You can tell you've been living in Italy for a bit when...
• you have a definite opinion re the Adriatic coast vs. the Mediterranean coast and can defend it intelligibly
• you have several "regular" cafes staked out where you have a solito and the people greet you (sometimes even by name)
• the woman in the bakery feels enough confidenza with you to tell you that you should put a sweater on (in June)
• you have strong opinions on where to get the best gelato in your town
• you can not only recognize and differentiate various types of cheese, but you also have preferences as to which ones are best and when and why
• with regards to cappuccino, you've passed through the various stages of "tourist: drink it mid-afternoon, because why not" to "omg, Italians never drink it after 10am so I can't either or else people will know I'm straniera!" (pro tip: they will know anyway) and finally to "I don't give a crap who sees me drinking cappuccino and when, but now I would usually rather have normal espresso anyway..."
• you can use direct and indirect object pronouns in everyday speech without thinking about it
• similarly, most verbs. In fact, sometimes you can get whole sentences out without too much effort, and occasionally even without mistakes.
• running out of olive oil provokes a brief flutter of mild panic
• you've finally taken to salting the water before boiling your pasta in it
• you agree that over-cooking pasta is akin to sacrilege, or, at the very least, kind of gross
• people speaking dialect don't faze you anymore; in fact, you sometimes understand them
• you answer the phone of an evening and hold a coherent conversation (in Italian) with the person all while stirring stuff that you're cooking
• the thought of the frozen "Lean Cuisine" meals you used to eat in college makes you feel mildly ill
• your ability to tell people off has evolved from "angry spluttering in a mix of English and Italian" through "crappy, grammatically horrifying Italian that may or may not get your point across" and "markedly un-eloquent due to lack of grammar finesse" to finish with "able to politely but effectively tell someone where they can shove it - even by phone, and even in the context of work"
• all the other expats are British, so you've started saying things like "car park" when you mean "parking lot", and "brilliant!" has become your go-to exclamatory expression
• you don't get freaked out when suddenly everyone starts speeding around the circonvallazione beeping and screaming; you just look outside and have a glance at the flags - and indeed, Inter/Milan/Juve/whatever have won again...
• similarly, you are no longer surprised to wake up to the sound of people singing "Bella, Ciao" at a so-left-it's-borderline-communist rally in the square near your house
• speaking of hearing things from your house, you don't feel that you've woken up properly on a Sunday until you've heard the church bells reminding you what day it is
• you browse through the newspapers for fun and actually understand what's going on - both in terms of the words and the social context
• the view from your bedroom window feels like home
• you know the smell of the sun-heated cobblestones intimately, and love it
And...
• you are just as excited about the results of the referendum today as you were three years ago when Obama was elected.
Brava, Italia! Today you've made me proud to live here and happy to have witnessed this.
Monday, June 13
Tuesday, May 31
In montagna, part 3: the back of your neck
As part of this whole climb-frigging-mountains-in-really-clompy-shoes extravaganza, we are staying overnight in a hostel. This is an exciting experience, because I've never stayed in a hostel with a bunch of strangers before. (Well, okay, my friend is there too... but also a bunch of strangers). Despite concerns over whether or not it will be a disgusting filthy hole where I will be scared to shower, I am game. It will be exciting.
It turns out to be kind of a field study on how Italians operate. First of all, you know those Havaianas flip-flops? I have two pairs, and have happily worn them out to do my grocery shopping and other stuff casual stuff here in Italy... or to do pretty much anything, really, in America. You should know that Italians use them as house shoes. We get into the room, and people start unpacking. I'm in the room with my friend and three other ladies and one man, and five pairs of Havaianas in various colors plop down onto the floor, one after the other. I watch them out of the corner of my eye and carefully unpack a towel to pass the time. I have packed only my (new! sexy!) hiking boots and a pair of decent-looking flip-flops for all other purposes. I have not packed another pair to use as house shoes. Oops.
We go on our hike around the distinclty non-flat island, scrabbling up what seem like kilometers and kilometers up vertically oriented rock, only to rest on another big rock that slopes gently down into nothingness. Okay, full disclosure: it actually slopes gently down into nothingness and then the sea is about three hundred meters below that. But it might as well just be nothingness. With rocks at the bottom.
Then we sit in a piazzetta and eat focaccia and drink lambrusco and listen to one of the group leaders singing in dialect. This is vastly entertaining, and if I could remember all the words to this one song, I'm pretty sure that I could swear quite crudely in Bolognese. Sadly, I can't remember the words to the song, and I'm not sure just humming the tune would have the same effect. Pity.
Next, it is time for bed. I politely let everyone else use the bathroom before me, sitting on the edge of my bed, which creaks but seems clean and contains no bugs (I checked). They all slip on their specially designated pair of flip-flops, and shuffle into the bathroom and run the water for a while and then come back out and climb into bed. I sit and listen to the guy whose singing can still be heard from the piazzetta, floating in through the open window.
Finally, after my turn, we are all ready and in bed. I am about to start wishing people a good night and get on with the business of trying to sleep, but it is a good thing that my words come out slowly because we are not actually ready for sleeping. There is one more problem to resolve.
"Ma, come facciamo per la finestra?" (What are we going to do about the window?) says one of the Italians. We all turn our eyes to the window. I can't quite tell what's wrong with it - it's open about three inches and a nice breeze is coming through it, along with that guy's singing. For a moment, I wonder if they are offended by the singing, and consider saying that he will probably stop soon. I mean, he has to get up tomorrow, too, just like the rest of us.
Again, it is a good thing I keep my mouth shut, because that is not the problem, either.
"You're right. If we leave it like that, the breeze will come in, and then... the back of your neck..." one woman trails off uncertainly and another one picks up where she left off.
"Yes, if it gets the back of your neck in the wrong way...."
"Yes. We're definitely not wearing warm enough pajamas for that," finishes off another. She's wearing long pants that look fleecy, and a sweatshirt.
All five of them look warily at the window, as if it they had caught it conspiring against them on purpose. No, seriously, though. I wish I had videotaped this scene. It's like the facial expression that people do in scary movies for kids when a door creaks open and everyone suspects a ghost or whatever will come through. Except this was an innocent window with the pleasant warmth of Liguria in mid-May on the other side.
In the end, after a few long moments of staring significantly at the window, someone does the brave thing and closes it. Then they comment for a while on how that is a good decision, and can you imagine what state we would have been in the next day if we had left it open?!
Thank goodness we dodged that one.
The next morning, it is a little grey and window out, and threatens rain.
"But will it be safe to hike?" I ask, somewhat intimidated by the big storm clouds rolling determinedly across the sky. I'm picturing those vertical-ish and gently-sloping-into-nothingness rocks from yesterday, except now slippery with rain. It is not a pretty picture. I'm clumsy to start with. I do not want to break an ankle. Or my spine. Or fall off altogether and die in the nothingness.
"Yes, of course!" says one guy heartily. "You just need some good shoes and your sticks!"
I don't have sticks.
In the end, it isn't actually that slippery. So, we climb up and up and up and up and then across those gently-sloping rocks (more of them, and still pretty much into nothingness) and it is as I am holding my breath to get across one, hoping that this will either help me balance and not fall off, or otherwise just avoid nervous breakdown, that I notice the two women in front of me are gamely trotting across the thing while hurriedly pulling their jackets on.
"Yes, now that we're sweating..." says one of them.
"Definitely. If the breeze hits the back of our necks while we're sweating..."
I don't roll my eyes, because then I would probably fall of the rock. But... really?
It turns out to be kind of a field study on how Italians operate. First of all, you know those Havaianas flip-flops? I have two pairs, and have happily worn them out to do my grocery shopping and other stuff casual stuff here in Italy... or to do pretty much anything, really, in America. You should know that Italians use them as house shoes. We get into the room, and people start unpacking. I'm in the room with my friend and three other ladies and one man, and five pairs of Havaianas in various colors plop down onto the floor, one after the other. I watch them out of the corner of my eye and carefully unpack a towel to pass the time. I have packed only my (new! sexy!) hiking boots and a pair of decent-looking flip-flops for all other purposes. I have not packed another pair to use as house shoes. Oops.
We go on our hike around the distinclty non-flat island, scrabbling up what seem like kilometers and kilometers up vertically oriented rock, only to rest on another big rock that slopes gently down into nothingness. Okay, full disclosure: it actually slopes gently down into nothingness and then the sea is about three hundred meters below that. But it might as well just be nothingness. With rocks at the bottom.
Then we sit in a piazzetta and eat focaccia and drink lambrusco and listen to one of the group leaders singing in dialect. This is vastly entertaining, and if I could remember all the words to this one song, I'm pretty sure that I could swear quite crudely in Bolognese. Sadly, I can't remember the words to the song, and I'm not sure just humming the tune would have the same effect. Pity.
Next, it is time for bed. I politely let everyone else use the bathroom before me, sitting on the edge of my bed, which creaks but seems clean and contains no bugs (I checked). They all slip on their specially designated pair of flip-flops, and shuffle into the bathroom and run the water for a while and then come back out and climb into bed. I sit and listen to the guy whose singing can still be heard from the piazzetta, floating in through the open window.
Finally, after my turn, we are all ready and in bed. I am about to start wishing people a good night and get on with the business of trying to sleep, but it is a good thing that my words come out slowly because we are not actually ready for sleeping. There is one more problem to resolve.
"Ma, come facciamo per la finestra?" (What are we going to do about the window?) says one of the Italians. We all turn our eyes to the window. I can't quite tell what's wrong with it - it's open about three inches and a nice breeze is coming through it, along with that guy's singing. For a moment, I wonder if they are offended by the singing, and consider saying that he will probably stop soon. I mean, he has to get up tomorrow, too, just like the rest of us.
Again, it is a good thing I keep my mouth shut, because that is not the problem, either.
"You're right. If we leave it like that, the breeze will come in, and then... the back of your neck..." one woman trails off uncertainly and another one picks up where she left off.
"Yes, if it gets the back of your neck in the wrong way...."
"Yes. We're definitely not wearing warm enough pajamas for that," finishes off another. She's wearing long pants that look fleecy, and a sweatshirt.
All five of them look warily at the window, as if it they had caught it conspiring against them on purpose. No, seriously, though. I wish I had videotaped this scene. It's like the facial expression that people do in scary movies for kids when a door creaks open and everyone suspects a ghost or whatever will come through. Except this was an innocent window with the pleasant warmth of Liguria in mid-May on the other side.
In the end, after a few long moments of staring significantly at the window, someone does the brave thing and closes it. Then they comment for a while on how that is a good decision, and can you imagine what state we would have been in the next day if we had left it open?!
Thank goodness we dodged that one.
The next morning, it is a little grey and window out, and threatens rain.
"But will it be safe to hike?" I ask, somewhat intimidated by the big storm clouds rolling determinedly across the sky. I'm picturing those vertical-ish and gently-sloping-into-nothingness rocks from yesterday, except now slippery with rain. It is not a pretty picture. I'm clumsy to start with. I do not want to break an ankle. Or my spine. Or fall off altogether and die in the nothingness.
"Yes, of course!" says one guy heartily. "You just need some good shoes and your sticks!"
I don't have sticks.
In the end, it isn't actually that slippery. So, we climb up and up and up and up and then across those gently-sloping rocks (more of them, and still pretty much into nothingness) and it is as I am holding my breath to get across one, hoping that this will either help me balance and not fall off, or otherwise just avoid nervous breakdown, that I notice the two women in front of me are gamely trotting across the thing while hurriedly pulling their jackets on.
"Yes, now that we're sweating..." says one of them.
"Definitely. If the breeze hits the back of our necks while we're sweating..."
I don't roll my eyes, because then I would probably fall of the rock. But... really?
Tuesday, May 24
In Montagna, part 2: Practically Flat
The island in question, it transpires, is not flat. In fact, it is kind of hill-ish. With rocks and stuff.
Nonetheless, after a fortifying and delicious dinner of fish (fish that is both fresh and well prepared: so. good.), veggies, foccacia, and farinata, we cross over to the island on a ferry and commence climbing.
I am still busy admiring the view when I practically bump into a thigh-high rock. I look at the rock. I locate the sounds of the voices of the people in front of me. They are on top of the rock, and climbing still more rocks. In fact, there appears to be a series of such rocks. I can't even see where it ends. Right, then.
I climb the rocks too. And you know what? I almost don't dare say it, but... it's not actually so exceedingly hard. It's just hard enough that it's a nice challenge and the muscles in your thighs sometimes go "hey, we're climbing rocks!" and you definitely have to pay attention to where you're putting your feet (in the interest of not falling off the rocks in question) but it's not impossible. Win.
Also, this is the view from atop the rocks. Win and win, no?
Also, wearing a lamp on your head is like being a little car with headlights. Or having a glow-in-the-dark forehead. Or being Rudolph. Or something. It's pretty spiffy. At one point, we all sit down and turn the lights off and listen to the waves crashing on the rocks below and the seagulls calling to one another. Some of the Italians call wisecracks back to the seagulls, in that way that only Italians can. (Not that I've surveyed the whole world, but so far, no one does it quite like Italians. Or maybe it's the language that works really well for it...) Anyway, it's near-on blissful.
Back on the mainland, after descending from the island and the ferry ride home, I plop myself down on a low wall around the mini-piazza in front of the hostel where we are staying, suddenly feeling all of that scaling-of-rocks in my legs. Someone hands me a glass of prosecco and a piece of focaccia and the group leader whips out a guitar. First they sing a toast. (No, really. It was brilliant. Like in a cheesy movie about happy mandolin-wielding Italians.) Then they sing a song in Bolognese dialect. Then in Genovese (in honor of us being in Liguria, see). Then a whole slew of them in Reggiano. Apparently they are songs of the slightly-less-than-tasteful variety, because everyone is in stitches. I can't understand more than half of it, but I'm more than happy just to hang out in a rock-scaling-and-prosecco-induced haze and lesson to the tune of it.
After some time, one of the other group leaders sits down next to me.
"So, did you like it?"
Me (enthusiastically): "Yeah, definitely! That was great! And the view was so beautiful!"
Him: "Yeah, that was a pretty good climb. Definitely a good view, but I guess it usually is, if you go 180 meters off the ground, right?"
Me (having no concept of how tall 180 meters is): "Yeah, definitely." (I have a quick glance back over at the island - specifically, at the top of it. Guess that's 180 meters.)
Him: "Well, tomorrow will be even better!"
Me (casually, to belie the thought that's just occurred to me): "Yeah? So how high up will it be tomorrow?"
Him: "Oh, about 600 meters. You did great today for your first climb, by the way!"
"Mm-hm," I murmur vaguely.
I have another glance at that island, and picture those "not so hard" rocks we just climbed. Then I attempt to conceive of how high 600 meters might be, and fail.
"It'll be awesome!" he adds, slipping off the wall and bidding me good night.
I'm sure it will.
Nonetheless, after a fortifying and delicious dinner of fish (fish that is both fresh and well prepared: so. good.), veggies, foccacia, and farinata, we cross over to the island on a ferry and commence climbing.
I am still busy admiring the view when I practically bump into a thigh-high rock. I look at the rock. I locate the sounds of the voices of the people in front of me. They are on top of the rock, and climbing still more rocks. In fact, there appears to be a series of such rocks. I can't even see where it ends. Right, then.
I climb the rocks too. And you know what? I almost don't dare say it, but... it's not actually so exceedingly hard. It's just hard enough that it's a nice challenge and the muscles in your thighs sometimes go "hey, we're climbing rocks!" and you definitely have to pay attention to where you're putting your feet (in the interest of not falling off the rocks in question) but it's not impossible. Win.
Also, this is the view from atop the rocks. Win and win, no?
Also, wearing a lamp on your head is like being a little car with headlights. Or having a glow-in-the-dark forehead. Or being Rudolph. Or something. It's pretty spiffy. At one point, we all sit down and turn the lights off and listen to the waves crashing on the rocks below and the seagulls calling to one another. Some of the Italians call wisecracks back to the seagulls, in that way that only Italians can. (Not that I've surveyed the whole world, but so far, no one does it quite like Italians. Or maybe it's the language that works really well for it...) Anyway, it's near-on blissful.
Back on the mainland, after descending from the island and the ferry ride home, I plop myself down on a low wall around the mini-piazza in front of the hostel where we are staying, suddenly feeling all of that scaling-of-rocks in my legs. Someone hands me a glass of prosecco and a piece of focaccia and the group leader whips out a guitar. First they sing a toast. (No, really. It was brilliant. Like in a cheesy movie about happy mandolin-wielding Italians.) Then they sing a song in Bolognese dialect. Then in Genovese (in honor of us being in Liguria, see). Then a whole slew of them in Reggiano. Apparently they are songs of the slightly-less-than-tasteful variety, because everyone is in stitches. I can't understand more than half of it, but I'm more than happy just to hang out in a rock-scaling-and-prosecco-induced haze and lesson to the tune of it.
After some time, one of the other group leaders sits down next to me.
"So, did you like it?"
Me (enthusiastically): "Yeah, definitely! That was great! And the view was so beautiful!"
Him: "Yeah, that was a pretty good climb. Definitely a good view, but I guess it usually is, if you go 180 meters off the ground, right?"
Me (having no concept of how tall 180 meters is): "Yeah, definitely." (I have a quick glance back over at the island - specifically, at the top of it. Guess that's 180 meters.)
Him: "Well, tomorrow will be even better!"
Me (casually, to belie the thought that's just occurred to me): "Yeah? So how high up will it be tomorrow?"
Him: "Oh, about 600 meters. You did great today for your first climb, by the way!"
"Mm-hm," I murmur vaguely.
I have another glance at that island, and picture those "not so hard" rocks we just climbed. Then I attempt to conceive of how high 600 meters might be, and fail.
"It'll be awesome!" he adds, slipping off the wall and bidding me good night.
I'm sure it will.
Monday, May 23
In Montagna, part one
If you ask Italians (or maybe it's just Emiliani, I'm not sure) about their weekend plans, they will frequently tell you that they're going "in montagna". I never really understood this, and I also never really understood the point of the question "do you prefer the mountains or the sea?" with regards to vacationing, because the area in America where I grew up is pretty similar to what some Italians mean when they say "mountains". (They seem to use "montagna" to refer to both actual mountains (e.g. the Dolomiti) and just kind of hilly areas (e.g. the parts of the province of Reggio near to the Appennini, where it isn't quite so flat). I grew up in a kind of hilly, forest-y area, and running around in the trees and fresh air was an every-day-after-school kind of thing, not a take-all-your-camping-stuff-up-to-the-mountains kind of thing. So I've always said "sea" in answer to the preference question, and never really gave the "montagna" or even the very possessive "nostre colline" (hills) any further thought.
I don't even have a very specific idea of what it is that Italians do up there in the mountains. Have picnics? (Probably not - I can't imagine eating out of doors and not at a table would be considered good for digestion.) Wear fancy Moncler* jackets and sip mulled wine while watching the snow fall? Play some sort of vertically-oriented soccer? I do know that some of them go hunting, and others go mushroom picking, but surely not all of them? And not all year round? Boh. I always thought it was too stupid a question to ask anyone. (Probably this is one thing I was actually right about, come to think of it.)
It transpires that some of them go hiking. (Probably this was obvious, but since when have I ever been observant enough for the obvious?) Adorably, they call it going "camminare" (walking), as in "io cammino da quando avevo 10 anni" - I've been walking (hiking) since I was 10.
And this is how I was introduced to it. Or, should I say, to the official version. (In my backyard, hiking involved grabbing a granola bar and some water and seeing if you've got your shoes tied, and then wandering down the hill and up the other hill and trying not to get wet in the river, and if you come out the other side of the forest in a part of town you know, so much the better! If not, just come back the way you came. In retrospect, I have no idea how this was considered safe, unless the forest is actually a lot smaller than I thought and you couldn't possibly have come out wrong... hm... something to ask the parents...)
Anyway, my friend and I are sitting in a cafe in Reggio enjoying a delightful insalata di farro and catching one fine Sunday when she remembers that she had something cool to tell me. It is that she has discovered a hiking group through some other friends of hers, and that they are planning a very cool weekend trip to Portovenere to hike around the island opposite (name: Palmaria) in the moonilght and then another hike to Riomaggiore the next morning. I nod. Portovenere, the beginning of the Cinque Terre (where I have somehow never been yet) and some hiking around an island thrown in? Yes. Good plan.
"So, d'you want to do it?" she asks.
"Yeah, why not?" I say.
We go to get some more information in the hiking shop sponsoring the trip.
The man is speaking dialect, which makes things tricky, but I somehow more or less manage to grasp that we will need hiking shoes. I can't tell if he is just trying to sell us hiking shoes or if we will really need hiking shoes, but whatever. Hiking shoes are probably good to have, and also they can double as snow boots. Win. We allow him to plop us down onto benches and start putting enormous boots onto our feet. (Note to women who wish they had dainty feet: there is nothing that makes you feel like your feet are small and dainty than looking at them next to huge hiking boots. Just don't look at them once you actually have the shoes on.)
"So, is it a difficult hike, then?" I ask casually. I am standing rather precariously on a weird slanty thing which seems to be meant to pitch you forward, flat onto your face, but apparently is really meant to allow you test whether your toes touch the front of the shoes when you're going downhill. Apparently that is not favorable. I am trying to appear carefree and confident, but really I am mostly focused on not falling off the weird slanty thing.
"No, no," the man reassures us, "it'll be easy, even for beginners! The island, for one, is practically flat!" I do not notice that he has not commented on the other part of the hike. The Portovenere to Riomaggiore one. I am not very slick, clearly.
The man hands me a pair of socks that seem thick enough that you practically wouldn't even need actual shoes, and tells me that they will protect my wimpy amateur feet from blisters and moisture and rocks and god knows what else. Excellent.
"Right then, you're all set," he says (I think - he's switched back to dialect, so it's hard to be sure). "Unless... you've got some sort of light, right?" he asks us. My friend and I look at each other. I re-adjust my grip on the huge cardboard box containing my huge new hiking shoes in it.
"Well, a flashlight," she says.
"You sure you don't want a headlamp?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.
"Oh. Um..." I say graciously. It seems my brain is unable to both conceive of myself with a headlamp on and speak coherent Italian at the same time.
"Why - is it better to have a headlamp?" my friend clearly does not have similar difficulties. (I want to be a little defensive and say this might be because she is actually Italian, but really it is probably because I don't actually speak that coherently under normal circumstances anyway...)
"Well," says the man, "yeah, because then you can have both hands free."
We both nod, and say we'll take headlamps as well, and it doesn't occur to me until we're outside of the store to ask why, if the island is so flat and the hike is so easy, we would need both hands free.
*Just fyi I had to google "Moncler" to check that I was spelling it right (it seems like there would be a 't' in there, but apparently not) and the website describes them as French and the quintessence of down jackets. Quintessence is an excellent word, definitely, but.... really? The quintessence of down jackets?
I don't even have a very specific idea of what it is that Italians do up there in the mountains. Have picnics? (Probably not - I can't imagine eating out of doors and not at a table would be considered good for digestion.) Wear fancy Moncler* jackets and sip mulled wine while watching the snow fall? Play some sort of vertically-oriented soccer? I do know that some of them go hunting, and others go mushroom picking, but surely not all of them? And not all year round? Boh. I always thought it was too stupid a question to ask anyone. (Probably this is one thing I was actually right about, come to think of it.)
It transpires that some of them go hiking. (Probably this was obvious, but since when have I ever been observant enough for the obvious?) Adorably, they call it going "camminare" (walking), as in "io cammino da quando avevo 10 anni" - I've been walking (hiking) since I was 10.
And this is how I was introduced to it. Or, should I say, to the official version. (In my backyard, hiking involved grabbing a granola bar and some water and seeing if you've got your shoes tied, and then wandering down the hill and up the other hill and trying not to get wet in the river, and if you come out the other side of the forest in a part of town you know, so much the better! If not, just come back the way you came. In retrospect, I have no idea how this was considered safe, unless the forest is actually a lot smaller than I thought and you couldn't possibly have come out wrong... hm... something to ask the parents...)
Anyway, my friend and I are sitting in a cafe in Reggio enjoying a delightful insalata di farro and catching one fine Sunday when she remembers that she had something cool to tell me. It is that she has discovered a hiking group through some other friends of hers, and that they are planning a very cool weekend trip to Portovenere to hike around the island opposite (name: Palmaria) in the moonilght and then another hike to Riomaggiore the next morning. I nod. Portovenere, the beginning of the Cinque Terre (where I have somehow never been yet) and some hiking around an island thrown in? Yes. Good plan.
"So, d'you want to do it?" she asks.
"Yeah, why not?" I say.
We go to get some more information in the hiking shop sponsoring the trip.
The man is speaking dialect, which makes things tricky, but I somehow more or less manage to grasp that we will need hiking shoes. I can't tell if he is just trying to sell us hiking shoes or if we will really need hiking shoes, but whatever. Hiking shoes are probably good to have, and also they can double as snow boots. Win. We allow him to plop us down onto benches and start putting enormous boots onto our feet. (Note to women who wish they had dainty feet: there is nothing that makes you feel like your feet are small and dainty than looking at them next to huge hiking boots. Just don't look at them once you actually have the shoes on.)
"So, is it a difficult hike, then?" I ask casually. I am standing rather precariously on a weird slanty thing which seems to be meant to pitch you forward, flat onto your face, but apparently is really meant to allow you test whether your toes touch the front of the shoes when you're going downhill. Apparently that is not favorable. I am trying to appear carefree and confident, but really I am mostly focused on not falling off the weird slanty thing.
"No, no," the man reassures us, "it'll be easy, even for beginners! The island, for one, is practically flat!" I do not notice that he has not commented on the other part of the hike. The Portovenere to Riomaggiore one. I am not very slick, clearly.
The man hands me a pair of socks that seem thick enough that you practically wouldn't even need actual shoes, and tells me that they will protect my wimpy amateur feet from blisters and moisture and rocks and god knows what else. Excellent.
"Right then, you're all set," he says (I think - he's switched back to dialect, so it's hard to be sure). "Unless... you've got some sort of light, right?" he asks us. My friend and I look at each other. I re-adjust my grip on the huge cardboard box containing my huge new hiking shoes in it.
"Well, a flashlight," she says.
"You sure you don't want a headlamp?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.
"Oh. Um..." I say graciously. It seems my brain is unable to both conceive of myself with a headlamp on and speak coherent Italian at the same time.
"Why - is it better to have a headlamp?" my friend clearly does not have similar difficulties. (I want to be a little defensive and say this might be because she is actually Italian, but really it is probably because I don't actually speak that coherently under normal circumstances anyway...)
"Well," says the man, "yeah, because then you can have both hands free."
We both nod, and say we'll take headlamps as well, and it doesn't occur to me until we're outside of the store to ask why, if the island is so flat and the hike is so easy, we would need both hands free.
*Just fyi I had to google "Moncler" to check that I was spelling it right (it seems like there would be a 't' in there, but apparently not) and the website describes them as French and the quintessence of down jackets. Quintessence is an excellent word, definitely, but.... really? The quintessence of down jackets?
Thursday, December 9
Fun with bureaucracy, part the first
All expats have stories about bureaucracy in Italy, right? And an expat-living-in-Italy blog wouldn't be complete without one, right? Well, no need to worry any longer. Requisite Italian bureaucracy story, part the first, below.
"Si, buongiorno, vorrei cambiare l'intestazione delle bollette dell'internet," I say brightly. I have just mumbled this sentence to myself a few times to work out all the kinks (do you see all those double L's? Not so simple to pronounce, you know, especially in conjunction with the R of 'internet').
The fact that I get the whole thing out succesfully puts me in a good mood and I smile into the phone, despite the fact that, really, I am meant to be annoyed. All I'm trying to do is change the name on our internet bill from my ex-flatmate's to mine, and make it so that we get the bill by mail rather than having it be automatically deducted from her bank account. Okay, so, maybe it's a little complicated, but we filled out a form and faxed it in.
Last June.
Now it is mid-October (or was, when this all took place).
"Un attimo," says the other guy. I am clutching the paper with my information on it in one hand and pressing the receiver to my ear with the other, as if that will help me understand the guy. Half of my brain is thinking 'please don't let him have a weird accent, like from Puglia or something'. The other half is reciting my codice fiscale to itself.
Italian bureaucracy, I am so ready for you.
"Si, let me put you through to the commercial department," says the man on the other end. A crappy, tinny-sounding version of Vivaldi starts up. I sigh and put the paper with my codice fiscale on it back on the table, flexing my fingers. I roll my eyes across the room at the secretary, who is playing solitaire on the computer. Sometimes we are very productive, mid-morning on a Thursday. And sometimes not. She smiles encouragingly.
"Pronto, Michele speaking, come posso aiutarLa?"
I spring back up to the ready, and repeat my spiel. It is getting better with practice. Excellent.
"Ah, si?" says Michele, not sounding particularly interested, "why do you want to do that?"
The explanation is tricky, and I am hesitant to give it, because the more I talk, the more likely they are to figure out that I am a foreigner. This gave us problems with ENEL (the electricity people). But whatever. I do the best I can ("well, then my flatmate went off to spend a year somewhere else on a job placement and I decided to stay in Reggio even though I was really supposed to go back to America so what I really want is for us to have some electricity/internet/gas/water/etc. in the apartment, and...").
"You should send a fax," comments Michele absently.
"Yes, I know. We have," I tell him. "However, if you look at the bills for September and October, you'll notice they've still been taken from [flatmate's name]'s bank account." I give him the account number and the code thingy from the bottom of the bill, impressing myself with my ability to say numbers. (I can count! Yay! Uh.... anyway.)
"Hm. Let me put you through to customer service," he says, apparently having had enough of my reading numbers to him. I kind of vaguely feel like customer service is where I was before, but whatever. I check my email with Vivaldi jingling along in the background.
"Pronto, this is Antonella, how can I help you?"
I am getting so good at this that I don't even take my eyes off my email while I give her the spiel.
"Oh, you should talk to the commercial department for that," she says. "Let me put you through."
I frown at my email. Wasn't I just talking to Michele in the...?
"Hello, this is Francesco in the commercial department, what can I do for you? ... Yes, let me put you through to accounts."
"Wait, but I-"
I go through three or four more departments, interspersed with recommendations to send a fax, before some kind soul finally takes pity on me and emails me a document to send the fax again.
I painstakingly fill it out.
They need a photocopy of my passport, which I forget to bring to school for the ensuing week, until one weekend we come back from a trip to Paris and it happens to still be in my purse. Happy coincidence.
I politely ask our secretary to send the fax for me, as I do not know how to operate the fax machine.
"Still fixing that thing with Tiscali, huh?" she comments.
Indeed.
Also, the fax machine doesn't work. The people in the office across the hall (who are sometimes friendly and helpful and let us use their fax machine and/or steal their wireless connection) are not there.
Three weeks later, there is another happy coincidence and I remember about sending the fax during one of the rare moments when the machine is working.
I feel very productive and happy. Surely from now on, our internet will work swimmingly (not true) and the bills will come to our house (I have yet to see one) and then we will pay them at the post office (in theory) and the world will be a happy place.
"Ciao, Cri!" says my ex-flatmate one day when she calls.
"Ciao!" I say, "how's life?"
We chat for a few moments.
"Hey, by the way, do you know why they're still getting the internet out from my bank account?"
What?
No.
I explain that I sent the fax (again) and spent a whole morning on the phone with the people from Tiscali, but apparently it has not resolved the problem. Which means that I get to spend another morning on the phone with the people from Tiscali tomorrow.
Yay.
On the bright side, I have my codice fiscale totally memorized now.
"Si, buongiorno, vorrei cambiare l'intestazione delle bollette dell'internet," I say brightly. I have just mumbled this sentence to myself a few times to work out all the kinks (do you see all those double L's? Not so simple to pronounce, you know, especially in conjunction with the R of 'internet').
The fact that I get the whole thing out succesfully puts me in a good mood and I smile into the phone, despite the fact that, really, I am meant to be annoyed. All I'm trying to do is change the name on our internet bill from my ex-flatmate's to mine, and make it so that we get the bill by mail rather than having it be automatically deducted from her bank account. Okay, so, maybe it's a little complicated, but we filled out a form and faxed it in.
Last June.
Now it is mid-October (or was, when this all took place).
"Un attimo," says the other guy. I am clutching the paper with my information on it in one hand and pressing the receiver to my ear with the other, as if that will help me understand the guy. Half of my brain is thinking 'please don't let him have a weird accent, like from Puglia or something'. The other half is reciting my codice fiscale to itself.
Italian bureaucracy, I am so ready for you.
"Si, let me put you through to the commercial department," says the man on the other end. A crappy, tinny-sounding version of Vivaldi starts up. I sigh and put the paper with my codice fiscale on it back on the table, flexing my fingers. I roll my eyes across the room at the secretary, who is playing solitaire on the computer. Sometimes we are very productive, mid-morning on a Thursday. And sometimes not. She smiles encouragingly.
"Pronto, Michele speaking, come posso aiutarLa?"
I spring back up to the ready, and repeat my spiel. It is getting better with practice. Excellent.
"Ah, si?" says Michele, not sounding particularly interested, "why do you want to do that?"
The explanation is tricky, and I am hesitant to give it, because the more I talk, the more likely they are to figure out that I am a foreigner. This gave us problems with ENEL (the electricity people). But whatever. I do the best I can ("well, then my flatmate went off to spend a year somewhere else on a job placement and I decided to stay in Reggio even though I was really supposed to go back to America so what I really want is for us to have some electricity/internet/gas/water/etc. in the apartment, and...").
"You should send a fax," comments Michele absently.
"Yes, I know. We have," I tell him. "However, if you look at the bills for September and October, you'll notice they've still been taken from [flatmate's name]'s bank account." I give him the account number and the code thingy from the bottom of the bill, impressing myself with my ability to say numbers. (I can count! Yay! Uh.... anyway.)
"Hm. Let me put you through to customer service," he says, apparently having had enough of my reading numbers to him. I kind of vaguely feel like customer service is where I was before, but whatever. I check my email with Vivaldi jingling along in the background.
"Pronto, this is Antonella, how can I help you?"
I am getting so good at this that I don't even take my eyes off my email while I give her the spiel.
"Oh, you should talk to the commercial department for that," she says. "Let me put you through."
I frown at my email. Wasn't I just talking to Michele in the...?
"Hello, this is Francesco in the commercial department, what can I do for you? ... Yes, let me put you through to accounts."
"Wait, but I-"
I go through three or four more departments, interspersed with recommendations to send a fax, before some kind soul finally takes pity on me and emails me a document to send the fax again.
I painstakingly fill it out.
They need a photocopy of my passport, which I forget to bring to school for the ensuing week, until one weekend we come back from a trip to Paris and it happens to still be in my purse. Happy coincidence.
I politely ask our secretary to send the fax for me, as I do not know how to operate the fax machine.
"Still fixing that thing with Tiscali, huh?" she comments.
Indeed.
Also, the fax machine doesn't work. The people in the office across the hall (who are sometimes friendly and helpful and let us use their fax machine and/or steal their wireless connection) are not there.
Three weeks later, there is another happy coincidence and I remember about sending the fax during one of the rare moments when the machine is working.
I feel very productive and happy. Surely from now on, our internet will work swimmingly (not true) and the bills will come to our house (I have yet to see one) and then we will pay them at the post office (in theory) and the world will be a happy place.
"Ciao, Cri!" says my ex-flatmate one day when she calls.
"Ciao!" I say, "how's life?"
We chat for a few moments.
"Hey, by the way, do you know why they're still getting the internet out from my bank account?"
What?
No.
I explain that I sent the fax (again) and spent a whole morning on the phone with the people from Tiscali, but apparently it has not resolved the problem. Which means that I get to spend another morning on the phone with the people from Tiscali tomorrow.
Yay.
On the bright side, I have my codice fiscale totally memorized now.
Wednesday, December 8
Sometimes
Sometimes, your boss is all "oh, so, there's this translation of some dialogue that you should do, if you have time. It's a good opportunity."
Sometimes, you say yes. (Uh, actually, if you're me, you almost always say yes. This is how you end up with lots of crap to do in your life.)
Sometimes, you translate it and unthinkingly send it off, pleased to have done a good job.
Sometimes, it turns out that you were translating what would become the subtitles of a documentary about a [local charity medical place] owned by some very important people, for whose company (not the medical place) you also do a lot of teaching.
Sometimes, the next thing you know, you and your boss are all skyping with the documentary producer in the middle of the night to work out the last little dialogue issues and the secretary of the very important person knows you by name and frequently calls you at work to ask about comma placement on the documentary's DVD jacket cover.
Sometimes, you somehow end up invited to the premiere. This is traumatic, because what the hell does one wear to a premiere when the producer also owns a fashion house? All black, it seems. This requires the finding of a black skirt (because, naturally, mine is in America) and shoes to replace the Thesis Shoes of Awesomeness.
In the end, though, sometimes you totter up to the theater with your boss in heels that are rather too high. "Oh, yeah, the girl who did the translation. Brava," says a dapper looking man. Sometimes dapper looking men turn out to be the owners of major fashion houses and/or the producers of documentaries.
You shake hands and continue on, past directors of hospitals and owners of this and such, and mayors of towns. You sit and watch the thing, surrounded by what would probably be the nobility of Reggio, if there were one.
Sometimes it says your name in the credits under traduzioni. Way down past all the other weird stuff (what's a gaffer?), but still. It's probably the closest you'll ever come to fame. The lights come back on and you stand and walk out and shake hands with various people and smile and try to keep up with who's who and why they're important while a small part of your mind is also dedicated to hoping your skirt is still straight and your hair is still decent.
It's pretty weird.
Sometimes.
Sometimes, you say yes. (Uh, actually, if you're me, you almost always say yes. This is how you end up with lots of crap to do in your life.)
Sometimes, you translate it and unthinkingly send it off, pleased to have done a good job.
Sometimes, it turns out that you were translating what would become the subtitles of a documentary about a [local charity medical place] owned by some very important people, for whose company (not the medical place) you also do a lot of teaching.
Sometimes, the next thing you know, you and your boss are all skyping with the documentary producer in the middle of the night to work out the last little dialogue issues and the secretary of the very important person knows you by name and frequently calls you at work to ask about comma placement on the documentary's DVD jacket cover.
Sometimes, you somehow end up invited to the premiere. This is traumatic, because what the hell does one wear to a premiere when the producer also owns a fashion house? All black, it seems. This requires the finding of a black skirt (because, naturally, mine is in America) and shoes to replace the Thesis Shoes of Awesomeness.
In the end, though, sometimes you totter up to the theater with your boss in heels that are rather too high. "Oh, yeah, the girl who did the translation. Brava," says a dapper looking man. Sometimes dapper looking men turn out to be the owners of major fashion houses and/or the producers of documentaries.
You shake hands and continue on, past directors of hospitals and owners of this and such, and mayors of towns. You sit and watch the thing, surrounded by what would probably be the nobility of Reggio, if there were one.
Sometimes it says your name in the credits under traduzioni. Way down past all the other weird stuff (what's a gaffer?), but still. It's probably the closest you'll ever come to fame. The lights come back on and you stand and walk out and shake hands with various people and smile and try to keep up with who's who and why they're important while a small part of your mind is also dedicated to hoping your skirt is still straight and your hair is still decent.
It's pretty weird.
Sometimes.
Saturday, December 4
Sometimes it's good to be a girl
Did you know that you can keep supermarkets in Italy open past their closing times just by being a girl? Me either, but apparently you can. Even all disheveled after a day's work (a 13 hour day, might I add). I did it just the other day. Very odd.
"... so then, the other thing we should do is create an Excel file... maybe you can get [other teacher] to do that... or otherwise maybe you can do it... or the secretary... anyway, what we should do is..."
I nod into the phone, staring into space. Usually I read and answer emails while I talk to my boss on the phone, especially during the end-of-the-day rundown. It saves time. She can expound at length on semi-relevant topics, and I can get some work done. Today, however, it is 8.52, the supermarket closes in precisely 8 minutes, I have no food in my house, and, having been at work since 7.20 this morning, I have just about lost the will to live.
"Uh-huh," I agree in a rather unenthusiastic monotone. Perhaps she takes this hint as my having lost interest in our conversation (and also the school and our students and really anything not immediately related to getting food in my belly and myself into my bed) because she finally releases me with a cheerful, "okay, thanks! Talk to you tomorrow!"
8.54.
I grab some car keys, hoping no one needs this particular car (the school owns three) tomorrow morning before I do, and hop into the elevator.
8.59.
I pull into the parking lot of the supermarket, where only three other cars are parked, and stride up to the doors, where the security man is ushering someone out.
"Siete chiusi?" I ask. All I really want out of life right now is some pasta, some salad, and my bed. This makes me brave enough to actually talk to the security guy.
"Quasi," he says. He is young and cute. I am at least young-ish, if nothing else. And apparently that's enough. "Cosa devi prendere?" he asks me. (What do you need to get?)
"Some lettuce!" I say, the first thing that springs to mind. What I really want is also some pasta (there is a delicious kind that is stuffed with gorgonzola and honey, by Giovanni Rana, whose numerous commercials on the radio have apparently brainwashed me into buying his stuff.... well, his commercials and my utter laziness and inability to cook). But whatever. If I even just got some lettuce, I could cook some pasta or rice or whatever that I have at home, slap some olive oil and cheese on it, and call it a meal. With both veggies and grains. Which is, you know, lots of the food groups. Right? Or at least two. Whatever.
"Just lettuce?" he says in what sounds suspisciously like a flirty sort of tone. Really? Flirting? Lettuce?
"Yeah, just some lettuce," I say, more because I don't really have any other response. He shouts something at the last open cashier and she rolls her eyes and says yes. He ushers me in.
"Just lettuce!" he says. I nod in agreement, and sprint off to get the lettuce. I do not dare get any pasta as well, because the cashier is a girl and probably not so susceptible to my... uh, just being female, apparently. I will just eat my rice. With some cheese mixed in. And vinegar. Because vinegar makes anything else taste like vinegar, which tastes good. Yes. (See what happens to me when I work 13 hour days begging people not to say things like "yesterday, I am going to Milano"?)
As I sprint off, I catch bits and pieces of the conversation between the guard guy and the cashier.
" .... .... .... ragazza," says he.
"You and the ragazze," says she.
There it is. Sigh.
"Ciao, bella!" he says as I leave.
"Ciao, grazie," I say. It's 9.12.
It's a funny thing, being a girl in Italy. It takes a lot of getting used to, for a foreigner. Especially one of the Anglo-Saxon variety. You get here, and suddenly people are staring at you and whistling at you and shouting "ciao, bella! complimenti!" at you as you walk down the street. People look you up and down and you're all keep your eyes to yourself, dude!
You wonder why they don't have any respect for women. Why do they seem to feel it's okay to completely treat women like objects to be stared at and commented on at will, as if we couldn't hear, or didn't care? I care. I want people to be interested in me for my intelligence, or because they think I'm a good person (whether or not I actually am is a different story, but still). Not because I'm shaped like a girl or have lighter hair than them. (Apparently medium brown = bionda, in Italy.)
But then, women are apparently allowed to retire five years earlier than men because "la mamma e sacra". They hold doors open for you and ask for permission before taking off their suit jackets in your presence. They walk you home at night. And they'll keep the supermarket open 12 minutes past closing time on a Thursday night if you tell them that you just got out of work and want some lettuce.
Weird, no?
"... so then, the other thing we should do is create an Excel file... maybe you can get [other teacher] to do that... or otherwise maybe you can do it... or the secretary... anyway, what we should do is..."
I nod into the phone, staring into space. Usually I read and answer emails while I talk to my boss on the phone, especially during the end-of-the-day rundown. It saves time. She can expound at length on semi-relevant topics, and I can get some work done. Today, however, it is 8.52, the supermarket closes in precisely 8 minutes, I have no food in my house, and, having been at work since 7.20 this morning, I have just about lost the will to live.
"Uh-huh," I agree in a rather unenthusiastic monotone. Perhaps she takes this hint as my having lost interest in our conversation (and also the school and our students and really anything not immediately related to getting food in my belly and myself into my bed) because she finally releases me with a cheerful, "okay, thanks! Talk to you tomorrow!"
8.54.
I grab some car keys, hoping no one needs this particular car (the school owns three) tomorrow morning before I do, and hop into the elevator.
8.59.
I pull into the parking lot of the supermarket, where only three other cars are parked, and stride up to the doors, where the security man is ushering someone out.
"Siete chiusi?" I ask. All I really want out of life right now is some pasta, some salad, and my bed. This makes me brave enough to actually talk to the security guy.
"Quasi," he says. He is young and cute. I am at least young-ish, if nothing else. And apparently that's enough. "Cosa devi prendere?" he asks me. (What do you need to get?)
"Some lettuce!" I say, the first thing that springs to mind. What I really want is also some pasta (there is a delicious kind that is stuffed with gorgonzola and honey, by Giovanni Rana, whose numerous commercials on the radio have apparently brainwashed me into buying his stuff.... well, his commercials and my utter laziness and inability to cook). But whatever. If I even just got some lettuce, I could cook some pasta or rice or whatever that I have at home, slap some olive oil and cheese on it, and call it a meal. With both veggies and grains. Which is, you know, lots of the food groups. Right? Or at least two. Whatever.
"Just lettuce?" he says in what sounds suspisciously like a flirty sort of tone. Really? Flirting? Lettuce?
"Yeah, just some lettuce," I say, more because I don't really have any other response. He shouts something at the last open cashier and she rolls her eyes and says yes. He ushers me in.
"Just lettuce!" he says. I nod in agreement, and sprint off to get the lettuce. I do not dare get any pasta as well, because the cashier is a girl and probably not so susceptible to my... uh, just being female, apparently. I will just eat my rice. With some cheese mixed in. And vinegar. Because vinegar makes anything else taste like vinegar, which tastes good. Yes. (See what happens to me when I work 13 hour days begging people not to say things like "yesterday, I am going to Milano"?)
As I sprint off, I catch bits and pieces of the conversation between the guard guy and the cashier.
" .... .... .... ragazza," says he.
"You and the ragazze," says she.
There it is. Sigh.
"Ciao, bella!" he says as I leave.
"Ciao, grazie," I say. It's 9.12.
It's a funny thing, being a girl in Italy. It takes a lot of getting used to, for a foreigner. Especially one of the Anglo-Saxon variety. You get here, and suddenly people are staring at you and whistling at you and shouting "ciao, bella! complimenti!" at you as you walk down the street. People look you up and down and you're all keep your eyes to yourself, dude!
You wonder why they don't have any respect for women. Why do they seem to feel it's okay to completely treat women like objects to be stared at and commented on at will, as if we couldn't hear, or didn't care? I care. I want people to be interested in me for my intelligence, or because they think I'm a good person (whether or not I actually am is a different story, but still). Not because I'm shaped like a girl or have lighter hair than them. (Apparently medium brown = bionda, in Italy.)
But then, women are apparently allowed to retire five years earlier than men because "la mamma e sacra". They hold doors open for you and ask for permission before taking off their suit jackets in your presence. They walk you home at night. And they'll keep the supermarket open 12 minutes past closing time on a Thursday night if you tell them that you just got out of work and want some lettuce.
Weird, no?
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