a few completely unrelated tales

Over the summer, I ran into ( you don't yet know it, but that is going to prove itself to be a pun) a few unexpected problems while navigating (wow. so punny) the differences between America and Italy where parking was concerned.


The American car I had rented was a "small" SUV, so if you were to add together 3.72 cars in Italy, you would be right on target size-wise. Spacious parking lots are the norm in suburban America and   yet I had a very difficult time parking in them. I discovered that I found parking to be much easier when I was forced to defy the laws of physics and wedge a car into a space that was smaller than said car by a good 6 or 7 inches.

parking in America. See the wide open spaces? See the white lines I am not in between?

parking it Italy. I am second from the top.  That's right. You couldn't slide a piece of paper between those bumpers. 

parking in Italy...

and parking in America. Okay, these two look pretty similar. But only the one in America required a tow-truck.

So, I tried to buy a light bulb the other day. The cashier scanned the light bulb once, twice, three times a lady (if you don't quite get that reference , please refer to "Hello, is it me you're looking for?". Still nothing? How about "Dancing on the Ceiling"? Oh for goodness sake, "Brick House"? ) and the computer did not beep and light-up in recognition. The cashier shook his head at me sadly and told me that I would be unable to purchase the light bulb.
"But it's for sale. In your store," I pointed out helpfully.
"No, it does not show-up in the computer. It is not possible to buy. What? You wish for me to type in the little code on the package? Ahhh...no. No. It is not possible. No light bulb for you. NEXT!"

 Luckily I am no longer so American-ized as to be stumped by this sheer lack of logic and I was able to successfully purchase the light bulb by going to a  different cashier.

Now lest I make it sound like a certain Italian cashier has the corner market on the absurd, allow me to share with you this tale: A day or two prior, I had stopped in Camper, a fairly mainstream shoe store.

I have had the same pair of Birkenstocks ( *cough* residual of  too many Grateful Dead concerts *end cough*) for a long time. But the strain of all the kilometers --see how I did that? I can totally use the metric system in a sentence--my Birkenstocks have tread ( pun-o-rama) over the last year was too much for them and the sole cracked in half. So I was making the rounds of sandal shopping. An American couple was in the Camper store as well and while I was muttering under my breath about the stupid retail schedule that removes sandals from the shelves during the summer and replaces them with winter boots, I couldn't help but overhear the American woman as she addressed the salesperson. "Can we haggle on these prices?" she asked, holding up a boot. To his credit, the salesperson smiled and regretfully informed her that the prices were universally fixed in all Camper locations.  Because It Is What is Commonly Referred to as A Store.

 The woman was quite annoyed and left in a huff, presumably to go buy a light bulb.

Do you know what is beautiful in September? (Hint: it's Italy)

sunset at aurelian wall

san felice circeo

san felice circeo

beaches are empty, water is warm
sabaudia

sabaudia

ponte sisto

trastevere

Spell check doesn't recognize "'kryptonite"

This spring, my son was drowning in mosquito bites. His body swelled into termite mounds before deflating into bruises before lingering as yellow-green splotches. We took him to the pediatrician where ointments and jungle-worthy repellent were prescribed.

Other than slathering him with mosquito kryptonite, I couldn't do anything about the insects  that targeted him at recess or during classes held outside (in my head, the insects look like cartoon villains and have white napkins tied around their necks, rubbing their hands together like Dr. Evil), but gosh darn it, I could protect him in the sanctity of our house.  I could step-up and knock off this European open-air nonsense and put in some damn screens.

I distinctly recall that in the Little House on the Prairie series (books, not television), the Ingalls  family opened the door during a blizzard  and there stood Mr. Edwards. He had walked from New York to Idaho or Wisconsin or wherever in order to bring them Christmas gifts. And those gifts were a bag of real sugar and panes of glass for the windows. Proof that even in the days of yore, Americans liked a little somethin' somethin' as a barrier between the indoors and the outdoors.  Because not only would those panes of glass protect them from the weather and the wolves and the claim jumpers, but those windows would also protect them from The Mosquitoes. Because seriously, can you imagine anything worse than laying on your straw-stuffed "mattress" that you have to share with your sister while eating your fake sugar and crossing your fingers that someday you won't die during childbirth, and in addition having to suffer the indignity of being drained by mosquitoes?

So to protect our family, I first searched the Internet for those infomercial screens, the ones where the mom walks through the patio door carrying lemonade and not one of her lazy kids jumps up and says: "Hey Mom! Let me take that! You always do everything for everyone, so we've all chipped in and are sending you on vacation to the Bahamas!" and after none of that happens, the screen doors magnetically close behind her. Unfortunately, the reviews of those screens were pretty damning, which is really a shame because I think they were throwing in a free pitcher of lemonade with every purchase.

And then I remembered that right here in Italy was the Italian answer to Home Depot!
( http://asoccermommovestorome.blogspot.it/2012_12_01_archive.html )

Unfortunately, I couldn't recall how in the heck I had previously found my way there, so I went to a different yet similar store that I believed to be Italy's answer to Lowe's.


While I was at Italian Lowe's, I  decided to pick-up some WD40. I don't know that I have ever had an occasion to use WD-40, but it seems like the kind of thing one should have on hand.

Carrying WD-40 also kept the pesky salespeople at bay, because when you see someone with a can of WD-40 it clearly signifies that they know what they're doing. After wandering around aimlessly because I didn't know what I was doing, I saw a display that consisted of a curtain rod with overlapping screen door sized screens. It was exactly the type of thing I had been hoping to find. I drove home (only  got off at two wrong exits on the roundabout!), found my Ikea allen wrench,  and prepared to put those babies together.

However, it turned out that the display in the store did not at all hint at the fact that one had to use a jackhammer to install the curtain rod bracketing into the wall. I had incorrectly assumed that the curtain rod would be a tension rod. Which then gave me the idea of going to the store and buying tension rods. Mustering all I had learned in 6th grade home economics, I started carefully sewing the screens together.

"You should just use a stapler, " said Mike as he and John played Mario Party 9 and ate potato chips.

And you know what? He was right. So I did use a stapler. It totally worked and was way easier. And it's not like I duct taped them. Now that would be tacky. Staples are much more sophisticated.

infomercial worthy

Our dog enjoying the the beautiful weather.  With the screens hung, she can't figure out how to get into the house so now she lives on the balcony.

cliched but true: what a difference a year makes

Last year we walked to the bus stop, uncertain of how a bus could navigate through the traffic on the narrow streets, uncertain of where it would wait for its passengers. We were uncomfortable in the unrelenting heat, the heat that the locals claimed was unusual, the heat that we thought would never end.  The faces we passed were stony and foreign, the sidewalks crowded with cigarette smoke and hand gestures.

Last year our son stepped onto a bus in the midst of cars jockeying for position, the noise of their horns competing with the noise of sirens, the noise we didn't know, the noise of a city. We watched our son leave on the journey past the Coliseum, past Circo Massimo, past Castel Sant'Angelo. We watched him on his way to a new school in a new city in a new country on a new continent. It was terrifying.

But this year, this year we wore jackets and pants in the cool morning air, walking on a path we had traveled hundreds of times. 

And this year we said buongiorno, ciao to smiling familiar faces and pet dogs that wagged and wriggled under our hands, we thanked the neighbors who welcomed us back. Our son raced up the steps of the bus, a flash of purple hair and backpack, eager to see his friends. The bus driver greeted him by name.

On the way home we stopped at an often frequented cafe and our order was known before we placed it. The proprietor scolded me for being away from my husband this summer and asked if we had cornetti as good as hers in America.

She smiled knowingly, pleased when we told her that nothing we had even came close.

rientro

And I'm back, back in the beautiful land of the beautiful people. As soon as we reached our gate,  waiting for the flight to Rome, I began to play Italian or American? It is just like the license plate game, except not really.   I am proud to announce that I did not miss a single question in the Italian or American game, not even during the lightening bonus round where people were so well-dressed that to an untrained eye they could have passed for Italian; but someone as studied as I could surmise that they were American because their clothing did not fit in that seemingly careless but perfectly tailored Italian way. But for the most part, the differences were obvious.

The middle-aged  clearly-much-older-than-me gentleman wearing a crisp pink shirt under a blazer with well-cut jeans and cool shoes? Sure, that was one was plain as day even before I saw the not-a-baseball-hat hat in his hand.  The college kids looking like an ad for Abercrombie and Fitch? Again, easy-peasy.

Although I don't really know what Abercrombie and Fitch clothes look like because the one time that I went in the store it was so dark and the music was so loud that I thought I was going to have a seizure and I had to leave before the bored salesperson could even finish her greeting. So the whole concept of that store is lost on me. How can you try on clothes that you can't see? What is the appeal of shopping in the dark? And is there an extremely high employee turnover due to tinnitus?

I once spotted an Abercrombie and Fitch in Italy and of course I had to go in because I quite enjoy going into American stores in foreign countries. Don't ask me why. It's probably the same reason why my husband has eaten in a McDonalds in China. And while it was fun to see the bored but slightly more glamorous salesperson welcome me in an Italian accented surfer drawl, the store was still too dark and loud for my delicate middle-aged 40s-are-the-new-black self.

In anticipation of our return to Italy, I had stepped up my summer uniform of sloppiness. I wore long pants, despite the 90 degree temperature; make-up, even though I was travelling overnight on an airplane; and a shirt in which my fashion bra straps were clearly visible--even though in America I feel it just looks like you didn't know that for every style shirt there is a bra that can be concealed.

And of course I felt smug that I was so accustomed to travelling between countries that I was practically jaded and I felt sure that I finally could not be spotted as an outsider and would be viewed instead as practically a native. After all,  I knew to have 2 euro on hand to rent a luggage trolley. And of course I had my special card in addition to my passport because I lived there, I was no longer just visiting. And obviously I had mastered the careless Italian glamour. Well, almost. Okay, not really.

But when the passport stamper person frowned at my son's passport because it is just about 5 years old and he no longer resembles his picture and then asked me in Italian if he was my child and I knew what she was saying and was able to answer her and then she asked my son in Italian if I was his mother and he turned a jet-lagged face to me and I was able to translate for him? Oh how superior I felt to my year-ago-self who would have panicked at being questioned by the passport person in a language I didn't understand!

 Except then, because I had confidently behaved with foolish pride as though I knew what was what,  the passport person was smiling and speaking to me in a friendly fashion. So of course my blank, non-comprehending face gave me away and she nodded sympathetically and said something in Italian along the lines of Oh okay! You were just acting like you knew what was going on and in reality you don't understand Italian even though you have lived here for a year and taken two intensive courses and private lessons with an instructor who could teach Italian to a tree and  I had to sadly admit that I was not really in the know more than anyone who was visiting Italy for the first time.


So, I am not really as worldly and multi-cultural as I had fancied myself.

But still, when we arrived home, it was felt like home. And Mike had purchased an amazing breakfast cake-ish treat that we had never before eaten and it was really really good.  And the dogs couldn't find enough places to kiss us to convey their joy and our apartment looked much better than I remembered.

And so our Italian re-entry was fairly painless, even after a summer in America with central air and stores that never closed and garbage disposals and toasters and dishwashers and microwaves and ice makers and M&Ms in new flavors and phones and lights and motor cars and every luxury. There was no culture shock this go-round. I know that Italy is Italy and America is America and there are trade-offs and positives and negatives no matter where I live.

And there is one American convenience I will no longer miss. Having hung our laundry to dry for a year, through months of rain and days of cold, I thought I would pass out from the sheer ease of throwing everything into a clothes dryer.  But I did not. It would seem I have turned the Italian corner on this one as I said "Bah!" to the electric clothes dryer and continued to use a stendino even in America. Stendini forever! Clothes dryers never!

it's coming

For Italians the re-entry is undoubtedly weeks away. For me the reentry is approaching like a souped-up Honda in The Fast and The Furious Part 42.

America is apparently conspiring with my adopted country in order to make the re-entry as seamless as possible.

My slack-jawed fascination with television has all but disappeared ( in fact I am pretty sure I am missing The Real Housewives of NJ as I write this--but no worries, it will be on again at 10:00. Whew.); I have eaten my fill of all my well-missed American food, both real and junk; I once again know Target's inventory like the back of my hand and the novelty of running errands and being able to find the items for which I am looking has lost its novelty.

 The four songs on the radio vying for title of Summer Anthem 2013 make my head ache and the one tune that I can almost tolerate is loathed by my son.

And I found the throw pillows for which I have been searching and now I need to reunite with my couch in order to complete the picture. Unfortunately I do not have room in our suitcases for said throw pillows ( I have bought every extra-soft toothbrush, lone type of vitamins that don't make me nauseous,  and my favorite brand of eye make-up remover in the tri-state area), so I packed a box and prepared to ship it overseas.

"Would you like a price quote?" asked the woman behind the counter.

"No," said I, "I just want to ship it."

"You probably want a price quote," another woman chimed in.

"No, I just want to ship it."

She punched some buttons. And then some more. She asked if I was shipping to a business and I said I was shipping to a residence. More buttons were pushed.

"It will cost $500.00 to ship this box to Rome," the woman said hesitantly.

"Okay," I replied, absently searching through my bag. "Wait, 500 dollars?!?"

And the moral of this lesson is that while I may be satisfied that I enjoyed every minute of my summer vacation, I have to remember to leave behind not only the American things with which I am sated, but also any expectations of American ease and efficiency. Because it's Italy or bust, baby.

Welcome to America

I am certain that by now you are on the edge of your seat just waiting to hear all about my American summer.

And do you know what they have in America that they don't have in Italy? American television. Holy moly, I am addicted. I know that I said all self-righteously that I wasn't going to watch TV because I don't watch it in Rome, but one morning I was emptying the dishwasher and using the garbage disposal and putting clothes in the clothes dryer and turning on the air conditioning and I had already listened to last week's This American Life and the current one was a re-run (um, yeah, so some of us have listened to 6 years worth of This American Life over the past year and we remember all these shows you keep re-running and it's extremely annoying that there is not a new show every week.  Is this because I never get around to sending in money during the pledge drive?)

And suddenly I noticed that there was a TV in the kitchen. There are 5 television sets in this house, but it hadn't occurred to me to turn them on because I didn't remember that there were any shows other than La Mia Mamma e' La Mia Amica (Gilmore Girls) overdubbed in Italian. So I turned on the TV. And there were over 800 channels. And they all had programs on them. I know there is that song about 162 channels and nothing on, but that is a big fat lie. There is always something on. ALWAYS.

I can only guess how many hours I've spent slack-jawed in front of the television ever since I made that fateful mistake of turning it on. Parents, let this be a warning: I know TV rots your brain and all and I must admit that I did not allow my son to be exposed to television for the first two years of his life and for the next two years he was only allowed to watch a 1/2 hour a day and even then it had to be educational like Sesame Street or Word Girl or Inside The Actor's Studio. Now of course he watches it all the time and I have to shove him aside and tell him to turn off CNN because a marathon of Say Yes to The Dress is coming on. My point being, let your kids watch TV because if you don't, the minute they discover it, they will be like me, gorging themselves on it until they feel sick. I've even reverted to my old American habit of insomnia but I don't know if it's because I truly can't sleep or if it's because my subconscious knows Roseanne reruns air at 3:00 a.m.

I love Roseanne.

Time to see if House Hunters International is on.