Very Christmas Pictures

piazza barberini

mossy bumper

Christmas market

piazza navoni

piazza venezia

edible nativity scenes

la befana

latest in street performance: the Christmas miracle

santa puts the naughty in naughty or nice

efficiency. but not really.

It has been a trying month here in Rome. I think, at least partially, we have now been here long enough for the novelty factor/ adjustment period/culture shock to have faded and now we are just living Real Life. Granted, it is still real life in Rome, but to be a bit cliched, sometimes real life takes those obscenely large lemons from the Italian coast and hurls them at your head.

We were dealt many small annoyances: cable not working (don't worry, we pay for it whether or not it works); heat not working during the coldest days of the year thus far ( don't worry, we pay for it whether or not it works and whether or not we are currently wearing ski jackets and sleeping in hats and gloves); and an incident with a wack-o teacher at John's school (don't worry, she has since moved on to the greener pastures of Calcutta). And a rather large annoyance that may or may not have been caused by gypsies. Or Nicholas Cage and Angelina Jolie in Gone in 60 Seconds.


 I think had we been in America, we would have been off-the-charts furious with even one of these inconveniences. In Rome we mainly shrug. "What can you do?" say we. It doesn't make bumps in the road less annoying, but it does make our reaction to them less intense. (Even though we may still be annoyed and looking forward to shopping in America in which I can buy organic apples that aren't even in season and a pair of earrings all at the same store. )

The difference is that in America, efficiency is a way of life. If our cable or heat is on the fritz, we expect it to be restored within minutes and to have those cable-free minutes removed from our bill. We have 24 hour service in America and when our small middle class annoyances are not immediately resolved, our blood pressure skyrockets and our tempers flare.

After all, when you live here, certain expectations are forced to fall away. And that means when you have scheduled a plumber or an electrician or your landlord is coming to pick up the rent check, you know not change your dinner plans. Because this is but an opening bid. No one is going to show up for that first appointment. And they aren’t arriving for the second one either. But it is possibly that the third time will be the charm if you allow for two phone calls approximately three hours apart in which the plumber/electrician/landlord assures you that they will be there in 30 minutes. Eventually you will either adapt to this way of life or move to another country. If you have properly adapted, your agitation and annoyance will eventually give way to  surprise and delight that someone has actually shown up, no matter how much time has passed and even though chances are good that , unbeknown to you,the plumbing issue in the kitchen will be resolved by the plumber dismantling the sink in the bathroom.

  

Or, for instance, you may live here and are currently on day 17 of no television. You will be pretty sure that the cable isn’t working when you turn on the TV and instead of a Gilmore Girls re-run, the screen instructs you to text your local Sky cable technician. Which you will and which will result in nothing. And so you will call instead. But the offices won’t open until 8:30 a.m. (I know, I’m shocked as well. I had no idea anything opened that early in Rome.) And so you will call again later. And with any luck, a technician will be scheduled to arrive in three days. 

You’ll give the heads-up to Massimo, your building manager, so that he can provide Fabio the cable guy with access to the roof.  Massimo will say an awful lot of words, the gist of which is: "No." Per the rules of the condo board, Massimo will have to contact the cable company and handle the situation as the cable dish for the building is on the roof. The same roof that the cable guy you have contacted is not allowed to access. You’ll cancel Fabio. You won’t hear from Massimo. When you track Massimo down the following day, it turns out that this is not something that he will be handling after all and you will have to schedule an appointment with a technician from the cable company. And so you’ll call.

When a technician is finally reached after three days of texting and calling, you are told not to worry, they were ignoring your requests because you had cancelled the appointment. “But I need to reschedule,” said you.

 “Oh. Then you have to call again.”

“But can’t you just reschedule the appointment?”

“ No, no, it is not possible. You must call again and schedule an appointment.” And so you do. And you will be assured that someone will get back to you within 72 hours to set up an appointment. But 72 hours will come and go and so you will have to begin again.

Or perhaps we have locked ourselves out of the house. In America, a locksmith can be there within an hour, no matter what time this lock-out may occur. We do not have to try to break into an apartment with seven locks on the door ( don't worry, only one of them was locked at the time) and make such a racket doing so that our upstairs neighbors appear to see what the hell it going on. And our upstairs neighbors would not be horrified and quickly quash my suggestion of calling the non-emergency police services to help us break-in. And then laugh at our sincere idea to try and break in by shimmying down a drainpipe and climbing onto our balcony from their balcony. And then bring us sweaters and offer us coffee. And then call "uh...a guy I know" who arrived in a cacophony of Italian rap music and backfiring car and looked like Jesse Pinkman and successfully broke into our apartment and then needed to be paid a small fortune in cash. Because when you make your living as a house-breaker-in-er, you can't declare your earnings to the government and give your clients and/or victims a receipt.

And in that, what we can take away from that tale is that the job will get done either way, but only one will have an interesting story. And demonstrate what unbelievably kind, generous and good-hearted neighbors you have. And the scenario in which an efficient locksmith arrives will make you much angrier and more annoyed than the one in which Jesse Pinkman arrives, because in one you have certain expectations and in the other you have such low expectations that they are actually less than zero. So you can only be grateful and pleasantly surprised.

And in that, you will still marvel when you see a car bump into a scooter , knocking its driver to the ground. Because the fight that ensues involves the driver of the car getting out and making what can you do? hand gestures while the driver of the scooter replies with his own gestures of what the hell?  And then they each shrug and drive away. Because it is Rome. And what can you do?

Thanksgiving Thursday

Do you know what there is no shortage of in Rome? Feasts for the eyes. And what better way to celebrate American Thanksgiving than with a feast?

take your pick: stars and stripes helmet? all white outfit with  coordinating green sneakers and green hoodie tied 'round the waist? furiously gestering passenger who is in for a nasty surprise when the light changes and he isn't holding on because he is too busy arguing over whether or not Rick on the Walking Dead was wearing a new shirt? (for the record, I say it was absolutely a new shirt.)

 having lived here for long enough that  I often forget to marvel at the marvels,  it makes it all the more spectaluar when i am suddenly hit with a vista such as this.

who can turn the world on with her smile?

"There is no such thing as a stupid question."
Wrong.

I mean, we all see that playpen in the corner, right?

i love dogs. rome loves dogs. i love rome.

There was a farmer who had a dog and BINGO was his name-o.
B-I-N-G-O. B-I-N-G-O. B-I-N-G-O.
And BINGO was his name-o.
There was a farmer who had a dog and BINGO was his name-o.
<clap> I-N-G-O. <clap> I-N-G-O. <clap> I-N-G-O...

yeah, I'm seeing a real problem here.
If they wanted to use a visual aid to help them sing the song, they should have used chalk.

how cute are they with their matching sneakers?

street art at the laurentina metro. Your move @graffiti tag THuGGLife

You can't spell Open House without the word "OVERZEALOUS"

I recognize that I view 1970s style parenting through a nostalgic 1970s Instagram filter. But I can't help but wonder if parents had less guilt when the only books on how to parent  had instructions like "What to Do If Your Child Is Choking." Today a similar chapter would be entitled: "Why Your Child is Choking and How it Will Effect His or Her Psyche."

I pretend to take American parenting theories with a grain of salt, but secretly I hold them close and try to incorporate  them into all my parenting choices so that I don't fail. It doesn't matter if the instructions are contradictory. At least one of them has to be the Right One. For example, I fully accept that parents must make all the child's choices for them so that children suffer no negative consequences due to their actions. I equally accept that it is important that we allow our child to call all the shots because making choices for a child is bad. And that the only children who are happy in life are the ones left outside to play in the dirt with a stick. But first one must trim the stick with safety scissors so that the child doesn't poke out their eye. And a good parent will also have the dirt tested to make sure it has no lead or Red Dye #40  should their child wish to ingest it.

And at the latest Back-to-School/Open House night, it became clear that even while living abroad, we are Americans at heart and we bring with us this collective cultural parenting know-how.

As the various faculty presented topics throughout the school, we took notes. We nodded sagely. We wrinkled our brows to show We Were Paying Attention while in reality we were bookmarking  teacher's gifts on Pinterest.

The Italian moms entered late, if at all. They stood in the hallways talking and laughing, eating the school-prepared panini and drinking coffee and sparkling water.

In between presentations, the Americans grabbed and discarded cups of water like athletes running a marathon. We knew that our child's education depended on our ability to claim the center seat in the front row.

During one such lecture, the music teacher explained what the curriculum would look like for the students this year, played a few selections from her last performance on Broadway, and then asked if there were any questions. Of course we had questions! How would she know our child was a prodigy waiting to be discovered if we didn't show enough interest to ask questions? Every American arm waved high: "My daughter isn't bringing her instrument  home every day! How can I wash it?" "My son didn't get a solo for the fall concert; will he be getting one for the Christmas performance?" "Is there extra credit?" "How many hours each night should my child be practicing for music class?""Why did last year's class get to sing four songs and this year's only gets to sing three?"

I won't share which question was mine, but I will tell you that it was completely valid.

"Did you see the music teacher?" one Italian mom asked me as I raced by on my way to attend a lecture entitled "Gym Class: How to Make the Leap from Badminton to The Ivy League".

"Um, yeah," I fumbled for my Power Point print-out to share with her, which she politely ignored.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do we meet the music teacher? What does that tell us?"

"Um...the dress code for the music concert?" I guessed.

She took a bite from a peach and shook her sadly. "There is no reason! The children wear what they wear. There is no reason for these meetings."

I  placed my hand over my quickly sketched diagrams of various outfit choices for the fall concert. Such a relaxed attitude had to be a ruse and I for one was not going to be tricked into giving away my genius ideas for sartorial perfection.

During the library technology speech, we applauded when the librarian explained that books could be borrowed from the library. We murmured with excitement when we were shown how students could use a color-coded stick to mark the place of a book they had removed from the shelf while browsing. With the stick marking the place, the students could easily re-shelve the book without having to use the call letters or the alphabet. We typed "buy color-coded sticks to practice at home" on our i-phones.

"Any questions?" asked the librarian.

For some reason she seemed not to see the sea of extended American hands and focused on the languid wave of a bangle covered arm. "Yes?" she asked.

"When do they get to write with the..." the bangled arm woman broke-off and looked around for help with the English word.

"La penna!" another Italian told her eagerly.

"Yes, yes!" agreed another.

"When do they get to write with pens?"

The librarian seemed confused. "They are writing with pencils-" she tried to explain.

Another Italian shook her head and clicked her tongue, "Oh, they will never use pens!" All the Italians nodded in agreement.

Frustrated with not being acknowledged when her arm was clearly still in the air, an American called out: "Will there be prizes if your child brings back their library book early?" We other Americans put down our hands, relieved that someone else had tackled the important question.

The librarian seemed equally confused by this. "Well, no," she said slowly. "But we do encourage the children to bring their books back on the day they are due.We haven't implemented monetary fines if the books are late, but if need be that is always something we can consider in the future."

There was a rustling of rapid Italian whispers and a woman asked, "Do they have to bring back these library books on the same day of every week?"

Two Italian women spoke over each other. "No, no, " said one, " they can save them and bring them back at the end of the year." "Oh yes," said the other, "I had to pay fines all the time last year because of the late books. How can you know when they are due?"

And while I wish I had something pithy with which to end this, I don't. But I suspect I'm gaining insight as to why the lifespan of the average Italian is longer than that of the average American.

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.