it might be salsa friday

It is Friday, right? I guess I'll know tomorrow if today was Friday because Mike won't be wearing a suit. Or maybe he will. Just for fun.


I, on the other hand, am wearing a scrunchie. Do you remember that episode in Sex and the City when Carrie was dating Burger and she read his book and laughed at him because he said a NY woman was wearing a scrunchie and he got all crabby and sullen (Burger was such a cry baby)? In Rome, women don't care if banana clips had their brief shining moment 30 some years ago. They will throw their hair up any old way they choose and feel FINE. And look good. And that has inspired me to leave my hair exactly the way it was after I washed my face this morning, ie pulled back in some random mismash with a scrunchie. I'm bringing scrunchies back. When you see them in Milan's next Fashion Week, just remember that you heard it here first.

Yesterday I did three things I had been frightened of, one on purpose, two by accident and you know what? it worked out just fine. On purpose, I looked up directions to a large grocery store. I like our market and all, but there's a lot of questions that have to be asked there like, "How much?" and then I can't understand the answer anyway, so it's hard. Plus, I wanted to buy Ziplock bags and air-tight containers. Things get stale/funky here very quickly because of the heat and I am tired of having to cut my sugar with a fork and knife to put a chunk into my espresso and having the breakfast cake go stale in one day.  And how fun is a country that thinks cake and cookies are an acceptable breakfast?

breakfast. in america they are cookies, but when in -oops, i already promised not to use that phrase again.

So I used my walking directions map, which I have been scared to use(see post about walking for four hours because of getting lost) and Jack and I made it to the grocery store.Without a problem. We even crossed the street Italian style, walking directly in front of cars and refusing to hurry even when the car might hit you. I have seen this practice and expressed dismay over people pushing strollers that I was certain would be killed, but Mike assured me that was normal and that if these mothers were running across the street to protect their babies from traffic, it would just confuse the drivers of the cars.

The grocery store literally took up three city blocks and is called a "SuperSma." And that made me think it might be like Target, but it was not. It just meant it has a much larger seafood and cheese section. There were four aisles devoted to pasta. Just boxed pasta. Another three aisles were devoted to various ingredients to make your own pasta and pizza dough from scratch. And one aisle was devoted to underwear.Unfortunately, Ziplock bags have not yet been invented in Rome because everyone buys fresh food. But I did find some twist tie bags left over from 1962, so I bought those. And a tray for the oven. And an ice cube tray. While I was paying, one of my other fears materialized. The cashier told me how much I owed. It sounded a lot like nothing I could understand. I looked hopefully at Jack, but he was busy not looking at me. "How much?" I asked in English, feeling like a jerk. The cashier silently touched a button and numbers appeared on a screen, Numbers I could read. Numbers that would not require  much change on the part of the cashier. I handed her an appropriate bill and then she said something else. I must have looked stricken because she smiled and held up five fingers and asked if I had five cents so she could give me less change. I shook my head and said, "No, sorry." Because I'm in Italy.  I'm that person who insists on speaking her native language and expects everyone else who speaks the correct language for the country to understand me. However, the cashier smiled again and responded with prego when i said grazie.

"I knew what she asked you," Jack announced on the way home. "You did?!? Why didn't you tell me???" "Because I didn't know if you knew or not."

On the way home, another fear came to light. A woman driving a car stopped and asked me for directions. Again I looked to Jack and again he was pretending he didn't know me. "Mi dispiace ma non parlo Italiano, " I said. But of course it took me too long to fumble my way through that and she had already waved her hand at me and driven away halfway through my stammer. However, that didn't take away from the fact that I said it and I had been so worried that I would have to say it and now I had done it. Even though Jack told me I really needed to practice more. He and I had endlessly practiced it while at the playground, but repeating it after Jack is much different from saying it to a stranger who is Italian.

boooring. you should write more about dogs.

how cute is the woman driving the scooter in her orange dress?

Coca-cola Light is better than Diet Coke because I'm pretty sure it says right on the bottle that  it is like a unicorn with no calories.

the first day of the rest of your life

That is something my mom says: "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." That and: "Inch by inch, life's a cinch. Yard by yard, life's too hard."

Mike went back to work today, so I am on my own in Italy for the first time. I'm scared. It doesn't feel quite as dramatic as the day he went back to work after our son was born, but it feels big, having my buffer removed. "Just be," Mike said. "It's enough.Every small act here is an accomplishment."

But I feel helpless and useless. Here are today's challenges:

1. Making John's meals. I have been doing this at least three times a day for eight years. But here, we have no pans that can go in the oven because our "things" that have been shipped from home will not arrive for at least another month. We have no toaster oven. We have no microwave (although I did see one just sitting outside a church yesterday).  None of that would matter, however, if I could just bring myself to use the gas burners on the stove. Unfortunately, because the stove is 147 years old, it works by turning on the gas and holding a small Bic lighter to said gas until it erupts into flames, an accident waiting to happen if ever there was one. Luckily John is currently not hungry. But at some point he will want to eat.

Bic Lighter and stove. Why does the lighter have a picture of a sad puppy? Probably because it is worried the house will catch on fire.

2. Guido(real name) is coming today to install air conditioning. He speaks no English. I speak no Italian. The original plan of the placement of the air conditioning has been changed, although Guido does not yet know this and I need to somehow tell him. Because this is Rome, we do not know when he will be arriving. We do not know whether he will be paid by the landlord or if we will be expected to pay him. If we are to pay him, we do not know whether it will be in cash or by check. I am not technically allowed to write checks because I do not yet exist in Italy.

washing machine settings. if you can read them, please message me.

3.I need to do laundry. Although I have been hanging out the laundry and bringing it in and folding it and putting it away(it's very sweaty here--laundry is a several times a day type of deal), I am not entirely sure how to use the washing machine. How much laundry can I put in? What setting do I use? How much detergent? I have been operating by my new motto of If you don't know what it says on the box/bottle/instructions, do what you would like it to say. But we've all seen those sitcom episodes where the house in engulfed in bubbles and water because someone didn't know how to do laundry. Who wants to be an episode of Lavern and Shirley or I Love Lucy?

someone else's laundry. they also did not know how to use the washing machine. or stove because it looks like there may have been a fire.

4. I would like to go to the market and buy food and cooking tools and extremely long handled matches. However, there are not modern cash registers so I can't read how much I am to pay(Or ask the cashier. Or use my debit card) and the only number I know in Italian is 4 and that is because it is our apartment number and Mike insisted I memorize it (he then made sure our son knew our address because I often transpose numbers). Mike didn't even try to give me directions to get anywhere. He gave those directly to John. At home, it's mildly amusing that Mommy doesn't know her right or left or that she mixes up numbers or can't find her way out of a paper bag. Recently it took me two hours in both directions to walk my nephew to a park that was a mile from my sister's house because I kept getting mixed-up. And that was while using my iPhone and google map app. However, it is a not an uncommon trait in my extended family and we have learned to laugh about it , but here it seems pretty daunting.
Also, Italians either do not like or do not have much change. I have already seen many arguments because a cashier or merchant will not accept money from a customer if there is too much change involved. Why is this? I don't know. It's a very Jerry Seinfeld question: What is the deal with making change?


So, as you see, these are very small, mundane, everyday tasks that would be accomplished quickly at home. And in Italy, I think I will be lucky today if I can manage to accomplish even one of these. And also, I kind of feel like an idiot.

Here is Mike. Isn't he cute going off to work?

I'm melting, melting! Oh, what a world!

Okay, I have to hurry and write this before it gets too hot (I should have approximately 23 minutes) and Rome isn't quite so charmingly quirky.I have been having a difficult time here because I am unwilling to let go of my American expectations of efficiency and instant gratification( I love you America. I love your instant gratification and efficiency. I promise I will never again take you for granted.)

 I want to do things and/or I want things to be done and it just doesn't happen that way here. Things happen when people get around to it and they get around to it when they feel like it.

Even a simple thing like walking is a cultural struggle. I am used to walking fast. I have things to get done. I am usually squeezing in errands between other things and so I walk fast, I eat fast, I grocery shop fast. I don't stroll, I walk at an Olympic pace. People walk very slowly here. It is not just because it is so unbelievably hot; it is because it doesn't matter when they get to where they are going. Where is there to go that one needs to rush, rush, rush? Things in the city are thousands of years old. Does time really matter so much? What is the real difference between 8:15 and 9:30?

It is an endeavour for me to adapt to this way of thinking. But if I do think about it, where was I rushing to in the States? It is one thing to be on time to pick-up John, but rushing through grocery shopping just to hurry and get home to....put away the groceries?

I have been assured that if I do not approach Roman life with a sense of humor, I will go insane.

So today I am trying to focus on the small things that have been unusual and/or amusing: the giant bin at the grocery store where patrons may scoop up the tentacles of an octopus as though it is a bins of candy or dried fruit; the whole fish and squid and other creatures of the sea that I like to view through glass at an aquarium and not behind the glass in my grocer's aisle (but which made John and I struggle to hide our horror and laughter behind our hands while people looked at us with annoyance); the way people walk their dogs in a way that they are at one end of the street and the dog is at the other(see below);

the fact that our freezer has a diagram of possible food choices one may place into the freezer; that all the workman we have encountered like to be paid in cash; that we asked directions from a girl who promptly held out her hand for money (my first gypsy encounter); that people who are driving feel free to literally come to a screeching halt in the middle of the street to croon and blow kisses at our dog Sookie; that I cannot use a bank or the post office or even exist until I get certain paperwork and I cannot get said paperwork because it is August and the lone person in all of Rome who does this paperwork is not in the office---because it is August; that we cannot buy a car and drive it home that same day even if it is sitting on the lot and we have all the money in cash because of the amount of paperwork necessary to purchase a car in Rome --a coworker of Mike's bought a Fiat(an Italian car that is made in Italy) in May. She has yet to receive it.

But I suspect I may eventually make peace with the Roman approach to life. For example, one of the bathroom drains in our apartment was completely clogged. After several hours of work, it is now only sort-of clogged. And I felt like reaching an only sort-of clogged drain status was a true achievement. And I haven't bothered to work on it again.

Here we are

So, I suppose I should start at the beginning of our journey, but I would like to start with the most obvious observation. It's not original but it is true: Rome is ungodly-might-die-from-the-heat-hot. It is so hot that my son's favorite thing in Rome thus far is the A-line metro because it has air conditioning.

But back to the arrival in Italy. John and I waited at the (un-air conditioned) baggage claim for a really really really long time. Occasionally a suitcase would emerge. It would be just that one suitcase, but it was enough to keep the unwashed horde hopeful and complacent. After 45 minutes or so, we had piled a cart high with our belongings and were waiting only for John's booster car seat. It didn't emerge from the shoot. I finally saw a sign that pointed with several arrows as to where "bulky or unusually shaped items" would be deposited. The sign showed helpful pictures of what may constitute a bulky or unusual size item: a guitar, what I suspect was a sailboat, and an umbrella. The kind of umbrella that folds up and fits in one's purse.

Now, I know that a booster car seat is "normal" because we have flown with it many a time and it always pops out along with the other luggage. However, when in Rome... (I had to get that in there. Sorry. I promise to never again use that saying.) We dutifully followed the long line of arrows, me pushing the luggage cart with its four teetering 50 pound suitcases; a laptop bag stuffed with two laptops, accessories for said laptops and various carry-on items was strapped across my body like a bandoleer; a camera bag with two cameras, various lenses, and as many additional carry-on items as we could fit was slung across my body in the other direction; and a backpack so full we couldn't quite get the zipper closed was on on my back. I was wearing a long fitted skirt and 4 inch platform sandals. So I'm pretty sure I may be the strongest woman in the world. Especially when the cab driver staggered under the weight of my laptop bag alone.

And yes, in the bulky and unusual sized items pile was the booster seat and what appeared to be the tube from an empty roll of wrapping paper. And an umbrella.

Shady Side of the Street

So, after the whirlwind of the shipping company and auction house, we are down to a few choice objects, all of which now belong to family and friends who are kind enough to allow us make use of them for a few more days.

In anticipation of moving into an apartment, we have downsized into two rooms: our living room (TV on the floor, overturned bookshelf as a coffee table, couch bought by a friend's cousin for her first apartment that she can't move into until later in August, and a variety of dog toys); and our bedroom (two mattresses without bed frames, two dog beds, and a variety of dog toys).

In other words, we look like we live in a place inhabited by James Franco playing a stoner in a Judd Apatow production, or Jesse Pinkman without the graffiti and giant stereo system and blue crystal meth.

All we need to really need to complete the picture are some ferrets and empty pizza boxes. And cans of Natty Light with cigarette butts in them.


I couldn't get the television to work last night. This is not a problem for me last night, per se, as I have a big fat book I'm hooked on, but it would definitely be a problem for me in the morning if I didn't want to be awoken at 5 a.m. by a certain smallish person who couldn't watch Adventure Time. Or Band of Brothers. Or whatever it is he watches before I get-up. I know, I'm an excellent mother. I think the television was on strike from being placed on the floor. Um, I'm a decent TV. I get premium channels. I have OnDemand so that you can watch Metalocolypse. I deserve better than the floor. What is this: college? But you know what? I FIXED it. I removed all those cables that have red, yellow, and white icing-piping type attachments on them (Mike, you might want to stop reading now) and started sticking them into different parts of the tv and cable box in various combinations. And then I took one of the big cables lying on the floor not attached to anything and tried attaching it to the back of the tv and plugging it into the wall. And I turned the surge protector on and off a bunch of times. And plugged some other stuff in and took some other stuff out, and I don't really know what happened, but it started working. And the house didn't burn down from an electrical fire. So I'm pretty sure that I am now qualified to work for Comcast.

CDs, splinters, and velcro: Oh My!

My eyelids just won't open the entire way today. I think their muscles are too tired after I tried to cram a months worth of being unable to go to the gym into a half hour yesterday. I also suspect I have a splinter in my elbow from moving 72 boxes of CDs (which will undoubtedly be thrown out in a year, not unlike the 56 cases of cassette tapes we had been storing in our basement. I don't even know the last time we owned a device in which one could play a cassette tape.); and a wooden ladder into the storage unit. I think the splinter might be from the ladder. Or it may be a spider bite from all the spiders that hover around our possessions.

Or my eyelids could be heavy because of all the online shopping I've been doing in my bid to obtain a carry-on bag that can hold two laptops, three cameras,and a variety of camera lenses. Plus all the other stuff like passports and visas and socks, blankets, neck pillows, eye masks, i-pods, iphones, and a white noise machine (all of which are needed to sleep on the plane. Except the iPhone.) So far I have  accumulated three Zappos boxes that are larger than my washing machine and need to be returned. This will take three trips to UPS because I can only fit one box at a time in my car. I have to keep returning all these bags because somewhere located on each and every one, is velcro. I hate velcro. I have ruined many clothes and coats because they have been snagged on velcro. Aren't we done with velcro yet? It seems like it should be really antiquated at this point, like I should have a hard time explaining what it is to my son. Like when he wanted to call someone on my iPhone and I handed him the receiver I use and he was all, "What is this?" and held it sideways and upside down.

However, probably I am just tired because I tried to stay awake to watch Louie because OnDemand is useless at having shows that are watchable and I fell asleep on the couch with braids wrapped around my head because I was trying to look all fashionista and my hair weighs about 7 pounds and my neck was sighing and wishing it didn't have to support a hairstyle that would be better suited to someone who was 23.

So the lease was for real signed on an apartment in Rome yesterday, a mere ten minute walk to the Coliseum (which as we all know is totally the property of the mafia--those guys dressed as gladiators/Roman soldiers/chariot drivers or whatever  they are supposed to be that you can pay to get a picture with? Mafia.) so the area should be fairly safe. Apparently there was more paperwork involved in this rental than selling/buying a house and FOUR months rent upfront plus the agent's fee. Additionally, the owner wanted to see pictures of me and our son. Mike thinks it was just to be polite, but I think it was to make sure he wasn't being all American at Senior Week and trying to house 17 people in a hotel room when you have paid for only two and you spend the entire week climbing in and out a window when the desk clerk isn't looking.

Anyway, Mike and I are both 100%, non-genetically modified third generation Italians on our fathers' side. Mike, however, is tall and looks very not Italian. I may look very very vaguely Italian, but in Italy, the only time I am addressed in Italian and not English is when it is 102 degrees and I'm wearing long pants. And I'm pretty sure that has more to do with the fact that no one but Italians wear long pants and scarves when it is 102 degrees than with my genes. And when I'm in France. For some reason, the French think I'm Italian and sniffling speak to me in Italian. But that could be because they can't bring themselves to acknowledge an American.

The landlord immediately decided I was a-from-Italy-Italian who was currently living in America. And  thought that our son--who is an absolute Mike clone and not one person has ever thought resembled me in the slightest---looked nothing like Mike but was the spitting image of me. I thought this was very nice (why is it so flattering when someone thinks your offspring looks like you? Sheer ego?) until Mike informed me that with my Italian(?) look and very vowel-filled Italian last name, everyone will fully expect me to speak Italian and will grill me as to what's wrong with me when they discover I do not.

Coffee has kicked-in. Eyelids are as open as they are going to get today. Time to try and find the splinter in my elbow and practice saying, "I don't speak Italian; am ignorant American."

Renting the rental

Finding the right home is always an ordeal.We have been known to look at houses for 13 months straight before finding one that suits our needs. (Yes, our faces pop-up on realtors' screens with a big red "X" so that everyone knows not to accept us as clients.)

Now that we are able to decipher the rental-speak in Rome, we must naviagte the cultural waters of practices that would almost seem...a bit shady in other countries...like the United States.

For instance, many owners insist on having the apartment do double-duty as both a storage unit for their own things as well as a place to rent. You will not receieve a discount for the fact that you are living in someone's storage unit. And in fact, you may pay more as they consider they are doing you a favor by allowing you to live amongst the items they do not wish to have in their own home. And, no, this is not the same as renting a furnished apartment. This is the same as renting a storage unit that has a bathroom and wi-fi.

Another interesting but little known practice is that renting is not the usual  first-come, first-serve, suitable applicant basis. Standard background checks, references, proven steady income, first and last months rent, none of this is taken into consideration. This is not because the landlord suspects someone is not really a suitable renter and that at the end of the lease the apartment will be in shambles. It is because these things do not matter. What does matter is whether or not the owner's dog likes you. This will decide whether or not the owner likes you, determining if you may ask to rent the apartment.

And then comes the bidding. On the rent. Of the apartment. You are not buying it. You are not making an offer on a house which may or may not be counter-offered. You are presented with the monthly rental fee, and then you haggle to get the price down. If you do not do this because you feel the current rental price is more than fair, you will not get the apartment. Because obviously there is something wrong with you if you aren't willing to bargain.

As always, Mike's natural charm has served us well(see Getting the Visas) and we have secured a lovely place (light fixtures! stove! bed-size bedrooms!) in a beautiful area. The owner's dog found Mike delightful, as did the owner, who addressed Mike as "Carino" and he was chosen over the other potential renters. Who presumably were not carino and did not know how to dog whisper. Or fill their pockets with Milk Bones.