the one where we drove to Abruzzo

We drove to Abruzzo this weekend to hike to the Corno Grande, the highest peak in the Apennine Mountains. I had never been to that part of Italy (the northernmost part of Southern Italy--I'm guessing that's like Maryland is the northernmost part of the American South) and I was struck anew at the amazing variation in Italian terrain that can be found within a two hour drive in any direction. Italy is just stupid beautiful. It's unreal. This particular trip looked like we were in Middle Earth. Sometimes it was Middle Earth with a quick little quintessential Italian village thrown in: older women hanging out windows; laundry blowing in the wind; olive trees and overflowing flower boxes; and sometimes it was Middle Earth with the type of sharply winding narrow roads found on the Amalfi coast--the kind that make your toes hurt as you stare fixedly out the window to the  side of the road that doesn't plunge to your death--but it was soaring mountains covered in green and hobbits all the same. And truly, you can really only marvel at the people of yore who managed to cram a town into any place that was a jutting side of the mountain. It defies all logic. I'm not Isaac Newton, but I do know that when a town is built into the side of a mountain there is no reason why it should stay there. If I put a paper clip against a wall, it falls to the floor. It does not somehow superglue itself against the wall and become a place where people can drink coffee and eat panini and go about their day.


My husband's had hiked the Corno Grande while I was in America (I was probably eating Mexican food and shopping at Target) and his photos were gorgeous. So you can imagine how bummed we were when we emerged from a very long tunnel and the sky was no longer blue and the mountain peaks were wreathed in clouds. We went to the top anyway, but it was like being in Cloud City. We couldn't see a darn thing and so it's entirely possible Lando Calrissian had betrayed us all. We'll have to head back in the spring. It's on, Lando.

one of the many Pee-Wee's Big Adventure winding road maps

we did not see any cows, but on the way home from the beach last weekend we DID see a  wild boar and two boar-lettes  (scientific term) chowing down on the side of the road,which was very exciting. They had tusks and everything. 

the one with all the pictures.

random wall in siena. maybe it's not random. maybe it's very purposeful and an important work of art. i don't really know. i just pretend i do.

there have been many stencil graffiti faces as of late. i like them. i believe this one to be edgar allen poe. if it is actually  a horrible dictator, please don't tell me. 

so many pretty sunsets here. it's probably the pollution.

not me.

you probably think this is a picture of the trees in the early sunlight. and it is. 

upon first glance, i thought this was a figure made of poo.  and i really don't have any evidence to suggest otherwise.

insert clever caption here.

the furniture here is always being swapped out. although currently there is a chandelier and chair from ikea, some days there is a dining room table with matching chairs; other days there is an old fashioned dial-telephone and loft bed.

creepy peeking mannequin. if that was my house i would be worried about it killing me in my sleep.

siena

view from tore del mangia

lazy pants people on much lower tower

400 steps to ring the bell. not that you are supposed to ring the bell.

i love that italy really looks like it's supposed to-women hanging out of windows and all.

there is always a parade with people in medieval costumes somewhere. always. 

 i never like fruit until i ate it in italy. it's filled with fruit flavor.

as i come from farm country, seeing the perfectly formed rolls of hay never ceases to make me happy. 

rest stop off the highway. i didn't check out the shower. but i really really really wanted to check out the shower. what's going on with the shower?

The one where I come back

  Just as I was sinking into the take-it-for-grantedness of central air and parking lots of my native land, I returned to my adopted home where we keep the rooms shuttered and darkened against the sun and trade car keys for walking shoes.  (The walking shoes part is not necessarily a bad thing as I brought back three 49.8 lb suitcases filled with bagels and Cheez-its.)

The heat and humidity is certainly not any worse than it is in America; it just feels worse because I am walking and living in it as opposed to dashing from my air conditioned car to my air conditioned house.  I know that I sound like a princess. I know. But I do love me some central air. I do. I love it so much.  And I wouldn't mind washing dishes by hand or having no place to put all my stuff if I hadn't just had two months of a dishwasher and for real closets.

And I forgot that I can't buy mouthwash in the grocery store and so I have to head to the pharmacy where I forgot that the pharmacy is closed until September, so too bad so sad, yuck mouth. I forgot that dressing in my what-will-show-my-pools-of-sweat-the-least style means that I will be mistaken for a gypsy because I am not swinging off a motorcycle in slow motion while wearing an immaculate white lace shirt under a white backless tank top with white skinny jeans and high heeled white sandals, frizz-free hair cascading down my not-at-all-sweaty back.

I forgot that signs warning all dogs must be leashed are not so much rules as they are rectangular metal places to hang your dog leash while your dog romps and plays or that standing in line instead of pushing your way to the front will only confuse everyone around you.

But then I also forgot that going to a park is like entering a tented canopy of lush green where it is 10 degrees cooler and everyone is enjoying the beautiful day, sitting peacefully on benches, lying on blankets, and eating lunch with their grandchildren.

I forgot that when you are outside with your dogs, the very sight of them doing nothing more exciting than sniffing in the grass will spark delight in all who pass by. I forgot the amazing taste of proper gelato and fresh mozzarella .

And today I was reminded that I had forgotten one of the very best things: if your son has a nose bleed in the grocery store and is calmly pressing a giant wad of kleenex that you carry for this very reason to his face and said nosebleed is fully contained, everyone will still be overcome with genuine concern. And even the very intimidating neck-tattooed and gun-toting security guard with whom you normally avoid eye contact at all costs will cluck with great sympathy and bring over a roll of paper towels, insisting that you take them to supplement the kleenex.  Because most of the time, that's the kind of place it is here.

The one where I return to the visa office

As the clock ticks forward, my anxiety and dread increases. No, no, not about my return to Rome ---it's all about my return to the Italian Consulate to obtain a visa for my son.


Our first experience at the visa office was cray cray (I feel obligated to use slang that is so two minutes ago as my son has begged me not to use slang because it's embarrassing), but as it turned out, it was merely a solid introduction into life in Italy:
http://asoccermommovestorome.blogspot.com/2012/05/getting-visas.html

For reasons far too long and complicated to get into other than to assure you it was not my fault, John’s visa expired. And it expired before we had renewed it. Which meant we had to apply for a new visa. 

This could not be done in Italy because it had to be done at the Italian Consulate. Which is in America. And is open only three days a week for three hours at a time. So the competition to get an appointment is fierce.

We made an appointment to apply for a visa while we would be in America. The first available appointment was two weeks before we would return to Rome.  “We will call you if an earlier appointment becomes available,” said the visa office.

And they did. They called three separate times. "Good day, we have an opening in ten minutes. Can you be here in ten minutes?” “No, we live two hours away.” “Okay, so you will be here in ten minutes?” “No, we cannot.” “Okay, we will see you then.”

We knew from our previous visa obtaining experience to bring every document in every connotation on every possible color paper. We made copies. We had two sets of every document: one set notarized, one set not. I packed John's hospital ID bracelet from when he was born and the lock of hair from his first haircut. I packed my favorite mixed tape from high school and ticket stubs from a Metallica concert.

And now for the kicker: Mike had to return to Italy before our appointment was scheduled. So I was faced with the Getting the Visa all by myself. This was not good. I am not charming. I am socially awkward. And my bad Italian would not win me any points.

I abandoned my summer-in-America uniform of a tank top and cut-offs and dressed in what passes for dressy in my small American town but still looks slovenly in Italy. I put on make-up. I wore heels. I drove to a parking garage and walked to a train station. People stared. I was wearing a scarf in the 90 degree heat. I got a cab to the Italian Consulate. I was 40 minutes early.

The visa office had been moved from the room we had been in on our last visit and had been changed into a space half the size. There were three seats as though it was a game of musical chairs that was winding down and all the other chairs had been removed and many many many people standing. It would seem that the visa office had figured out how to make the experience a wee bit worse. There were no clocks in the room, like a casino, so that no one knew how long they had been floating in Purgatory.

There was a woman with a briefcase and a folder bulging with documents who was speaking to the lone woman behind the bullet proof glass. I could already tell it wasn't going well. I couldn't decide whether or not I should check in for my appointment. I looked to the waiting masses but no one would risk meeting my eyes for fear of provoking the Great and Powerful Oz (GPO)and having their visa application rejected. I joined them and kept my gaze firmly on the ground.

The woman in line kept protesting and trying to hand the GPO more papers. "No," said the GPO. "But-"said the woman in line on the verge of tears. "You're done," said the GPO.

I decided that this would be an excellent time to announce my arrival lest my appointment be given away. I approached the counter and the crowd behind me murmured in alarm. I told the GPO I had an appointment and wished only to check in.

"You're early," said GPO coldly.

"I absolutely am. You're right. I'm so sorry-"

"Where is your husband? I spoke with him and told him what he needed to do…there was a crying baby in here earlier. Was that yours?"

"No, no!" I could feel the sweat start building beneath my scarf.

"Where is your document?" she asked. I started to ask which one and bit my tongue just in time. I handed her one written in Italian. She didn't object so I slowly handed her another piece of paper. And another.

"Do you have your son's original birth certificate?' I handed it to her."No!' she crowed triumphantly. "I wanted a copy of it." I handed her that as well. She seemed disappointed. "Where is your husband?" she demanded again. I explained he was in Italy. "How did he sign these and have them notarized in the United States?" she asked suspiciously .

"Um..he was here?" I quaked.

"Where is your passport?" she demanded. I handed her both my passport and proactively, a copy of it. "Not yours! I only need your son's! And where is your husband?"

She asked for my plane tickets. "And you will be arriving on the xx of August?" I knew that one was a trick question because it was an overnight flight. I answered correctly and moved on to the bonus round. "Sign this," she said. I.Couldn't.Find.My.Pen. And just as there were no clocks in the office, there were no pens. I suspect this was a test of your endurance and resourcefulness. Like being in a Tom Hanks movie where he has to fight for his life because is being kidnapped by pirates or stranded on a desert island or has to get to the top of the Empire State Building at closing time to kiss Meg Ryan.

I turned to the crowd, "Pen! Pen! Stat!" My comrades in battle hastily thrust pens at me. I was leading the troops. I was William Wallace. I was thisclose to being the first person to successfully obtain a visa.

I signed and handed the paper back to her. She pulled the old switcheroo and handed me a different sheet of paper. "I thought I told you to sign this!" she snapped. I've watched the Tudors. I knew not to protest. "You are absolutely right," I relied,"I'm so sorry." I signed.

"Sit down," she commanded. I sat.

The next contestant was a man studying language at a university in Italy. His father accompanied him and spoke to the woman in Italian but it was very clear that he was American because he was wearing shorts and a golf shirt. She did not like this. The conversation went as followed:

Man: I was never told that was required. I spoke with the visa office and they said I had the correct documents.

Great and Powerful Oz: I am the visa office. You deal with me. This is unacceptable and insufficient.

Man: It was fine last year.

GPO: No it wasn't.

Man: Yes it was. This is my visa from last year. This is the same paperwork I submitted last year.

GPO: No.

Man: I don't understand.

GPO: That is not my problem.

Man: Do you have a pen?

The man's father turned to the crowd and said, "Non gentile, huh?" I don't think anyone else understood him because I was the only one who sucked in my breath and ducked. His son kicked him and turned to the GPO, smiled and  reiterated everything he had already said but this time he said it in Italian.

GPO: Why didn't you tell me this was your visa from last year and that you had already spoken to the visa office? You should have told me.

Man: I know, I know. I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I apologize Signora. It is my fault.

Boom! And that's how you get your visa and go on your way. We all subtly gave the man the thumbs up and high fives as he left, triumphant.

The GPO called my name. I stood up. "Where is Mrs. xxxx?" she demanded again in exasperation.

I moved the one step needed to reach the window as she obviously could not see me. She handed me my paperwork. "You're done. You can go."

"Grazie, grazie, grazie mille, buona giornata," I replied, bowling and scraping. I ran to the elevator and closed the doors as fast as humanly possible. I threw my temporary visitor badge at the security guard and  jumped into the path of an oncoming cab, looking in terror over my shoulder lest the Great and Powerful Oz change her mind. But I was safe. It was over.

Oh, and the train broke down on the way home and we sat on the tracks for over an hour before a rescue train arrived to take us back to the train station and inside the train it became hotter and hotter and people became angrier and angrier. And because I had successfully obtained my son's visa and emerged unscathed from the office of the Consolato Generale D'Italia, it was the very best train ride I could possibly imagine.

Two Unrelated Things

Well, unrelated except that they involve me.

I was waiting in line at the Wal-Marts ( I know that there are many who boycott the Wal-Mart, but when did other places stop carrying magazines? WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE MAGAZINES???? Do you know what I look forward to doing when I summer in America? I like to have an icy cold IPA that I wouldn't find in Italy and I like to read American magazines that I wouldn't find in Italy. But I can't find American magazines in America either. Some of the magazines I have happened upon on the shelves are four months old. Have people simply stopped reading non-electronic versions of magazines? Because that would be a huge bummer for us all. And so as it turns out, the Wal-Mart is the lone place I have found where the latest issues of  magazines are re-stocked on a regular basis.)

and so, yes, I was waiting in line at the Wal-Marts and it would seem that patiently accepting and waiting in a long line in Italy is an experience that does not translate to America. Is it because there are so many cashiers and lanes open in American stores that the wait seems unnecessary? Is it because there is an overall need to hurry? Is it because we buy in such bulk here that comparatively every individual takes such a longer time to get checked out? Is it because we don't bag our own groceries? Is it because the woman in front of me was instructing the cashier where to put each of her 72 items? "No! Don't put the cheese in that bag!" she said. "Put the cheese in the bag with all the things that are yellow!"

"Oh! Okay!" replied the cashier. "I was putting it in with all the cold items." And so he took the cheese out of the bag filled with cold items and put it in the bag where all items were yellow.

"Well, I didn't know you were putting it in with the cold things. Okay. Put it back in the other bag, I guess."

In any other circumstance, my impatience would have gotten the better of me and I would have left the store rather than wait in line. But today was special because there were new magazines. So I waited. And seethed. I was unable and/or unwilling to put my hard-earned slow Italian pace of life enjoyment into practice. So we'll chalk that up as a fail on my part. And then when I got in the car, I thought the sports announcer on the radio was broadcasting the World Cup final and I turned up the volume but it was not the World Cup final, it was a Nascar race.

Yesterday my mom and I went to get pedicures. We like to go to a place that happens to be owned and operated by women from Vietnam. When one Vietnamese woman asked me a question in broken English, I answered her in broken Italian. Because if I can sort of understand what someone is saying to me but there is still a language barrier, my brain apparently thinks I'm in Italy. And this happened every single time I spoke with any of the non-native American women in the salon. So it was not unlike being in Italy because I was speaking what I think passes for Italian but no one could understand me.

Hello America

This may be a controversial position to take, but holy moly, jet lag is vile.

But do you know what isn't vile? All of the choices one has when shopping in America. I went to Target to buy allergy medicine and shampoo and two hours later I stumbled out, cross-eyed from staring at the three aisles of shampoo. Three Aisles. It Was Amazing. How many choices do I have in Rome? Two. Two shampoo choices. And one is out of stock.

And so in the spirit of a world in which there are three aisles of shampoo choices, I present Hello America. It's like Goodnight Moon, but without the mouse on each page. Or the bowl of mush.

in the great big land
there was a dishwasher
and an ice maker
and HGTV
and microwave ovens

there were country back roads
and  high efficiency washing machines-- so large
that all clothes could be done in one load.

and there was flavored coffee
and central air
and products galore
for all types of hair

there were windows with screens
and frozen cuisine

hello clothes dryer
hello all you home goods i can't help but admire

hello garbage disposal and organic yogurt

hello bagels and hello mexican food
hello IPAs that have been freshly brewed

hello starry sky and
hello firefly

and hello to all things unnecessary
that i am going to buy

Summer Post

We have been having a hella heatwave and as it is 98 degrees by 8:00 am, I should be thrilled to be getting the heck out of dodge but still, I'm feeling sad to be leaving. I am looking forward to spending huge chunks of time over the next couple of months with my greatly loved family and family of friends whose absence I never stop feeling(I have a nephew who has gotten teeth, moved on from crawling, and started walking since last I saw him!), but (dare I say it, even in a whisper?) I think Rome is starting to feel like home to me.

I will miss my neighbors who insist on speaking to me at great length, even though they know I can only catch every 7th word and the children who stop to pet the dogs and insist that Stella is both Sookie's mother and a boy and the flower boxes tumbling a cascade of blooms into the world from the smallest space or window and the umbrella pines-those Dr Seuss trees never get old-and the way that there is a ruin around every corner. I will miss the long line at the grocery store that never results in the opening of an additional lane because all available cashiers are drinking espresso and talking to the one cashier who is not ringing up groceries so much as he also is drinking espresso and chatting with the aforementioned cashiers.

I will miss having to buy movie tickets that already have a seat assigned to them as though it is a concert and the inevitable squabble because someone is sitting in the very seat that you spent 10 minutes scoping out on the map at your home computer in order to choose the optimum chair. And the dogs that are in stores and restaurants and parks and purses. Because everyone is a dog person.

I will miss the families traveling in a pack, soups to nuts; the dads in suits with children on their shoulders; the families picnicking wherever there is a spot of grass; the elderly couples walking arm-in-arm and dressed to the nines on any random Tuesday afternoon; the pockets of older women wearing winter coats on a 75 degree day, their faces turned towards the sun.

I will miss the sense of style that makes a walk outside like living in a magazine or movie and I will miss the sense of time or lack thereof where one can never be considered late because life is not meant to be lived in a hurry and I will miss that everything shuts down for several hours every afternoon or whenever the person working feel like it is time to be done. It keeps you guessing.

And I will miss that life is lived outside and I walk a minimum of seven miles a day without even noticing and the double-parked cars outside every cafe and the residents who have brought their dining room chairs outside to sit in the street and gossip or the women hanging from their windows to call out to the passersby below.

And I will miss the truly spectacular beaches only an hour away and the scarves worn in the hottest of weather because wind on the necks is responsible for every ailment and the lines of hanging laundry in the poshest of homes because clothes dryers ruin clothes and the strict rules of food and coffee because things are combined and consumed only in certain ways at certain times. Period. And the gesturing. No one simply flails their hands. The movements are as complex and orchestrated as to be a sign language all its own.

And the driving. I know. But as chaotic and bizarre and reckless as it is, it has a certain logic. Honest. And at the very least, it is funny in a horrifying sort of way.

The weather, the sunsets, the rainbows, the lizards, the all-day Sunday lunches. Gelato and pizza and mozzarella di bufala. Sheep grazing under the watchful eyes of fluffy dogs. Rather than a one-stop shop, there is the butcher, the pharmacy, the bakery, the fish store, the bread store, the open air market for fruits and vegetables. The Vespas and teeny tiny cars. The beautiful language. The greetings of "ciao bella/o!" and the double cheek kiss. The belief that breakfast should always be something sweet. The belief that children make the world go round. I will miss the person I most love.

It may exasperate me when I return in the fall, but for right now, I miss what it is to live here.