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Living Slow in Italy

Valerie

100+ Posts
Living Slow in Italy - Dreams Do Come True
These articles were originally written for the SlowTrav website in 2006.

We are moving to Italy. I have repeated that statement countless times over the last few months as we have made the announcement to family, friends and acquaintances. No matter how many times I utter the phrase it never seems routine and never fails to make me feel a little giddy. We are moving to Italy.

Which just goes to show that dreams can come true. We started imagining what it would be like to live overseas several years and several (slow) trips ago. We decided, finally, after much thought and debating and waffling, to follow the old ad slogan and "just do it". Why? Why not! Life is short. Let's live it while we have breath and energy.

It just seemed like a good time. We decided that the fear of change was far outweighed by the fear of complacency. We didn't want to put off the living part of "making a living" until it seemed that we were - to quote Joe Dominguez in his book Your Money or Your Life - "making a dying" instead. "These hours are all you've got. There is nothing in your life that is more valuable than your time, the moments you have left. You cannot put too much awareness and intention into the way you invest those moments" So we've decided to take some of these precious moments of our lives and invest them in this dream.

Why Italy? We became enamored on our first trip. By the third visit, we returned home and quickly started to long for the piazzas where people gathered; evening strolls where the entire town turns out to flood the streets in a nightly parade of interaction; leisurely meals prepared with fresh, seasonal ingredients. A sense of community. The beautiful rhythms of life being carried on from time immemorial, still a part of daily Italian culture. So many aspects of our own culture began to seem so gaudy, new, shallow, homogenized ... fake. We decided we'd like to experience this historical and beautiful land while it still retains these cultural elements we so admire.

We love the solidly-built stone houses. Buildings that are centuries old being lived in and oozing charm. Heavy wooden shutters on the windows. Kitchens with fireplaces for roasting meats. Colorful weekly markets that roll into town with arrays of fresh produce and other goods. People who know how to enjoy the simple pleasures of life and place heavy emphasis on human relationships. Stunning and awe-inspiring art and architecture at nearly every turn. Picturesque vineyards and olive groves providing healthful harvests. Millennia of history to explore and study. A musical-sounding language to learn. Real cappuccino, not the overly-milky, $3.00 a cup insipid, burned-tasting stuff passed off as "cappuccino" here. These are among the reasons we want to move.

We're not retired. And we're not independently wealthy. Just a couple of average middle-class Americans who decided to cash in by selling our house and using a portion of the funds to spend a year (or more) in bella Italia.

This decision drew some interesting reactions. Most said, "good for you, be happy." Others seemed almost angry. One relation called to say we shouldn't rush into things or run away from responsibility, as if we'd just woke up one morning and said, "golly, let's move to Italy." He continued to offer helpful advice, saying we shouldn't waste our retirement fund on this endeavor. We're adventurous, not moronic! Our retirement accounts are safe. We set aside half the proceeds of our home sale for our eventual return to the U.S., which will provide us with ample funds to re-establish ourselves when the time comes. The rest of the money will allow us to spend at least a year abroad and cover all our necessities. Because we can live frugally, we are confident we'll realistically have enough for two years' living expenses. It also helps that friends in Rome generously offered us the use of their summer home in Anzio rent-free for several months. It will be a tough assignment, but we'll pass the summer months leisurely one block from the Mediterranean in a pretty cottage.

We've spent the past six months navigating the murky waters of bureaucracy, figuring out how to apply for an extended-stay visa and all the accompanying paperwork involved in that. Now that it's mostly complete, we can turn our attention toward the anticipation and planning for our arrival in Rome in April. We can look at webcams and sigh contentedly, knowing we'll be there soon.

What will we do there is the question we are asked most often. Because we can't legally work in Italy, there seems to be concern that we'll be idle and bored. Not on your life! Our full-time occupation will be learning Italian. I'll indulge my great love of history and enjoy the company of my true love, Bryan, unencumbered by stressful work situations. Make friends and renew old friendships. Observe cultural differences and place ourselves into the local rhythm of life. Shop in the local produce and fish markets. Write. Eat. Study. Stroll. Learn. Love. Live.

That is the sum of our dream. We are pursuing it now because we don't want to look back with regret, to wonder "what if" or "if only..." No, that's not for us.

Is it all going to be beautiful and fulfilling? I honestly don't know. But I can't wait to find out.
 
Living Slow in Italy - A Couple of Smart Cookies

One of the great things about our long residency in Albuquerque was the vast array of ethnic cuisines to be found in the area. We love food and regularly enjoyed the fruits and flavors of India, Japan, Thailand, Italy, and of course China. During the months we spent deliberating about moving to Italy, we'd get take-out and, with chopsticks flailing, discuss the pros and cons, the dreams and fears, and logistics of such a move. One of these sessions brought an encouraging fortune cookie: Tomorrow will be too late to enjoy what you can today. This little statement confirmed what we'd been discussing and reading, and seemed to sum up our feelings that we didn't want to wait until we were old to make this move. I tucked the little slip of paper into my wallet as a reminder.

Months later after the decision had been made and the planning was being undertaken in earnest, I was out for a girls' night at an upscale Chinese restaurant, enjoying a plate of Orange Chicken with generous sides of laughter and conversation. At the end of the meal, with great ceremony, my friend Mary passed around the fortune cookies and stated seriously, "sometimes there is great truth in the cookies." One by one the crispy treats were opened and read aloud. Astonishingly and prophetically, this night each fortune, normally bland and generic, seemed destined for its recipient. It came to my turn: You are an adventurer traveling on the highway of life. The girls gasped and gaped in one accord as only women who are hyped up on hoisin sauce and hormonal camaraderie can. Just moments earlier one of the gals had commented on our forthcoming move saying, "you're really adventurers at heart." Another fortune, another little encouragement. This one, too, was pocketed away.

In March we submitted our paperwork to the Los Angeles Consulate to request our visa, we packed up our house and moved all our earthly possessions across country for storage near my very helpful sister-in-law. We were excited that the adventure had begun, though the long, muscle-cramping drive was tedious. During this trek across America, I discovered a few things: I don't care to ever drive the entire length of Oklahoma again; truck stop food is downright scary; and the bovine population of Oklahoma and Missouri must certainly outnumber humans. We arrived in small-town Ohio, where we'd planned a two-week stay to visit family and friends before our departure. It turned into a six-week tenure. We arrived to the stomach-dropping blow ... our visa application was being denied. We were dazed.

With legalese, the consular letter stated that we submitted an incorrect form, thus not proving "adequate" evidence of housing arrangements, which had given the consular agent the impression that we would be vagabonds, without proper housing, drifting from place to place.

We were plunged into bureaucratic purgatory. The consular agent in L.A., known hereafter as Evil Woman, gave us cause to think she'd deny any future attempts at a visa on our part. She wouldn't allow us to obtain the "correct" version of the form in question, but said we'd have to start the process all over again. She said, with great glee, that maybe they'd consider our second request. We were dejected.

On top of that, in this little town from which I hail, there are no eateries worth eating in. No healthy fare; nary a whole grain in the tri-county area. And don't even mention ethnic cuisines if you don't want a diatribe about illegal immigration. We were glum and depressed, and worse, we were hungry for something good. We did what any reasonable person would do - we drove over an hour to Cleveland to have some decent Chinese food. We found a bright, lovely place with a comforting menu and kind waiters. We savored every bite. That day my fortune cookie brought the words: Don't be discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward. Amazing wisdom from a little cookie.

We started the visa process all over again, but discarded any attempt to deal with Evil Woman in L.A., about whom we had received several emails from other expats who had similar, heinous dealings with her. (At least we knew it wasn't just us she was mean to.) We drove two hours to Detroit to inquire about the requirements there. The first encounter was rather encouraging; the agent asked if we were Italian citizens. Not a bad beginning, as she'd sized us up and thought we were one of her. She answered our list of questions, gave us the correct version of the form we'd so imprudently filed with The Other Consulate and told us the turn-around time is about two weeks. It had taken five weeks to receive our nasty rejection.

We accumulated the paperwork once again, changed our official residency to Ohio by obtaining drivers' licenses (yes, we had to take written tests), and again made the drive to Detroit to file the paperwork anew. We walked into the consulate office shaking; inexplicably, we felt like kids who had been called into the principal's office. Could the people in the waiting room hear my heart pounding? My hand shook as I signed in. I feared the ultimate outcome and another rejection. Then the impossible happened: the consular agent called my name and - she smiled! She checked our identification, had us sign the applications and took the bulky packets of oh-so-carefully gathered papers. That was it? She smiled again and told us not to worry, that the process would take about two weeks. We left, practically running from the building, nervous energy emitting from us both.

The drive home was quiet and long. Finally, the stress and emotion gave way to ravenous hunger. I needed food, and a Chinese restaurant was nearby. I caved. Against our better judgment, we stopped. The meal was - well, to be honest, it was gross and hardly recognizable as Chinese fare. This worsened my mood. Glumly I cracked open my fortune cookie and unfurled the prose. Good news will be coming to you soon. I smiled and handed to Bryan to read. He quickly splintered his cookie and read: Happy events will take place shortly in your home. We laughed the nervous-relief kind of laughter. We felt oddly at peace.

Eight days later we received our visas. Next week we begin our Italian adventure. We successfully navigated the maze of bureaucracy and found encouragement along the way in the strangest of places. When we board the plane, I'll have five little pieces of paper in my purse with wise words imprinted on them. I guess my friend Mary is right; there is truth to be found in the cookies.
 
Living Slow in Italy - Ignorants Abroad

We have been in Italy for almost two months, and while we are very happy to be here, we find that we frequently feel like stupid children. Not only do we have difficulty in communicating at a juvenile level, but basic tasks bring challenges, too. How to work the washing machine, for example. Why are there 13 numbers on the dial? Why does the machine stop for a long rest after number 3? Into which of the four compartments do we place the soap powder? All this information is neatly tucked away within the pages of Slow Travel, but without a reliable internet connection, I can't access it.

Then there is the task of hanging the clothes out to dry. Simple enough, one would think, but for us electric dryer-dependent Americans it is an art that defies us. I don't know how to maximize space on the lines to get the all clothes to fit. Then, one evening I forgot to bring the clothes in, so when we awoke we found that the morning dew had wetted them anew. Dew? We didn't have such a thing in arid New Mexico. Another day of drying was required, and I felt like a complete idiota.

The shower has a small, electric water heater and I have yet to discover how to manipulate the water flow with the proper equation of hot and cold to maintain a constant temperature. It either scalds me or douses me in icy water. If I manage to find a moderate temperature, a few seconds later the hot water heater empties itself, again drenching me with cold water to finish the rinse cycle.

I found a broom and swept all the tile floors, then discovered a bottle of lavipavimento (the label so simple even I knew it was for cleaning the floors), and I went in search of a mop. I found an electric vacuum, a couple of long-handled, short-bristled brushes, and another broom. Bryan was dispatched to the hardware store down the street to buy a mop. What he was presented with was a long-handled, short-bristled brush like we saw at home. Hmmm. Is this like the Fuller Brush days? What am I supposed to do with that contraption? I just don't know these things and my hosts are immensely amused when I inquire of them. As it turns out, you fill the bucket with water, add the lavipavimento - which smells vile - and then toss in a special mopping rag which you wring out, throw on the floor and place the bristled brush on top of, then commence the mopping action. Wouldn't an actual mop be easier, my mind inquires.

One day at the little grocery store in the neighborhood I felt like a wanton hussy when I dared to touch the head of lettuce, as a woman rushed over and snatched it out of my hand to bag it for me, and looked very put-out while asking what else I would like to have. No fondling the veggies, apparently.

Swimsuit shopping proved an exercise in humiliation as I didn't know the proper size in European numbers, to the consternation of one store clerk. She looked me over and handed me what she said would fit. Into the dressing room I ventured, to be met by a less-than-beautiful reflection of my derriere hanging out below the equator. I told her they were troppo piccolo (too little). Nonsense, she said; impossibile! She commenced a conversation with the other clerk, both shrugging and eye-rolling their assent that I must be drunk or stupid but no way could those bottoms not fit properly. I left them to their superiority. In another store the whole affair was more self-service so the embarrassment was my own in the privacy of the dressing room. I came out empty-handed but with the knowledge that swimsuit sizes are universally set to deflate a woman's ego.

Bryan makes outings to the ferramenta (hardware store). He writes little phrases or words on a scrap of paper to request the items he needs. Despite not speaking Italian he seems to come home with a bag of things each time; apparently hardware is a male lingua franca.

Then there is the matter of the bus. We do not have a car and must rely on Cotral, a regional bus system servicing this area, for transportation into Anzio and Nettuno. The trouble is there seems to be no set schedule. Every time we have gone to the fermata we have had to wait anywhere from 30 to 50 minutes for a bus to come along. Locals waiting with us roll their eyes every five minutes and make hand gestures, indicating their frustration and their nonverbal communication of "where the hell is the stupid bus". One woman told me it would "un miracolo" if it showed up. The drivers must go through rigorous training in poor customer service. They delight in roaring off while patrons are trying to punch their tickets, laughing maliciously as limbs are splayed and bodies lurch around, repeating the scenario when they slam on the brakes if someone dares to call for a stop. They will not wait for people frantically running for the fermata with their arms waving and voices scream, "please, I beg you, wait!" No, no - they pull away from the curb to leave the hapless, out-of-breath desperado stranded for another half-hour or more.

We plug along trying to figure out some kind of destination schedule. We hop on buses with undetermined destinations to see where they take us. This results in a lot of time and energy exerted in erroneous thinking. Buses do not complete a circular loop as one might think. On one such excursion we reached the end of the line at a military installation outside Nettuno and the driver kicked our confused little butts off the vehicle, saying he was now "fuori servizio". We watched several buses pass by without stopping, despite our arm-waving and signals to halt. We didn't know where we were except that it was several kilometers from town. A strange little bag man edged closer to us as we stood under the fermata sign, waiting. A bus came along and stopped to let out a lone passenger but didn't open his doors for us to board. I knocked and he cracked it open ever so slightly, so I quickly asked about getting back to Anzio. Another bus will come soon, he told me; he was now fuori servizio. "When?" I asked. "Soon," he responded as he slammed the door shut. Eventually we made it back to Anzio where we had to connect to another bus to return home.

It is this multitude of little things that we didn't know about and which, in addition to learning a new language, we must discover through sometimes painful (to the ego, at least) trial and error.

So we will continue to feel very much like deviant, unschooled children for a while. Luckily, most Italians are extremely patient with us and allow us to make stupid missteps and slaughter their language, all the while telling us that we are molto bravo and parli bene. Yeah, right; but it is encouraging nonetheless. Our experiences give the term 'adult education' a whole new meaning.
 
Living Slow in Italy - Wheeling and Dealing

My first car was a 1978 Chrysler Cordoba, a big gas-guzzling silver thing with that famous "Corinthian leather" interior. It was spacious enough to seat eight for dinner, I used to say, which was actually great because it meant that all my friends could pile in and we'd set off on road trips to such exotic spots as Cincinnati. Of course, gasoline cost barely a buck a gallon back in '85 when I acquired this set of wheels. I had to beg and cajole my mother into forking over the money for this long-coveted vehicle, which was my key to the open road and my first taste of freedom.

I purchased three other cars since then, all rather hard-won as we had to run the gauntlet of the stereotypical car salesmen. You know the drill: the big grin as they approach you just three seconds after you've set foot on the lot; the old stand-by, "this car was owned by a little old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays." Then they begin the real push. "Let's go for a spin, give 'er a try," and, my personal favorite, "What will it take to put you in this car todaaay?" There is the attempt to up-sell; the negotiating sessions, where the salesman must "check with the supervisor" on the offer; the talk about how excellently maintained the vehicle was (never mind that my husband was an insurance adjustor who inspected vehicles for a living and detected hidden damage from an accident), and the statements that we are killing him by offering such a low amount. Car buying in America, for me, is akin to a trip to the dentist.

After much discussion, researching, talking out options and prices, we decided we needed a car here in Italy. The train to Rome is easy and convenient, but to go farther afield required connections and we discovered there are a lot of places we'd like to visit that aren't on the train route. Just to get into Anzio ate up the better part of the day. We commenced with car shopping.

There was a glitch in our plans: because we do not yet have residency status in Italy, we cannot legally buy a car. This hurdle had to be overcome by our friend, Francesca, who simply and graciously offered to buy the car for us in her name and turn it over to us. Unbelievably generous. Once that part was settled, we began the search, fearful that we'd not be able to navigate the world of used car salesmen, especially with our limited language skills. We needn't have worried so much. Car shopping in Italy is not quite the same as in America.

Our first stop was a lot owned by a guy so busy he arrives to work at 10:00 and promptly goes off across the street to prendere un caffe. A nice guy, Giuglio had tanti expensive, newer cars on the lot. We didn't hold out much hope. We told him our price range and he took us around back to the dirt-covered, older models. While he was eminently patient with our limited linguistic skills, after several visits we determined he didn't have a car that met our needs in our price range. We widened the search.

On most lots we had to seek out the salesmen to inquire about the cars. When we told them our needs, they didn't wince, whine, or try to talk us into a higher-priced model. They merely looked about the lot for what they could offer us. None pressed us to take a test drive; we had to specifically ask to provare la macchina, per favore. On most of the lots the cars were covered with a nice layer of dirt; no sparkling-clean, shiny "almost new" look here. No fancy signs bearing low prices or installment plans. No fancy modern glassed-in offices. All the salesmen we dealt with tried to be accommodating of our needs without ever being pushy or even asking if we wanted to buy the car. That was up to us to communicate.

We also quickly noticed that most vehicles seem to come in standard-issue gray. Why this is, I cannot tell you. I have an aversion to gray cars; now I own one. All the parking lots are filled with little gray cars, making it difficult to determine which one is ours. When we looked at a cute little Nissan model that was a metallic blue I wanted to immediately buy it just for the color, never mind that it was not in our price range and larger than would be manageable in medieval town centers. Reason won out over aesthetics reluctantly.

Bryan's job was to examine the vehicle, something he has long experience with. Mine was to do all the talking. Mind you, I know squat about cars, even in English. Suddenly I found myself thrust into the world of engine size, kilometers per liter, and power options, all in Italian. I asked about previous accidents, if the cars had always been in Anzio (salt air is corrosive, I've learned), and whether the car would come with a warranty. When we finally found the right car at the right price, I had to do the negotiating, while poor Bryan stood by smiling and gesturing and forking over the deposit money.

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Our new-to-us car is just a tad smaller than my grandissima Cordoba. Our used Ford Fiesta will get us where we want to go without having to wait for the masochistic regional bus drivers to take us there. We are now free to move about the country as we please! Or, at the very least, to go into Anzio on our own schedule. We have been exploring areas previously out of reach, such as the beautiful Circeo National Park and have searched for a place to call home more permanently.

This prize is not without its little drawbacks. Because we happen to be living in a beach resort during the peak of tourist season, finding a parking spot is no easy feat. Cars line the streets, the parks, and are frequently double-parked in town. They park on sidewalks and in front of gates. We have already procured for ourselves our first Italian parking ticket, after circling the centro for a good twenty minutes without finding a single open spot anywhere, we put the thing into an open spot that wasn't striped for parking. We had to go to the municipal police and shell out 35 euro for our little no-no.

The other issue is that I have a great paura of driving in Italy, or at least around here, since most of the residents are Romani who drive with complete abandon and inattention. Cars, motorini, little old ladies on bicycles all swerve about and enter roadways without a sideways glance rendering the streets an obstacle course. It's enough to give me heart palpitations. I've driven successfully in Tuscany, but that is completely different. Here I must close my eyes and hope for the best - not an action to be performed while behind the wheel. I'll wait until we travel to a more-tranquil place, or drive when we go in campagna. Bryan, on the other hand, thinks it very sporting to drive in Italy and looks at it as an engaging pastime. He relishes the narrow medieval streets where we must pull in the mirrors to clear the buildings, the steeper the better. Thrill-seeker.

The whole experience was relatively easy and we're pleased with the macchina. With our little car we again feel like teenagers with new-found freedom. But we have a lot more exotic places than Cincinnati to visit. Road trip anyone?
 
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Living Slow in Italy - A Place to Call Home

We have packed our duffel bags, bid farewell to friends, and informed a couple of baristas that they will be seeing a marked drop in profit. We've moved on, trading the beach for medieval streets.

After three months cocooned away in Anzio with the tireless care and devotion of friends, we have broken out on our own. We had not planned to spend so long in Anzio. When we first arrived we thought our paperwork would come through quickly and we'd easily locate a place that beckoned us. Bureaucracy threw us for a loop, and we discovered that each area we visited had a lot of charm and it would be impossible to decide if we continued on a quest. We could spend the entire year traveling about searching, always on the look-out, always exploring.

We'd just need to make a decision with the information we already had. We compared the pros and cons of several places and decided at last on Ascoli Piceno, the allure of the city's atmosphere, the proximity to beautiful mountains as well as the Adriatic Sea making it very attractive.

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Porta Solesta with towers

Our apartment in the centro storico is better equipped than we had anticipated. Our landlady was initially reluctant to rent to us as we requested the space for less than a year. "Non lo so, signora," she repeated during my phone conversation with her after I'd seen the Affittasi sign on the door. I just don't know. This was the case with other rentals we had called; most wanted a minimum of a year but several preferred two or more. Rental agencies didn't return our calls. We desperately wandered the streets looking for signs, and saw one on the door of the very building where we'd lodged for two weeks when we came to language school in July. As our conversation continued I explained our situation to Dorina and finally she agreed to let us view the place, and then said that if we wanted it, fine, but to be aware that she didn't plan to put much furniture into it as it would not be economically beneficial to her to do so for our short time period. We agreed and returned to Anzio from this house-hunting mission unsure of what our new home would contain.

We arrived to find some rather nice furniture and even a few kitchen items. We'll be shopping for more objects to finish it off but were happily surprised by the touches and the welcome, her husband even helping Bryan heft our heavy luggage down the street and up the two flights of stairs, in the rain. Our landlords are amazingly wonderful. They offered help when Bryan needed a mechanic, they have plied us with fruit and jam from their garden, have invited us to go along the next time they jaunt up to their mountain property, and offered a room in the apartment below us when family comes to visit. Maybe we should also lease that apartment and turn it into a Slow Travel rental. Hmmm.

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Piazza del Popolo with Piazza dei Capitani

We live in the historic Sant'Emidio sestiere, the name taken for the local, acclaimed saint who is said to protect the city from earthquakes. Quintessentially medieval, Ascoli Piceno is lively and quite lovely, boasting two main, distinct piazzas where the citizens gather. Beautifully lit at night, they each evoke a sense of drama and mystery. The architecture is typical for the medieval period but well-preserved, and it seems that every turn brings us to a pretty building to gaze upon or a new detail to notice. In its heyday the town had been built up with towers, boasting nearly 200 during her peak, before many had been torn down or deteriorated. Today there are about 50 towers remaining, some of which are incorporated into living spaces, many have found new life as bell towers, others jut upward defiantly. They are not all starkly obvious, so one comes upon them while strolling the streets making for surprising walks. With the artistic riches and beautiful atmosphere, we are amazed that Ascoli is so unknown; indeed, if it were in Tuscany it would be completely over-run by tourists. Because it is in Marche, the mountains provide a type of barrier and it remains a largely-undiscovered treasure for us to explore.

Encircling the town are tree-studded mountains - the Sibilline, Monte dei Fiori, Mount Ascensione - offering hill-towns and majestic beauty just minutes from Ascoli, which rests itself in the valley, making it easier to traverse on foot than the vertical streets of the hill towns but we have access to the green-covered slopes which makes us feel relaxed. Despite the beauty and calm of the sea, we are, it turns out, solidly "mountain people" and feel most relaxed amidst the imposing natural beauty of peaks and ridges and the way the clouds dance over them.

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Valerie and Mount Ascensione

Though the inhabitants are constantly telling us that "Ascoli e piccola piccola," there are museums, churches, famous artwork, markets, shops - all the makings of a beautiful, typical Italian city. It is largely walkable and livable with a sense of community.

We already found a pasticceria in which to make ourselves fixtures, and we have connected with friends from our two-week language school adventure. We felt immediately welcome, immediately comfortable - like we belong here. While our kitchen is the smallest I've ever seen - truly the proverbial broom closet - we have a nice place in a three hundred year old building in the middle of a beautiful medieval city.

Ah, it's good to be home.
 
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Living Slow in Italy - Family Ties

We stood silently in the chilly, high-altitude air under a vibrant blanket of stars listening to the musical sound of the cow bells, staggered by this astonishing day. We were tired, for while the car trip to reach this place had been only a 2 1/2 hour drive, our journey spanned several generations and traversed two countries and an ocean.

It all started about six months ago with a simple email in my inbox. "I saw a link on a genealogy website to a trip report you wrote for Slow Travel about your family tree and I think we're related," the writer proclaimed. I immediately called my mother who confirmed the family connection. The letter-writer was my cousin; her grandfather and my grandmother were siblings. I get muddled over the "second cousin once removed" kind of jargon, but clearly we shared a familial line and she began to share stories about my grandparents and great-grandparents via email, wonderful tales I'd never heard before and by virtue of which I took an immediate liking to her.

"I'm coming to Italy and I want to go to Basilicata," she announced a few months later. No need to ask me twice, we immediately set about making plans to meet and travel together to the towns from whence our family came. She would be bringing along another relative, eighty-two year old Rose who was my grandma's cousin (another genealogical brain-teaser requiring a family tree diagrammed on paper for me to see the lineage). Celia from South Carolina and Rose, now living in Barcelona, were coming to Italy. I was astounded; meeting two "new" cousins because of an article I'd written on Slow Travel. How cool is that? I thought.

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They entered my heart immediately. We would spend the week in our peaceful vacation villa near Agropoli laughing and eating and looking at photos together. We all recounted our own tales, both funny and tearful. A few days after our first meeting when we made the drive to Basilicata, I had one of those inexplicable moments where I felt I had known them always.

Bleary-eyed in the early morning cool we drove sedately – one might say groggily – upward and inland, away from the coast and the gentle hills into the mountains where the panoramas made us gasp. As we climbed the mountain roads in our little rental car our excitement mounted with the altitude. Three cousins from different parts of the world but connected by a blood-line were forming a new bond by revisiting the family's origins in an ancient, time-worn town in southern Italy.

We drove into Anzi confidently. Bryan remembered the street and piazza where we had parked on our first visit three years ago but it was under construction and Cousin Celia had to deftly maneuver this way and that to park the car, gathering a crowd of onlookers who were trying to give her directions. "No, no ... back up over here. Not there, over here, right here ... mamma mia!"

We entered the nearby bar for cappuccinos. The barista warned us that the parking area was for limited time and, as the vigile was out and about, we could incur a ticket if we stayed there too long. We said we were immigrant descendents come to see the town and would be heading to the Municipio for records. He showed polite interest and inquired about the family name. "Cutro! Ah, the vigile, he is a Cutro." He quickly popped his head outside the bar and sent someone scampering in search of the cop, and firmly instructed us to wait as the cop would be arriving soon.

The cop, when he introduced himself as Michele, surprised us as he bears the same name as Celia's grandfather, though he assured us there are several others in the area with that name. He coolly steered us to the city offices, took us inside and told the woman behind the desk that we were American Cutros searching for records. Then he set about to examine us. "You," he said to me, "you look Italian. That cousin looks American." He repeated this several times during the morning. Celia's blond hair and blue eyes didn't strike him as bearing any semblance of Italian blood in her gene-pool. Rose would have to wait as her family ties were on the other branch of the family tree and the other town across the valley.

The city employee sat at her desk smoking despite the "smoking prohibited" sign right above her head, assuming that it was her damn office and she'd smoke if she wanted to, and/or knowing full well that the cop who could (presumably) enforce the anti-smoking laws standing in her presence wouldn't issue her any type of citation (being a smoker himself, we later found out). With the cigarette dangling from her ruby lips she calmly pulled out old record books and perused the entries to find the one we needed. Michele then instructed her to bring out more books, and they put their heads together searching and talking quickly for several minutes while figuring out the family connections among us, apparently wanting to confirm that he was, in fact, our cousin before allowing himself to warm up to us. We laughed and hugged saying, "cugino!" and "che incredibile, siamo cugini," and took a photo tutti insieme.

As we left, we discovered that news had spread quickly and just beyond the threshold of the municipio office we were greeted by another man who smiled broadly and Michele proclaimed him to be a cousin, too. There was another round of hugs and smiles and photos before bringing out some more shirt-tail relations. Is there no end to the Cutros in this town? As we bought postcards, things got a little jumbled. I could tell they were talking about us and I wasn't sure what was happening, but Michele was taking full charge of us and we were clearly meant to go along with the flow. We reminded him we also needed records from Laurenzana and he nodded his knowledge of this fact and walked us toward our car where we thought he'd be saying goodbye, but instead he told us to follow him, and he entered his police car. A police escort to search for genealogical records?! We laughed at the incredulity of it all and followed him all the way to Laurenzana, where he shepherded us into the city office, barking orders to the employee about what records we needed. During our exchange with the records clerk he disappeared for several minutes and we thought he went outside for a smoke, but when we again met up with him, Michele was in conversation with the mayor, who presented us each with a lovely book about the history and architecture of the town.

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Police escort to Laurenzana

In a tabaccheria in Laurenzana Rose entered to buy postcards and came out with a cousin of her own in tow. A woman there inquired about our presence, her curiosity evident in her kindly face, and incredibly, when we told her our story and listed the family names, said, "Mah! We are related!" Could this possibly be happening? So surreal were the occurrences of this day that it still seems dream-like.

The excitement and excess caffeine made us hungry and we asked Michele if there was a place to eat lunch. He simply nodded. I waited for a response and a restaurant name that wasn't forthcoming. I looked at him expectantly and he mouthed, "con me". Why the whispering I wasn't sure, but it was clear that we were still under his care. We were his new-found relatives and he captured us for the day.

When we arrived back in Anzi we were introduced to Michele's wife, Milena, and they guided us just outside the town to a restaurant where we found a table laid out waiting our arrival. The owner explained that all the dishes we'd be eating are typical to this area, not just to Basilicata, but to this particular pocket and that some wouldn't even be found across the valley in Laurenzana. All are prepared with local ingredients that are traditionally and freshly made, she said. We were seated and the plates began to flow out of the kitchen, and there we remained for three and a half hours. It was like a celebratory meal as course after course, plate after delectable plate, graced the table. We were treated like the prodigal son who returned home to a feast; we were the distant family members who spanned the globe and drove across the harsh but beautiful countryside to reach this place to search for the roots of the family tree that had branched itself out to plant an orchard in far-away land.

Celia wanted to slide her credit card to the waitress to pay for this enormous feast, but the waitress wouldn't touch it, looking at it as if it were poisonous. "Nooo, I can't," she quickly responded, glancing in Michele's direction. "No," she said resolutely.

We said our goodbyes promising to return again soon, issuing invitations, offering profuse gratitude. After a stroll we left reluctantly; we needed to make the drive back to the coast as the evening was deepening and our energy was flagging. We followed the windy road outside of town where the darkness was encompassing and the stars sparkling overhead.

And so there we were, on the side of a mountain, stopped along the roadside in quiet reflection, looking at the vastness of cloudless sky, amazed at the beauty of this place and this day. We'd found a home in a foreign country among strangers who are our family, cousins meeting for the first time in this place yet still bound together and feeling deeply connected. I shivered at the giddiness of it all and at the cool night air. Siamo cugini!, echoed in my ears. More than we'd ever expected to find in this out-of-the-way town, our search for records and a family connection carried us along, almost like a magic carpet ride, to a most delightful experience and gave us the gift of new familial ties.

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Countryside outside Anzi

See my Trip Report: Climbing the Family Tree In Basilicata's Hilltowns, Spring 2003
 
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Living Slow in Italy - My Christmas List

We have passed the six-month mark of our residency in Italy and have settled in, finding ourselves content and happy here. We are continually enchanted by the pace of life and the beauty that surrounds us, and are delighted by the foods and wines we get to partake of daily. The joy of discovery marks each day even in mundane activities as we learn to adapt to a different culture. All these pleasures are tempered by a few frustrations, however.

We are still trying to learn the language, a process that is too slow for my impatient nature. Some days we feel like we are treading water in the deep end of the pool to keep from sinking, endeavoring to understand and be understood. We struggle with tenses and wonder why one language requires three or more past tenses anyway. I speak slowly, trying to think through the proper verb conjugation, often resorting back to the present tense even when talking about the past whenever I get flustered or nervous, and I can see the tortured looks of incomprehension as the listener strives to grasp what the heck I'm saying. The locals have proved themselves incredibly patient with this linguistic slaughtering on my part, smiling and nodding and assisting me frequently, even pretending that I am quite conversant, going so far as to offer complimenti on speaking Italian molto bene, while completely ignoring the fact that I am desperating grasping my dictionary and am unable to twirl the r's or get my tongue around the double dipthongs.

Language and miscommunication provide us with daily humiliations and humor. But the real frustration to our adjustment process isn't linguistic, it's bureaucratic. Six months of waiting still hasn't produced our permesso di soggiorno. (By contrast fellow Slow Travelers Jane and Ken received theirs in about two months! To make us more jealous they even had an appointment in Firenze to pick it up. An appointment ... we could dream!)

The visas decorating our passports allowed us to enter the country for a year. Normal tourists can stay up to 90 days and then must take their baggage and leave. To be here officially for a lengthier period we need the permits. We dutifully went to the questura on our first day in the country, accompanied by friends Giorgio and Francesca, and went through the whole rigmarole of being finger-printed, weighed, measured (height) and questioned. We were given our ricevuto, a kind of receipt adorned with a tiny photo face-shot saying we'd applied for said permit. And then we began to wait. And wait. And wait.

We returned a couple times to inquire about the status. In August we were told that we'd "only applied in May" ... how could we possibly expect they'd be ready yet? Maybe September, he said. In September we repeated the drill armed with our friend Francesca, a gal who knows her way around bureaucracy. She demonstrated the perfect balance of Roman confidence coupled with complicity in the face of authority. She sweetly explained about our friends' quick paperwork and their coveted appointment in Firenze. Much gesturing and eye-rolling ensued. "Firenze! Mah! Firenze is piccolo piccolo! We are Rome! The province of Rome is grandissima!" He was red in the face and booming forth into a crackly microphone through the plexiglass window, entertaining (or perhaps frightening) a full room of foreign spectators behind me who were waiting their turns. "We have more than five milioni abitanti and a good part of the world trying to live here ..." he continued on a diatribe. "We are La Provincia di Roma! We are the center of the universe!" Bah ... he barked. Just wait. He turned his attention to the next person in line, signaling the end of our quest. Even Francesca seemed meek in the aftermath of his temper.

We continue to wait. It turns out to be all about location. We apparently applied in the wrong place ... Rome may be the center of the universe but they are a bureaucratic black hole. Another phone call at the end of November yielded a more patient clerk but she made it clear that the documents weren't ready and we should try again in December. Gee, maybe in time for Christmas?

So please, Santa, can you dig around in your bag and see if you have a bottle of WD-40? The wheels of bureaucracy in Italy are badly in need of a little grease. I don't need glitzy gifts, Santa. All I really want for Christmas is my permesso di soggiorno. I'd like to receive it before the time comes to renew it for another year. Oh, and maybe a box of Perugina Baci, because nothing soothes frustration quite like chocolate.

A Postscript
It's a Christmas miracle! Just after the December article was posted we received a call from friend Giorgio informing us that our names were on the coveted list ... our permessos were ready at long last. Elated, Bryan called to confirm and inquire about office hours during the holidays. He was a bit taken aback when she told him they were not ready. But we had been told they're ready! We're on the list! No, she said cooly.

Turns out she hadn't bothered actually looking at the list, but all is well that ends well, because we drove to Anzio to pick up the documents to find a major surprise: instead of the anticipated one-year validity (and the need to begin renewal paperwork immediately) we saw in bold black print the expiration date of November 2008. Can this be correct? Are our eyes deceiving us? "We better make sure before we leave," Bryan stammered. We asked the man behind the glass. He (gasp!) smiled and said, "si si, it is valid until 2008." Then, amazingly, he grinned and winked at us! We still aren't sure what that meant or how we garnered a bit of favor, but we're not complaining. In fact, we celebrated Christmas giving thanks for a little miracle occurring in a bureaucratic office. In Italy, of all places.
 
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Living Slow in Italy - Vagabonds

During our tenure in New Mexico we had our fair share of visiting family and friends, drawn to a place they'd not seen before, and to spend some quality time with their loved ones (that would be us). After several years of residence the visitors tapered off, as everyone had pretty much "been there, done that" and moved on to other vacation destinations, leaving us feeling rather lonely.

Now, after nearly eight months in Italy, we think maybe we would like to feel lonely again. Truly, our cup has runneth over with company. We spent so much time away from home this autumn that our landlord declared us vagabonds and said we should invest in a camper instead of paying rent on an apartment. She has a point. Nearly all of October and half of November we found ourselves in giro. December brought another two weeks of visitors. More are on the way. All this tour-guiding is beginning to take a toll. I am tired; my apartment has so many dust bunnies that my broom is running scared; my email has piled up.

But it has provided us with some wonderful experiences, a chance to show our families where we live and why we love it here, as well as plentiful laughter (for ourselves as well as for the local population who delight in the entertainment value of our quirks).

My stepfather nearly caused an international incident in a seafood restaurant when he asked for parmigiano cheese. What for, the waitress demanded? When he told her it was for his spaghetti alla vongole she gently told him no, he didn't need cheese on that dish. He was not to be put off, though, and repeated the request. Now she was upset; why would you do that? she asked. What kind of philistine are you? You do not - ever, ever, ever - put parmigiano on spaghetti alla vongole. Everyone knows that! When he continued to insist - not a smart move but by now he was getting as steamed as the clams - she said she would have to call the carabinieri as this was unlawful. We're pretty sure she was joking.

Because our car is piccolo piccolo, most guests have opted to pay for a rental car which Bryan drives, so they will have ample trunk space and leg room, but won't have to tackle the blood sport that is driving in Italy.

When my sister visited with my uncle we had a comedy of errors involving the windshield wipers. The smaller wiper meant to clean the passenger side didn't swipe at all, while the larger, driver-side blade swished effectively. Until the errant little wiper decided to pop up and assert itself across the glass while we were traveling about 130 kph on the crowded and slick autostrada. The Bad Boy didn't play well with the functioning wiper and grabbed hold of it, causing Good Wiper to break off and fly away into the misty landscape that was zipping by us. Aghast, we all sadly watched it go while the rain accumulated on our windshield and Bad Boy calmly went back to his original, non-operational position. "We're screwed," said someone in the back seat.

Calls to the rental agency didn't prove helpful. We were on our own to get it repaired and they would reimburse us. Driving with our heads stuck out of the windows to try to read the signs – the rain greatly impeding our views - we eventually made it safely and soggy to a Fiat dealer, who declared the car too new to have the necessary parts in stock. They didn't offer any further assistance and didn't seem to like our drippy presence in their squeaky-clean showroom, so we drove to another garage. I entertained the mechanics in my rudimentary Italian of our tale of woe, not knowing how to say windshield wiper in Italian and making a game of charades of the whole thing. They ingeniously rigged up the Bad Boy onto the other side of the window, to at least get us home to the agriturismo. Bryan drove scrunched down in the seat to see out the little portion of clean glass.

As we neared our exit, anxious for a warm fire and a bottle of wine to console away the rain and the fearful experience, my brilliant sister remembered seeing a Fiat dealer with a repair shop not far from our rental. Yes, yes! She's right! We all remembered now. Lucky for us the windows blazed forth light; they were still open. I repeated the Tale of Woe and the charades. They called more people over and had me repeat the story so others could enjoy the show. No problem, they said. Indeed, the car is too new for us to stock the part but we can order it. And in the meantime, we'll take the wipers off the new car here in our showroom and put them on your car, he said with a grin. And they did just that, even recommending a nearby restaurant as they completed the work. (We were eventually reimbursed, in case you're wondering. )

On another car rental experience we parked our own little macchina in the lunga sosta lot at the airport. This involves parking about 124 kilometers from the terminal and taking an over-crowded shuttle bus. This, my friends, is what it means to go native. You know you've truly become part of the local scene when you're face to armpit in a packed bus while your luggage rockets about causing bodily injury to strangers and you are muttering "uffa" and "porca miseria" along with the rest of them.

Then there was the embarrassment in Florence. When Bryan's parents paid a visit, my father-in-law was nearly left on a curb to fend for himself when he committed the mortal sin of not only entering but also purchasing something at McDonald's in Firenze. We left him unattended for two measly minutes; he returned happily licking a soft-serve ice cream cone. In Italy, the land of gelato! I know you understand my embarrassment; you can also bet we will never let him forget this infraction.

Dining is a true joy in Italy, of course, but some of our guests have been a bit timid about the whole affair, mostly because many restaurants in our part of the country do not have written menus. Naturally, I translate the orally-recited daily menu but they seem to think I'm either holding something back or trying to trick them into eating something they would deem disgusting. While I will admit to considering ordering a nice plate of trippa for my father-in-law after The Ice Cream Incident, as it has come to be called, I was merciful and dutifully translated accurately. Still, there is some trepidation, which I think may reflect poorly on their opinion of me, or perhaps my reputation as a jokester. But really, I don't joke around when it comes to food. It's just too important a part of the whole Italian experience.

Wonderful opportunities always present themselves when visitors come calling. When I took my uncle and sister to see the grotto where the local saint Emidio was originally interred, a neighbor came out and opened the little chapel, but also took us into his own portion of the cave structure next door, telling us about his experiences hiding there with other townspeople during the bombardments of World War II. My trip to Basilicata with my cousins is one I'll treasure forever. Laughing until I snorted with friends from New Mexico. New Year's Eve in the piazza with my uncle and aunt watching fireworks and being plied with champagne from strangers. Wonderfully leisurely meals. Drives through time-worn landscapes and fortified hill towns. These are the unforgettable things about being here and showing off our corner of the bel paese to those who make the trek half-way around the globe to see us.

When it all comes down to it, we'd rather be tired and have a dusty house than trade these happenings for sleep and tranquility. Maybe we need to give some serious thought to trading in the Ford Fiesta for a vagabond camper, after all.
 
Living Slow in Italy - Italy is Dangerous for People Like Me

I'm not exactly known for my gracefulness. In fact, I can't think of a single person in my family who is known for grace. My sister's nickname as a child was Carp, a play on her name, Cara, to signify her clumsiness. My mother, just a few weeks ago, fell headlong in the middle of Main Street with a giant pick-up truck barreling at her. She sustained a nice bruising and a cut on her face where her glasses broke and jabbed her. I was told (through the grapevine, not by Mom) that as she fell she was heard to cry, "Oh sh*&, not again!" Which just goes to show that this was not the first time such an incident had occurred to poor Mom.

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My grandma has, over the years, fallen too many times to count - fortunately and amazingly - without ever hurting herself. She is so famous for this that the staff at the assisted living facility where she resides call her Iron Woman. We affectionately call her the Amazing Bouncing Grandma.

My uncle fell while pulling at a vine and broke his leg in four places. What can I say? With such a gene-pool it's not a surprise that my nickname is Klutz. I stumble over my feet, trip over cobbles and have, at times, been known to walk into walls. And yes, I do these things while I am perfectly sober, thank you for asking.

So life in Italy poses a whole host of new opportunities to exhibit my lack of coordination. Italy is, I've discovered, a very dangerous place. It can't help it; its very history means it is a land rife with pitfalls. The ancient streets we so admiringly look upon were constructed using large, uneven slabs of stones. Staircases are rarely uniform, the steps alternately steep and shallow, and frequently also slanted downwards. Handrails are a rarity. Medieval stone piazzas are slicker than a skating rink when wet. There are screaming vespas and careening cars to dodge. Low doorways, narrow, winding staircases to reach basement-level bathrooms, and non-existent sidewalks add to the potential perils lurking at every turn. Here, I find myself a walking time-bomb of trip-ups.

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In Anzio this summer we visited a stretch of beach where one finds ruins of Emperor Nero's seaside resort, complete with grottos. We waded out to the caves and climbed up to the blessedly cool shade inside which was open on both sides, providing lovely views of the coastline toward the peak of Circeo to the south and to a Saracen tower to the north. It was a nice respite in the heat of July. When we rose to leave, however, I forgot I was in a grotto with a low-hanging ceiling and stood up too quickly, knocking my noggin on the rock and giving myself a nice egg-sized welt in the process. Because ice cubes in Italy are a rarity even in summer, I resorted to placing a bag of frozen peas on my head to reduce the swelling.

But that was minor compared to my latest escapade.

Our Roman friends, Giorgio and Francesca, recently paid us a visit. They had an ongoing argument over when was the last time they had been in Ascoli. More than twenty years is the closest consensus they would reach, with Giorgio giving up and Francesca wanting to pin down an exact date they last saw our fair city. She is tenacious that way, and once she latches onto a particular subject she is slow to relinquish it. This was the recurring topic as we strolled about part of the centro storico pointing out our favorite landmarks.

We crossed the Roman bridge to an ancient part of town known as Borgo Solesta, where one finds a very nice prospect over the centro and can see several of the storied (and multi-storied) towers rising over Ascoli. There is also a very old lavatoio, or washbasin, that is rather cool to look at. We've given up trying to find out its date of origin, as when we inquire of such things the locals either look at us like, why would you want to know that? or like, I don't know so please don't ask me. E molto antica is the best answer we can usually muster on such occasions. It's very old, yes we know that, but just how old?

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We like to take our guests over to gaze at the old basin where once-upon-a-time women had the back-breaking task of beating their clothes clean while stooped over the great tubs and gossiping. Francesca thought this was very interesting and descended the few steps to the floor of the washroom where she promptly slipped on the slime and fell rather hard. "Hai fatto male?" I asked her. Did you hurt yourself? When she didn't answer immediately, I foolishly set my foot down on the floor to try to offer a hand to get back up. I thought I'd stepped on regular stone, being careful to avoid the green gunky stuff that inevitably forms where there is mineral-rich water. But there was something slimy there, too, and I felt my legs fly up and out like in a cartoon as I haplessly found myself airborne and headed for a rock-hard fall. It was a rather spectacular fling, actually, and I was in the air long enough to contemplate how awful it would be to crack my head open. I came down on my left hand and thigh, making myself quite dirty with muck in the process. The travertine was predictably solid and none too cushy.

I told you I was not graceful, didn't I? So there we were, two ungainly women on the ground while our fearless, strong men stood a ways off mouths agape, watching the proceedings. I must admit that they were probably the wiser of the bunch.

All the way home Francesca and I surveyed our filthy clothes and kept exclaiming, "mamma mia!"; "che sporca"; and "che disastro!" Good lord, what a mess. I'm such a walking disaster, is the gist of that.

Naturally, Francesca who is nearly twenty years my senior had no pain or bruising to report. I, on the other hand, hurt my hiney along with my pride, and procured a shiner the size of Nebraska on my leg. My hand hurt like the dickens. At least I was attempting a good deed when this occurred.

But that doesn't help to change my nickname any. I have a feeling I'll be repeating the scenario sometime soon. As long as I'm in a country that presents such attractive hazards, I'll still be known as a klutz.
 
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Living Slow in Italy - Going Postal

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The notice in our mailbox brought glad tidings of cheer from someone far-away. Bryan dutifully went to collect the parcel from the ufficio postale, hurrying home with a grin ... a package from his brother. We popped a festive CD in the stereo, burst open the wrappings and celebrated. Thanks to the Posta Italiana, Christmas lasts all year long!

It is always a surprise when there is mail in the box, given the notoriety of the Italian postal system. Who hasn't traveled in Italy and sent postcards home only to find them arrive a month or more later? The experience of trying to send or retrieve mail here is enough to make anyone go ... (groan) postal.

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First you must enter the building which is as well protected as a bank vault. This makes sense in an only-in-Italy kind of way since most of the post office's activity, oddly enough, involves banking-type transactions rather than postal business. In many postal locations you have to enter through a set of narrow sliding doors which close behind you, leaving you encased in a little glass cubicle where you wait for the inner set of doors to open and permit you access to the interior. You are presumably scanned for firearms while you stand in your fishbowl being sized up by those already inside. They will determine just how weak you are and this will play in their favor later.

Once you're deemed sufficiently benign to enter, you must figure out which sportello you need, because only one window is devoted to actual mail. Other windows are for paying bills and parking tickets, or for the Banco Posta. Another window seems always to be set aside for some kind of Very Important Business where several employees gather together going over paperwork while in deep conversation, ignoring the restless hoards.

Because Italy has a long tradition of rushing in a crowd to a window rather than queuing, the post office has installed a number machine. In theory this is a great idea to make things run more smoothly. In practice, it is as confusing as having no queue at all. The machine offers options according to the type of business you wish to conduct, so you must choose and press the correct button to obtain your number. No one knows which button to push. Women look at me pleadingly to help them. As if I knew! You close your eyes, hope you've chosen wisely, and receive a numbered ticket. Then you wait. People group together examining everyone else's tickets and keeping vigilant eyes on the digital signs, sighing and crying out if someone isn't quick enough with their business. Dead tickets lay on the floor, scattered evidence of those who gave up hope and departed.

Despite the number system, there are inevitably the deviants who feign ignorance and pretend the machine does not exist. They are nearly always elderly men, and they are wily old buzzards who hawkishly watch the windows and the people waiting to determine their moment to swoop in. They always peg me as prey, noting immediately that I'll be a push-over. They edge their way forward, usually saying they "only have a simple question ..." and upon reaching the coveted counter throw aside the current customer to state their own business, which predictably takes ten minutes. One such man did this to me, saying he only needed a couple of stamps. A couple? Try seventy. Which - you knew this was coming - they didn't have at the counter. When the clerk returned from some High Security Stamp Storage room in the bowels of the building, the man pulled out a stack of bills he needed to pay. When I tried to protest, he simply grinned. Unfortunately, my sadly-lacking linguistic abilities didn't permit me to say, "hey ya old fart, take a number and wait your turn!" Instead, I just glared – quite ineffectively – at him. I then turned my glare – also quite ineffectively – at the clerk who allowed him to butt his way into line in the first place. I'm a guppy among sharks.

Trying to successfully mail something once you've reached the window is another issue altogether, especially to a foreign destination. Sending Christmas gifts home took me the better part of the day as the clerk had to call in no less than three other workers to assist her, all joined together in loud debate and consulting some great book of wisdom for insight on how to mail a package, all the while I'm standing there thinking, "I'm inside a post office. Why can't they mail things?" I now refer to this institution as the Post Awful.

To be fair, I also had issues with my own nation's postal system. A few years after we moved to New Mexico, my grandmother wrote me a letter that was delivered more than a month after she sent it. It arrived battered and well-traveled in a plastic "we're sorry it's been ripped apart" envelope bearing markings from Mexico. Somehow it was routed south of the border before arriving in Albuquerque. My mom was indignant and complained about the "incompetent nincompoops who don't know geography from..." well, you know.

So, a couple years after that when she was sending a box of goodies that hadn't arrived after a few weeks, Mom was livid and stormed down to her post office in a rage and, with a map in hand, told them just how maladroit they were and then proceeded to give them a geography lesson on the difference between "NEW Mexico ... which IS a state in the Union" and regular Mexico, "which is a country". They assured her they would do all they could to find the package. Days passed without any word on the whereabouts of the absent parcel, when my stepfather arrived home and asked my mom, "Uh, hon, what's that box in the trunk of the car? It's been there for weeks!" (Poor Mom!)

Then we had an incident where our mail was stolen. For three days. During the time my passport was being renewed and expected any day. I frantically called the State Department to determine if my passport had been sent out. Fortunately they had not yet gotten around to my renewal. It arrived two weeks later by regular post without any kind of tracking or signature required. (For a passport!) It turned out the contract postal employee they'd just hired had been swiping all the mail from three or four subdivisions for her husband to rifle through and steal identities. Brilliant thieves that they were, much of the mail (or at least the remains of it) was found in their home.

And, let's not forget the box of books I shipped a year ago in anticipation of our move to Italy. It's never reached the shores of the bel paese and both countries claim it is the fault of the other's postal system. So bad are the postal problems in New Mexico that our senators had to intervene and hold meetings with the Post Master General to try to improve things. I've heard no word on whether there have been any changes.

My expectations on both sides of the Atlantic are low when it comes to the mail; it's just slower and I find I must be more aggressive to transact postal business here. Meanwhile, we'll keep our Christmas CDs handy in case gifts continue to arrive. You may want to note that my birthday is in November. Just to be safe, you may want to consider mailing things now.

A postscript by Pauline: Valerie and Bryan sent a parcel to me (presents from Italy!!) on March 1 and it arrived on March 19 in very good shape. Congratulations to both the Italy and New Mexico postal systems!

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Package from Italy: Ceramics, chocolates, card, maps, local paper!!
 
Living Slow in Italy - Wanted: Italian Blood Donors

The more time we spend in Italia the more I have become convinced that we have drawn the short end of the gene-pool stick.

Sure, I have some Italian heritage in my background, but not enough. My family went to America too long ago, and too much other blood has infiltrated my genetics for me to reap the full benefits that being Italian bestows.

This fact became quite obvious to us recently. During a conversation with our landlords we discussed the immensity of the bureaucratic process that we had to go through to get here. We told them about receiving our permesso di soggiorno after a seven month wait, only to resign ourselves to another round of wrangling when we dutifully went to the powers that be to update our address in Ascoli. That was in January. Supposedly our updated permessi will be ready at the end of May. The Christmas surprise, if you didn't read the update, was that the permessi are valid until the end of 2008. We related the entirety of the story to our landlords, who nodded knowingly at the infamy of their governmental processes. They were thrilled that we'd be able to stay until the end of next year, though. Well, not exactly. We have official permission to stay that long, but not enough funds to support ourselves for that lengthy period, we said. We would need to find some source of income to stay beyond the end of 2007.

That's when we realized that we have been dealt the wrong genetic hand. "Mah!" exclaimed Dorina. "Tell your parents you want to stay longer. They'll send you the money." Bryan and I exchanged high-browed sidewise glances. Not mine; how about yours? No way. We spent the next half-hour explaining American parental cruelty, how we're thrown out of the house at college-age and left to find our own way in the world and make something of ourselves. The landlords were horrified. But … our parents pay for college, Bryan added weakly. This did not impart an iota of consolation to our listeners, who now think American parents seriously lacking in their parental duties. Mah! We're only in our forties! How could our parents be so horrid as to cast us off like this?

Arriving home, we laughed about their reaction and relayed the story to our parents, who were not sufficiently moved by our landlords' horror to offer up any means of financial support as Dorina had so adamantly insisted they should. Which came as absolutely no surprise to either of us.

A week later while visiting with Roman friends, we mentioned the incident laughingly, figuring they knew enough of our culture to see the comic contrast. Their initial response was wholly unexpected. "Well, they wouldn't need to help you now since you sold the house they purchased for you in order to come here. They've already done their part." Whoa! Back up the truck! Our house was built solely on our own hard-won incomes and hard labor, with a bit of paint-brush assistance from Bryan's dad. The friends were incredulous. What do you mean your parents didn't buy you a house? That is their duty! That is a basic necessity they should provide! In our dreams, we said. We have not one American friend who had received such assistance, we explained. They tried to not appear too dumfounded, without success.

But then, their 35-year old son still lives at home and has been unemployed for two years. They cannot understand his lack of luck in finding a good job. Why would he even bother trying, we surmise, when he has a house, a car, food, and expenses all paid and provided by dear ol' dad.

It's a common refrain we've been hearing lately. Sure, we'd known about the mammoni, the free-loading kids (mostly male, we're told) who take advantage of their parents, milking them for all it's worth. But there is something more going on here; a deeper sensibility of what parental duty should be that we find fascinating for its absolute difference to our own upbringings. Not that we were lacking, mind you. Our parents were not negligent. At least, we hadn't thought so until now.

Our next door neighbor has lamented to me about her daughter's divorce, how difficult it is for their five-year old granddaughter and how it is utterly necessary for the daughter and child to move into the vacant apartment across the hall. They have taken out a lease on the place and will be paying her rent, never mind that they puchased for the house in which the daughter currently resides. Why the ex-husband remains in the house is a mystery; when I inquired, the signora gave me a glance that showed I'm dim-witted to not comprehend the need for the daughter to be here in the bosom of la mamma. But, she said, you're mamma would, of course, do the same for you in such a circumstance. Yes, of course. I didn't bother trying to explain the truth to her. When my mom pays a visit soon, I don't want the signora thinking her guilty of child abuse.

Bryan took all this accumulated information on parenting to his friend, the neighborhood barista, who needed no incentive to go off on a tangent. He railed for about thirty minutes about the mammoni, how indulgent parents are, how kids have too much handed to them here, how it should be more like it is in America. My goodness, they should learn to work harder! How do they think they're going to learn how to manage a household and their own families? They don't know how to perform basic cleaning tasks, he said. But, he added a bit sheepishly, he may be jealous. His mother died when he was young and so he wasn't given the opportunity of being a mammone, to decide if he'd have enjoyed that path of life. "It's a pity. You are an American Italian. You should have been born in Italy," he told me.

Yes. Which got me to thinking. Since I don't have quite enough Italian blood in my own veins, maybe a blood transfusion could work. If we can gather together some of these generous Italian parents to donate blood, and if we infuse it into our parents, then maybe they'll start to become more "Italian", more duty-bound toward their parental obligations. Maybe they'll see the need to purchase a house for their poor, young children. Maybe a bank account would be set up with monthly deposits.

I doubt it, too. But it's worth a try. We're all about adapting to the cultural experience, you know. We'd give the mammone thing a whirl.
 
Living Slow in Italy - The Year in Review

One year ago we arrived in the bel paese and planted ourselves into this ever-fascinating, beautiful place. I know, I know. It's such a cliche to say it, but time has truly flown by. It doesn't seem like that long ago, and it seems to have passed so amazingly quickly that I can't imagine how we could possibly plan to return home if we hadn't decided to extend our residency. We've gotten the hang of things and have become more comfortable with the language. Things that had confounded us at first now seem like second nature. In short, this place that was to us a foreign land has come to feel like home in a short period of time.

In one year we've had a lot of flub-ups, embarrassments, and wonderful experiences. We've made new friends and learned a lot along the way. Looking back, it's been an incomparable time - full of a range of experiences that made us laugh and cry, smile and shake our heads in frustration. But not for a minute of the past year were we bored.

In reviewing the year I realize that much of it was consumed with daily life. While we've spent some time traveling around to see other areas of Italy, we have settled into a routine here and become part of the local scene. Much of our days are filled with the normal rhythm of life - making the rounds of shops for groceries, cooking, meeting with friends, writing and working at various freelance projects, dealing with bureaucracy (which always consumes the day), staying in touch with friends and family back home, as well as showing them around and enjoying their company when they come to visit us, and studying Italian. Mundane stuff, really; and while it's fun in its own way for us, it's not always the kind of activity that makes for fascinating arm-chair reading. They are the things that make up everyone's daily routines. But looking back, I also had a few "firsts" and some more memorable occurrences along the way.

In the past year, I have ...

*Seen more churches in a year than I had previously viewed in a lifetime.
It's a phenomenon every traveler to Italy notices at some point, but how can you help it? Churches are the primary attractions in most towns. Filled with artwork, sculpture, icons, and fascinating crypts containing underground ruins, they are normally the first stop when visiting a new place. Bryan, formerly uninterested in art, has become obsessed with entering every church we come across and feels cheated if I reach the saturation point. "Please, I beg you. No more churches today!" I'll cry. Just one more, he pleads. "This one is supposed to have a finger of St. Anthony!" The body parts on display are always beyond my comprehension, but the architecture I can appreciate. Antique frescoes fascinate us both. Finding pieces of the True Cross has become like a scavenger hunt and we've now seen three such splinters.

The problem is, after so many churches in so many hill towns, they do start to run together and I can't always keep them straight in my head. Which one had the Roman marketplace below it? Where did we see the miraculous eucharist? I need to start keeping better notes.

*Become addicted to cappuccino and cornetti.
Woe to the person who tries to alter my morning ritual! I need my caffeine or I am a grumpy girl, and I prefer to have it in the form of a perfectly-brewed cappuccino while standing up at the bar with a nice, warm cornetto in hand. The day seems somehow "off" if I am deprived of this daily jump-start. My favorite is at a particular pasticceria that makes a nice, flaky croissant with a filling of almond paste. Not too sweet, not over-filled - just enough for the nutty taste and wholesomeness, this is the best one in town; but I alternate between a couple of bars and the baristas have become well-accustomed to my habits. It's nice to walk in and have them immediately start making my cup of joe just the way I like it. "Il solito," is such a wonderful word in the morning.

*Experienced multicultural mingles.
While New Mexico is frequently called a multicultural state because of the easy blending of Anglo, Spanish, and Native American traditions, I've personally encountered more people with differing ethnic backgrounds here than anyplace I've ever visited before. I have interacted with people from China, Morocco, Senegal and Romania; Australia, England and Germany; and the Philippines, Mexico, and Poland. And that's just here in one corner of Italy! I've also encountered Romans, Gladiators, and Philistines, but that sounds like a good title for a future article.

*Discovered family members.
As you already know from my previous article, I found out that I have family members living in Basilicata and also met two American cousins I hadn't known before. The internet can be an awesome tool, and I've discovered that it can bring people together. I can't believe my good fortune in meeting these wonderful folks and am even more fortunate to call them "family". This joyful discovery alone made the entire year unforgettable, and I can't wait to see them again soon.

*Eaten some very strange foods.
Italian cuisine is world-renown and I, for one, am a great fan. I am a great proponent of the Mediterranean diet, love to cook it, and never say no to a plate of pasta. But I've learned that there are a few dishes a'cooking in the cucina that I could live without. Coratella, for instance. This local delicacy is made from chopped-up and stewed pieces of heart and lung of lamb. Yeah; that was my reaction, too. The first time I ate it was with a friend and I felt I had to give it a taste. I gagged down a couple little bites to show my willingness to try it, but I can assure you that it tasted as awful as it sounds. I was force-fed this fine treat on another occasion, sealing my dislike of it.

Tripe in any form disgusts me. While knowing what part of the animal it comes from doesn't help any, the texture finishes off any appetite I may have had and precludes me from ever wanting to put it into my mouth again.

Baccala, which is dried and salted cod, isn't disgusting per se, but again it's a texture thing. There is no real taste to it and yet it leaves a strange aftertaste in the mouth. While I can eat it if I must, I don't enjoy it. Besides, in a peninsular nation surrounded by sea, I don't see the attraction of a piece of dried-out, cold-water fish from Norway that resembles weather-beaten barn wood and that must be soaked in water for three days to make it edible. Not real palatable.

*Attended a movie premier.
You just never know what little opportunities will be presented to you. While spending the summer in Anzio we happened to know someone who knew someone who was giving out free tickets to the premier of a movie that was filmed in Anzio, on the very stretch of beach where we resided. The Cinecitta-made low-budget, teenager beach flick was rather funny and cute, though apparently not memorable at the box office. Seeing people we knew who were featured as extras was a lot of fun, and we got a glimpse of the stars and director during our first-ever foray into the realm of movie premiers. Not too shabby for a couple of hangers-on Americani in a small Italian town. We also discovered that Italian theaters give an intermission (smokers' break) and serve espresso instead of popcorn.

*Bared my boobs on the beach.
Now before you make a judgment on this, you should know it was entirely unintentional. During our months on the Mediterranean we spent many days trying to cool down in the surf. On one particular day, the waves were breaking strongly as they crossed a sandbar and several people were out with surfboards trying to ride them as they crested. As I stood up from the water a wave crashed over my head and, as it pummeled me, also stripped off my top. Naturally, I was facing the shore when this occurred and I scrambled to find – and reposition - the top half of my swimsuit. Luckily, as I scanned the waders along the water's edge, no one seemed to have noticed. Come to think of it, though, maybe I should be offended at that.

*Learned that my hair is naturally curly.
This is something I should have known already, you say. But twenty years in the desert didn't render my hair wavy. Not even once. Now that I live in a place with humidity I have learned that my previously-limpid locks do, in fact, have some natural get-up-and-go. Unfortunately, it is not the beautiful kind of curly one sees on Julia Louis-Dreyfus. I couldn't have that kind of luck. Nor do I have Julia's type of long, thick hair, but that's another point of angst altogether. No, what we're talking about here is more along the lines of Rosanne Rosanna Danna. It's such a nice surprise to discover that the climate can heavily contribute to bad hair days.

*Drank some fine Pecorino.
While the rest of country eats their pecorino, I prefer to imbibe mine. It is good served with the sheep's milk cheese of the same name, but this local wine has become one of my greatest discoveries. The historical, regional grape grows in this pocket of the country and produces a fine vintage of wine. If you want to impress your wine-type friends, toss around the phrase "Offida Pecorino" in a conversation and impress them with the knowledge of this little-known wine. It has a faint scent of the pecorino cheese, too. Other relatively unknown varietals in this area make me wish I knew more about wines. Alas, my vocabulary usually consists of, "oh, this is fruity," or dry, or acidic, and other such words. Maybe someday I'll take a wine course. Until then I just confidently order my vino pecorino, per favore and leave it at that.

*Sent text messages.
My reputation as a techno-idiot is well-known. I don't know the difference between a Blackberry and an iPod and quite frankly, I don't think my life is any bit the poorer for it. My cell phone at home was a basic model purchased for convenience and emergencies. Here, however, telefonini are must-have necessities in a place where it can take six months to have a land-line connected. Along with the basic tool itself, the SMS may well be what keeps Italians in touch and keeps Italy as a whole functioning. Appointments and confirmations are made, greetings and family news exchanged, and everyday details are life are completed by the use of SMS. I have now gotten quite adept at fingering the keypad to type out a message, but in the early days it took me ages and I complained that I could have turned on the computer, hooked up online, and typed and sent an email in less time. Now I see the usefulness, but still think that it would be a whole lot easier to use that same cell phone to just call and actually talk to the person rather than to exchange back-and-forth messages. But I'm still an American, after all. "Easy" isn't necessarily how things are done here. When my phone blip-beeps the tell-tale signal of an incoming message, I eagerly dig around my purse to hastily read it like everyone else.

*Argued – and won! – in a foreign language.
Sometimes the most frustrating days sprang from little events that rendered me speechless, literally, because I didn't have the vocabulary to respond. So, when I was given a bit of attitude by a bus driver and was able to gently argue with him and explain my point, it was a happy day for me. That he backed down, shrugged his shoulders, and capitulated was an absolute victory. I'm still very much in the learning curve of this whole language thing, but to me it signaled that I was making progress just when I had begun to feel that I may have reached a plateau. Of course, to offset this experience I've always argued and lost in Italian. But at least I'm at the linguistic stage where I'm conversational enough to be more assertive. Now if I can just get those all-important hand gestures down pat, I'll be in good shape.

*Experienced earthquakes.
Because of the mountain ranges running the length of the country much of Italy is an earthquake zone. I didn't realize just how much until the tremors started. Three times now I've felt the earth move and admit that it was a bit unsettling at first. In the middle of the night, the building swayed and the bedroom door clinked back and forth against its track. A weird sensation for someone who has never experienced it, so I turned to Bryan for confirmation of this strangeness, but found he'd snored his way through it. These little tremors are frequent, we're told, but haven't caused any damage in "quite some time". Not a real encouraging statement, but then we have Sant'Emidio for our reassurance. The patron saint of our town is said to protect it from destructive earthquakes. Let's hope.

*Viewed two rare Caravaggio paintings.
One of the great advantages of living in Italy is the opportunity to see some of the world's best-known masterpieces. One of the highlights for me was the chance to see a couple of paintings by my favorite artist, Caravaggio. During my college years I took several art history classes and toyed with the idea of minoring in that subject. I opted against it, one of life's hindsight regrets. But my interest in viewing art and in seeing how it impacts people emotionally remains with me. Standing in front of a painting by Caravaggio evokes something in my soul; his insight and vision to paint such descriptive scenes always astounds me. So the opportunity to be one of those allowed to enter a private palazzo and gaze up with only a handful of others at a work by the master was an awesome privilege. The Conversion of Saul is one of the precious few Caravaggio paintings still held in a private collection, and the Principessa Odescalchi threw open the doors of her palace for a few days last summer to permit the general population to enter. Only ten were allowed in at a time so we were able to really see it up close and take in the details.

Then in January we hurried to the gallery housed in the upper level of Termini rail station for a special exhibit of Caravaggio works that included The Taking of Christ. I had read Jonathan Harr's book, The Lost Painting, just before we moved to Italy and enjoyed the story and mystery of how this long-lost masterpiece was discovered. I knew that I'd probably not make a trip to Dublin to see it, though. To find out that this, along with a handful of other works, would be on display in Rome during one of my visits there was a bit of serendipity. It was a fantastic opportunity, especially after reading the chronicles of that particular masterpiece. And people wonder why we want to live here?

*Had an accidental waxing.
During a visit to a massage therapist while having my muscles relaxed by a nice lady, she mentioned that she is also an esthetician, the exact significance of which I was unsure, but she started telling me she could wax my eyebrows and upper lip. The curse of having Mediterranean blood coursing in my veins, but then every other woman around here suffers the same problems, apparently. I confess that I was a bit tuned-out as she was saying all this, but said "okay" to show that I was keeping up and understood that she could provide those services if I ever decided to take advantage of them.

Next thing I know she's slathering wax on my face and attaching linen strips to yank the stuff off. Whoa! Ah, the subtleties of language learning. I didn't denote the up-turn at the end of her sentence, which I thought was a statement but turned out to be a question. I can wax your eyebrows and lip, a statement. Can I wax your eyebrows and lip? A question. Same exact sentence formation in Italian. In my semi-zoned-out state I missed the all-important voice intonation and stupidly answered "okay," which she took as an affirmative: sure, go ahead and wax me! I will not care to repeat the experience and now question the utter sanity of anyone who willingly submits to a bikini wax.

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Yes, folks, it has certainly been a memorable year, made more so by the Slow Travelers who have come along on the journey. Thanks to all of you who have encouraged us, made us laugh, and helped us generously with information. You've read my scribblings, and have sent me sweet emails. It's been a joy sharing our experiences with you, and I look forward to telling you about the next year of our Italian adventure, as well. Thanks for being such great travel companions.
 
Living Slow in Italy - Summer Heat

The last few weeks I awake each morning with beads of perspiration formed on my brow. My heartbeat is quickened and my body feels clammy. A recurring nightmare? Nope; summer has arrived in Italy and I am feeling the full effects. Spring lasted a whole three days then we slid right into a season we call Roaring Hot.

I've learned that I'm a rather spoiled American, after all. We are accustomed to air conditioning, which in New Mexico comes in the form of a contraption known as a "swamp cooler". This gizmo is a basic unit which pumps water over birch pads then a fan blows on it, thus pushing cool, damper air into the house. Yep, it's so dry we can add humidity to the air to cool it down. Here, the humidity is high and the air feels ... well, I can feel it and I'm not used to having a sensation of feeling weight and mass to the air around me. You can laugh all you want about the old cliched adage regarding New Mexico ("…but it's a dry heat"), the lack of humidity absolutely makes a difference. Inferno seems an apt word, maybe more appropriate in Italian since it means "hell".

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Valerie in the fountain in Piazza Popolo

I thought our apartment would stay cooler than it has because, being placed inside a 300-year old building, it has thick stone exterior walls that I'd naively imagined would act much like adobe and prove to be insulating. It does to a certain extent; newer concrete construction does heat up much faster, but after the first few days of maintaining a cool interior, the relentless sun just warmed up the exterior stones and now we're in a constant struggle to find relief. We open the windows wide at night to try to catch the breezes once the sun goes down, then in the morning we close everything up tight to try to keep the hot air at bay. This has moderately worked; at least when we return home the air outside feels more oven-like than the air inside.

Our neighbor thinks this is an insane notion. She has asked me several times if we have air-conditioning, and thinks I'm lying when I say no. Why would you close the windows? I try to explain the principle to her, but she shakes her head vehemently. "No, signora; you must have the breeze." But, I respond, when the breeze is coming from a blast furnace, I'd rather try to keep that outside where it belongs.

She still doesn't believe we're not sitting in a climate-controlled room and has lectured me about the deathly dangers of air conditioners. "It is extremely unhealthy," she tells me. "You can catch pneumonia from those." I initially attempted to put her mind at ease by telling her we spent months on end with the swamp cooler pumping chilled air into our home night and day. "You Americans! You must try to control the environment and you put your health in jeopardy!" She's amazed I've lived to the ripe old age of 40 with such foolishness.

I've discovered, though, that distrust of air conditioning is widely held in these parts. Few establishments have it and those who do seem to be embarrassed by it. One bar we frequent turns it on, then opens the door, as if having both will save them from the risks while giving some mild form of relief. The day I walked in and felt the blessed coolness blowing down from the unit, I automatically closed the door behind me and sat down at the table in the direct path of the airflow, sighing in relief. The barista clucked at me and waved his finger, "No, Valeria! You don't want to sit there. L'aria cosi fredda e pericolosa! The cold air is dangerous!" Relax, I said. Sono Americana. Merely stating my national heritage covers a multitude of faux pas and lends understanding to my strange habits. He shrugged and went about making my caffe while grumbling that my death would not be on his hands. That's when I looked around the room and noticed all the other patrons were huddled together on the periphery, giving wide berth to the dreaded colpo d'aria, while maintaining a slick sheen of sweat on their faces.

I will say, though, that by not moving from one air-conditioned building to the next, the body does seem to acclimate a bit better to the heat. In America, too many business establishments set the air at glacial chill that would make me stiffen like celery in ice water. Exiting a cold building into the desert air would make the outside temperature feel even hotter and more unbearable. I'd have to tote a sweater if I wanted to dine out or take in a movie, and always felt a little silly carrying a jacket when it was 97 degrees outside. Sundresses languished in my closet because I knew if I wore them I'd end up with cold legs and goose bumps. Here I put them on without fear; I'll be hot and the sundress will help. Period.

We snake our way around town for errands keeping to the narrow streets instead of the wide avenues. In Ascoli these little alleyways are called rua, which I'm told derives from the Roman word "ruga." Since the centro storico maintains its Roman street pattern I have no reason to doubt the name attribution. The slender streets run between stone buildings and are kept in perpetual shade. We exit into the piazza to drink and splash from the fountain, then retreat again into the maze until sunset, when we can stand to walk out in the open again.

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Taking a drink from the fountain in Piazza Arringo

The Italian answer for the heat is always spelled mare. We are asked daily, usually three or four times, if we are heading to the beach. The season has started and every day we see people in beachwear enroute to their cars or the bus stop for the half-hour trip to the coast. Sundays mark a mass exodus from the centro as half the population transfers themselves in droves in a ritual-like fashion to worship the sun, to congregate and reestablish friendships, and to break bread together at one of the many seafood restaurants.

Despite the availability of decent public beaches in Porto d'Ascoli and San Benedetto, not a single person of our acquaintance utilizes them, opting instead to park themselves at one of the many stabilimenti balneare, shore-side establishments that provide ordered rows of umbrellas and chairs as well as services such as showers, bars, food, and games. Most people continue to frequent the chalet, as they are called locally, that they went to as children, ensuring that they can pick up the relationships and have friends around for card games, gossip, dining, and merriment. We know a guy who was recently best man in a wedding; the groom is someone he met on the beach 30 years ago when they were kids. Long-lasting ties remain bound at these stabilimenti. That we inquire about the public beaches shows our foreign-ness and lack of established friendships.

The trouble with the beach is it's still stinkin' hot! The main activity is to crisp oneself to a golden brown; despite paying for those big, colorful umbrellas, most people opt not to use them, dragging their chairs out into the full sun to prendere il sole. Sunscreen tends to be more of a moisturizer than sun protection, with SPFs much lower than we're accustomed to; anything with an SPF higher than 20 is clearly marked "per bambini". Last summer a friend of our hosts asked why I acted like a blond. Thinking she was cracking a joke at my intelligence level, I was about to take offense when she said, "you're so light and you always sit in the shade. You're at the beach ... you should be abbronzato!" I tan rather easily but apparently just not deeply toasted enough.

Cooling down is difficult because you splash in the water then lay in the heat again. This stretch of the Adriatic is very shallow, meaning you must walk nigh a kilometer to reach water that is waist deep and I rarely see people actually swimming. It's telling that in Italian you don't say "go for a swim" but "fare un bagno," take a bath.

This, too, can be dangerous business, however. I've been severely warned about the need to acclimate my body to the water before immersing myself by methodically splashing water on my body little by little first, lest the shock of the cold cause my intestines to seize up and cease functioning. My friend, Francesca, was absolutely adamant, citing as reference her cousin who nearly died after entering cold seawater (in August, no less). His internal organs could not handle the shock and his eventual recovery was nothing less than miraculous. That at least three people have told me of similar incidents makes me stop and think before I just plunge right in. Especially in the nearby river, where we prefer to go to cool down, as it is not only within walking distance, but the shade provided by the trees and the chill emitting from the mountain-fed river drop the air temperature a good ten degrees along the trail that skirts it. The water is icy, coming into the fiume Castellano from the Sibilline Mountains. There are several little waterfalls along the trail that create pools for swimming and some are deep enough that kids jump off the falls, disappearing below them. I'm personally afraid of hitting rocks down there, but Bryan reports the depth is ample. I like to take a book and lounge in the shallow part of the river while reading.

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River near Ascoli Piceno

Back in town, the way to beat the heat seems to be food-oriented, not surprisingly. In Italy, it really is "all about the food," which suits me fine. There is gelato aplenty, of course, and granitas are available in every bar, too. Some have specialty fruit-based drinks served on ice. White wine is always chilled and ready, and caffe freddo is frequently ordered. I like the caffe shakerato, a shot of espresso with a bit of simple sugar syrup that is shaken up with a good quantity of ice, which I think is even better when my neighborhood barista adds milk to make me a cappuccino shakerato, but he reports that I'm the only one who orders it that way. (Innovative me!) Cold pastas and salads made from rice or farro are popular and refreshing, and most hot pasta dishes are dressed in a simple fresh tomato sauce that is barely cooked. The fritto misto is very popular in the summer; I'm not quite sure the reason behind this one as a dish of deep-fry seems rather heavy-feeling to me. Cold seafood salads are on every antipasto plate now.

It is during this time of year that I truly value the tradition of the afternoon siesta. It's not just a luxury, it's a necessity. After running my errands in the morning, I normally tuck away inside until well after lunch. I don't normally exit again until 7:00pm, like everyone else, craving some personal interaction again after the hours of hibernation. Some days, even my little laptop seems to generate too much heat and I wrestle with myself, saying I need to write but then putting it off, not wanting to have one bit more of warmth-producing electronics operating. I sit on the couch with the fan blowing directly on me (please don't tell my friends!) while perching the laptop on a chair cushion to keep my legs from scorching.

Summer also brings a load of activities, though. I think this is to divert everyone's attention from the heat. Sagras are held every weekend and we're looking forward to attending each one around town, as each sestiere holds their own. There are concerts and art exhibits scheduled all through the upcoming months, and our local palio event, La Quintana, starts up the beginning of July with the culminating event – the jousting match - in August. Unannounced events seem to creep up in the piazzas nearly daily, encouraging the good citizens to crawl out of their homes to see what is going on. The Ascolani are always asking us why we would move from America to little Ascoli Piceno where there is nothing happening. Are you kidding, we respond. There is always something happening and it is usually free!

The biggest problem for me is that it is only June! What are we going to do come August? We'd contemplate rigging up a swamp cooler, but we don't think it would be a good idea to add even more moisture to the already-humid air. So, we struggle through it like everyone else, agreeing that the heat is "da morire" and hoping it won't last until September. If you happen to meander through Ascoli this summer, I'll be the one walking slowly through the back alleys in a sundress ... without a deep, dark tan. Say hello; I'll treat you to a cappuccino shakerato.
 
Living Slow in Italy - Men in Tights, Sleepless Nights, and the Wine of the Holy Thorn

There are three public announcement sites in town, places designed for the dissemination of local information where posters get slathered across the walls to publicize the upcoming activities. Summer brings a bigger proliferation of the placards as everything shifts into high gear. Sometimes the organizers are slow in getting them up; at least three times we've gotten excited about the prospect of an event only to find that it had occurred a few days before. Never mind that we had checked The Wall on the day before the concert. Musical groups, dances, lecture series, theatrical productions ... they are all advertised by the posters. Our reason for checking The Wall regularly, though, is to find out about the sagre.

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A sagra in Italy is akin to a county fair in Midwest America ... but better. Deriving from the term sacra festa, they are frequently held in conjunction with a religious festival or saint's feast day and feature some type of religious observation or procession as part of the activity line-up. But for the most part, as with everything in Italy, it boils down to the food. While it may proclaim a saint's day, the bigger headline is the type of delicacy they will be cooking up. We have adopted sagra-hopping as our main summer-time activity.

Here in Ascoli, each sestiere (neighborhood) has its own sagra, and all the little hill towns throughout the province have them slated throughout the season, as well. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that if there is a food item made in Italy, there is a festival to pay homage to it. In the "what's happening in the province this summer" booklet we have found no less than 13 towns offering a Sagra della Birra, (some of them also serving pizza with the beer); five that are dedicated solely to pizza; and seven that will be grilling up arrosticini, skewers containing little nuggets of lamb meat. The wafting smell of the grilling meat is unbelievably enticing and even if I'm not very hungry, I cave in and order a skewer once my nostrils get a whiff of the barbecue.

There are sagre to celebrate the local wines and polenta fests with a variety of toppings (sausage, fish, clams, or snails, take your pick). Truffles and porcini mushrooms are popular in these parts as are all things pig. I lost count of the number of festivals dedicated to pork, either roasted in its entirety, served as a grilled chop, or in one of its processed forms such as sausage and prosciutto. Many proclaim they will hold a "sagra delle specialita suine,” which I'm convinced is an all-purpose term to throw into the events calendar until they've decided exactly what type of pork they will make. To counter-balance the whole hog fests, I've also noted three organic festivals, one for whole-grains, and a couple celebrating the orto (garden).

Some sagre are downright specialized, though. Want to go to the "spaghetti with a lightly seasoned sauce of fish and stewed mussels" festival? Or perhaps the one for the "boiled snails dressed with extra virgin olive oil, tomatoes and spices". Others are kind of gross: rana (frogs); zampetti di maiale (pig's feet); baccala (dried up salt cod); and let's not forget the sagra of the duck liver. Blech.

Most sagre offer very good regional foods, though. We attended one dedicated to the famed spaghetti all'amatriciana and another for crespelle, which turns out to be kind of like New Mexico fry bread but without the honey, which is really a shame because it would have been much tastier with that drizzled over the top. The Sagra delle Crespelle was held in the neighborhood by the church of San Pietro Martire in commemoration of the sacra spina, or holy thorn. They have a thorn said to come from the crown Jesus was forced to wear preserved in an ornate reliquary inside the church. It is usually under lock and key and we had not had the chance to gaze upon it up close and personal until this event, when they squeaked open the heavy metal gate that usually protects the relic and allowed us access to it. Almost. It was still behind glass. I admit that despite squinting this way and that, I still couldn't actually see the little thorn inside the encasement.

Many sagre have fund-raising efforts for the church or organization hosting the party. This one was unique, though. Who could possibly pass up buying a bottle of special local wine bearing a label that says it was produced especially for the Festa of the Holy Thorn? For 3 Euro, not I. At most, the fund-raiser of choice seems to always revolve around the Pesca di Beneficenza, a kind of raffle lottery. You pay a few euros and receive prizes based on the corresponding numbers you draw. I wanted the prosciutto. Or the bicycle. I got a cute little hair clip ... useful for my long, flowing locks. While we munched our crespelle we heard a commotion over at the raffle table and I looked in time to see a kid of about 10 jumping up and down in absolute glee. I nudged Bryan and said, "Look, the boy got the bike!" The man running the table came out and rang a bell and everyone inside was clapping and slapping the kid on the back. He stepped out of the church pumping his arms in the air and yelled, "Wooooo! PROSCIUTTOOOOOO!!!!" I ask you, how many ten-year olds in America would get so excited about winning a whole ham?

Music is obligatory at sagras, normally local groups singing poorly-pronounced English lyrics before a wildly appreciative audience. The crowd loves it, no matter how badly they play, and dancing ensues at each of these events. It's all a lot of home-spun fun with good food at low prices, and a pleasant way to pass a summer evening in the company of fun-loving locals. At each sagra we've attended we have drawn a little bit of attention by being the only foreigners present.

As fun as the sagre are, the real must-see summer event around here is La Quintana, Ascoli's medieval Palio games. The historic sestieri (neighborhoods) compete against each other in old-time fashion to see who can outdo the others in style, strength, and horsemanship. There are well-practiced sbandieratori (flag-throwers) who manage to display artistry as well as vigor and stamina in their performances, competing along with their bands in arrangements so well-orchestrated they make marching bands look a little bland.

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Sbandieratori (flag-throwers) in Ascoli Piceno

There is a parade of amazingly-arrayed participants that numbers 1200, all in velvet, brocade and woolen tights following knights clad in armor. (People. Men in tights!) It's a step back to the Middle Ages when the noble families and their courtiers along with the valiant cavaliers who defended the city amassed before the common folk to show their power, prestige, skill and beauty. Today, the beauty and skill part are still evident remainders of the tradition. Whether the figuranti hold power and prestige, being a foreigner I am not too sure.

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Knights

The events of La Quintana culminate in the high-energy and highly heated jousting match where the sestieri inhabitants root loudly for their neighborhood's horse and cavalier to win the cherished Palio. I'm pretty sure there's a lot of money exchanging hands during this event, too. The cavalier must enter a figure eight-shaped track in the middle of which is a target called the Saracen or the Moor. No, political correctness hasn't invaded medieval traditions. The cavaliere must ride the horse around the track, enter the figure 8 and skillfully maneuver the horse on the tight turns while holding on tight to a long, heavy wooden lance that he uses to pound the target. All at full speed. It's pretty exciting stuff, and the joust in July serves to rile people up so that when the August edition rolls around the fans scream curses about the opposing cavaliers' mothers, the other districts' intelligence levels, and some kind of epithet involving pigs that I'd rather not know about. No wonder city-state wars broke out so frequently.

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Cavaliere hitting Saracen

You know, just your run-of-the-mill medieval re-enactment being played out for the sixth century running.

And as if that weren't enough to keep everyone busy, the city has sponsored a series of concerts in the piazzas. I think it's to keep the good citizens busy and content so they don't notice how hot and cranky they are. Each night for ten days there have been at least two, but frequently three, musical guests playing on stages set up in the main piazzas and in the now-public cloister of a 13th century church. Not only do we get to enjoy a variety of good jazz and popular folk tunes, as well as some stranger acts like a celtic-inspired metal band, we get to see them in the shadow of some amazing monuments, enjoying the atmosphere and the beautiful architecture. Oh, yes ... and most of these events are absolutely free.

They play long into the night; since we live in close proximity to both of the main piazzas we get to hear the music and the partying Ascolani long after we've returned home, so while the locals are content, I'm rather irritable from lack of sleep. Sometimes we think that there is too much to do; it makes us feel a little manic. We consider just staying home, but we have to listen to the sounds anyway, so we may as well go out into the piazza to catch what bit of breeze may be blowing. It's a conundrum.

All of these summer activities are exhausting and we need a vacation from the vacation period. For now, though, I think I'll break open the Wine of the Holy Thorn and hope it bestows upon me the blessing of blissful sleep so I can attend tomorrow's concert and check The Wall for the next round of sagre.
 
Living Slow in Italy - Is There A Mason-Dixon Line in Italy?

"Watch your pockets," we were gravely warned. We had just informed our landlord of our plans to travel to Basilicata and deep frown lines quickly emanated across his forehead. His mouth was drawn in, showing obvious distaste at our news. "Ma perche?" Why on earth are you going down there? It's so far. It's, it's the ... mezzogiorno, he half-whispered. It is, he cautioned severely, a very dangerous place where we would likely be robbed. Hence the advice to keep an eye on our pockets and wallets. He railed on that the people there were extraordinarily lazy, a load of freeloaders, just plain different. Why would we want to see that? His meek embarrassment when I relayed the fact that my family originated from that supposed dark and lazy land was offered as an apology but not sufficient proof to settle his mind that we'd be able to handle ourselves.

We assured him we had traveled "down there" twice before without incident and had found it a lovely place. His reaction was not uncommon, though. We've discovered that many other residents of central Italy have no idea exactly where Basilicata is located "You're going to Calabria?" asked our neighbor. No, I corrected her; Ba-si-li-ca-ta. Si, si. Part of Calabria, she responded impatiently. Actually, it's a separate region, I smugly told her. We've found that among our acquaintance our geographic knowledge of the bel paese is frequently better informed than native-born Italians. I patiently told the signora that Basilicata, ancient Lucania, is located between Calabria and Puglia. "Beh. Same thing."

Others know where it is and are convinced it is a place steeped in brigands, corruption, poverty, and slothful peasants who want nothing more than to bilk the government and live off the state. Never mind that we read regularly of corruption scandals and crime statistics in the northern industrial centers. Laggiu` e un paese diverso, they tell us. It's a different world down there.

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Peppers drying in Southern Italy

The interesting thing about what is called "The South" or "il Mezzogiorno" is that the demarcation line depends on who you're talking to. In and around Rome it begins in Naples. Tuscans will tell you that it begins with Lazio. Friends in the Veneto say that Marche is the marker. Most in the north will concede Tuscany, Umbria and Marche to be "centrale" and therefore neither north nor south. Southerners consider it all North. Here in Marche, Abruzzo is definitely considered south, never mind that its border lies only fifteen kilometers from here. My landlord will generously grant that the northern portion of Abruzzo is acceptable as being centrale, but Pescara is absolutely, definitely South with a capital S. It's only an hour away, I argue, but what do I know of such matters?

So on it goes, each having an imaginary kind of Mason-Dixon line drawn in his head depending on his place of birth. Interestingly, Rome, despite being geographically further down than Pescara, is frequently not considered part of the south but is merely Roma, its own entity and state of being.

With such thoughts and prejudices ringing in our ears we careened down the motorway crossing from the acceptable middle portion of the boot to the lower foot zone, the hinterlands undisputedly considered The South. From Abruzzo into Molise, then across the flat plains of Puglia we went. We watched the industrial zones and large-scale farms blur past the windows. We noted countless trucks filled with produce heading northward. We also noticed many, many vehicles with northern license plates bound for the clean beaches and waters of Puglia. We turned inland and upland, through valleys then mountain passes. The autostrada ended and we ascended an ever-more curvy road full of vistas and free of contaminating industry. We arrived in what we now call The Mother Land, the piccolo paese from which my family emigrated one hundred years ago, the town of Anzi. We breathed deeply and gaped at the views. Sparsely scattered stone villages clung to rugged, steep, rocky hillsides. Butterflies danced in the sparkling sunlight. Beautiful, unspoiled country.

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Southern Italy vista

We checked into the villaggio, the only lodging within a half-hour of town. The peaceful setting promised tranquility but the very rustic state of the cabin left a lot to be desired. The manager told us they're trying to upgrade things; they have a lot of work to do if they hope to attract foreign visitors. But then, I guess that probably isn't their target market.

Judging from the curious stares we received when we entered the main piazza, foreigners are not a common occurrence in these parts. When we met up with my cousin, Michele, and his wife, Melina, the onlookers approached them to chat, obviously wanting to know who their companions were. After one such encounter Melina commented, "la signora talked to me but looked at Valeria!"

We found we achieved something of celebrity status as word trickled around that I was an Americana by birth but an Anziese by heritage. The curiosity was cute, and a smile on our part quickly brought on conversation and questions. By the end of Day Two several people had commented that I resembled la famiglia and it was obvious that the waters from my gene pool had splashed out of this region. When I dropped names, "my cousin is Michele," they inevitably responded, "Ah, si? Michele is a good kid." Nice that at 54 he's still a kid.

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My cousin, Michele, and his wife, Melina

The event that drew us to town also brought home many immigrant Anziesi, those who had moved to other parts of the country for school, marriage, or work. The normally tranquil hamlet of 2,000 had mushroomed to about double that population and the sleepy city became party central for the entire area. People from all the surrounding villages came in to celebrate the Feast of San Donato.

The first night a procession of about 500 people carried the heavy statue of the town's patron saint hoisted upon the shoulders of six men, winding their way down the steep hillside road for three kilometers to rest it on a pedestal in a santuario church in the valley. The carnival atmosphere outside turned somber as San Donato passed by and one by one people lined up to enter the church and pay homage by touching the statue. The scenario was repeated the following day when a much smaller crowd amassed to transport the statue back up the leg-challenging hill to place him back in his home church. A band played, the entire town amassed to pack the piazza and enjoy the warm sunshine.

Evenings brought on the festas, and I have to say, these people like to par-ty. There were concerts in the piazza, along with the requisite food booths. A couple of local butcher shops enterprisingly rolled out grills and cooked up sausages and chops. Another guy sold roasted sweet corn. All of this looked a little lopsided. The town has precious little horizontal space, and even most of the main piazza is sloped. The only level portion was occupied by the stage. The booths were slapped up on the slant anyway. My shins hurt from standing on the incline to watch the widely-popular band crank out 70s tunes from the Italian hit parade. At least I think they were hits; everyone was singing along. The little town was buzzing, bars were packed, old folks grouped together taking it all in and smiling. In the middle of it all were a couple of Americani enjoying the atmosphere and friendship that was freely given.

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Anzi, built into the hillside

We weren't allowed to depart for our cabin before 2:00am any of the evenings we were there. Even at that hour our pleas for sleep were met with laughs and ribbings. You're the youngest ones here, why are you the first to leave? Because we're tired, we whined. "Wimps! This is festa time! You can sleep when you get home!" Obviously they hadn't read my last article.

Huge meals were presented to us. People we had just met wouldn't allow us to pay. They proudly explained the local dishes, told us who had produced the cheeses, tried to teach us the dialect words for the delicacies we were enjoying. We learned that the long red peppers we've seen hanging to dry are not, in fact, spicy as we'd thought, They are sweet peppers that, once dried, are fried in olive oil and eaten as part of the antipasto. They are also crumbed into sauteed breadcrumbs and used to top pasta dishes. I became severely addicted to the peperoni (paperul crosck in dialect) and two of their friends promised me they would dry a string of them just for me. Each meal consisted of hand-made cavatelli and orecchiette. The local bread is thick and hearty, some of the best we've had in Italy. Lamb is abundant – on the beautiful hillsides as well as on the plate.

One lunch lasted 3 1/2 hours. Another dinner didn't end until about midnight, when we all bundled into three cars and fled in haste, fearful we'd miss the fireworks. We not only caught the display in the sky but a fire on the ground, the drought-ridden grasses of the hillside having been ignited by the pyrotechnics. It flamed out quickly enough, but was enough to get the adrenaline pumping.

Throughout these meals they joked with us as well as with each other, bringing us into their circle. They filled and refilled our glasses with wine and prodded us to eat more, drink more ... ma hai mangiato poco! Why is your glass empty?! Lucky for me the local wine is all homemade and is very light, with an alcohol content of only 9 or 10%.

I am a little sorry to report that we didn't see any brigands and no one ever tried to pick our pockets; it may have made for a more exciting story. On the contrary, we had difficulty unloading sixty centessimi out of our pockets to deposit into the town's coffers; no one would allow us to pay for even a measly cup of caffe. One morning we snuck into town without having called Michele first, thinking we'd have our breakfast and find him afterwards. All went well until a friend of his spotted us and promptly pulled out some bills. We protested and tried to shove money at the barista, but when faced with a local regular against a couple of stranieri, who do you think he was going to listen to?

I commented to Melina how amazed we were at the number of sincere invitations issued to us, how we were so quickly accepted, how everyone shared their hearts and their wine and their food. "Well ..." she said. "Down here we're different. We're warmer; we have traditions we like to share. For our friends, it's enough that you're our family, so that makes you their friends, too."

In a way I guess my landlord was right. Laggiu e un paese diverso. It really is a different world down there ... and I'm so glad it is and that we get to be a part of it.
 
Living Slow in Italy - Mastering The Time Warp

September arrived with a bang. Literally. I heard the familiar clatter of metal door shutters being noisily rolled upward, signaling officially the end of August. The neighborhood shops were again open for business after the limpid weeks of staring at drab grey gates plastered with ferie signs. And not a moment too soon, either.

August can be brutal. Not because of the heat - July is actually hotter - but because it is The Month of the Screeching Halt. What is one to do when all of one's favorite coffee bars are chiuso and one cannot get a decent espresso? In Italy?! The umbrella-bedecked outdoor tables in the piazza that are so festively inviting do not seem to serve up a cup of caffe quite as well as our beloved baristas can do. My butcher, fruit vendor, pizzaiuolo and herbalist had all likewise deserted me. Even one of the local parish priests had locked up and left town, but then I guess most of his flock had fled for greener pastures so why not? Their September mass re-entry was such a relief I nearly broke out into a rousing rendition of the Halleluiah Chorus.

As anyone who has ever traveled here can attest, Italy operates on a time frame all her own. The unique rhythm that makes up an Italian day was one of the things that drew us in. We quickly adopted the afternoon riposo into our routine and decided that our own frenetically-paced nation could take some lessons from our adopted country. Who doesn't benefit from a little afternoon rest, after all? Rising refreshed and going out into the piazza for a caffe is a treasured ritual. Likewise the late afternoon passeggiata, when the entire town goes out for a stroll and a little face time with their neighbors. It is fascinating to see the day unfold like a tidal movement. Mornings are bustling with activity, but if you happen to walk through the piazza at 3:00pm or 8:30pm you may think you've arrived in a ghost town, so deserted are these public spaces while the residents are tucked away at home eating. After 9:00pm, out they emerge like fireflies to flit around the streets for a post-dinner walk and gelato while the kids run off excess energy. The timeless cadence of these unchanging activities is alluring and comforting, and we love it. But there is more than rhythm to understand and adapt to here.

It has taken a year but I think we may have gotten the hang of Standard Operating Italian Time. Each town has its own personalized variation on the theme but the song goes a little something like this. Museums are closed on Monday. No exceptions. Everything is closed on Sunday except pasticcerias, a handful of bars, and the pasta fresca shops. On Monday the pasta shops are closed to make up for being open on Sunday.

The post office closest to us slams its doors shut for the day at 1:00pm, while the main post office remains open all day, though service is no better even during lunch time when there are no customers. Go figure that one out.

Here in our town, Monday mornings also mark a halt to retail operations; every clothing store, shoe store, phone store, and general store in the centro storico is closed until 4:00 or 4:30pm. This brought no little amount of distress to a tour group from Milano recently, who had unloaded from their bus and then stood in the street dumbfounded and disparaging as I happened by. "Ma, what's up with this? Why are all the shops closed? Is there a holiday?" They grouped like bleating sheep. Well, it's Monday, I responded to the woman who grabbed my arm pleadingly. Ma! What kind of backwater is this? What are we supposed to do here? I suggested a few architectural beauties to view, some characteristic streets to stroll and the historic caffe Meletti for drinks. She was unconvinced that there could possibly be anything at all appealing without retail therapy so I left her to her distress, feeling a little smug that I had mastered the local custom without such angst.

Smugness fades a bit, though, when I am faced with barren cupboards on a Thursday evening merely because I had forgotten it was Thursday. Food shops, you see, are open only in the morning on that particular day of the week. I can't count the number of times I have recalled this fact only after the all-important hour of 1:00pm. when the shutters roll down on my dinner opportunities. (Fortunately there is a very good pizzeria just around the corner to save me on such occasions; more fortuitous is that their weekly closing day is Tuesday.) The Thursday afternoon rule is suspended when there is a holiday falling on Friday, in which case they'll remain open on Thursday, signaling to us that something is amuck that we should find out about. They are then closed on the Friday holiday, instead. Ditto if a holiday falls on a Monday. Grocers that are normally closed on Sunday will open that morning so everyone can procure their meal fixings for the Monday holiday. Simple, see?

Sometimes the hours can be downright quirky, though. For instance, a nearby bank opens from 8:25am until 1:25pm, shuts down for lunch, then reopens from 2:40pm and closes at 4:10pm Now, I ask you ... would knocking it back to nice, half-hour increments really be so bad? A friend in the States who is a banker would love this work schedule.

Quirky can turn to surreal when a holiday is involved, as I discovered this past spring when I tried to visit the Contemporary Art Museum. I lay before you the calendar: Easter was Sunday. In Italy, Monday is also a holiday, and everyone took advantage of it to create a long weekend. Tuesday would be the start of the work week, right? Hold that thought.

On Wednesday I tried to visit our contemporary art museum. The hours are posted on a bronze plaque, and I happen to know from previous trial-and-error that Monday is a normal closure. Now remember, folks, I went on Wednesday. Naturally, the gate was locked. I looked closer at the sign which said, "Closed Mondays and days after holidays." Tuesday wasn't a holiday, but it was the day after a holiday, meaning the museum would have been closed Tuesday. But because so many people take long-weekend mini-vacations to include Monday, they figure Tuesday is their travel-back-home day, and consider that a holiday as well. Still with me?

Monday – holiday. Tuesday – not a true holiday, but everyone counts it to be one. Wednesday, - the day after the non-holiday meant that the museum was closed.

Yeah. The weird thing is, that is starting to make perfect sense to me.

Bureaucracy has its own time zone altogether that is better understood by watching the Twilight Zone. Even Standard Italian Operating Time holds no sway over Bureaucracy Time and no predictability or pattern can ever be attempted to be imposed upon it. The only thing one can do when dealing with Bureaucracy Time is to get down on one's knees and pray for patience. Lots of it.

Then there is the etiquette of timeliness. No one but no one arrives at a party at the stated starting hour. Except, of course, for us punctuality-minded foreigners. We have likewise been "early" for gallery openings, theatre productions, church hours (to view the art; one assumes Mass begins on time), and scheduled appointments. Recently in Basilicata my cousin told us he'd meet us for coffee in the morning before our departure. We'd clearly told him that my American cousin needed to depart the hotel at 10:00 to head to the airport. No problem, he'd be there at 9:00am, he assured us. A few minutes to ten he still had not left his house and didn't understand the hurry to hit the road. We have grown accustomed to such occurrences. My cousin and her airline are not quite so acclimated.

Yes, it took a while but we've distinguished the pattern in all this. It's a right of passage, like learning that preservativi does not mean chemical preservatives, and that stating you like a delicacy or liqueur is a blatant request for more. Maybe it's all about rhythm after all. But look at the time. It's 4:30pm, riposo is over, and there is a barista expecting me.
 
Living Slow in Italy - A Pain in the Pants

While living in Italy can be stimulating and fulfilling, there are many adjustments expats must make when residing in a foreign country. Little tribulations arise daily to remind you that you are no longer in your comfort zone.

To be sure, bureaucracy is one of those situations. Infamous lines, impolite employees, miscommunication, and misdirection of required paperwork are just a few of the challenges we must face on a regular basis in order to maintain our legal status of residing here. Trying to locate the little unmarked shops that are necessary for certain goods and services is another example. Just how are you supposed to know that the nondescript door to a small stone-hewn room tucked away in a narrow alley is where you find the shoe repair shop, for instance. Or that the only place you can purchase red thread is at a stall at the Saturday market, but whose exact stall location changes weekly. These are some of the little hurdles of daily life that the sunny armchair memoirs don't tell you about.

But the greatest challenge I have faced, Post Awful procedures notwithstanding, is shopping. More specifically - as almost any female expat will agree - the near-impossibility of locating a decent pair of pants. Finding some that will fit my frame takes on momentous proportions akin to a big game hunt. While many visitors love the prospect of trolling the designer stores, shopping on vacation and shopping from necessity are two very different beasts.

It must be said that I have never been a big shopper. The old adage "shop 'til you drop" makes me answer, "Why the hell would I want to do that?" I don't have the stamina for it, don't enjoy the hunt, and despise the atmosphere and eye-aching lighting of malls. Here, where shops still line actual streets sprinkled with nice cafes and gelaterie, I can tolerate the experience a little longer but the end result of frustration and deflated ego remain the same. Because, it is an unfortunate truth that a hunt of this magnitude must always end in disappointment. So elusive are the coveted Affordable Pants That Fit, that they could be entered onto the endangered species list.

Affordable being an operative word here. I am sorry to say that I am not one of those women who have the wherewithal and lack of anything better to do with their funds than toss down €500 for one clothing item. Even if I had the financial ability, my conscience wouldn't allow it. There are high end boutiques here in Ascoli with lovely window displays that change nearly weekly. You know a boutique is high end when they rotate the featured goods that frequently. You know it is way out of your reach when they cover the glass to obscure your view while they doll up the mannequins. Signs declaring that they are preparing to soon unveil the very latest must-have duds exclusively for you create a sort of anticipation among the passersby who strain to try to see around the coverings and who will pass that way daily waiting for the grand appearance of new, outrageously expensive and often outlandishly hideous fashions. But "fashion" is not always synonymous with "taste".

These stores discourage the likes of us from entering. One time I dared such an act of folly as passing the threshold into a dark-wood interior where the floors were strewn with Persian rugs and the clothing racks amounted to three total, with about ten items of clothing on each. Minimalism means mucho moola. Mirrors that were lit just perfectly to hide imperfections lined an entire wall so every client primped and admired herself for every moment of her shopping experience. I realized my error immediately; I tried to casually peruse the barren racks but let's face it, there wasn't much to look at and the clerk had me pegged from the get-go. She eyed me with a long up-and-down and a look of near-disgust on her face. No greeting and no farewell; she was obviously relieved when I stopped sullying the place with my unfashionable presence. Even if these stores were more affordably priced, I couldn't really shop there as their merchandise seems almost always geared towards either the Old Lady or The Tramp.

So what about the rest of us? Well, I have been told, the masses shop in the mercato. The weekly market where one can find all manner of goods, such as prosciutto, porchetta, pashminas and even pants. I staked out the piazzas. I stalked among the racks and tables, elbowing my way in like the locals. I drew the line at yanking the clothes of others' hands, but no such scruples were displayed to me. Just as I began to hold up a pair to assess the size and material, a lady grabbed them and walked along the table clutching them to her chest. She waited until she was a safe distance away to look them over and then chuck them back to the table from whence they came. Cut-throat shopping, those mercati.

If you do happen to find something to your liking, the next issue is, does it fit? Holding it up against you only goes so far. Is the rise really high enough? Will they be able to make it over the bum? To try them on you are shoved unceremoniously into the back of the vendor's van and plunged into darkness when he slams the door behind you. Left to feel like you're about to be the victim of a kidnapping makes you forget about the stinkin' pants. Once you've managed to shimmy into them (or not, depending on how poorly you've misjudged the size) you must fumble to open the door to assess your image in the wavy mirror propped up behind the driver's seat. The mirrors always make things look bigger than they actually are and your ego shrivels in proportion. Then you heave shut the door and extricate yourself from the offending product.

Despite this experience, the market does a brisk business in clothing sales because they are inexpensive. Since the vendors line the streets and piazzas all grouped together, the hunt is fairly easy but the result is sort of like road-kill. Cheap they may be, but they are also mostly chintzy synthetic fabrics, many of which feel downright oily when rubbed between the fingers, belying the base product that is used in their manufacture. They are also almost exclusively made in China, so the cheap goods come at a high cost morally when you factor in the sweat-shop factor.

Then there is the real matter - Italian sizes. Jeans are cut for 12-year olds without hips, thighs, or hineys. Average, normal women cannot fit into them. A friend who is so skinny she is practically flat doesn't understand my laments. "Try Blah-Blah store," she will say. And then "Blah-Blah" turns out to carry only clothing that would be a size 0 in the US. While I've seen a lot of very slender Italians, the majority of them have curves. Like the rest of us. So where do they find jeans that fit? Seriously. Where? It must be in one of the mysterious, unmarked stores that I haven't yet been allowed to discover.

Thusly, I had pretty much given up on the prospect of replacing my threadbare trousers, thinking I'd need to make a trip "back home" to find some sensible sizes. But my washing machine turned suddenly evil, devouring for no apparent reason several garments. The little monster singled me out for its anger, as Bryan's clothes were completely unscathed. Things turned desperate.

We decided to make a trip to Rome, where at least there would be choice if not bargains. A shopping street near the Vatican seemed promising, a friend assuring me that I would certainly find something at a semi-decent price. Bryan, bless his heart, kept up the encouragement as we chased the elusive prey. He played the spotter, scanning windows to determine the price ranges ("this one is dangerous, retreat!") and holding my purse while I tried on a discouraging number of flops. I was ready to call it quits. "Let's just finish up this side of the street," said the chipper voice of my husband. You really know you desperately need new clothes when your husband is urging you to continue shopping!

It was raining; I feel feeling soggy and frumpy and I was seriously questioning the sanity of this entire affair and wanting to go back to the hotel when Bryan stopped short in front of a store with business-casual wear displayed. Some pretty nice stuff, actually. Could be dressed up or worn casually, too. Just as I was eying an outfit trying to decide if I had the strength to even ask about it, my hunting partner shoves me into the store where a clerk quickly approaches and looks me up and down. But this was not a judgmental stare; she stated a number and I realized that she had taken one quick glance at me and correctly assessed my size. Off she went with Bruno, my suddenly-Italian husband, to pick out slacks. Meanwhile I became smitten with a pretty jacket that casts off a coppery hue.

The clerk and Bruno return as best friends. She hands me a single pair of pants and orders me to put them on. While I'm changing she's outside the door chatting with Bryan and singing out, "Valeria! Vieni! We want to see you!" Out I emerge with a look elated surprise on my face; I was good and really shocked to find that they fit. Well, except for the length. In Italy, trousers are never hemmed. Naturally, I would be buying them, but had no indication yet of how much they'd set me back. The clerk proudly told me they were made in Italy. "See, they're perfect." Yes. Amazing. But she wasn't done. Snatching up a blazer she glided it onto my arm while fussing with the collar of my shirt, arranging the blouse and blazer skillfully to create a little ensemble. "Guarda Bruno! Che bella!" He was sold on her and them both. He trotted off in search of another pair he'd seen in the window. Surreal! Could this really be my husband? Shopping? And getting into it, no less!

The second pair fit well, too. Well-made right here in Italy, well-cut, and with actual service to boot. I gulped and asked the price, bracing myself. They were so well-priced I nearly collapsed. The clouds parted and angels sang. I nearly teared up. It seemed nothing short of miraculous. I threw in the coppery jacket for good measure and marched out into the rain with my prize bagged and a sense of real victory, Bruno swaggering proudly at my side.

Jeans continue to be elusive. They are shy creatures, but the success in this outing has given me confidence that they do, in fact, exist and that I just may track them down yet. I think the secret is in the method; I need only expand my hunting grounds and take along my trusty spotter.
 
Living Slow in Italy - The Three Ps of Natale

The holiday season is upon us. We know this without a doubt because the Festa della Immacolata Concezione has come and gone, ushering in the official start of la stagione natalizia in these parts. While the centro commerciale (shopping mall) went American-style and put up displays at the end of November, here in the centro storico, which is our residence and playground, they kept more closely to the traditional calendar, for which we are grateful. I can only handle so much of the piped music streaming into the piazzas from the loudspeakers. While there are some carols and Christmas tunes among them, most –for reasons we’ve not been able to discern-is disco music. It must be said that I despise disco. The colorful carousel in the Piazza del Popolo makes us smile and thrills the kids, but instead of what we could term normal carousel music…you know, the tinkling strains you hear at every merry-go-round in America, they play the Village People and Gloria Gaynor. Go figure.

At least this year we were prepared for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Last year we found out the hard way that December 8 is an important holiday dedicated to Mary. Having no idea and no food in the house, I went out expecting business as usual only to find all the grocery stores, and any other stores that may carry anything remotely resembling food, shuttered. Not knowing what was amuck, I went to the neighborhood bar to inquire, only to find his door locked up, too. Fearing calamity had struck, I wandered into the piazza where I inquired of the first elderly gentleman I happened upon, “hey, what’s the deal around here?” With an attempt to conceal his surprise at so ignorant a question, he mumbled, “La Immacolata,” as if that should explain everything. Seeing that confusion still registered heavily on my face, he pointed toward the Duomo and set off, evidently wanting to put some distance between himself and the obvious heathen standing before him in case lightening should reach down for me.

But this year…ah, this year we were in the know. We prepared. We bought food in advance and knew enough to save our daily stroll for the evening hours when everyone would be out to see the newly-hung lights and boughs, and would be mobbing every open bar for aperitivo hour, toasting with Prosecco, and then strolling the centro in a race course-like circuit to study the store windows and plan their shopping strategies. Discerning these habits and traditions and patterns provides a feeling akin to victory and a sense of belonging. From our experience last year, I discovered that, regardless of what one eats or how else one may celebrate, there are three essential elements to the holidays here, the Three Ps of Natale.

1. Prosecco
Mentioned above, Prosecco is the Italian sparkling wine of choice, enjoyed throughout the year for simple pleasures like the aperitivo and popped open for celebrations. For festive holiday dinners it is uncorked to open the meal and then served again at the very end as a toast to the guests just before they depart, a sort of christening for Christmas and the upcoming new year. It is often purchased by the case and will be consumed frequently from the Immacolata right on through Epiphany. We like the Prosecco tradition. We find it much tastier than most of the so-called champagne we had tried at home, much of which was so carbonated that it would immediately give me the hiccups, or so sweet it would make me gag.Plus, the glasses are usually rather small, so you get to feel festive without getting hammered.


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Prosecco, Italian sparkling wine

2. Panettone
In my youth I’d heard about panettone, the traditional Italian fruitcake proffered only at Christmastime. I had pined for a taste but had never laid eyes on what I imagined to be a refined-tasting confection of golden-hued beauty. The weighty whole-fruit- and liquor-filled fruitcakes which Americans consume seemed coarse and common in comparison.

Then I moved to Italy and received a hefty number of panettone, handed out like Christmas cards by each and every acquaintance. Huge slices were presented in every home we entered, every restaurant in which we dined.I thought, ‘Wow, they really like their panettone!’ Then I came to realize that rather than devouring great quantities of the stuff, everyone was, in actuality, trying to unload their extras, re-gifting them to the next friend or stranger they happened upon in a desperate attempt to lighten their own fruitcake burden. While my friends would sing the praises of it - “e tradizionale, molto buono,” they kept repeating - they would then admit that they didn’t really like more than a couple of slices a year themselves. Because, while the taste is not offensive, nor is it exactly a sensory experience. A few candied fruits and raisins in a high-rise, bread-like, sweetened airy loaf. Kinda boring, really. And the trouble is, everyone keeps giving them to everyone they know, creating a glut in every household.

I did find it more edible when made into French toast or slathered with Nutella, because as everyone knows, just about anything tastes better with Nutella. But still; there is only so much of it you can take, and because of the ridiculous, sheer excess we tried to figure out what to do with it, besides actually eating it. Sure, we could resort to feeding it to the pigeons, but we feel a sort of moral obligation to not encourage the flying rats to remain in the centro storico. One evening, with nothing better to do than contemplate our panettone overload, we came up with a few brainstorms to have a little fun with the stuff, in case you ever find yourself in a similar position.

*Ding Dong Ditch It. You can relive your childhood games while spreading Christmas joy far and wide by leaving your unwanted boxes on the doorsteps of unsuspecting souls, ringing the doorbell and running away as fast as you can. This may best be played in a neighborhood other than your own if you don’t want to run the risk of your friends returning the gifts to your own front porch.
*Flame Them. Cut into rectangular sticks and let them sit out to dry. Then dip them in strong booze and use them as fire-starter sticks.
*Have a Treasure Hunt. Gather the little ones around the table and cut the panettone into as many wedges are there are kids. Then let them dig in and get their hands dirty, picking out all the raisins and fruit pieces. The one to find the most treasures wins a prize.

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Panettone, the traditional Italian fruitcake

3. Presepi
All around Italy nativity scenes are erected – from simple mangers to elaborate, functioning towns and live “shows” with humans dressed in first century-like garb accompanied by wooly sheep and other barnyard animals. The first such nativity is said to have been created by the hands of St. Francis of Assisi and that city pulls out all the stops with displays in every church, in the piazza, on the lawn in front of the Basilica, as well as more than one hundred presepi on display in the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Set in the valley below Assisi’s steep streets, the basilica was erected around the humble little chapel where St. Francis had preached. Last year during our visit, we admired manger scenes that ranged from large, ceramic villages to simple, hand-knit figures, donated by faithful congregations around the world, many containing symbols and materials to denote that country’s culture. They were charming. In Rome, we toured the exhibit in Piazza del Popolo of 100 Presepi, again from around the world. Here we saw many whimsical representations, including a scene fancifully cut from CDs and DVDs and fashioned into stars, a stable, and the figures. Sounds strange, but it was adorable. Another was made entirely from pencils, and there were several made by school children from various pasta shapes. Having myself participated in the tradition of macaroni-art as a child, I was happy to find that particular craft is still alive and well.

But the best one by far was on display right here in Ascoli Piceno. In a little-known church on the edge of the centro storico we found the delightful presepe that comprised all of Israel and showed Egypt in the background. There were villages grouped in the background. In the fore, Bethlehem bustled with activity – the shepherds moved among their sheep (and even the sheep’s tails wagged); a blacksmith pounded iron; a woman baked bread while another mopped her floor (with the rag and brush action I’ve previously written about); someone drew water from a well and a man was grinding olives into oil, while next door a mill stone groaned while grinding flour. In short, the entire town was busy going about their normal lives, while we had to search among all the activity for the cradle that held the babe. Much as we imagine the real event to have transpired.

Amazingly, though, they had also constructed a lake with moving waves and ships with beacon lights sailing atop, and beyond were the barely-distinguishable outlines of the sphinxes and pyramids of Egypt.It was enchanting and captivating and elaborate.

Other presepi offered similar village scenes but made me laugh at the Italian adaptation. Somehow I don’t think there were really prosciutto hanging from the rafters or pigs in the corral next door to the manger, as represented in a couple such nativities. In Bethlehem, the City of David? Probably not, but oh-so-Italian.

These intricate displays obviously took much time to construct, but were only unveiled to the public beginning on Christmas Eve. We quickly became charmed by this new tradition (new to us, that is), walking from church to church in the evening chill to peek into the first century, as well as into the Italian penchant for show and ingenuity. The third of the Three Ps is our favorite.

However you celebrate the holidays, we wish you a joyful time and a New Year brimming with dreams and hope. And if you want a panettone, please let me know. I’d be more than happy to unload, uh I mean, give you one of mine.
 
Living Slow in Italy - Coffee, Coffee Everywhere But None That's Fit to Drink

We spent twenty hours traveling halfway around the world, a journey which included an eleven-hour flight that seemed to stretch on interminably and rendered me senseless, not to mention exhausted. When we emerged from the discomfort of the stale-aired metal tube into the cold jetway at Washington’s National Airport, we sucked desperately for fresh oxygen, supporting ourselves on the flimsy walls while our fellow passengers jostled us from behind. Despite having the relative comfort of the three-across seats to ourselves, providing a little room to stretch out, I still couldn’t sleep on the plane. I never have, in all my trans-Atlantic flights, so I guess my inner clock figured 'why start now'. My normal onboard routine is to shift to find a position, settle in for about ten minutes before getting a muscle cramp or a sleeping limb, shift again which wakes up Bryan, and then repeat the cycle. Round about Hour Six of the flight, I opened my eyes thinking we must surely be flying over the American continent, only to gaze in horror at the display on the monitor screens screaming out to me that I had five more hours to endure until touch-down. In Chicago. Then we had to make a connection to Washington, DC. Don’t you love the logic of the airlines’ hubs?

Groggy and a little disoriented, we entered the terminal to be met by my smiling uncle who greeted us with the warm welcome of, “good lord, you look like crap,” thus confirming that we resembled exactly how we felt physically. Air travel saps the body’s moisture faster than a hot July day in New Mexico’s desert and leaves me completely drained and blotchy-faced. How my fellow travelers can maintain a seemingly-attractive skin condition and chipper disposition in such conditions makes me envious. I consoled myself with the thought that I had arrived after only twenty hours of traveling time, in total, as opposed to my ancestors, who spent a month in transit -and probably seasick in the bowels of the ship- to arrive.

For the first time in 20 months, we laid our feet on American soil. We thought it was time to return for a visit, to show our relatives that we had not dropped off the face of the earth and that we did, in fact, still care for them. We also thought it a good idea to tune in to what is happening in the home country every now and again. Life in Italy can easily cause one to slip into a parallel universe of un-reality as far as American culture is concerned. We have noticed, for example, that as far as the Italian populace and media are concerned, there are only three candidates in the primary elections (Hillary, Obama and, of course, Giuliani). We have paid zero attention to what films were released in the past year. And, we have become so ingrained in the pattern of life here that we had forgotten how early our countrymen rise to carry themselves off for their long commutes. Imagine my surprise to find that people line up single-file and orderly at a counter, and public toilets are not only widely available, but are clean and well-stocked to boot. We had also forgotten that iced tea can be had without being syrupy, and that ice cubes do exist, never mind that they want to give you gallons of tea and bucket-loads of ice.

The main catalyst for the trip, though, was merely to spend time with our families and enjoy some ethnic food. Nearly every cultural cuisine under the sun can be had in America; all the things we cannot eat in Italy we enjoyed during our sojourn. Well, almost everything. Having lived in New Mexico for twenty years I do draw the line at trying to find decent Mexican fare, because I know there is nothing east of the state line that will satisfy my cravings. (Please don’t write me letters that such-and-such a restaurant in Texas, Omaha or Chicago offers great Mexican food. For me, if it’s not covered in New Mexico green chile, it won’t measure up.) The only Italian meal we consumed was one I prepared while at my uncle’s house, not because I am tired of the stuff (I’m not) but a break now and then is nice, too. Besides, the plate of rogan josh with basmatic rice at Café Tandoor in Cleveland Heights, and the various Turkish samples at Zaytinya in Washington, DC offered up flavors of rich spices we just cannot procure here. We also indulged in Afghan, Japanese, Chinese, and some good ol’ American fare. It’s amazing my intestines didn’t go into revolt at the shock of so many variations being consumed in such a short amount of time.

The one thing we couldn’t find during the two-week trip, however, was a decent espresso. This was a particular source of aggravation to my husband. Bryan willingly (dare I say, proudly?) admits that he is a coffee snob. The theme for the entire duration of our stay was Bryan’s quest for un caffé italiano. There are coffee shops on nearly every corner, so you wouldn’t think it would be so hard, would you? But then you don’t know Bryan and his coffee scruples. He has brought many an Italian barista to awe and admiration by telling them how he has never, ever allowed American coffee to pass his lips and pollute his body. Once they have expressed their pride in him, they then stand together in solidarity discussing the disgusting acqua sporca that millions of Americans consume as “coffee”. I, too, love Italian caffé, but I admit that a brewed mug of rich Columbian on a cold day, nursed while watching the news or reading the paper, wasn’t so bad to me. I’m sure Bryan will call me a heretic when he reads this.

I guess it’s telling that he never drank coffee at all until our first trip to Italy. Jetlag will do funny things to the body and the mind and, desperate to stay awake to feed the cravings in his stomach for the wonderful aromas wafting down the street from the trattorias, he succumbed to an espresso. One packet of sugar to sweeten the brew and his eyes perked up and a smile crossed his face; he had found true love. He returned home and purchased an espresso machine. Here in Italy, he has his ritual caffé times, just like the locals. The neighborhood barista starts to worry about him if he hasn’t arrived for his afternoon post-lunch intake by a certain time. He avoids certain bars that don’t meet his standards. Come to think of it, he really is a coffee snob.

Therefore, when he awoke to find himself in the Washington metro area with a fuzzy head from jetlag he decided that the only cure would be a morning espresso. No problem, said my chipper uncle, there is a Starbuck’s down the road. Can you hear that screeching sound? That is what was portrayed on my beloved’s face at the mere mention of that famous coffee purveyor ‘that serves swill at grossly inflated prices’. He got lost in his usual diatribe about how it tastes burned and so on.

“Uh, Bryan, I think you’re a little passionate about this”, replied my ever-patient uncle. Thus started The Quest. Like the wine-seekers in the movie, Sideways, Bryan embarked on a search for a great caffé in America, a hunt that would prove as difficult to him as my endeavor to find "Affordable Pants That Fit" in Italy. His first attempt occurred in the District when he tried a coffee at one of the Smithsonian cafeterias. It seemed like it would be authentic enough, since they served gelato and had a big sign proclaiming ‘Espresso’. The girl presented him with a good six ounces of liquid. “I ordered an espresso, not an Americano,” said Bryan, thinking the brew was for someone else. “That is an espresso,” she protested. “Actually, no.” She said it was a double, which he didn’t want. “But it’s the same price and you get more.” He continued to argue that he didn’t want more, he wanted espresso. She rolled her eyes and started over, the resulting coffee taking up less space in the cup but having none of the characteristics of espresso except by virtue of quantity. He took one sip, scowled, and threw it away.

Day Two...Bryan commandeered my uncle’s iPhone to search for independent coffee houses in Alexandria, where we were staying. He pulled up the listing and asked which were closest. Ever-patient Uncle drove us to one in Old Town. The aroma was fabulous. We spotted actual porcelain cups. Uncle and I exchanged little smiles; this would be a good one. We were met by a smilingly-friendly student who immediately asked what we’d like. Bryan optimistically asked, “can I have a caffé macchiato?” But of course! Sighs of relief. “Would you like a single or double? Whole or skim? Paper or china?” Rapid-fire questions shot through the air. Bryan froze. He looked at me with a deer-in-the-headlights face; too many questions! Before caffeine, even! I ordered for him and for myself. He staggered to a table to wait for the results. It must be said that I found it completely adequate. There was something “off” in the taste, said Bryan.

Days Three, Four, Five…well, let’s just chalk them up to misery as far as Bryan is concerned. I used the Lavazza I’d found in my uncle’s cupboard to brew drip coffee in his kitchen, figuring I’d wait until our arrival at my sister’s for espresso-based drinks, since she had taken possession of Bryan’s espresso machine when we moved. Bryan, however, was on a pursuit that couldn’t be stopped. Every day, another place, another disappointment. It became comical to see the results and even I began to think that there was not a single place in DC that knew what real espresso was; to order a caffé macchiato brought out a bottle of caramel syrup…what they’d do with that I didn’t even want to know, and Bryan would quickly yell, “HALT! No syrup, I beg you!” He would shake his head and exit the shop while muttering that they have bastardized caffé in America. Why, he whined, do they brew it into a little metal pitcher then pour it into the cup? It takes away the crema! He really was becoming the Sideways guy.

By the time we left for Cleveland, my uncle was glad to see him go and pass him off onto my unsuspecting sister. I think you already have realized that even his own espresso machine no longer met his standards and that the quest continued for several more days, with me pleading, “Bryan, just give it up. You’re not going to find coffee like in Italy,” while he was driven to keep trying. Finally, near the end of the trip he received an espresso that made him smile. Another sip and he closed his eyes, nearly swooning. I was incredulous; after ten days he encountered a “real espresso”…in little Norwalk, Ohio of all places. I thought he was going to kiss the barista; his effusive, teary-eyed thanks met with a confused, but pleased face on her part.

Between coffee disasters we enjoyed many a fabulous meal, laughed uproariously with family, and saw relatives we’d not seen in years. We caught up on news and happenings, and learned that we had more Italian in us than we’d realized; we responded automatically in Italian to certain requests or statements, surprising even ourselves. That the poor waiters or museum staff didn’t understand us was a sign we’d finally assimilated to Italy. We missed our afternoon riposo and missed our daily routine. We remembered many of the little things that lured us to Italy in the first place.

When we returned to Ascoli Piceno we stepped into our neighborhood bar that first morning. The barista smiled broadly at Bryan; no words were exchanged, but Gianluca patted Bryan’s arm reassuringly, somehow knowing Bryan’s angst. “Bentornato,” he finally said quietly. Then he slid a perfectly-crafted espresso in front of him. “I think you need this.” Bryan sighed in relief, “ah it’s good to be home.”
 
Living Slow in Italy - The House That Patience Built

Ci siamo traslocati. We have moved. We decided to trade our cramped, dark apartment for a cramped, bright apartment. We are still in the centro storico, but now sunlight actually reaches our windows. Imagine! While we adored our landlords and were greatly appreciative of all they had done for us, I was becoming depressed at having to turn on the lights at high noon in order to chase away the perpetual dusk in which our casa was constantly kept. Those oh-so-narrow charming streets and solid stone buildings really do block the sun.

Our next-door neighbors were also slightly insane and would, for reasons beyond our comprehension, drag their furniture about their apartment at all hours of the day and night. I can understand moving things to clean, but why they felt it necessary to scrape them across the floor at 1:00 a.m...well, that’s a mystery we never did solve. The signora also screamed incessantly – at her husband, at her granddaughter, at no one in particular. One day I know for certain there was no one else at home and we heard her high-decibel shrieks, yelling about myriad ills and evils of life in general. Boh.

So after more than a year we decided it was time to find something a little brighter and hopefully a little quieter. The search took many months. First, many landlords want tenants to sign a minimum three-year contract, something we are not willing to do as we don’t know if our permesso di soggiorno will be renewed at the end of the year, and because we’re not willing to commit that much time to one place. I mean, we just may find some gorgeous casa for sale for a song, right? The other problem we ran into had to do with language…specifically, my foreign accent. I would call owners from a sign hanging on the building advertising an apartment for rent only to be gruffly told that the place was not available. “But there is still a cartello,” I’d argue. “Non è libero,” they’d say and hang up. After the third such occurrence I became suspicious and asked a local friend to call the number for me. Amazingly, for him the apartment in question was suddenly vacant. When he informed the owner that his American friend had recently called unsuccessfully, she unabashedly told him that she had thought me to be Romanian and she wouldn’t rent to foreigners. Americans, however, were another matter. (You lost your chance, lady.)

We resorted to contacting an agent who deals with rentals. She showed us a newly restructured apartment laid out on two levels, still small but with enough room for us to function and a separate room for my computer. There was an actual kitchen, not like the proverbial broom closet that served as cooking space in our former home. The best part was that light flooded in from windows which opened to a small park behind, meaning we’d have a bit of a view of the hills to the south and no building on that side to block the sun. There was even a teensy terrazino. We quickly decided to take it. The owner, a building contractor who has reconstructed several buildings in the centro storico, was called in and the one-year contract signed.

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View of the Park from our Window

Being that it had never been occupied, there were a few details that needed tending to, which the owner promised to do prior to our move-in date. He would furnish it for us, too. We departed for our trip to the US assured by the agent and the owner that all would be well and ready upon our return. You can guess the outcome; the kitchen cabinetry had been installed but that was the extent of the work he had completed. No problem, he said. You can start moving your belongings a little at a time and the rest will be done by the end of week. (You’re right; I didn’t believe him, either.)

By February 1, we had vacated our old lodgings and moved in completely, and have been expecting him ever since. He did return to finish assembling an armoire that he lost the hinges for, a project which took no less than three men. Not to sound too picky, but since there are no Laundromats anywhere in the province, I happen to think that a washing machine would serve me well. Shower walls to form the cubicle found in so many residences here would help, too. Mounted light fixtures and a toilet paper holder now seem almost frivolous amenities. We had been so blinded by the sunlight that we’d failed to notice these little but necessary details. “Domani,” he tells us. But domani never arrives.

Which is absolutely no surprise to my friend Francesca in Rome. She and her husband, Giorgio, moved into their new house just before Christmas…after waiting thirty years for it to be finished. Yes, you read that correctly…thirty, three-zero. Years. “The coliseum was constructed more quickly than my house,” she likes to quip. When we celebrated the holidays with them triumphantly in their taverna, Giorgio toasted saying, “Finalmente, piano, piano our house has been built.” Piano, piano means slowly or little by little, and is a necessary phrase for anyone who lives here.

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Front of Giorgio and Francesca's House

Giorgio and Francesca had wanted to build their dream home in which to raise their two sons. They visited a builder who told them he was currently beginning a development on the northern periferia of Rome. He had several other interested families, and if they banded together and formed a cooperativa, they would be able to purchase materials at a cut-rate and get some tax breaks, too. They thought that sounded like an economical idea, met the others involved, and decided to proceed. The catch? Everyone would have to put up the money together and the twelve houses built all at the same time. No problem; everyone was confident that the necessary funds would be available and they’d start the project within two years. This, Francesca told me, was rather rapid by Italian standards thirty years ago.

In the intervening three years, the contractor absconded with the cash, leaving a neighboring development high and dry and this group of friends with no other recourse than going to court. Which takes years. While Group Two had found their land sold out from under them, Francesca and Giorgio’s cluster was fortunate that the thief had not been able to unload their coveted terra before the whole lawsuit began. In the end, they still owned the property, which was something to be pleased about. They would regroup and start over again when everyone had the money to do so. Which took years.

They had, of course, not expected so many Christmases would pass them by while they waited, but in order to make use of the land they had paid for so dearly – and to not let the circumstances get them down - the cooperative had to be retained. There was nothing to do but wait. Their children grew up, served their military duties, and went to college while the house and large yard that was to be their playground and haven was still a mound of dirt. They were excessively more patient than I would have been.

A new building crew was hired and the project began when everyone had enough money to build the foundations and pour the concrete shells of the structures. Then, like skeletal scarecrows, they sat empty and forlorn, the bulky cement floors open to the elements for a couple of years, again awaiting the needed lire. Then the lira changed to Euro. Piano, piano the houses began to take shape. The builders worked on each house in succession: first the walls of one, then the next. They would finish one necessary portion of each of the twelve houses before proceeding to the next step, such as tiling the roofs, then installing plumbing and electrical, and so on.

More time passed. When we first arrived in Italia twenty months ago, Giorgio had been optimistic about spending that first Christmas in the new house, as things appeared to be proceeding rapidly enough to dare dream such a thing. Instead, another year unfolded before enough was completed to make it livable. Meanwhile, Francesca, a consummate gardener, had landscaped and planted their vast yard. They packed picnics to enjoy on the back cement patio. They procured an autumnal harvest from the orto. They moved furnishings from storage into the garage, awaiting the finishing touches.

Just a week before the holidays they were finally, officially residing there, and we arrived to find the living room piled high with neatly packed boxes and the taverna and garage jammed full of furniture. Bryan and I spent three days in sweat pants and grubby t-shirts cleaning, unloading, re-cleaning, rearranging furniture, and cleaning again to have at least the taverna and accompanying kitchen usable to host the famiglia for the grande festa on Christmas Eve.

Giorgio is a chef, so the kitchen in the taverna was designed to be restaurant-quality and the country-style fireplace meant to give off heat, sure, but mainly to be used for cooking. He was in all his glory, rising at 6:00 a.m. to start puttering and sautéing, lighting the fuoco and keeping it going all day while he grilled our lunches then prepared our dinners, which we devoured after the long working days. Scanty bare bulbs hung from the ceilings, paint and plaster coated the every tiled surface, the new heating system proved to be quirky and difficult to regulate, and the refrigerator would not be delivered for a couple more weeks, but they were happy as could be and twenty of their nearest and dearest would be showing up to celebrate this momentous event.

chef_giorgio_in_kitchen.jpg

Chef Giorgio in Upstairs Kitchen

Oh, did I mention that their shower walls hadn’t yet been installed, either? So when I mentioned to Francesca that we were still waiting for the owner to finish these promised projects she cheerfully chirped, “well, piano, piano. Have a little patience.” I’m fairly confident that they will be completed before our one-year lease expires. At least I know it can’t possibly take thirty years…can it?
 

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