His heart curls up into a hard little shell this time of year. Leaving me standing there, wondering what to think of my life. I stare at the emptiness for a while. For a long while, you know, until your eyes start to water and your world turns all psychedelic. And I blink and realize that it's not working. He's staying in that ball.
I teeter about, pathetically, until I build up enough of a base to step back and see what a mess I'm making of myself, and FORTUNATELY, I turn my back on the hard shell and whole-heartedly tell him to fuck off.
And things slide around and start fitting together again. I stop wondering about marriage and mothering and just do it. I build up steam and courage and strength. And I have time for everything. Exercise, baking cookies, bed time stories, back rubs, loving good morning kisses, and music. Much much more music. Books and art and walks through nature. I do instead of think.
And doing somehow gives me space to think. To really see my thoughts. And he is still there (of course, how else could he be to me) And I see myself reflected in calm deep water. Clearly. My problem is that I'm a clarity addict. Gradually, I slip into too much thinking and not enough doing. I see that now. Again.
Know without knowing. See without looking. Doesn't make sense. But if you don't think about it too much, it does.
Tuesday, December 23
courage campaign
I moved around quite a bit even before moving abroad. The last place I called home was California. I love so much about this amazing place. It's beautiful both in landscape and people. I love all those crazy California initiatives. I love the political spirit of the people.
I never imagined prop 8 would pass. A ban on gay marriages. And legal action to divorce couples married before prop 8 was passed.
How sad.
Please do not divorce. Love.
I never imagined prop 8 would pass. A ban on gay marriages. And legal action to divorce couples married before prop 8 was passed.
How sad.
Please do not divorce. Love.
Monday, December 22
how do you say...?
Learning a language on the fly gives a person a big helping dose of humility. Daily routine builds up your confidence and then you unexpectedly stumble into uncharted territory. You're hit with that blow, and that blank expression when you realize you have no idea what to say, you fumble through it with grunts and hand gestures and walk away feeling like an ignorant dolt the just set foot in this new country that you've inhabited for a year and a half. It's happened over and over and over again. To me.
Starts with making your way around the place the first few months. You avoid markets where you'd actually have to talk to a live person until you get fed up with the dismal selection at the supermarket and arm yourself with the words for things like "cetriolo" (cucumber) and "pomodoro" (tomato) and TRIUMPH! You pull it off. The market ladies are sweet and smiling and don't seem to mind when you can't figure out how to differentiate between one stalk vs. one bunch of celery (yes, you can buy a single stalk of celery). Minimal amount of grunting involved to sort things out and you're off with two buldging bags of fresh produce for under 10 euros.
This experience does good for your ego... I can do this italian thing, no problemo. So you're off to the deli.
Yea, the deli. Who knew such fumbles could be had at the deli.
Prosciutto crudo, cotto, salumi... I know these things. Let's get the good stuff from the deli today.
You casually saunter up to the counter, number in hand, roll off your polite "buongiorno" like a native and say "Prosciutto cotto, piacere".
Deli guy: Quale?
Uhhhh... ok. There's four different kinds... quick, what are the prices... something mid range... oh, that's COOP... the store brand. Is the store brand any good? "COOP" you blurt out. Whew!
Deli guy: Quante?
With your mouth half open you think, How much? Well, duh! Why didn't I think of how to say how much. About a quarter of a pound? Oh wait, metric. They must do this in grams. How many grams is about a quarter of a pound? Oh crap, I'm so blowing this. I don't care how much! Just give me some prociutto cotto!
Deli guy: Un cento grammi?
Si. Yes yes yes... exactly! That's exactly how much I wanted. Oh, well, that's not very much. "Posso avere due cento grammi?" Ah... nice recovery.
And so you've learned how to order from the deli counter. Things are really looking up. You figure out bread, school supplies, socks for your punkette, all pretty much the same way.
And then, out of the blue...Oooh. That's a great purse. It's perfect. I've got time, let's go in and check it out.
Death trap... well, language death trap... all kinds of crazy new words here. Words like "straps, pockets, adjustable, suede vs leather, snaps, zippers"... and I don't know ANY of them! How do you grunt "are the straps removable?"
Like I said, humility.
Starts with making your way around the place the first few months. You avoid markets where you'd actually have to talk to a live person until you get fed up with the dismal selection at the supermarket and arm yourself with the words for things like "cetriolo" (cucumber) and "pomodoro" (tomato) and TRIUMPH! You pull it off. The market ladies are sweet and smiling and don't seem to mind when you can't figure out how to differentiate between one stalk vs. one bunch of celery (yes, you can buy a single stalk of celery). Minimal amount of grunting involved to sort things out and you're off with two buldging bags of fresh produce for under 10 euros.
This experience does good for your ego... I can do this italian thing, no problemo. So you're off to the deli.
Yea, the deli. Who knew such fumbles could be had at the deli.
Prosciutto crudo, cotto, salumi... I know these things. Let's get the good stuff from the deli today.
You casually saunter up to the counter, number in hand, roll off your polite "buongiorno" like a native and say "Prosciutto cotto, piacere".
Deli guy: Quale?
Uhhhh... ok. There's four different kinds... quick, what are the prices... something mid range... oh, that's COOP... the store brand. Is the store brand any good? "COOP" you blurt out. Whew!
Deli guy: Quante?
With your mouth half open you think, How much? Well, duh! Why didn't I think of how to say how much. About a quarter of a pound? Oh wait, metric. They must do this in grams. How many grams is about a quarter of a pound? Oh crap, I'm so blowing this. I don't care how much! Just give me some prociutto cotto!
Deli guy: Un cento grammi?
Si. Yes yes yes... exactly! That's exactly how much I wanted. Oh, well, that's not very much. "Posso avere due cento grammi?" Ah... nice recovery.
And so you've learned how to order from the deli counter. Things are really looking up. You figure out bread, school supplies, socks for your punkette, all pretty much the same way.
And then, out of the blue...Oooh. That's a great purse. It's perfect. I've got time, let's go in and check it out.
Death trap... well, language death trap... all kinds of crazy new words here. Words like "straps, pockets, adjustable, suede vs leather, snaps, zippers"... and I don't know ANY of them! How do you grunt "are the straps removable?"
Like I said, humility.
Saturday, December 20
cooking without the box
We're staying home for Christmas. Just the four of us, nice and cozy. We've decorated a tree and things are very festive and comfortable here and none of us really wants to move out of this zone for Christmas.
So, to complete the homey Christmas memory package, I've decided to cook a big Christmas dinner. A bird of some sort. Punk and I took a look at the poultry section today and I remembered how much I hate preparing whole birds. Blaaaaaah... The case was full of bird carouses with feet and heads and beaks. Excuse me sir, I need my bird to look a little less bird-like, please. Not wanting to show what a chicken I was (badumpbump) I picked a smaller one that was decapitated and claw-less under the guise of our small oven and us being only four. Maybe it is not as fresh as the others but I just couldn't imagine dealing with all those parts. It's bad enough that the thing flaps it's wings all over the place when you're washing it.
Now that we've got the bird, I need to figure out how to cook everything that goes with it. Here. Away from my friendly Safeway. Or Wholefoods (it is a special occasion). I'm used to stuffing it with good ole Stove Top, or in recent years, some yuppie/hippy variety of stuffing that nonetheless still comes in a box. How do you actually make stuffing? Do I use stale bread or toast it? This just smacks of smoke choking up the kitchen.
And cranberry sauce. No Oceanspray here. I hunted down some dried cranberries... maybe I could soak them and use them in the stuffing... hmm. This could be dangerous, I'm using my creativity. I'm thinking of a long grain rice stuffing with some kind of nut (almonds?) and cranberries. This would also circumvent the bread dilemma.
Jeeze! I just remembered! GRAVY! I have always cheated and used cans of gravy or at the very best used those powder packets mixed in with the cooked bird juices. What do you do? I think I saw my grandma once using flour. It's hard to remember as I was mostly just drooling all over the place and dying for dinner to be ready. Are there any spices in there? The powder packet stuff sure didn't look like flour... the must be something else to it.
Here's the part where I start cursing the Kraft Demons for the dependency they've caused.
At least I'll be able to get the mashed potatoes right, but the rest of this feast is in grave danger of coming out really, really bad. I never realized how much I relied on all that packaged crap you can find in the US. I always thought of myself as a sprout chewing health nut. Curse you Kraft! (and you too Nestle)
So, to complete the homey Christmas memory package, I've decided to cook a big Christmas dinner. A bird of some sort. Punk and I took a look at the poultry section today and I remembered how much I hate preparing whole birds. Blaaaaaah... The case was full of bird carouses with feet and heads and beaks. Excuse me sir, I need my bird to look a little less bird-like, please. Not wanting to show what a chicken I was (badumpbump) I picked a smaller one that was decapitated and claw-less under the guise of our small oven and us being only four. Maybe it is not as fresh as the others but I just couldn't imagine dealing with all those parts. It's bad enough that the thing flaps it's wings all over the place when you're washing it.
Now that we've got the bird, I need to figure out how to cook everything that goes with it. Here. Away from my friendly Safeway. Or Wholefoods (it is a special occasion). I'm used to stuffing it with good ole Stove Top, or in recent years, some yuppie/hippy variety of stuffing that nonetheless still comes in a box. How do you actually make stuffing? Do I use stale bread or toast it? This just smacks of smoke choking up the kitchen.
And cranberry sauce. No Oceanspray here. I hunted down some dried cranberries... maybe I could soak them and use them in the stuffing... hmm. This could be dangerous, I'm using my creativity. I'm thinking of a long grain rice stuffing with some kind of nut (almonds?) and cranberries. This would also circumvent the bread dilemma.
Jeeze! I just remembered! GRAVY! I have always cheated and used cans of gravy or at the very best used those powder packets mixed in with the cooked bird juices. What do you do? I think I saw my grandma once using flour. It's hard to remember as I was mostly just drooling all over the place and dying for dinner to be ready. Are there any spices in there? The powder packet stuff sure didn't look like flour... the must be something else to it.
Here's the part where I start cursing the Kraft Demons for the dependency they've caused.
At least I'll be able to get the mashed potatoes right, but the rest of this feast is in grave danger of coming out really, really bad. I never realized how much I relied on all that packaged crap you can find in the US. I always thought of myself as a sprout chewing health nut. Curse you Kraft! (and you too Nestle)
Wednesday, December 17
scuola materna
Did you know that free public school in Italy starts when kids are three? It's pretty cool. Scuola Materna. Kids from 3-6 years can go from about 9-3 and you can expand those hours if you want up to 7-5, also for free. Punkette's school happens to be in a convent, but it's public, but one of her teachers is a nun... church and state are far from separate here.
At the beginning I had a problem with the nun, but I recognized that it was just me and had nothing to do with the nun. I was just annoyed that she got put in the one class of the three they have that had a nun teaching. But I stuffed my issues away and encouraged my daughter to just be herself and don't pay any attention to the nun. Well, maybe not in so many words.
Punkette is quite a determined kid, so I wasn't too worried about her. They worried a lot about her and the fact that she was so quiet (she didn't know the language). I told them not to worry. They freaked out that she didn't wear undershirts and sweaters. I told them she is hot. They once put her in wool tights, and I think the poor kid must have been holding her breath because she exploded when I picked her up that day. Happened also once when they tucked in her shirt. Punkette complained a lot about not being able to do things herself. Last year she came home very upset that she was not allowed to make the hair in the picture she was coloring purple. They told her purple is not a color for hair. Also, they make her eat salad. This sounds barbaric to most US parents. But yes, they literally will stick the food into their mouths. I think this happened to Punkette once, so now she just eats it. When I ask her what she ate for lunch on any given day her reply is usually, "I didn't like it, but I ate it."
She's been going there for over a year now. Her creativity is creeping back into her art work at school. They seem to approve. She is also now sometimes referred to as "sorrella blah blah" because she talks so much. She is a friendly, focused kid and they're starting to see that and like that about her. They also seem to have given up on badgering me about dressing Punkette in warmer clothes and the fact that we're perpetually late.
Moral of the story? I suppose sometimes it's not so bad to tolerate and adjust to a new way of doing things. I guess that's what I signed up for by moving abroad.
At the beginning I had a problem with the nun, but I recognized that it was just me and had nothing to do with the nun. I was just annoyed that she got put in the one class of the three they have that had a nun teaching. But I stuffed my issues away and encouraged my daughter to just be herself and don't pay any attention to the nun. Well, maybe not in so many words.
Punkette is quite a determined kid, so I wasn't too worried about her. They worried a lot about her and the fact that she was so quiet (she didn't know the language). I told them not to worry. They freaked out that she didn't wear undershirts and sweaters. I told them she is hot. They once put her in wool tights, and I think the poor kid must have been holding her breath because she exploded when I picked her up that day. Happened also once when they tucked in her shirt. Punkette complained a lot about not being able to do things herself. Last year she came home very upset that she was not allowed to make the hair in the picture she was coloring purple. They told her purple is not a color for hair. Also, they make her eat salad. This sounds barbaric to most US parents. But yes, they literally will stick the food into their mouths. I think this happened to Punkette once, so now she just eats it. When I ask her what she ate for lunch on any given day her reply is usually, "I didn't like it, but I ate it."
She's been going there for over a year now. Her creativity is creeping back into her art work at school. They seem to approve. She is also now sometimes referred to as "sorrella blah blah" because she talks so much. She is a friendly, focused kid and they're starting to see that and like that about her. They also seem to have given up on badgering me about dressing Punkette in warmer clothes and the fact that we're perpetually late.
Moral of the story? I suppose sometimes it's not so bad to tolerate and adjust to a new way of doing things. I guess that's what I signed up for by moving abroad.
Tuesday, December 16
birthday bliss
I am not one of those people who get's grouchy on their birthday and mopes around all day/week/month about getting older. I love having my birthday. I am bouncy on my birthday. Why not? I've got plenty to be happy about, right?
My birthday rocked yesterday. First off, I love Facebook. What a wonderful tool for staying connected. Between Facebook, email, and skype, every single one of my brothers and sisters-in-law sent me a message, as well as my parents, my grandpa, Aunts, friends from back in the states, friends I've made in Italy. I know it's electronic and easy, but KICK ASS! I love getting happy birthdays in any and every form.
My kids were too sweet. Punkone gave me a microscope that he got last year but had been replaced by a better one (it's really really crappy) but said that he thought I would like it since I'm a scientist and all. Punkette drew a picture of the two of us in rockin dresses... mine is purple with red hearts all over it. It's awesome and SO me.
I made my birthday cake from premixed batter that you squeeze out from a bag and frosted it with nutella since they don't have frosting here. It was yuuuummy. And then we played balloon volleyball.
I don't know exactly why, but 36 sounds just about perfect to me. I've got good warm fuzzies right though. Maybe it's like Brian up there says and has something to do with balance and symmetry. Or maybe I'm just a loony goon.
My birthday rocked yesterday. First off, I love Facebook. What a wonderful tool for staying connected. Between Facebook, email, and skype, every single one of my brothers and sisters-in-law sent me a message, as well as my parents, my grandpa, Aunts, friends from back in the states, friends I've made in Italy. I know it's electronic and easy, but KICK ASS! I love getting happy birthdays in any and every form.
My kids were too sweet. Punkone gave me a microscope that he got last year but had been replaced by a better one (it's really really crappy) but said that he thought I would like it since I'm a scientist and all. Punkette drew a picture of the two of us in rockin dresses... mine is purple with red hearts all over it. It's awesome and SO me.I made my birthday cake from premixed batter that you squeeze out from a bag and frosted it with nutella since they don't have frosting here. It was yuuuummy. And then we played balloon volleyball.
I don't know exactly why, but 36 sounds just about perfect to me. I've got good warm fuzzies right though. Maybe it's like Brian up there says and has something to do with balance and symmetry. Or maybe I'm just a loony goon.
Saturday, December 13
found a piece of my soul
Occasionally you stumble into something that clutches your soul. The moment you lay eyes on it, taste it, smell it... it's grip knocks the air out of your lungs. You feel consumed and empowered at the same time. And you realize you've found a piece of your soul.
I stumbled into a bit of enlightenment in a mini-paradise called Amalfi. But my soul wasn't found in all the beauty, the streets, or the soothing sounds of an Italian village. Some of it is in the sea and the rocks and there's a bit in a scoop of chocolate peperoncino gelato, but not this time. We were taking a tour of the Duomo gardens, a paradise within paradise. Art work and artifacts from centuries past... bits and pieces of what had been, what brought Amalfi to where it is today. And behind a broken wall, the dark space hidden between the studs, this had been uncovered:
click on it to get a really good look... it's amazing
I can stare at it for hours. When I first saw it, a piece of the wall had recently been broken away, still raw and jagged. Seeing this humble, simple scribbling in the walls felt like looking into the veins of the ancient building. And like watching my own blood pump through mine.
It's funny how we find these things. Always where and when you least expect it.
I stumbled into a bit of enlightenment in a mini-paradise called Amalfi. But my soul wasn't found in all the beauty, the streets, or the soothing sounds of an Italian village. Some of it is in the sea and the rocks and there's a bit in a scoop of chocolate peperoncino gelato, but not this time. We were taking a tour of the Duomo gardens, a paradise within paradise. Art work and artifacts from centuries past... bits and pieces of what had been, what brought Amalfi to where it is today. And behind a broken wall, the dark space hidden between the studs, this had been uncovered:
click on it to get a really good look... it's amazingI can stare at it for hours. When I first saw it, a piece of the wall had recently been broken away, still raw and jagged. Seeing this humble, simple scribbling in the walls felt like looking into the veins of the ancient building. And like watching my own blood pump through mine.
It's funny how we find these things. Always where and when you least expect it.
Thursday, December 11
serenity now
The alarm got pissed at me this morning. I think he may quit. Or sue. Wait, we're in Italy... he'll probably go on strike.
"Get Up!" it said. "No" I replied. I turned my back and snuggled in with the punks. My circulation is nil. I have cold limbs, frozen fingers and toes. My blood is just not in a big hurry. It'll get there when it gets there. The punks are like two furnaces. So I don't complain when they want to climb into bed with me. Especially since my usual furnace was in Amsterdam last night. The sheets finally get thawed out and I sleep REALLY well.
"Get UP!" the alarm shouts despondently.
"No" I reply. Then, blinking my eyes open, "Is that the church bell?"
The alarm walks off in disgust mumbling something about not getting any respect.
OK. We're late. Do I flip and make my kids miserable for my laziness or do I just accept it? I decide to take it slow. Clothes, breakfast, shoes. And then slush. And snow. Kids walk R E A L L Y
S L O W L Y when there's slush and snow on the ground. I'm glad I'm not in a hurry. I keep telling myself that.
We arrive at the Elementary school and make our grand entrance.
Oh. School's Closed. Well I guess that's good. I'm glad I didn't rush to get here. Wait, now I can't go into work. Now I'm really not in a hurry.
We head back toward the center with the objective of Punkette's medical appointment. Good gracious these kids are snails today. Wait, I'm not in a hurry.
First on my list is to dump some of my baggage. And get an umbrella. And call a cab. I can't take this pace.
Medical center appointment done. Now that I know where the medical center is I realize that we are not very far from home and since we're not in a hurry, I decide that we'll walk. We stumble into the Thursday Market on the way. Cool! I forgot all about that. I can pick up some hot lunch. Especially since Punkette's school said she can't come for lunch since I forgot to call and let them know. Work is totally sacked for the day.
So we're all home. Warming up. Relaxing. And not going anywhere in particular.
Life in Italy is exciting, isn't it?
"Get Up!" it said. "No" I replied. I turned my back and snuggled in with the punks. My circulation is nil. I have cold limbs, frozen fingers and toes. My blood is just not in a big hurry. It'll get there when it gets there. The punks are like two furnaces. So I don't complain when they want to climb into bed with me. Especially since my usual furnace was in Amsterdam last night. The sheets finally get thawed out and I sleep REALLY well.
"Get UP!" the alarm shouts despondently.
"No" I reply. Then, blinking my eyes open, "Is that the church bell?"
The alarm walks off in disgust mumbling something about not getting any respect.
OK. We're late. Do I flip and make my kids miserable for my laziness or do I just accept it? I decide to take it slow. Clothes, breakfast, shoes. And then slush. And snow. Kids walk R E A L L Y
S L O W L Y when there's slush and snow on the ground. I'm glad I'm not in a hurry. I keep telling myself that.
We arrive at the Elementary school and make our grand entrance.
Oh. School's Closed. Well I guess that's good. I'm glad I didn't rush to get here. Wait, now I can't go into work. Now I'm really not in a hurry.
We head back toward the center with the objective of Punkette's medical appointment. Good gracious these kids are snails today. Wait, I'm not in a hurry.
First on my list is to dump some of my baggage. And get an umbrella. And call a cab. I can't take this pace.
Medical center appointment done. Now that I know where the medical center is I realize that we are not very far from home and since we're not in a hurry, I decide that we'll walk. We stumble into the Thursday Market on the way. Cool! I forgot all about that. I can pick up some hot lunch. Especially since Punkette's school said she can't come for lunch since I forgot to call and let them know. Work is totally sacked for the day.
So we're all home. Warming up. Relaxing. And not going anywhere in particular.
Life in Italy is exciting, isn't it?
Wednesday, December 10
too much in photos
Yesterday morning I was thumbing through the newspaper at a cafe and opened to a photo of two men that had been hung to death in Iran. Their bodies were hoisted high in the air. Sacks on their heads. Too much.
I've seen lots of photos like this since moving to Italy. Screaming women cradling dead men. Dead children. People walking past dead bodies in the street. In the daily paper.
Does my reaction say I am ignoring the problems in the world? That I've been sheltered by American journalism? I'm not sure. Probably true. I know it's far from sunshine and rainbows. I know horrible, unthinkable things happen.
Maybe this shouldn't shock me. Certainly, I'm not used to this level of exposure in the papers. It seems disrespectful to me. This is real life, not a movie. These are people whose lives have come to a violent end. Yes, report on it, document it, write articles, and take photos... but images like this should be saved for a courtroom, not published in the daily paper.
I've seen lots of photos like this since moving to Italy. Screaming women cradling dead men. Dead children. People walking past dead bodies in the street. In the daily paper.
Does my reaction say I am ignoring the problems in the world? That I've been sheltered by American journalism? I'm not sure. Probably true. I know it's far from sunshine and rainbows. I know horrible, unthinkable things happen.
Maybe this shouldn't shock me. Certainly, I'm not used to this level of exposure in the papers. It seems disrespectful to me. This is real life, not a movie. These are people whose lives have come to a violent end. Yes, report on it, document it, write articles, and take photos... but images like this should be saved for a courtroom, not published in the daily paper.
Monday, December 8
shadows
I move in shadows
smiling
whispering
"breathe"
"let it go"
"love just a little more"
"and a little more"
"and more"
I know your heart
not perfect
not pure
not even always honest
but growing
learning
and open
To whispers from shadows...
This is my entry to this weeks Thematic Photo.
smiling
whispering
"breathe"
"let it go"
"love just a little more"
"and a little more"
"and more"
I know your heart
not perfect
not pure
not even always honest
but growing
learning
and open
To whispers from shadows...
This is my entry to this weeks Thematic Photo.
Sunday, December 7
beautiful noise
The church bells mark our day. In the morning they ring at quarter to eight... not eight, but quarter to... so Punkone knows to start putting on his shoes and I make sure I didn't forget his marenda (snack). Perfect timing for him to walk the few blocks to school with his father without rushing. No one likes to rush in the morning.
They ring again at noon, when the shops close and again at 3 when they open. If I'm home, the three o'clock bell reminds me that it's time to get my shoes on and head out to pick up Punkette from nursery school at 3:15. The final bells at 7 pm mark the end of the busy day, time for pjs and brushing of teeth. It's almost as if they consulted us about the scheduling.
And then there's the music of the street musicians. It brings Italy in... where I'm working with the kids or picking up the house... into my head... romantic and exotic and bringing that awareness, that recognition that small things are so important, that you're doing exactly what you should be doing, by definition of the fact that you are doing it.
They ring again at noon, when the shops close and again at 3 when they open. If I'm home, the three o'clock bell reminds me that it's time to get my shoes on and head out to pick up Punkette from nursery school at 3:15. The final bells at 7 pm mark the end of the busy day, time for pjs and brushing of teeth. It's almost as if they consulted us about the scheduling.
And then there's the music of the street musicians. It brings Italy in... where I'm working with the kids or picking up the house... into my head... romantic and exotic and bringing that awareness, that recognition that small things are so important, that you're doing exactly what you should be doing, by definition of the fact that you are doing it.
Friday, December 5
all camels are mammals
But all mammals are not camels.
Unless you're a human mother of two more humans, hoofing it back and forth to work, school, bakeries, parks, tennis lessons, music class... then you might be a camel too.
All that crap that I used to fill up the back of my hatchback with... I still need it, it still comes with us, it's just all piled on my back.
I try to hone it down. I have my backpack so I can try to stuff small parcels away. I empty it regularly. But I somehow manage to always end up feeling like a pack animal.
On my arms, shoulders, and back today, when I finally collapsed through the doorway:
1. My backpack, containing a change of shoes from work, wallet, cell phone, mittens, 3 mandarin oranges from lunch, a water bottle, a tennis racket and change of shoes for the punk.
2. Punk's school backpack containing, I think, about 10 or 12 bricks...
3. Shopping bag with sweets for movie night... a pandoro cake, chocolates and gummies, and roasted chestnuts for mom.
4. Two wet umbrellas
excuse me sir... can I borrow your burrow?
Sorry punks... I really do try to refrain from ripping your cute little heads off when you ask me if I can carry your mittens, a stick, or a piece of trash... But could you just take a look at me? Do I have a third arm I don't know about?
Don't worry. I didn't decapitate any punks. My patience flows from an eternal spring. And, despite the fact that I'm eating all this great Italian food, I'm still losing weight.
Unless you're a human mother of two more humans, hoofing it back and forth to work, school, bakeries, parks, tennis lessons, music class... then you might be a camel too.
All that crap that I used to fill up the back of my hatchback with... I still need it, it still comes with us, it's just all piled on my back.
I try to hone it down. I have my backpack so I can try to stuff small parcels away. I empty it regularly. But I somehow manage to always end up feeling like a pack animal.
On my arms, shoulders, and back today, when I finally collapsed through the doorway:
1. My backpack, containing a change of shoes from work, wallet, cell phone, mittens, 3 mandarin oranges from lunch, a water bottle, a tennis racket and change of shoes for the punk.
2. Punk's school backpack containing, I think, about 10 or 12 bricks...
3. Shopping bag with sweets for movie night... a pandoro cake, chocolates and gummies, and roasted chestnuts for mom.
4. Two wet umbrellas
excuse me sir... can I borrow your burrow?
Sorry punks... I really do try to refrain from ripping your cute little heads off when you ask me if I can carry your mittens, a stick, or a piece of trash... But could you just take a look at me? Do I have a third arm I don't know about?
Don't worry. I didn't decapitate any punks. My patience flows from an eternal spring. And, despite the fact that I'm eating all this great Italian food, I'm still losing weight.
Thursday, December 4
questions raised
There is a lot about Italy that makes no sense to me. How can "orari continuato" mean open from 9am-8pm, or why I can't buy pain killers at the supermarket? Why are there doors in our apartment that don't go anywhere? and why am I suddenly dressing better?
Or, how in the hell did they build the panteon?
Why am I so enamored by this sculpture?
And how long did I stare at the ceiling before I realized the gecko wasn't part of the painting?
Or, how in the hell did they build the panteon?
Why am I so enamored by this sculpture?
And how long did I stare at the ceiling before I realized the gecko wasn't part of the painting?
Tuesday, December 2
guerilla conversation
My social skills are in atrophy. They were not very sharp to begin with, but after a year and a half abroad, I'm starting to have real problems. First off, shhh, I'm blogging. Yikes. Second, my need to converse seems to be cumulative. The result of this is that when I do find someone to talk to, I assault them with conversation.
I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO LISTEN TO ME!!!!
You can imagine the effect that has.
Actually, most people seem to take it in stride. If I'm lucky, they're also a foreigner and feeling just as isolated as I am and we just beat each other into the ground. But sometimes I accidentally unleash on an unsuspecting Italian.
I was pissed off today and I carried this stupid pissed off feeling around with me all day because I just didn't have anyone to vent to. It was driving me nuts. I kept telling myself to just let it go, it's a silly thing to be upset about... but I just couldn't shake it.
Poor Michele. He's one of the guys at work that speaks some English. I was trying to stick to casual conversation, fearing what might happen to what little relationship there was between us if I unleashed my brewing frustrations. But he's also one of those wonderful people that asks you how you're doing and really wants to know. And such a kind face.
UGH. I exploded all over him after lunch, just as we would normally have simply parted ways. I could even see the reeling in his face in the process but I just couldn't disengage. What a trooper. He hung in there and actually conversed with me about the situation. Validation. Empathy. And hardly any signs of shell shock. Ugh, this should be so much easier. But I think Michele and I could actually become friends. I just wish I didn't have to feel like a socially inept science dork in the process... oh, wait...
I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO LISTEN TO ME!!!!
You can imagine the effect that has.
Actually, most people seem to take it in stride. If I'm lucky, they're also a foreigner and feeling just as isolated as I am and we just beat each other into the ground. But sometimes I accidentally unleash on an unsuspecting Italian.
I was pissed off today and I carried this stupid pissed off feeling around with me all day because I just didn't have anyone to vent to. It was driving me nuts. I kept telling myself to just let it go, it's a silly thing to be upset about... but I just couldn't shake it.
Poor Michele. He's one of the guys at work that speaks some English. I was trying to stick to casual conversation, fearing what might happen to what little relationship there was between us if I unleashed my brewing frustrations. But he's also one of those wonderful people that asks you how you're doing and really wants to know. And such a kind face.
UGH. I exploded all over him after lunch, just as we would normally have simply parted ways. I could even see the reeling in his face in the process but I just couldn't disengage. What a trooper. He hung in there and actually conversed with me about the situation. Validation. Empathy. And hardly any signs of shell shock. Ugh, this should be so much easier. But I think Michele and I could actually become friends. I just wish I didn't have to feel like a socially inept science dork in the process... oh, wait...
Monday, December 1
serenity of slush
It's been sleeting (nevischia) all through the night and it is continuing as I write. Slippy sloshy stuff everywhere. Right now I am LOVING my Sorels. I do mean LOVE. When I get home tonight I will treat them to a wax rubdown, they have been working so hard today. There were no buses running through downtown as trees have been falling down all over the place. I decided to hoof it, just halfway out of the valley and catch one of the buses that bypasses downtown. What I got were sardine cans on wheels. Too funny. I mean there were bodies pressed up against all the windows. The buses up to the university are generally packed, but this was ridiculous. I couldn't take the first one that passed by because the doors wouldn't open. I still had to jam my way into the second, but after 40 minutes of waiting out in sleet, you find a way.
Want to know the best part? The very best part? For the first time in a year and a half, people in general looked happy. IT WAS AWESOME! These stiff closed scowling northern Italians finally brightened up. Who knew!?! Slush! I was met with smiles and patience as we all slushed our way through the mess into work. When generally people would be bitching and moaning, serenity had taken it's place.
Want to know the best part? The very best part? For the first time in a year and a half, people in general looked happy. IT WAS AWESOME! These stiff closed scowling northern Italians finally brightened up. Who knew!?! Slush! I was met with smiles and patience as we all slushed our way through the mess into work. When generally people would be bitching and moaning, serenity had taken it's place.
Sunday, November 30
caldarroste e vin brule'
Yesterday I posted about Punkette's favorite winter treat (honestly though, she asks for it year round). I thought I'd tell you about mine today.Since I can no longer snuggle under the covers all day with hubby, I like to get out, and these Italians really know how to celebrate a holiday. The Christmas markets have started, the lights are up all over the city and more people than usual are out enjoying the city.
In addition to the pleasures of the warm cafe' s serving cioccolata calda and espresso drinks, there are outdoor stands that sell, my favorite, caldarroste e vin brule' or roasted chestnuts and hot spiced wine.
I finally understand the dreaminess of "chestnuts roasting on an open fire..." The chestnuts are warm and smooth, almost creamy. And if you get them hot out of the roaster you can drop a couple in your pockets to warm up your frozen little fingers. The vin brule' is also nice and hot, done with spices similar to what you would use to make hot apple cider. Every vendor does their own version and this one I'm drinking now has quite a kick. Tastes like there's some grappa in here. Yeeowza! This is my kind of warm up.
Saturday, November 29
cioccolata calda
I love coming in from playing outside in the snow, peeling off all the wet clothes and warming my fingers up on a nice hot cup of hot chocolate. One of the true simple pleasures of life.
My Punkette is a chocolate lover. She could eat chocolate at every meal if I let her. Jars of nutella, chocolate eggs, croissants, gelato... yes, I'm afraid she's going to be one of those women. But when it comes to hot chocolate, not just any hot chocolate will do. It has to be cioccolata calda. Hot chocolate, Italian style.
You see, cioccolata calda is completely different from hot chocolate. You can sip hot chocolate. But cioccolata calda, you have to scoop it up with a spoon. In winter, they make up a vat of the stuff and keep it hot and turning all day. It's thick and creamy. And it's delicious.
Friday, November 28
salve
heartache and despondence
sublimate
as the snow flakes
aggregate
Despite being up until 3 am, skyping with my extended family, I am bouncy as a tigger today. The snow is falling in droves and I just can't get enough. It is remarkably comforting. It's transforming this foreign land into everything I knew as a child... sledding, snow ball fights, cold red fingers... and I feel more like myself again. More connected and in tune with everything around me.
I'll leave the rest to my favorite poet, Anne Sexton...
Snow
Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the sky
like bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets
and each branch wears the sock of God.
There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don't bite till you know
if it's bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.
There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail.
sublimate
as the snow flakes
aggregate
Despite being up until 3 am, skyping with my extended family, I am bouncy as a tigger today. The snow is falling in droves and I just can't get enough. It is remarkably comforting. It's transforming this foreign land into everything I knew as a child... sledding, snow ball fights, cold red fingers... and I feel more like myself again. More connected and in tune with everything around me.
I'll leave the rest to my favorite poet, Anne Sexton...
Snow
Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the sky
like bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets
and each branch wears the sock of God.
There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don't bite till you know
if it's bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.
There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail.
Thursday, November 27
do you believe in Santa?
P: Why doesn't Santa die?
Me: Because he's more spirit than person.
There is a bum that lives in my neighborhood. He's about my age, more or less. Usually he's drunk. Sometimes he's not. And we recognize each other. I know this because he no longer asks me for money. I've never given him anything. When he's drunk I shuffle my kids away from him. When he's not, I ignore him completely.
But I don't really. Because I think about him. I notice when I haven't seen him for a few days. I notice when he looks sick, when he's cleaned up. When he's had a haircut. I wonder where he sleeps in this cold. And I wonder how long I will pretend to ignore him. Until I no longer see him anymore and wonder if he died somewhere? And I'll think with fading interest that I might have helped him out.
This is the worst kind of apathy.
I've been struggling to figure out what this post is about. I'm sure you can relate. I suppose it's me, recognizing the things that teach me something about myself. Simple questions from my kids get me wondering what I really believe. And how to define it. I question why I've never helped this person I see everyday. I think it's because I don't believe that giving him money would help, but that's an easy excuse. Am I more than that? Maybe not. I should be.
But I wouldn't be here (in every sense of the word) if I didn't take risks... with people and ideas.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Me: Because he's more spirit than person.
There is a bum that lives in my neighborhood. He's about my age, more or less. Usually he's drunk. Sometimes he's not. And we recognize each other. I know this because he no longer asks me for money. I've never given him anything. When he's drunk I shuffle my kids away from him. When he's not, I ignore him completely.
But I don't really. Because I think about him. I notice when I haven't seen him for a few days. I notice when he looks sick, when he's cleaned up. When he's had a haircut. I wonder where he sleeps in this cold. And I wonder how long I will pretend to ignore him. Until I no longer see him anymore and wonder if he died somewhere? And I'll think with fading interest that I might have helped him out.
This is the worst kind of apathy.
I've been struggling to figure out what this post is about. I'm sure you can relate. I suppose it's me, recognizing the things that teach me something about myself. Simple questions from my kids get me wondering what I really believe. And how to define it. I question why I've never helped this person I see everyday. I think it's because I don't believe that giving him money would help, but that's an easy excuse. Am I more than that? Maybe not. I should be.
But I wouldn't be here (in every sense of the word) if I didn't take risks... with people and ideas.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 26
culinary arts
I'm not an instinctive cook... meaning that I lack the natural sense of what foods and flavors go well together. I love cookbooks that give you a list of suggested side dishes or wine to serve with the meal. I can cook basic wholesome meals that involve little more than boiling water. Maybe stirfry. But if left to my own creative juices I usually end up with something along the lines of this:
Does everyone know what movie this is? Here is a hint:
I've even caught myself once saying the exact words "But it's got raisins in it... You like raisins" and I immediately took mercy on the punks and let them eat cold cereal.
Well, today I got creative. I wanted to make bean soup for lunch. To start I needed to brown an onion and a carrot in some olive oil. My carrots felt like they were made from rubber, so I went to see what else I had add to the pot besides an onion (this is where I usually run into trouble). Beets. Hey! That's a root (are you following the logic here?). Beets are good (in salad). I bet that would work.
And you know what? IT DID! The soup tastes AMAZING! Wait, let me see if the punks are eating it (I've been known to like some odd tasting stuff)... yep... they're eating it too!
Two thumbs up for beet the bean soup!
Does everyone know what movie this is? Here is a hint:I've even caught myself once saying the exact words "But it's got raisins in it... You like raisins" and I immediately took mercy on the punks and let them eat cold cereal.
Well, today I got creative. I wanted to make bean soup for lunch. To start I needed to brown an onion and a carrot in some olive oil. My carrots felt like they were made from rubber, so I went to see what else I had add to the pot besides an onion (this is where I usually run into trouble). Beets. Hey! That's a root (are you following the logic here?). Beets are good (in salad). I bet that would work.
And you know what? IT DID! The soup tastes AMAZING! Wait, let me see if the punks are eating it (I've been known to like some odd tasting stuff)... yep... they're eating it too!
Two thumbs up for beet the bean soup!
Tuesday, November 25
giddy
Although the mountains around here are already white capped, I didn't expect to see this outside my window so soon! We hardly ever get snow down in the valley...
I love snow. Growing up south of Chicago, snow was always a special treat to make up for suffering through the cold. It never snowed enough. We were always praying for it to come before Christmas and it hardly ever did (then we'd be praying for winter to end in April and it would snow). I'm not a huge fan of sub-zero weather, but if it comes with snow, I couldn't be happier.
I love snow. Growing up south of Chicago, snow was always a special treat to make up for suffering through the cold. It never snowed enough. We were always praying for it to come before Christmas and it hardly ever did (then we'd be praying for winter to end in April and it would snow). I'm not a huge fan of sub-zero weather, but if it comes with snow, I couldn't be happier.
Monday, November 24
Meme Shmeme
I've been tagged.Thank you Cairo Typo at Wandering the World for giving me this award. I met Ms. TypO just a few short weeks ago near the beginning of this NaBloPoMo insanity. She will go down in history as the second person to post a comment on my blog and has since given me unexpected support, inspiration, and laughs. When we're shriveled and senile, these bits and bytes will live on to tell our stories of hyjinx and adventure.
Now, down to serious beeznuss... What's the deely with this Meme? The rule is you can only answer the questions with a single word. And I have to nominate 5 other bloggers to do the same. Well, I'll tell you a little secret. I'm kind of a rule breaker when it comes to these kinds of things. Friendship rings, chain letters, mail the 10th person on the list a pair of sexy underwear. Uh... no.
That said, I'll play along. Sort of. Because I like TypO so much and I really am flattered she tagged me. But, I'm taking liberties to shake this up a bit.
Here are five of my favorite blogs. Really really. You kick ass.
Lynda at Lulu's Bay
Amanda at Life in a Suitcase
Derfina at Life in the River
Pearl at Pearl, Why You Little...
and Gutsy Writer
As recipients of this award, I will elaborate on one of my answers for you. Just ask. And, If you feel so inclined, please meme away, I'd like to know.
1. Where is your cell phone? bag
2. Where is your significant other? work
3. Your hair color? brown
4. Your mother? frustrated
5. Your father? hunting!?
6. Your favorite thing? punks
7. Your dream last night? wicked
8. Your dream/goal? passion
9. The room you're in? cubic
10. Your hobby? birth
11. Your fear? compliance
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? sailing
13. Where were you last night? bed
14. What you're not? short
15. One of your wish-list items? dress
16. Where you grew up? Plainfield
17. The last thing you did?
18. What are you wearing? clothes
19. Your TV? brain-cell-killing-hubby-loving-flat-screened-crabby-kid-making
20. Your pet? birds
21. Your computer? on
22. Your mood? smart-assy
23. Missing someone? yes
24. Your car? no
25. Something you're not wearing? diamond-encrusted-pumps
26. Favorite store? anthropologie
27. Your summer? Amalfi
28. Love someone? yes
29. Your favorite color? blue
30. When is the last time you laughed? barf-fest 11/08
31. Last time you cried? yesterday (don't worry mom, it was just Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory)
Sunday, November 23
the elusive skate park
Punkone recently completed a month of reading 5 books a week to obtain a skateboard. I'm not usually one to use rewards, but he's been begging for a skateboard for years and I figured he should have the opportunity to work for it if he really wanted it so bad. Plus he needed the extra reading practice. He did his reading happily and diligently as we ticked off the days on the calendar. At the end of the month, Mom went out and bought him the board in addition to all the protective gear as promised.
Now he just needs a place to ride it.
photo by skatechick68
We've asked around and had a reliable lead that there was a skate park on the outskirts of town in an area complete with soccer fields, baseball diamonds, tennis courts, an ice skating rink... It's cold, I don't know where we're going, and this is the first trip outside the kids have had in three days so I decide we'll splurge on a taxi.
We arrive at the ice skating rink and my plan is to ask someone who works there where the skate park is since I didn't spot it on the way in. Problem is that we don't find anyone who works there. People everywhere, but no one in any of the booths. Probably a Sunday thing. So we start asking other people. Other people in this case are mostly punk-ass teenagers. Punk-ass teenagers who seem to think that it's hilarious that we've shown up at an ice skating rink with a skateboard. They ignore my efforts to explain by acting out the difference between ice skating and skateboarding. And laughing their punk-ass butts off.
I give up and decide to head back to the outdoor fields we passed on the way in, figuring that it's likely to be somewhere over there anyway and at least we'll distance ourselves from the skateboard vs. ice skating confusion.
We stumble upon a rugby match in progress. This peaks Punkone's interest (who had been in despair at my failing to deliver him to a skate park) and we sat and watched the game for awhile so he could figure out the finer details of the game and Punkette could get some important coloring done.
After we've figured out who's playing, where the goals are, and how the players move the ball about the field our butts are frozen and it's getting colder as the sun has dropped behind the mountains. As I call the cab to go home, Punkone makes the wise observation that at least now we know where the skate park is not.
Now he just needs a place to ride it.
photo by skatechick68We've asked around and had a reliable lead that there was a skate park on the outskirts of town in an area complete with soccer fields, baseball diamonds, tennis courts, an ice skating rink... It's cold, I don't know where we're going, and this is the first trip outside the kids have had in three days so I decide we'll splurge on a taxi.
We arrive at the ice skating rink and my plan is to ask someone who works there where the skate park is since I didn't spot it on the way in. Problem is that we don't find anyone who works there. People everywhere, but no one in any of the booths. Probably a Sunday thing. So we start asking other people. Other people in this case are mostly punk-ass teenagers. Punk-ass teenagers who seem to think that it's hilarious that we've shown up at an ice skating rink with a skateboard. They ignore my efforts to explain by acting out the difference between ice skating and skateboarding. And laughing their punk-ass butts off.
I give up and decide to head back to the outdoor fields we passed on the way in, figuring that it's likely to be somewhere over there anyway and at least we'll distance ourselves from the skateboard vs. ice skating confusion.
We stumble upon a rugby match in progress. This peaks Punkone's interest (who had been in despair at my failing to deliver him to a skate park) and we sat and watched the game for awhile so he could figure out the finer details of the game and Punkette could get some important coloring done.
After we've figured out who's playing, where the goals are, and how the players move the ball about the field our butts are frozen and it's getting colder as the sun has dropped behind the mountains. As I call the cab to go home, Punkone makes the wise observation that at least now we know where the skate park is not.
Saturday, November 22
mums the word
Today I escaped the house after a week home with my sick punkette.
First stop was the hairstylist for a long overdue hair cut. My stylist was a bit chatty, which is difficult for me because I need to use a whole different subset of words. Words outside of my usual elementary school or supermarket banter. But I put up a good show and the conversation ensued.
From there, I went to meet a group of expats for our first get together. Lots of new faces, and lots of talking. It took a while for me to convince my brain to just relax and speak English. Like easing it into warm honey. No really... just relax for awhile, I've got it all under control. My mouth finally gave my brain a few hours off.
And now I'm horse. Apparently my vocal chords are out of practice. After just a few hours of casual conversation I have a sore throat. It made me realize that I probably don't talk very much anymore. Maybe I should take up singing or read my emails out loud while my brain tries to catch on to this new language. What's going to happen when I visit the states in the spring for my brother's wedding? How will I socialize with all the long time no see relatives?
Obviously my brain is still on holiday.
First stop was the hairstylist for a long overdue hair cut. My stylist was a bit chatty, which is difficult for me because I need to use a whole different subset of words. Words outside of my usual elementary school or supermarket banter. But I put up a good show and the conversation ensued.
From there, I went to meet a group of expats for our first get together. Lots of new faces, and lots of talking. It took a while for me to convince my brain to just relax and speak English. Like easing it into warm honey. No really... just relax for awhile, I've got it all under control. My mouth finally gave my brain a few hours off.
And now I'm horse. Apparently my vocal chords are out of practice. After just a few hours of casual conversation I have a sore throat. It made me realize that I probably don't talk very much anymore. Maybe I should take up singing or read my emails out loud while my brain tries to catch on to this new language. What's going to happen when I visit the states in the spring for my brother's wedding? How will I socialize with all the long time no see relatives?
Obviously my brain is still on holiday.
Friday, November 21
I can only take so much
The day I started seeing my new asthma and allergy specialist. 1980. I remember lying on the table for hours while they pricked a 20X20 grid of allergens into my back and then waited to see which spots caused the most irritation. I don't remember the subsequent two injections in each arm. I only know about the injections because my mother recently reminisced about how patient I had been that day right up until that point. Apparently I lost it and got out my little 8 year old can o' whoop ass. Bet they didn't see that coming.
Thursday, November 20
zen and the art of grocery shopping
I decided long ago that I wanted to live abroad. I've always liked exploring new places and making friends along the way. Many summer vacations sparked my interest in mountain air, lush lakes, fresh ocean breezes. And friends that became pen pals, usually just for a few months, but connections that sparked my curiosity in looking at things from a different perspective. Mostly because of what it showed me about myself.
Adjusting to life here took me awhile. I felt myself ramming up against a different rhythm at first, trying to continue the only way I knew how. But our old routines didn't work here.
After a few months I grew accustomed to a new flow. It still felt strange to me, but I made it work. I diligently planned our routes and schedules so that I could get the things we needed every day without causing too much stress for myself or the kids. Since we didn't have a car and were restricted to a dorm size refrigerator, we got used to making frequent stops for small quantities of food or other items we needed every day. Since we no longer had a yard, a daily trip to the park was also in order. It used to be a preoccupation to me, but now it just flows. It's now a natural part of the routine that carries us through our day.
a favorite game is trying to stay on stones of a certain color; they use the man hole covers to "refuel"
And I find myself a bit mystified at how comfortable I've become. At how much I enjoy the rhythm I've discovered here. It is so different than any way I've lived before, and it brings me joy. Routine daily living feels like a meditation. Zen and the art of grocery shopping, if you will.
It cannot be the place alone. I think it comes from the awareness of what's required from us in our daily actions. At least that is what I hope. I hope that when it's time for us to leave, I can take this with me.
Adjusting to life here took me awhile. I felt myself ramming up against a different rhythm at first, trying to continue the only way I knew how. But our old routines didn't work here.
After a few months I grew accustomed to a new flow. It still felt strange to me, but I made it work. I diligently planned our routes and schedules so that I could get the things we needed every day without causing too much stress for myself or the kids. Since we didn't have a car and were restricted to a dorm size refrigerator, we got used to making frequent stops for small quantities of food or other items we needed every day. Since we no longer had a yard, a daily trip to the park was also in order. It used to be a preoccupation to me, but now it just flows. It's now a natural part of the routine that carries us through our day.
a favorite game is trying to stay on stones of a certain color; they use the man hole covers to "refuel"And I find myself a bit mystified at how comfortable I've become. At how much I enjoy the rhythm I've discovered here. It is so different than any way I've lived before, and it brings me joy. Routine daily living feels like a meditation. Zen and the art of grocery shopping, if you will.
It cannot be the place alone. I think it comes from the awareness of what's required from us in our daily actions. At least that is what I hope. I hope that when it's time for us to leave, I can take this with me.
Wednesday, November 19
love at first sight
The girls over at wandering the world and lulu's bay have been gushing on about the loves of their respective lives. I read these posts from my high anti-consumerism horse as I have been good and have thus far been able to live without that special something in my life, which in fact were these boots that belong to bossy... after all, isn't it written somewhere, thou shall not covet thy neighbor's boots?
But I was soon to discover that, these boots were too easy to resist. They don't exist in my real world. It is easy to resist something that is without substance. Something that is simply eye candy. For it was quite by surprise, when yesterday, the forces of fashion pulled me across the street. To not only gaze in awe through the window, but to dare step inside. To be bold enough to feel the weight, the buttery silkiness of this dress.
The love I didn't even know I was searching for. The one that says everything about me that I didn't know needed saying. There has never been one so perfect, so exact, so timelessly me. And as an added bonus, my size arrives on Thursday.
But I was soon to discover that, these boots were too easy to resist. They don't exist in my real world. It is easy to resist something that is without substance. Something that is simply eye candy. For it was quite by surprise, when yesterday, the forces of fashion pulled me across the street. To not only gaze in awe through the window, but to dare step inside. To be bold enough to feel the weight, the buttery silkiness of this dress.
The love I didn't even know I was searching for. The one that says everything about me that I didn't know needed saying. There has never been one so perfect, so exact, so timelessly me. And as an added bonus, my size arrives on Thursday.
Tuesday, November 18
heebie jeebies
Punkette has had a fever for five days now. My general rule is let it ride for three days and then after that have a doctor check things out. So, I hauled the punks off to our publicly assigned doctor yesterday, around 6 pm (they're only open 4:30-7 pm)...
We walk into the building and it's dark. This is unnerving, but not unusual. I just wish people would make a practice of leaving the hall lights on during business hours. But like I said, I'm somewhat used to this... we just turn on the lights and head up to the second floor.
We arrive at what I think might be the doctors office, only because the door is open and there are moms and a couple of kids sitting inside. It's also dark at the entrance and one panel of lights is turned on over the cluster of people waiting on mismatched chairs from a number of the past 5 decades. The space is defined on one side by a wall of wood paneling. The waiting room is an area carved out of what clearly used to be two rooms. The walls are bare and yellowed and there are a couple of notices taped on the wood paneling. No friendly receptionist... not even a grouchy receptionist. No posters or pamphlets about healthy children. No germ laden children's books, no fish tank...
a fish tank would have been nice
I gulp my nerves back down and say something like "I guess this is the right place" in as cheery a voice as I can pull off. The kids are not buying it.
Punkone:
Mom, this place is weird.
What kind of doctor is this?
Mom, I'm freaking out.
Man, I'm sure glad I'm not going to see this doctor. If I was the one seeing this doctor I would be freaking out.
I inform him that this is his doctor too and that he should just calm down and get comfortable. He continues to elaborate on everything about the place that gives him the creeps. Problem is, I totally agree with him. I tell him to zip it.
And I'm thinking... So, this is public health care. Well, the doctor must be good. How bad could he be? From the looks of his lobby he doesn't seem to care much about his patients being comfortable. Doesn't he care at all about easing the irrational fears in little minds? Think of the children! And now I'm starting to feel sick.
But we stay. I'm waiting to see this doctor. The truth is, he'd have to be Dr. Ross to pull this gig off. We're watching another woman in the room entertain a coughing, crying child and fidgeting in our seats trying to ignore the strange sounds emanating from behind the wood paneling, but straining to hear anything reassuring. Finally, the patients change. One out, next in. And we catch a glimpse of the doc down another dark hallway. He seems ok. Was that the doctor? Looks like some guy that just walked up from the bar. No crisp white coat or scrubs, no stethoscope... he doesn't look at all the way doctors should look.
not our doctor
Me: You see! (bull shit bull shit bull shit) He looks like a nice guy. (bull shit bull shit bull shit) I bet he's a great doctor!
We stay. Still another family ahead of us. I look at punkette. She doesn't seem that sick. I bet just another couple of days of rest and she'll be fine. What difference could seeing this doctor possibly make? But maybe this is just culture shock. Yes. I just need to ignore the intuitive red flags flying around (and the two punks) that are pleading with me to just leave.
Finally, I fold, and I call hubby. I describe the place. "Is this normal?" Granted, now I've just completely blow my cover with the kids. Well, it just doesn't feel right. All hands up if you think we should blow this pop stand! The "aye"s have it!
We walk into the building and it's dark. This is unnerving, but not unusual. I just wish people would make a practice of leaving the hall lights on during business hours. But like I said, I'm somewhat used to this... we just turn on the lights and head up to the second floor.
We arrive at what I think might be the doctors office, only because the door is open and there are moms and a couple of kids sitting inside. It's also dark at the entrance and one panel of lights is turned on over the cluster of people waiting on mismatched chairs from a number of the past 5 decades. The space is defined on one side by a wall of wood paneling. The waiting room is an area carved out of what clearly used to be two rooms. The walls are bare and yellowed and there are a couple of notices taped on the wood paneling. No friendly receptionist... not even a grouchy receptionist. No posters or pamphlets about healthy children. No germ laden children's books, no fish tank...
a fish tank would have been niceI gulp my nerves back down and say something like "I guess this is the right place" in as cheery a voice as I can pull off. The kids are not buying it.
Punkone:
Mom, this place is weird.
What kind of doctor is this?
Mom, I'm freaking out.
Man, I'm sure glad I'm not going to see this doctor. If I was the one seeing this doctor I would be freaking out.
I inform him that this is his doctor too and that he should just calm down and get comfortable. He continues to elaborate on everything about the place that gives him the creeps. Problem is, I totally agree with him. I tell him to zip it.
And I'm thinking... So, this is public health care. Well, the doctor must be good. How bad could he be? From the looks of his lobby he doesn't seem to care much about his patients being comfortable. Doesn't he care at all about easing the irrational fears in little minds? Think of the children! And now I'm starting to feel sick.
But we stay. I'm waiting to see this doctor. The truth is, he'd have to be Dr. Ross to pull this gig off. We're watching another woman in the room entertain a coughing, crying child and fidgeting in our seats trying to ignore the strange sounds emanating from behind the wood paneling, but straining to hear anything reassuring. Finally, the patients change. One out, next in. And we catch a glimpse of the doc down another dark hallway. He seems ok. Was that the doctor? Looks like some guy that just walked up from the bar. No crisp white coat or scrubs, no stethoscope... he doesn't look at all the way doctors should look.
not our doctorMe: You see! (bull shit bull shit bull shit) He looks like a nice guy. (bull shit bull shit bull shit) I bet he's a great doctor!
We stay. Still another family ahead of us. I look at punkette. She doesn't seem that sick. I bet just another couple of days of rest and she'll be fine. What difference could seeing this doctor possibly make? But maybe this is just culture shock. Yes. I just need to ignore the intuitive red flags flying around (and the two punks) that are pleading with me to just leave.
Finally, I fold, and I call hubby. I describe the place. "Is this normal?" Granted, now I've just completely blow my cover with the kids. Well, it just doesn't feel right. All hands up if you think we should blow this pop stand! The "aye"s have it!
Monday, November 17
simple things
in the rut of routine find joy in simple things
sun beams
beetles
blankets
bedtime
I walk home instead of taking the bus so I can
smell the breeze
see the mountains
feel my muscles
find my rhythm
the goofy smile you see on my face means
the punks are in school
I'm not in a car
it's raining
or you're really cute but I have no idea what you're saying
so excuse me while I soak up
the sights
the sounds
my confusion
and a fresh perspective
sun beams
beetles
blankets
bedtime
I walk home instead of taking the bus so I can
smell the breeze
see the mountains
feel my muscles
find my rhythm
the goofy smile you see on my face means
the punks are in school
I'm not in a car
it's raining
or you're really cute but I have no idea what you're saying
so excuse me while I soak up
the sights
the sounds
my confusion
and a fresh perspective
Sunday, November 16
thanks
Imagine, sitting in a van with three brothers on a twelve hour drive with a deranged man at the wheel. My father was a man on a mission during those summer vacations and if he didn't feel like stopping, we didn't stop (Unless of course the DQ fairies took control of the van and magically forced us off the highway).
Now imagine, this van pulling a full size camper, hauling ass down the highway, at say, 50 mph (I'm giving my Dad the benefit of the doubt and assuming he did slow down a little) while my mother holds my younger brother's head out the window so he can throw up. I'm sitting in the second of the two bench seats to afford myself the best view of this spectacle as it unfolds. Well, poor brother DOES throw up and in an instant I see the entire right hand side of our van splattered, plastered, ... yuck.
And I burst out laughing. Despite scoldings and the threat that doing so might mean that I'll have to clean it up (I didn't) I'm laughing, really hard. I'm laughing now, in fact. I really did feel bad for my brother, but I ended up on the floor of our van, crying with laughter.
No matter how hard I try not too, I always laugh at these situations. And it seems I'm afforded many opportunities to bust my gut.
I'm on a flight with my 15 mo son. A ten hour flight with turbulence. The kid is sick, but so far I've managed to avoid getting any on me. And I haven't been laughing. I'm miserable.
We're in a bit of a rough spot and it's fasten seat belts for everyone. I have my kid in my lap, trying to comfort him. In a sleepy stupor he throws up on me, not once, but twice. We're both covered in it and I can't even get up to change. I just look at my husband and see that look (that "oh dear god this flight can't get any worse" look) and I burst out laughing. I'm trying not to because I don't want to wake my sleeping vomit covered baby. But I'm crying with laughter. No longer miserable... feeling gross, yes, but not miserable. Even the cringing looks of the other passengers when I finally have a chance to get up and go change my shirt make me chuckle.
So perhaps, this is the moral of my life. All these "shit-hits-the-fan moments" maybe are just a reminder for me to laugh more. Pushing me to see just how much I can get from every second of this life. Today, for instance, my son poltergeist-ed in three different places in a glorious effort to get to the bathroom... these moments are the tangible evidence in my life that some greater force in the universe must love me.
Now imagine, this van pulling a full size camper, hauling ass down the highway, at say, 50 mph (I'm giving my Dad the benefit of the doubt and assuming he did slow down a little) while my mother holds my younger brother's head out the window so he can throw up. I'm sitting in the second of the two bench seats to afford myself the best view of this spectacle as it unfolds. Well, poor brother DOES throw up and in an instant I see the entire right hand side of our van splattered, plastered, ... yuck.
And I burst out laughing. Despite scoldings and the threat that doing so might mean that I'll have to clean it up (I didn't) I'm laughing, really hard. I'm laughing now, in fact. I really did feel bad for my brother, but I ended up on the floor of our van, crying with laughter.
No matter how hard I try not too, I always laugh at these situations. And it seems I'm afforded many opportunities to bust my gut.
I'm on a flight with my 15 mo son. A ten hour flight with turbulence. The kid is sick, but so far I've managed to avoid getting any on me. And I haven't been laughing. I'm miserable.
We're in a bit of a rough spot and it's fasten seat belts for everyone. I have my kid in my lap, trying to comfort him. In a sleepy stupor he throws up on me, not once, but twice. We're both covered in it and I can't even get up to change. I just look at my husband and see that look (that "oh dear god this flight can't get any worse" look) and I burst out laughing. I'm trying not to because I don't want to wake my sleeping vomit covered baby. But I'm crying with laughter. No longer miserable... feeling gross, yes, but not miserable. Even the cringing looks of the other passengers when I finally have a chance to get up and go change my shirt make me chuckle.
So perhaps, this is the moral of my life. All these "shit-hits-the-fan moments" maybe are just a reminder for me to laugh more. Pushing me to see just how much I can get from every second of this life. Today, for instance, my son poltergeist-ed in three different places in a glorious effort to get to the bathroom... these moments are the tangible evidence in my life that some greater force in the universe must love me.
Saturday, November 15
Castle Beseno
I love visiting castles. One of our favorites is Castel Beseno.
This castle is in excellent shape and has lots of space to explore.
This photo really gives you a sense of the size of the exterior grounds.
I like spotting hints of what the castle looked like when it was inhabited.
The punks like trying on armor and feeling how heavy the weapons are.
There is some guidance about how to put on all the armor.
Lots to explore and a fun way to spend a day with the family.
This castle is in excellent shape and has lots of space to explore.
This photo really gives you a sense of the size of the exterior grounds.
I like spotting hints of what the castle looked like when it was inhabited.
The punks like trying on armor and feeling how heavy the weapons are.
There is some guidance about how to put on all the armor.
Lots to explore and a fun way to spend a day with the family.
Thursday, November 13
the twilight zone
This very north of northern Italian towns feels different to me. I like that it feels different. That was the point of moving way the heck over here, to experience something different. I like that I was forced to kick my grande latte habit and learn to shop between the hours of 9 am - noon or 3pm - 7pm. It's unsettling and exhausting and exciting.
You get used to this level of unrest. You begin to notice even little things that are different. Almost no one is fat. In fact, most people are thin. How did they get this way? They eat whole pizzas and no one sends their kids out to play. Is it genetics? The cold? They eat gelato and drink aperitifs and have cake and soda... there's no tofu or sprouts or rye crisps... how do they pull this off? You realize that it had been years since you got a whiff of cigarette smoke. You're stopped dead in your tracks by the large crucifix hanging on the wall inside the bank. It's like swimming in a lake with seaweed that wraps up around your legs if you settle down... you just a bit frantically keep going and try to keep yourself from loosing it.
So it was in this wired state, that one weekend, shortly after we moved here, that we decided to rent a car and go check out the surrounding area. Not twenty minutes out of town, both the punks are turning white and threatening to puke in the car. 20 friggin minutes! These kids were stuck in the car for 20, 30, 40 minutes a day, every day before we moved here. Now they're scrambling to roll down the windows and screaming to get out.
So we stop, anywhere. Right now! (now I'm screaming because we all know who is going to be the one cleaning up the mess)
The place where we've stopped seems to be some sort of church fundraiser. There's a pavillion, food to purchase, music. Lots of picinic tables with families eating and kids running around. Some people dancing. We decide to join in... I am kind of hungry... sure I could go for some food. Let's see what they've go to eat... hot dogs, oh the kids will like those, french fries... ooh, I'll have some sausage. I've bouncing slightly with the beat of the band and noticing people walking away from the counter with their fries smothered in ketchup when it hits me like a minus 35 wind chill factor.
That's polka music
Cement, pavilion, picinic tables
Hot dog, french fries, ketchup... LOTS of KETCHUP
Everyone is drinking beer in plastic cups
Everyone is slightly overweight
OMG... FUNNEL CAKES!?!
We're in Wisconsin.
You get used to this level of unrest. You begin to notice even little things that are different. Almost no one is fat. In fact, most people are thin. How did they get this way? They eat whole pizzas and no one sends their kids out to play. Is it genetics? The cold? They eat gelato and drink aperitifs and have cake and soda... there's no tofu or sprouts or rye crisps... how do they pull this off? You realize that it had been years since you got a whiff of cigarette smoke. You're stopped dead in your tracks by the large crucifix hanging on the wall inside the bank. It's like swimming in a lake with seaweed that wraps up around your legs if you settle down... you just a bit frantically keep going and try to keep yourself from loosing it.
So it was in this wired state, that one weekend, shortly after we moved here, that we decided to rent a car and go check out the surrounding area. Not twenty minutes out of town, both the punks are turning white and threatening to puke in the car. 20 friggin minutes! These kids were stuck in the car for 20, 30, 40 minutes a day, every day before we moved here. Now they're scrambling to roll down the windows and screaming to get out.
So we stop, anywhere. Right now! (now I'm screaming because we all know who is going to be the one cleaning up the mess)
The place where we've stopped seems to be some sort of church fundraiser. There's a pavillion, food to purchase, music. Lots of picinic tables with families eating and kids running around. Some people dancing. We decide to join in... I am kind of hungry... sure I could go for some food. Let's see what they've go to eat... hot dogs, oh the kids will like those, french fries... ooh, I'll have some sausage. I've bouncing slightly with the beat of the band and noticing people walking away from the counter with their fries smothered in ketchup when it hits me like a minus 35 wind chill factor.
That's polka music
Cement, pavilion, picinic tables
Hot dog, french fries, ketchup... LOTS of KETCHUP
Everyone is drinking beer in plastic cups
Everyone is slightly overweight
OMG... FUNNEL CAKES!?!
We're in Wisconsin.
two stories for two punks
I have two kids. I waited out my first pregnancy on a sailboat. Albeit, that boat was docked pretty much the entire time, but living on it with an extra thirty pounds strapped to your hips proved interesting. In the rain, with no hot water on board. Just a little space heater to stave off the dampness. And it was a little space, so not problem. Snug as a bug I was. And I had Ann's Coffee Shop with a good selection of home cooked classics to turn to. Simple chicken salad sandwiches, grilled cheese with tomato soup...
Actually life was really good in the marina. Pelicans to watch and the clank of the boats wiggling in their berths. Not to mention lots of CA sun. Things were going well until I slipped down the stairs that lead into the cabin and fell on the bottom half of the hatch that I was trying to climb over. Fortunately, the blow was taken by my thigh and hip rather than my huge belly, but I ended up with a streak of bruises down my side that would make your stomach turn. The kind that turn not only black and purple, but then orange and green too. When we went in for our appointment that month my midwife asked my husband to leave the room. "Oh great," I thought. "Who will ever believe that I live on a boat and slipped down the stairs... on the other hand, who could make up such a story?" Turns out the midwife lived in the next marina so my husband was pardoned.
After an amazing birth and another pregnancy (this time land side) it was time for baby number two to emerge. I had grown to monstrous proportions this time, with access to a fully stocked kitchen and still nursing the first rascal. The hitch (there's always a hitch) this time was that we were planning a home birth. I was looking forward to giving birth in the comfort and privacy of our home... who knew that I'd be overcome by the desire to burst into a sprint during contractions. I'm sure my husband and mother thought I had lost my mind, but, hell, that's what felt good. Zipping in circles around my living room sofa. I was a woman possessed by a ten pound baby. This punk had had enough of womb life and wanted out NOW, and she was born from start to finish in under an hour. My husband still curses the midwife to this day for not being there on time.
And I think things worked out pretty well...
Actually life was really good in the marina. Pelicans to watch and the clank of the boats wiggling in their berths. Not to mention lots of CA sun. Things were going well until I slipped down the stairs that lead into the cabin and fell on the bottom half of the hatch that I was trying to climb over. Fortunately, the blow was taken by my thigh and hip rather than my huge belly, but I ended up with a streak of bruises down my side that would make your stomach turn. The kind that turn not only black and purple, but then orange and green too. When we went in for our appointment that month my midwife asked my husband to leave the room. "Oh great," I thought. "Who will ever believe that I live on a boat and slipped down the stairs... on the other hand, who could make up such a story?" Turns out the midwife lived in the next marina so my husband was pardoned.
After an amazing birth and another pregnancy (this time land side) it was time for baby number two to emerge. I had grown to monstrous proportions this time, with access to a fully stocked kitchen and still nursing the first rascal. The hitch (there's always a hitch) this time was that we were planning a home birth. I was looking forward to giving birth in the comfort and privacy of our home... who knew that I'd be overcome by the desire to burst into a sprint during contractions. I'm sure my husband and mother thought I had lost my mind, but, hell, that's what felt good. Zipping in circles around my living room sofa. I was a woman possessed by a ten pound baby. This punk had had enough of womb life and wanted out NOW, and she was born from start to finish in under an hour. My husband still curses the midwife to this day for not being there on time.
And I think things worked out pretty well...
Wednesday, November 12
risk
My post yesterday has had me thinking. As often happens to me, I end up arguing with myself. In this case, part of me is turning her nose up at the sentence "I no longer have access to the tools to throw my hat in the ring." Ha! she says. Get a backbone. Take charge. If you want to make some friends, do something about it. And she's right.
Opportunities much less daunting than a bus load of strangers are all around me. The gathering of parents at my kid's tennis lessons, the cafeteria line at work, pick up at school... I've become fatigued and I just need to pull it together and go for it. Again.
what could be more frightening than a group of moms waiting outside the elementary school?
My challenge to myself (any other takers?): get to know someone just a little bit better in the next 24 hours. Someone that you normally wouldn't strike up a conversation with. Let's get gutsy and see what we find.
Opportunities much less daunting than a bus load of strangers are all around me. The gathering of parents at my kid's tennis lessons, the cafeteria line at work, pick up at school... I've become fatigued and I just need to pull it together and go for it. Again.
what could be more frightening than a group of moms waiting outside the elementary school?My challenge to myself (any other takers?): get to know someone just a little bit better in the next 24 hours. Someone that you normally wouldn't strike up a conversation with. Let's get gutsy and see what we find.
Tuesday, November 11
behind glass
I have the habit, or maybe it's a hobby, of trying to see beyond what people are telling me. What they say with their eyes or what comes out in their expressions when no one else is paying attention.
It's easier to do this in a country where you can't follow the conversations of strangers. You have nothing to go on but what you read in their eyes. I sit quietly on the bus, and occasionally I spot someone who has so much more to share. Someone who thinks, writes music, wrestles with life and where it's headed. Someone with dreams that they're determined to live. And I want so much to know them and discover their perspective on life. But I'm left sitting there, tortured, because it's nearly impossible for me to risk anything further. I no longer have access to the tools to throw my hat in the ring and see the response. I'm stuck behind a one way mirror where I can see them behind a haunting image of myself with no way to break into reality.
It's easier to do this in a country where you can't follow the conversations of strangers. You have nothing to go on but what you read in their eyes. I sit quietly on the bus, and occasionally I spot someone who has so much more to share. Someone who thinks, writes music, wrestles with life and where it's headed. Someone with dreams that they're determined to live. And I want so much to know them and discover their perspective on life. But I'm left sitting there, tortured, because it's nearly impossible for me to risk anything further. I no longer have access to the tools to throw my hat in the ring and see the response. I'm stuck behind a one way mirror where I can see them behind a haunting image of myself with no way to break into reality.
Monday, November 10
learning Italian
I'm trying here. Really trying. If you want to see your Italian husband turn white, ask him what coglione means. In public, at a crowded cafe'. Ok... maybe the cafe' shouldn't be crowded. At least not with people you know. We don't want to bring on other health issues... just a nice pasty shade of white.
coglione (co.yo.nay) n. - literally, testicle, but with a very offensive undertone (don't use it in public), ie. @#*%ing jackass.
Obama scusa, Berlusconi e' un coglione.
Well, I figured as much, I just didn't think it was that bad.
You can tell I'm not Italian... I'm sure if I was, I'd never actually write such a word on my blog. Sorry Italians. I'm just learning here.
For instance, my husband, learning English among male colleagues in the lab, became particularly fond of the "f" word. His favorite sentence was "F... the f...ing f...ers." (ok, I actually taught him that one). I was really nervous the first time I took him home to meet Mom and Dad.
The fact is that it takes a childhood of warnings and evil eyes to really feel the impact that such a word has. For someone new to the language, even after they understand the meaning of a word, the physiological response still isn't there... it's hard to learn the gut wrench or devilish joy or the simple release of tension that you get from firing off a string of profanities in your own language.
I guess I'll get there, one faux pas at a time.
coglione (co.yo.nay) n. - literally, testicle, but with a very offensive undertone (don't use it in public), ie. @#*%ing jackass.
Obama scusa, Berlusconi e' un coglione.
Well, I figured as much, I just didn't think it was that bad.
You can tell I'm not Italian... I'm sure if I was, I'd never actually write such a word on my blog. Sorry Italians. I'm just learning here.
For instance, my husband, learning English among male colleagues in the lab, became particularly fond of the "f" word. His favorite sentence was "F... the f...ing f...ers." (ok, I actually taught him that one). I was really nervous the first time I took him home to meet Mom and Dad.
The fact is that it takes a childhood of warnings and evil eyes to really feel the impact that such a word has. For someone new to the language, even after they understand the meaning of a word, the physiological response still isn't there... it's hard to learn the gut wrench or devilish joy or the simple release of tension that you get from firing off a string of profanities in your own language.
I guess I'll get there, one faux pas at a time.
Sunday, November 9
romance and ox carts
When word got out that we were moving here, we saw a lot of swooning and misty day-dreaming eyes. Oh Italy. And while Italy is not all romance and ox carts, there is quite a bit that lives up to those idyllic expectations.
For example, I took this photograph yesterday afternoon. It's images like these that perpetuate the myths...
Can you get any cuter than old men in feathered caps riding bikes? Ok, I don't want to be disrespectful. These men in caps are Alpini (and they're generally charming as all get out). But since I'm not an expert, you can read all about the Alpini here. Today marked the anniversary of when this region became part of Italy and the Alpini, came out in droves.
See those two little white heads in the bottom left of the picture? That's the beloved Marchesa and Ingegnere enjoying the festivities from their window. This is one reason I love living in the center.
What did I say about ox carts? Will donkeys suffice?
I love the mix of young and old here. I love that old means centuries and young means decades. I read a headline here that said "A youth of 36 years was..." Awesome. I'm a youth. A Ragazza.
Aren't they cute?
I'll let you decide exactly who I'm referring to...
Excuse me while I swoon.
No sir, thank you. I'm fine, really... (how embarrassing, swooning on a street crammed with Alpini... what was I thinking?).
For example, I took this photograph yesterday afternoon. It's images like these that perpetuate the myths...
Can you get any cuter than old men in feathered caps riding bikes? Ok, I don't want to be disrespectful. These men in caps are Alpini (and they're generally charming as all get out). But since I'm not an expert, you can read all about the Alpini here. Today marked the anniversary of when this region became part of Italy and the Alpini, came out in droves.
See those two little white heads in the bottom left of the picture? That's the beloved Marchesa and Ingegnere enjoying the festivities from their window. This is one reason I love living in the center.
What did I say about ox carts? Will donkeys suffice?I love the mix of young and old here. I love that old means centuries and young means decades. I read a headline here that said "A youth of 36 years was..." Awesome. I'm a youth. A Ragazza.
Aren't they cute?
I'll let you decide exactly who I'm referring to...
Excuse me while I swoon.
No sir, thank you. I'm fine, really... (how embarrassing, swooning on a street crammed with Alpini... what was I thinking?).
Saturday, November 8
spare parts
Three years ago, some friends of mine were getting rid of a garbage bag full of spare Lego parts. All those funky pieces that come in Lego kits designed to build just that specific thing. Their son had outgrown the Lego stage (will there come a day?) and their daughter, like mine, prefers the bricks. We had a small collection of bricks that my kids couldn't get enough of and although the memories of my Lego building days reminded me that this was indeed a bag of useless spare parts, I couldn't say no when they offered it to us.
That was three years ago. Punkone (pounced punk-oh-nay) was 5. And every day for two months he played with those Legos. He did nothing else but invent small ships, cars, planes, rockets... from that pile of parts. I was amazed. And thrilled. And I know it was literally every day for two months because everyday I was surprised to see him engrossed in the pile of parts. He even invented little ships for his baby sis to play with (since there is no better place in the world than the side of your big brother).
Today, like most Saturday mornings, he's there with his Legos. We've even added a few kits of our own over the past three years. But the perfection of the vehicles quickly morph into something squirley... invented from that sweet little brain and that pile of spare parts.
Friday, November 7
down time
I'm feeling a bit glum today. I thought this morning I'd say something positive about my new home since there are so many things I love about being here and it seems like I've been giving Italy a lot of flack on this blog. I thought the Castagna Festival at Punkette's school would help, but it didn't. Oh, the kids were cute with their song and dancing, but large social gatherings just don't do it for me lately. They D-R-A-I-N me. I guess I'm on a down swing in my language sinusoidal because nothing is getting through lately.
Look at this beautiful lake. We like to go here when the weather is nice. The air, the mountains, just relaxing at the shore. Awesome.
Non-people things at the festival were wonderful and perhaps my lingual isolation helps me to see these things more clearly. The new courtyard in the convent was a beautiful backdrop to the festival. There are four large fruit trees and there was a lovely covering of wet yellow leaves on the ground. My punk was clearly enjoying the performance and loving the opportunity to sing and dance. The roasted castagne (chestnuts) were delicious as was the Vin Brule (hot spiced wine).
But I can hide away now...it's Friday, I need a nice hot pizza, a movie, and some wine... I'll find my zip tomorrow.
Look at this beautiful lake. We like to go here when the weather is nice. The air, the mountains, just relaxing at the shore. Awesome.Non-people things at the festival were wonderful and perhaps my lingual isolation helps me to see these things more clearly. The new courtyard in the convent was a beautiful backdrop to the festival. There are four large fruit trees and there was a lovely covering of wet yellow leaves on the ground. My punk was clearly enjoying the performance and loving the opportunity to sing and dance. The roasted castagne (chestnuts) were delicious as was the Vin Brule (hot spiced wine).
But I can hide away now...it's Friday, I need a nice hot pizza, a movie, and some wine... I'll find my zip tomorrow.
Thursday, November 6
the absence of travel mugs
Occasionally, when I have the desire and time to prepare coffee at home, but no time to drink it, I turn to my trusty travel mug. I like my coffee with a lot of milk and there must be at least four shots of espresso in there. A grande latte, Starbucks style. It's something that doesn't exist here. If you're accustomed to having Starbucks every morning, when you arrive here and take your cappuccino, you'll find yourself searching the bottom of the cup wondering where the rest of it is. It's extremely difficult to keep yourself from ordering a second, even under the raised eyebrows of everyone in the bar, and it's even in vain, because you'll find that another sip still doesn't satisfy your expectations. Yes, it's good, there just isn't enough of it. You're accustomed to warming your hands on the cup, sipping contently over the next 20-30 minutes of your commute. Or sitting in a plush chair and chatting with a friend for the next half hour.
Back to my point.
I occasionally, say "to hell with these puny cups of espresso" and make myself a large steaming travel mug of coffee and milk. Some days you just got to have it and today was one of those days (cut me some slack, I've only done this twice in over a year). So I fill up my trusty travel mug and I'm out the door.
And it is then, that I discover how many rules I'm breaking.
People stare. More than usual. And they are staring at the mug. This large silver canister in my hand. I'm talking eyes-bugging-out-of-heads staring. You see, they've never seen such a thing in their lives.
I know this because the other time I did this, I brought the travel mug with me to my Italian class. I thought people were just staring because they couldn't believe that someone would want to drink so much coffee. But that wasn't it. It was the mug. They didn't know what it was. My Italian teacher literally asked me "what is that?" I think she thought it was a bomb. I explained that it was my coffee. Still confusion. It's a cup that you put coffee into... it keeps it hot so you can drink it for a while. Slowly slowly lights are coming on... but they're still staring. Now it's because of the quantity and that I would want to drink while doing other things. Like walk out of my house with it and go to class.
So my mug goes back in the cabinet.
OK... I like to gripe about the reaction to my travel mug. I find it humorous. But the truth is, the absence of travel mugs in Italy is due to an aspect of Italian culture that I love. Italians value the time spent eating or drinking. It's just not something you do on the go. Everyone stops, and I mean S T O P S, twice (or three or four times) a day and goes to get a coffee. And then they stand together, at the bar or machine, and talk together. Maybe they look at and discuss the paper. When someone finishes, they wait politely for everyone else. They leave together. If it happens that someone does have to go off in a rush, it comes with desperate pleas for forgiveness. So there is no need for a travel mug, because it is not in their nature to travel while eating or drinking. I can see how my travel mug of coffee might have been seen as anti-social, or unhealthy even. And really, what is so special about my coffee that I have to haul it all over town with me? (Oh, but it is SO good).
Back to my point.
I occasionally, say "to hell with these puny cups of espresso" and make myself a large steaming travel mug of coffee and milk. Some days you just got to have it and today was one of those days (cut me some slack, I've only done this twice in over a year). So I fill up my trusty travel mug and I'm out the door.
And it is then, that I discover how many rules I'm breaking.
People stare. More than usual. And they are staring at the mug. This large silver canister in my hand. I'm talking eyes-bugging-out-of-heads staring. You see, they've never seen such a thing in their lives.
I know this because the other time I did this, I brought the travel mug with me to my Italian class. I thought people were just staring because they couldn't believe that someone would want to drink so much coffee. But that wasn't it. It was the mug. They didn't know what it was. My Italian teacher literally asked me "what is that?" I think she thought it was a bomb. I explained that it was my coffee. Still confusion. It's a cup that you put coffee into... it keeps it hot so you can drink it for a while. Slowly slowly lights are coming on... but they're still staring. Now it's because of the quantity and that I would want to drink while doing other things. Like walk out of my house with it and go to class.
So my mug goes back in the cabinet.
OK... I like to gripe about the reaction to my travel mug. I find it humorous. But the truth is, the absence of travel mugs in Italy is due to an aspect of Italian culture that I love. Italians value the time spent eating or drinking. It's just not something you do on the go. Everyone stops, and I mean S T O P S, twice (or three or four times) a day and goes to get a coffee. And then they stand together, at the bar or machine, and talk together. Maybe they look at and discuss the paper. When someone finishes, they wait politely for everyone else. They leave together. If it happens that someone does have to go off in a rush, it comes with desperate pleas for forgiveness. So there is no need for a travel mug, because it is not in their nature to travel while eating or drinking. I can see how my travel mug of coffee might have been seen as anti-social, or unhealthy even. And really, what is so special about my coffee that I have to haul it all over town with me? (Oh, but it is SO good).
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