs at me when I pick her up from school.
"Just normal cheese," she responds when I ask her what kind she wants on her gnocchi, "grana." Obviously, says her good-natured roll of the eyes. I smile.
"Aspetta un attimo, che I need to give la Cri a hug!" the secretary interrupts her phone conversation when I walk into the school, "oh, ma questa volta non ti lasciamo piu' andare."
"Ma sei tornata?" a group of old students exclaim.
Si, son' tornata. Is there a smiley-face icon here somewhere?
Monday, January 4
Only in France
"No, don't get me wrong - fish is great, and healthy, too!" insists an uncle of some sort midway through the main course of one of our many must-see-as-much-of-the-French-family-as-possible-while-we-are-here dinners. "But you have to try some of the specialties while you're here, too."
It is unfortunate. My brother and I have done well this time, arriving at the restaurant a bit early to allow ourselves time to peruse and decipher the menu beforehand in order to smoothly order our (admittedly somewhat conservative) velouté de carotte followed by grilled fish, thus avoiding having to ask our mother awkward questions. (For example: 'what's tartare, again?' 'raw meat' 'oh... right.') Somehow, though, we are still getting the 'you silly Americans, with your egregiously limited palate' lecture. Sigh.
"You've had moules (mussels), haven't you?"
Luckily, we have (before we were old enough to really know what was going on).
"And huitres (oysters)?"
I do not share the fact that I was sick for a week after the one and only time I tried an oyster (it was probably just unfortunately-timed, but I still like to blame the oyster).
"How about snails?"
Neither of us have ever tried snails. We protest that they just look so slimey and not particularly edible.
"But if you've tried oysters, snails are completely innocuous by comparison!" he informs us. "And if you think they look slimey when they're alive, you should see them when they're being prepared!"
An informative two or three minutes ensues, during which we learn that before you eat them, you have to make them "baver" (literal translation: drool) by packing them in salt. This gets all of the unwanted... um... stuff... out of them. He and my mother (who apparently witnessed this phenomenon during a stay in Bourgogne, which, they tell us, is where the best snails are) discuss the grossness of "drooling" snails at length. This does not increase the likelihood of me trying them in the near future.
"It's kind of like when Mémé Elise used to kill the rabbits!" reminisces the uncle.
"Oh, yeah! The rabbits in that little hutch in her garden... poor things..." you can tell my mother is trying to inject a little sympathy into the situation purely for our benefit. It does not really work, so she changes the subject: "You know what was really nasty, though? The chickens. Remember how she used chase them around and then grab them and break their necks and tear all the feathers out in the kitchen? And there'd be chicken feathers flying around the house for the rest of the day?"
"She made Yvonne such a nice little coat with those when she was a baby, remember?"
Charming. (Also beginning to sound slightly Little House on the Prairie). They are starting to get quite maudlin about this grandmother, who, admittedly, was quite a character. (Her other exploits include wielding a pitchfork during epic battles with her rooster.)
"Oh!" something brilliant has apparently occurred to the uncle, "but you know what's really good?" he pauses for effect. "Frog legs!"
Indeed.
"No, seriously, you should try them - they sell them in 1 kilo bags at the grocery store. With the other frozen foods."
I refrain from laughing with difficulty. Some other relative launches on a complex explanation of how to best cook them (all I remember is that it involves a lot of butter... naturally). Someone else is commenting in a serious tone that frog legs do not taste at all like beef. (Okay...)
I personally am still stuck on the idea of a 1 kilo bag of frog legs. What would the packaging look like? Innocent little froggies peering out at you? Little frog legs already roasted on a spit? Or sautéed or whatever? Or perhaps the bags are transparent? What do frog legs even look like? Is the skin still on them?
Clearly what I need to do is to head over to Picard (the supermarket that specializes in frozen foods) and check this situation out.
In the meantime, I suppress another giggle. Only in France.
It is unfortunate. My brother and I have done well this time, arriving at the restaurant a bit early to allow ourselves time to peruse and decipher the menu beforehand in order to smoothly order our (admittedly somewhat conservative) velouté de carotte followed by grilled fish, thus avoiding having to ask our mother awkward questions. (For example: 'what's tartare, again?' 'raw meat' 'oh... right.') Somehow, though, we are still getting the 'you silly Americans, with your egregiously limited palate' lecture. Sigh.
"You've had moules (mussels), haven't you?"
Luckily, we have (before we were old enough to really know what was going on).
"And huitres (oysters)?"
I do not share the fact that I was sick for a week after the one and only time I tried an oyster (it was probably just unfortunately-timed, but I still like to blame the oyster).
"How about snails?"
Neither of us have ever tried snails. We protest that they just look so slimey and not particularly edible.
"But if you've tried oysters, snails are completely innocuous by comparison!" he informs us. "And if you think they look slimey when they're alive, you should see them when they're being prepared!"
An informative two or three minutes ensues, during which we learn that before you eat them, you have to make them "baver" (literal translation: drool) by packing them in salt. This gets all of the unwanted... um... stuff... out of them. He and my mother (who apparently witnessed this phenomenon during a stay in Bourgogne, which, they tell us, is where the best snails are) discuss the grossness of "drooling" snails at length. This does not increase the likelihood of me trying them in the near future.
"It's kind of like when Mémé Elise used to kill the rabbits!" reminisces the uncle.
"Oh, yeah! The rabbits in that little hutch in her garden... poor things..." you can tell my mother is trying to inject a little sympathy into the situation purely for our benefit. It does not really work, so she changes the subject: "You know what was really nasty, though? The chickens. Remember how she used chase them around and then grab them and break their necks and tear all the feathers out in the kitchen? And there'd be chicken feathers flying around the house for the rest of the day?"
"She made Yvonne such a nice little coat with those when she was a baby, remember?"
Charming. (Also beginning to sound slightly Little House on the Prairie). They are starting to get quite maudlin about this grandmother, who, admittedly, was quite a character. (Her other exploits include wielding a pitchfork during epic battles with her rooster.)
"Oh!" something brilliant has apparently occurred to the uncle, "but you know what's really good?" he pauses for effect. "Frog legs!"
Indeed.
"No, seriously, you should try them - they sell them in 1 kilo bags at the grocery store. With the other frozen foods."
I refrain from laughing with difficulty. Some other relative launches on a complex explanation of how to best cook them (all I remember is that it involves a lot of butter... naturally). Someone else is commenting in a serious tone that frog legs do not taste at all like beef. (Okay...)
I personally am still stuck on the idea of a 1 kilo bag of frog legs. What would the packaging look like? Innocent little froggies peering out at you? Little frog legs already roasted on a spit? Or sautéed or whatever? Or perhaps the bags are transparent? What do frog legs even look like? Is the skin still on them?
Clearly what I need to do is to head over to Picard (the supermarket that specializes in frozen foods) and check this situation out.
In the meantime, I suppress another giggle. Only in France.
Sunday, January 3
Italian Food in America. Verdict: Risky
At best.
"So, how are you tonight? Aside from being freezing cold and wet, probably. It's snowing pretty hard out there, huh?" the young waiter soliloquizes* by way of introducing himself. If you are a stray Italian who has wandered onto this site and wonders why this is: it is because in America, tips aren't automatically included in the bill. You have to remember to leave them at the end of the meal, of your own volition. This is irritating and requires you to calculate percentages and stuff like that. It also causes the waiters to share far more of their personal lives and/or opinions on such things as the weather than you probably care about. You guys definitely have the better system. (Beppe Severgnini has a hilarious chapter about this in one of his hilarious books; I believe it is called "Un Italiano in America". Or "Ciao, America" for the English version. And I am not being sarcastic. He really is hilarious.)
In any case, though, I wish I could just stop the guy mid-paragraph: 'relax. We're going to tip you. You don't have to befriend us. Now just shut up and let us read the menu in peace.' I mean, if we'd wanted to sit around being hungry while someone blathered on unintelligently about nothing, we could've just stayed home and turned on the tv.
"... and a great cheese tortellini in creamy alfredo sauce." He is evidently giving the specials. "I had it myself during my break," he enthuses. Fun fact.
And probably a bad decision on his part. Alfredo sauce, apart from being kind of gross, is probably like guaranteed heart failure. Particularly when poured over cheese tortellini.
Also, minus fifty points for mentioning Alfredo sauce at all. Apart from being kind of gross (I feel the need to reiterate this) it is sort of like "french dressing" (and "Italian dressing", for that matter) in that it has absolutely nothing to do with the country from which it purportedly hails. I can guarantee that if you stick a bottle of "french dressing" in front of a French person, they will laugh at you until they taste it, after which they will possibly clock you over the head with the bottle. I was explaining this point to a mixed group of Italians and Americans once, and mentioned "alfredo sauce" as a comparable example of this phenomenon; one of the Italians launched into such a rant I almost started to worry he was going to give himself a stroke.
So, Italian restaurants in America: don't serve alfredo sauce, because it will cause you to lose all of your credibility. Or do, because most of America seems to like it. Whatever.
Anyway, one "main course" later (it was actually primi if you want to get picky: risotto that was tasty but not really risotto and some very chewy gnocchi in an oddly tasteless sauce), the dessert menu yielded the following: cheesecake (okay...), fudge brownie (I think we lost our Italian theme), apple pie (ditto), profiteroles (these are actually French, but whatever), tiramisu (oh, wait, here we go), and a rather linguistically-challenged "torta de nona". Interestingly enough, that last did not seem to be in any way related to torta della nonna, though I can only assume that's what they were going for.
We chose the profiteroles, which were a crime against French cooking, but on the bright side, no one will ever know because they will think the whole thing was Italian. Sorry, Italy.
Anyway, conclusion: Italian food, generally speaking, is a lot better in Italy. And note that I say "generally speaking". This is because some of the best Italian food I have ever had was actually in America, in the town where I went to college, in the restaurant owned, interestingly enough, by the professor who taught Italian II.
So, actually, I guess that means that the real conclusion is that you have to try it to know for sure... but it's kind of at your own risk, so good luck with that.
*Soliloquizes looks very bizarre written down, but Merriam-Webster online confirms that 'to soliloquize' is indeed a verb. ... It's probably a little pretentious that I feel the need to put footnotes in my blog. Oh, well.
"So, how are you tonight? Aside from being freezing cold and wet, probably. It's snowing pretty hard out there, huh?" the young waiter soliloquizes* by way of introducing himself. If you are a stray Italian who has wandered onto this site and wonders why this is: it is because in America, tips aren't automatically included in the bill. You have to remember to leave them at the end of the meal, of your own volition. This is irritating and requires you to calculate percentages and stuff like that. It also causes the waiters to share far more of their personal lives and/or opinions on such things as the weather than you probably care about. You guys definitely have the better system. (Beppe Severgnini has a hilarious chapter about this in one of his hilarious books; I believe it is called "Un Italiano in America". Or "Ciao, America" for the English version. And I am not being sarcastic. He really is hilarious.)
In any case, though, I wish I could just stop the guy mid-paragraph: 'relax. We're going to tip you. You don't have to befriend us. Now just shut up and let us read the menu in peace.' I mean, if we'd wanted to sit around being hungry while someone blathered on unintelligently about nothing, we could've just stayed home and turned on the tv.
"... and a great cheese tortellini in creamy alfredo sauce." He is evidently giving the specials. "I had it myself during my break," he enthuses. Fun fact.
And probably a bad decision on his part. Alfredo sauce, apart from being kind of gross, is probably like guaranteed heart failure. Particularly when poured over cheese tortellini.
Also, minus fifty points for mentioning Alfredo sauce at all. Apart from being kind of gross (I feel the need to reiterate this) it is sort of like "french dressing" (and "Italian dressing", for that matter) in that it has absolutely nothing to do with the country from which it purportedly hails. I can guarantee that if you stick a bottle of "french dressing" in front of a French person, they will laugh at you until they taste it, after which they will possibly clock you over the head with the bottle. I was explaining this point to a mixed group of Italians and Americans once, and mentioned "alfredo sauce" as a comparable example of this phenomenon; one of the Italians launched into such a rant I almost started to worry he was going to give himself a stroke.
So, Italian restaurants in America: don't serve alfredo sauce, because it will cause you to lose all of your credibility. Or do, because most of America seems to like it. Whatever.
Anyway, one "main course" later (it was actually primi if you want to get picky: risotto that was tasty but not really risotto and some very chewy gnocchi in an oddly tasteless sauce), the dessert menu yielded the following: cheesecake (okay...), fudge brownie (I think we lost our Italian theme), apple pie (ditto), profiteroles (these are actually French, but whatever), tiramisu (oh, wait, here we go), and a rather linguistically-challenged "torta de nona". Interestingly enough, that last did not seem to be in any way related to torta della nonna, though I can only assume that's what they were going for.
We chose the profiteroles, which were a crime against French cooking, but on the bright side, no one will ever know because they will think the whole thing was Italian. Sorry, Italy.
Anyway, conclusion: Italian food, generally speaking, is a lot better in Italy. And note that I say "generally speaking". This is because some of the best Italian food I have ever had was actually in America, in the town where I went to college, in the restaurant owned, interestingly enough, by the professor who taught Italian II.
So, actually, I guess that means that the real conclusion is that you have to try it to know for sure... but it's kind of at your own risk, so good luck with that.
*Soliloquizes looks very bizarre written down, but Merriam-Webster online confirms that 'to soliloquize' is indeed a verb. ... It's probably a little pretentious that I feel the need to put footnotes in my blog. Oh, well.
Saturday, January 2
New Year
A very happy 2010 to all!
I'm back! (Not from the dead. Although I did catch the Cold of Death, probably from my piccolini at the daycare, but I'm over it and so I forgive them.) Anyway. Um...
December in brief:
12/3 - Make final decision to move back to Reggio. Give notice at daycare. An interesting mix of sadness and awkwardness ensues. Promise to return for visits in the summer.
12/12 - Experience Italian food in America. Will possibly share thoughts on this in the near future. (And by "near" I probably mean "sometime before 2011".)
12/19 - Try new Indian restaurant in Morristown. Is delicious, and markedly better than previous week's restaurant experience.
12/20 - Bake Christmas cookies!!! (Um, yes, because clearly this was important for everyone to know.)
12/23 - Holiday parties at daycare. This involves a.) decorating our room with decorations that are both festive and evenly spread among the various holidays but also religion-free (this is harder than you'd think) as well as made by the children (baby sweatshop!), b.) coordinating a lot of easily chewable nut-free food, and c.) coralling my children into some sort of circle so that we can perform our "holiday songs". Yes, perform. The one-year-olds. They actually did remarkably well, my little geniuses. Am proud mommy! (Lest anyone be confused: I am kidding. These are the daycare children. I don't have any that are actually mine.) Anyway...
12/24 - Finish Christmas shopping circa 3pm. (Also vital information.) To ponder: why do I feel like this is actually an improvement on previous years? New year's resolution: research methods to combat procrastination.
12/25 - Christmas!! In case you weren't aware.
12/26 - Pack life into two suitcases for the third time in a year and a half. (Probably should consider being a little more stationary at some point in the near future.) Finish up some last minute travel arrangements.
12/27 - Make way to Newark to depart for the motherland (France). Renew my (largely unfounded) dislike for Newark airport.
12/28 - Arrive in motherland. Eat bread. Yum. Curl up in bed with Cold of Death.
Which pretty much brings us to the present.
I'm back! (Not from the dead. Although I did catch the Cold of Death, probably from my piccolini at the daycare, but I'm over it and so I forgive them.) Anyway. Um...
December in brief:
12/3 - Make final decision to move back to Reggio. Give notice at daycare. An interesting mix of sadness and awkwardness ensues. Promise to return for visits in the summer.
12/12 - Experience Italian food in America. Will possibly share thoughts on this in the near future. (And by "near" I probably mean "sometime before 2011".)
12/19 - Try new Indian restaurant in Morristown. Is delicious, and markedly better than previous week's restaurant experience.
12/20 - Bake Christmas cookies!!! (Um, yes, because clearly this was important for everyone to know.)
12/23 - Holiday parties at daycare. This involves a.) decorating our room with decorations that are both festive and evenly spread among the various holidays but also religion-free (this is harder than you'd think) as well as made by the children (baby sweatshop!), b.) coordinating a lot of easily chewable nut-free food, and c.) coralling my children into some sort of circle so that we can perform our "holiday songs". Yes, perform. The one-year-olds. They actually did remarkably well, my little geniuses. Am proud mommy! (Lest anyone be confused: I am kidding. These are the daycare children. I don't have any that are actually mine.) Anyway...
12/24 - Finish Christmas shopping circa 3pm. (Also vital information.) To ponder: why do I feel like this is actually an improvement on previous years? New year's resolution: research methods to combat procrastination.
12/25 - Christmas!! In case you weren't aware.
12/26 - Pack life into two suitcases for the third time in a year and a half. (Probably should consider being a little more stationary at some point in the near future.) Finish up some last minute travel arrangements.
12/27 - Make way to Newark to depart for the motherland (France). Renew my (largely unfounded) dislike for Newark airport.
12/28 - Arrive in motherland. Eat bread. Yum. Curl up in bed with Cold of Death.
Which pretty much brings us to the present.
Tuesday, December 29
Moving to Italy: What to pack
I wrote this while I was in Paris and bored with a sinus infection and thought I would just try my hand at that informational type of writing. You know - the useful kind. I don't think I am very good at it. But for some reason I'm going to subject this blog to it anyway...
So, last september I was all like "I will bring sheets and an umbrella and socks and a fuzzy blanket and some fashionable shoes and pots and pans maybe a measuring cup and then I will learn how to cook delicious Italian food. Oh, and clothes. Probably I will bring clothes. And books, because no Borders for a year! OMG." (I never actually say OMG. It is silly internet-speak.) I thought I was being all reasonable because I had decided my pillows probably wouldn't fit.
Oh, self. You are so silly.
The pillows didn't fit, obviously, and nor did any of that stuff except the clothes and some books (got in just under the weight limit! huzzah!) and the umbrella because I carried it.
This time, I am packing with a lot more wisdom (subtle cough) under my belt (mixed metaphors. so unnattractive.) and so I can share some of my wisdom with you, should you be experiencing a situation in which you have to pack your stuff in order to move to Italy. Or France, really. Or maybe lots of places, but those are the only two I can tell you about with sort of any authority.
Also, this is more relevant if you're going somewhere for a medium length of time, like studying abroad or something. Longer than a quick week or two of vacation, but shorter than your life. If you're relocating your entire life, definitely you should find a better source than me.
1. Clothes. These are important, because it is good to be clothed. A lot of people tell you not to bring too many clothes because you will want to buy lots there. This is partially true, because they have nice clothes and it is always nice to buy nice clothes, but also only applies if you can afford to do so. If you are going to be looking for a job and have limited savings to use in the meantime, you should probably plan accordingly and bring some clothes to wear until then.
Other than that... Italians dress quite nicely. In the winter they wear a lot of black. They do not go anywhere in their sweatpants and nor should you. (Or, well, you can, but you might feel a touch awkward.) They don't tend to walk around in either sneakers or flip-flops, at least not in Reggio (except maybe the early teens crowd). Beyond that... well, I suck at fashion, so go find a better source.
Oh, except: useful information - there is a big sale after Christmas (and possibly one in July? I wasn't really paying attention) so that's good to keep in mind. Cultural difference: it is not like Macy's and stuff where things seem to be perpetually 10% off for one reason or another, or Gap and stuff where they send you a coupon by email every twenty minutes.
2. Things to put in your house. Like furniture and sheets. Yeah, good luck with that. Unless you are supernaturally talented with the packing or are planning to ship things over via some fancy transnational moving thing that I know nothing about (see relocating your whole life, why I am not knowledgeable about it), this is going to be difficult. There is a good and cheap source for such things, and it is called Ikea. You can buy a pillow for, like, two euro, and also pots and plates and bedspreads and fuzzy blankets and furniture and all kinds of random oddly-shaped things with cool Swedish names.
3. Books. Books are delightful and they are probably one of my favorite things in the world. Unfortunately, they are heavy and airline weight restrictions are getting irritatingly rigid. If the thought of being away from your library and Borders and whatever makes you, like me, hurt inside, there is still hope. There are actually an impressive number of sources of English speaking books in Italy. Here are some, listed in whatever order they're popping into my head:
- Libreria all'Arco on the Via Emilia in Reggio (there is a shelf of foreign books upstairs and towards the back in a little room on the left)
- Biblioteca Panizzi on Via Farini in Reggio (there are various foreign sections - not a particularly stellar collection in English, but worth a try)
- Feltrinelli International on Via Zamboni in Bologna (good selection, also some other languages and lots of instructional language type books, too)
- There's a Feltrinelli International in Milan, too, nearish the train station but I can't really remember where. Also in Turin. This type of bookstore has caused me to miss trains more than once.
- And another one in Perugia, near the Piazza IV Novembre.
- That bookstore that's kind of half suspended in the air in the Roma Termini train station: in the upstairs, suspended-looking part there are a lot of English books.
- The Paperback Exchange, very near the Duomo in Florence, but I can't remember the street name. Dell'Oca, maybe? Google it, though. It's a lovely bookstore where you can even sell back your books and get store credit to buy new ones. Or cheaper used ones. (I do this almost every time I go to Florence.)
In Paris:
- Gibert Jeune, Place St. Michel - this is a whole series of bookstores that each specialize in some different subject (like math, science, social sciences, etc.). You have to find the one that is labelled "langues etrangeres" or something. They're all grouped around the Place. And it's a really lovely spot, too.
- WH Smith on the Rue de Rivoli (near the end - not the end towards the Hotel de Ville and stuff, but the other end, by the Place de la Concorde). Big fancy store that also apparently sells some British candy and stuff. Splendid selection.
Actually... I think there is a whole blog devoted to bookstores in other countries. Hang on. Yes. Here you go: http://www.bookstoreguide.org/. Never mind. They have much better information than I do. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is how I found all of these originally.
4. Toiletries and stuff. If you have a favorite brand of deodorant that you are attached to, bring some. Ditto toothpaste and stuff. They have a fairly decent selection of all these type things (toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving gel, etc.) but if you have very strong feelings about having a particular one, then bring it. No liquid in carry-ons, though, remember.
5. Over-the-counter medicine. They do not sell this stuff in Esselunga the way they do in Wal-Mart. If you need medicine in Italy (or France) you have to go in the pharmacy and explain to the person what is wrong with you and they will give you whatever they deem appropriate. In France this usually means enough drugs to medicate a small town. They are generally very solicitious and nice. However, when I'm sick, I like to drag myself into a sweatshirt, select whatever I want from a shelf that contains every variety of Tylenol ever invented and go home having had minimal contact with actual people. If you are like me in this respect, bring along your drugs of choice. My personal stock includes Tylenol, Tylenol Cold (day), Tylenol Cold (night), Neosporin, and Halls cough drops. (Yes. I like Tylenol.) Band-aids, in case you're wondering, ARE sold at Esselunga and stuff.
6. Things that involve electricity. Be careful with this. Depending on how you plug American things into a European wall, you can make the things in question blow up (at least inside). No, seriously. The voltage is different, which means you need a converting thing. (As you can probably already tell, I am no expert in physics, and so you really should find a more reliable source for this part. Unless you are as un-informed as me, in which case you may possibly understand this version better.)
Anyway, there are two kinds of converting things: the kind that converts just the shape of the plug, and the kind that converts the actual electricity. The former is good for things like laptop chargers, because apparently they convert the voltage themselves (mine says so right on that little box with the light). The latter is good for everything else, I guess, although I really would not risk it, because, you know, blowing things up. Not so good.
(Fun fact: the converse - meaning European things with American electricity - is apparently not true. American voltage is much lower, so apparently things like cell phones just charge very slowly. This information makes a lot of sense, but my practical experience with it involves one single cell phone. Small sample size: seek other information before trying at home.)
So, that's all I can think of. I think I will go dispose of my immense pile of tissues now and possibly venture out into Paris. Because it is silly to sit here with tissues and the internet when there is Paris out there, regardless of the condition of my sinuses.
So, last september I was all like "I will bring sheets and an umbrella and socks and a fuzzy blanket and some fashionable shoes and pots and pans maybe a measuring cup and then I will learn how to cook delicious Italian food. Oh, and clothes. Probably I will bring clothes. And books, because no Borders for a year! OMG." (I never actually say OMG. It is silly internet-speak.) I thought I was being all reasonable because I had decided my pillows probably wouldn't fit.
Oh, self. You are so silly.
The pillows didn't fit, obviously, and nor did any of that stuff except the clothes and some books (got in just under the weight limit! huzzah!) and the umbrella because I carried it.
This time, I am packing with a lot more wisdom (subtle cough) under my belt (mixed metaphors. so unnattractive.) and so I can share some of my wisdom with you, should you be experiencing a situation in which you have to pack your stuff in order to move to Italy. Or France, really. Or maybe lots of places, but those are the only two I can tell you about with sort of any authority.
Also, this is more relevant if you're going somewhere for a medium length of time, like studying abroad or something. Longer than a quick week or two of vacation, but shorter than your life. If you're relocating your entire life, definitely you should find a better source than me.
1. Clothes. These are important, because it is good to be clothed. A lot of people tell you not to bring too many clothes because you will want to buy lots there. This is partially true, because they have nice clothes and it is always nice to buy nice clothes, but also only applies if you can afford to do so. If you are going to be looking for a job and have limited savings to use in the meantime, you should probably plan accordingly and bring some clothes to wear until then.
Other than that... Italians dress quite nicely. In the winter they wear a lot of black. They do not go anywhere in their sweatpants and nor should you. (Or, well, you can, but you might feel a touch awkward.) They don't tend to walk around in either sneakers or flip-flops, at least not in Reggio (except maybe the early teens crowd). Beyond that... well, I suck at fashion, so go find a better source.
Oh, except: useful information - there is a big sale after Christmas (and possibly one in July? I wasn't really paying attention) so that's good to keep in mind. Cultural difference: it is not like Macy's and stuff where things seem to be perpetually 10% off for one reason or another, or Gap and stuff where they send you a coupon by email every twenty minutes.
2. Things to put in your house. Like furniture and sheets. Yeah, good luck with that. Unless you are supernaturally talented with the packing or are planning to ship things over via some fancy transnational moving thing that I know nothing about (see relocating your whole life, why I am not knowledgeable about it), this is going to be difficult. There is a good and cheap source for such things, and it is called Ikea. You can buy a pillow for, like, two euro, and also pots and plates and bedspreads and fuzzy blankets and furniture and all kinds of random oddly-shaped things with cool Swedish names.
3. Books. Books are delightful and they are probably one of my favorite things in the world. Unfortunately, they are heavy and airline weight restrictions are getting irritatingly rigid. If the thought of being away from your library and Borders and whatever makes you, like me, hurt inside, there is still hope. There are actually an impressive number of sources of English speaking books in Italy. Here are some, listed in whatever order they're popping into my head:
- Libreria all'Arco on the Via Emilia in Reggio (there is a shelf of foreign books upstairs and towards the back in a little room on the left)
- Biblioteca Panizzi on Via Farini in Reggio (there are various foreign sections - not a particularly stellar collection in English, but worth a try)
- Feltrinelli International on Via Zamboni in Bologna (good selection, also some other languages and lots of instructional language type books, too)
- There's a Feltrinelli International in Milan, too, nearish the train station but I can't really remember where. Also in Turin. This type of bookstore has caused me to miss trains more than once.
- And another one in Perugia, near the Piazza IV Novembre.
- That bookstore that's kind of half suspended in the air in the Roma Termini train station: in the upstairs, suspended-looking part there are a lot of English books.
- The Paperback Exchange, very near the Duomo in Florence, but I can't remember the street name. Dell'Oca, maybe? Google it, though. It's a lovely bookstore where you can even sell back your books and get store credit to buy new ones. Or cheaper used ones. (I do this almost every time I go to Florence.)
In Paris:
- Gibert Jeune, Place St. Michel - this is a whole series of bookstores that each specialize in some different subject (like math, science, social sciences, etc.). You have to find the one that is labelled "langues etrangeres" or something. They're all grouped around the Place. And it's a really lovely spot, too.
- WH Smith on the Rue de Rivoli (near the end - not the end towards the Hotel de Ville and stuff, but the other end, by the Place de la Concorde). Big fancy store that also apparently sells some British candy and stuff. Splendid selection.
Actually... I think there is a whole blog devoted to bookstores in other countries. Hang on. Yes. Here you go: http://www.bookstoreguide.org/. Never mind. They have much better information than I do. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is how I found all of these originally.
4. Toiletries and stuff. If you have a favorite brand of deodorant that you are attached to, bring some. Ditto toothpaste and stuff. They have a fairly decent selection of all these type things (toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving gel, etc.) but if you have very strong feelings about having a particular one, then bring it. No liquid in carry-ons, though, remember.
5. Over-the-counter medicine. They do not sell this stuff in Esselunga the way they do in Wal-Mart. If you need medicine in Italy (or France) you have to go in the pharmacy and explain to the person what is wrong with you and they will give you whatever they deem appropriate. In France this usually means enough drugs to medicate a small town. They are generally very solicitious and nice. However, when I'm sick, I like to drag myself into a sweatshirt, select whatever I want from a shelf that contains every variety of Tylenol ever invented and go home having had minimal contact with actual people. If you are like me in this respect, bring along your drugs of choice. My personal stock includes Tylenol, Tylenol Cold (day), Tylenol Cold (night), Neosporin, and Halls cough drops. (Yes. I like Tylenol.) Band-aids, in case you're wondering, ARE sold at Esselunga and stuff.
6. Things that involve electricity. Be careful with this. Depending on how you plug American things into a European wall, you can make the things in question blow up (at least inside). No, seriously. The voltage is different, which means you need a converting thing. (As you can probably already tell, I am no expert in physics, and so you really should find a more reliable source for this part. Unless you are as un-informed as me, in which case you may possibly understand this version better.)
Anyway, there are two kinds of converting things: the kind that converts just the shape of the plug, and the kind that converts the actual electricity. The former is good for things like laptop chargers, because apparently they convert the voltage themselves (mine says so right on that little box with the light). The latter is good for everything else, I guess, although I really would not risk it, because, you know, blowing things up. Not so good.
(Fun fact: the converse - meaning European things with American electricity - is apparently not true. American voltage is much lower, so apparently things like cell phones just charge very slowly. This information makes a lot of sense, but my practical experience with it involves one single cell phone. Small sample size: seek other information before trying at home.)
So, that's all I can think of. I think I will go dispose of my immense pile of tissues now and possibly venture out into Paris. Because it is silly to sit here with tissues and the internet when there is Paris out there, regardless of the condition of my sinuses.
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